Fiction 2: A Lifetime of transactions and regrets.
When the old man died, they found the Grail.
They found it underneath Bob Dylan and Abba and Demis Roussos and The Bay City Rollers, in-between John Grisham and Barbara Cartland and promo copies of White Teeth and Fight Club and Trainspotting, buried in rubble and dust and discarded sandwich wrappers and stacks of unsold laserdiscs.
Past the counter, past the things saved for people who would not collect, receipts for lunches, coasters nicked from local pubs, yellowed polaroids. ignored letters with red warnings in them. These gave way to rolled up Hustlers, Penthouses used to catch damp, copies of 50+ ripped apart in moments of recriminating justification ‘Oh look, they came as part of a cheap three pack, It’s not what I like, honest.’ The echoes of pink faces flushed with shame and betrayal and surprised, The corpse of a an old hard drive hammered and kicked down some stairs en route to divorce from already alienated parents .
The will altered to acknowledge the deletion of a wayward son whose appetites could no longer be hidden in lofts or underneath carpets, until finally one more extended lunch break spent hunched over Sam, 19 from London
She left a heart attack where a man ought to have been on the afternoon shift, a door left locked while Joseph and Michael banged on the door to flog purloined promos from angry officials.
The collection started and sold and thrown out and stolen again was found, and snapped by the first man into the shop run by the dead man.
He sells it piecemeal to this day. For beer money.