The Knife Sharpener (1)

‘One of the most poetic facts I know about the universe is that essentially every atom in your body was once inside a star that exploded … We are all, literally, star children, and our bodies are made of stardust.’

            Lawrence M. Krauss – A Universe From Nothing

1.

It was happy hour. The bar was full of motoboys waiting for their dinner deliveries and middle management wearing loose suits and orange stackhats. Hands were occupied by pints. The vibe was muted. Chatter relegated to quiet pleasantries. Make It Wit Chu seemed to be playing on repeat over the speakers.

            Nichola sat on a stool in the window. It had become her usual spot over the last month. She nursed a cider and stared at the squat grey building across Chapel St. Her drink was getting warm and flat. She didn’t care. She never finished it. A leather notebook lay open on the elevated stained bench she leaned into. It was propped open by her left hand. Her right adjusted her stackhat to sit a little further back on her short brown hair.

            From an alley to the right of the building a man in a black and silver spotted robe came around the corner. He was middle aged, flabby, and grey haired. Nichola saw that he wore white New Balance sneakers under his robe. In her notebook, she quickly jotted down the arrival time – 4:45pm – for the man she had given the alias, Todd.

            She watched Todd ring a doorbell next to the building’s front door. He scratched his armpit while he waited to be let in. People ignored him as they walked past. A skeletal woman in a matching black and silver robe, who Nichola had named Patty, emerged from the same alley. On seeing Todd, Patty stopped and waited at the corner. They didn’t acknowledge one another. Nichola made a note of the time of her appearance also.

            After a short wait, the door opened for Todd, who disappeared inside. Patty stood at the corner for a minute before strolling to the door and ringing the doorbell. Nichola had long ago observed that there were no cameras over the door. There were only a few small blacked out windows facing onto the street and a peephole in the door itself. She had never seen any electronic surveillance. Even in the carpark at the rear of the building. But, then, in her sneaking around, Nichola had only ever found the one entrance. There were no other doors besides the one she had been watching for a month. All the windows were boarded up.

            The front door opened for Patty. It was 4:47pm and happy hour was due to go for another hour and thirteen minutes. Nichola sipped her cider. She still had no idea how to get into the building. A month long stake out and nothing to show for it.

            As he did every night around this time, Bohemian Bob came and sat down next to Nichola. He guzzled at his pint and followed Nichola’s gaze across Chapel St. He wore his usual torn footy shorts and thick yellow woollen jumper. There was a slight sourness to his scent, but also a rich cologne. Nichola never quite knew how to differentiate the two smells. She side-eyed the ill-fitting toupee slipping around under his stackhat.

            ‘Nichola, lovely, they call it happy hour,’ said Bohemian Bob. He leaned close enough to tap stack hats. His breath was beer and mint. ‘Cheer up, this ain’t the end of the world or nothing.’

            He drew on his pint, then slammed it on the bench, leaving only a mouthful sloshing around the bottom. A motoboy in a white motorbike helmet, slipped free of his comrades and quickly replaced the near empty glass with a fresh pint.

            ‘You stress too much staring at that old, ugly building all the time. It’s rubbing off on me vibes. Good ol Bohemian Bob will tell you again: they’re just a bunch of frustrated uptown spooks who like to play at fancy dress. It’s a bit nouveau riche. I bet ya they’re probably swinging. Car keys in the pot. Nasty linen on a springy bed out the back.’

            Bohemian Bob always changed what he thought they were doing in the building. Antique dealing, board game nights, watching movies, group TV binging, wine appreciation, shooting porn, haberdashery, taxidermy. None of it astounded his imagination. He didn’t understand, nor ask about, Nichola’s obsession with the building. Bohemian Bob espoused his theories and carried on.

            For her part, Nichola never bothered to tell him about what she actually knew of the building. All the rites and the dangerous beliefs of the individuals inside. Bohemian Bob wouldn’t have cared. This was only the first bar in his own Chapel St pilgrimage. Nichola was a part of his ritual. Whatever the black and silver robed middle aged people were doing in that building did not concern his pattern of chasing discounted intoxication.