The little bell attached to the top of the door tinkles merrily as Birdie pushes it open and enters the thrift shop. He throws a furtive glance over to the small counter where the owner, and permanent fixture, Old Man Daley, is sprawled across a decrepit wingback chair, silver white bouffant sitting proud above his creased and wrinkled features, still as luxuriant a body of hair now as it had been in his youth. Although of gentle demeanor, Daley is known to be a mean-spirited individual who has made a tidy living from buying up the personal effects of many down-on-their-luck locals, and often those grieving the recently departed. A ghoul and a grifter, he is not well received by the general population of the town and tends to spend his waking hours glued to his ratty old chair, head jerking up each time the bell heralds the arrival of a new customer.

 

Birdie is no saint. A low-life junkie of some reputation, every bone in his body is screaming at him to get a fix today, but he knows he needs to put at least a couple of the few grubby notes in his pocket to better use this morning. It is his grandma’s birthday and he’s put aside a few bucks to get her a little something. He knows she’s visited this place on many occasions and is sure he’ll find something for her here. And Birdie loves his grandma. She took him in as a small child when both his parents had been killed in a tragic accident, and for over twenty years she has kept him alive, through the very darkest of times. Surrounded by crackheads, Birdie’s grandma is the only semblance of stability in his wretched, troubled existence.

 

He mooches around the shop for a bit, picking up items at random, checking price tags, before his eyes alight on a wicker basket in the far corner. Although it holds a rather eclectic assortment of spectacle cases of all shapes, sizes and colors that might fit the bill, it is the handmade cardboard sign that catches his eye: $2.00 a piece – NO bargaining.  Now this is more like it. Birdie checks a few, opening and snapping shut the hard case variety, pondering the cloth and Velcro types. Then, there it is. A real beauty. Bright pink with a golden zipper. Grandma will love it. Unzipping it carefully in order to check the inner lining, he’s shocked to see this one isn’t empty like the others. For there sits a pair of circa-1960s Ray-Ban Aviators, in mint condition, the mirror lenses unscratched and as shiny as the day they left the factory. Now this really is turning out to be his lucky day. Placing the sunglasses in the case and quickly rezipping it, he saunters over to the counter and the waiting vulture-like old man.

 

Birdie waits anxiously as the old guy snatches up his proffered bills and slowly drops the case into a paper bag. But eager now to exit with his prize, he barely notices the smirk spreading across Daley’s face as he heads for the door. Once outside, he scuttles off down a narrow side alley that runs parallel to the shop and retrieves the Aviators from the bag. He’s no aficionado of vintage eyewear, but he’s certain these are going to earn him a very nice profit on his modest outlay. And they sure are cool. Gleefully, he slips them on, only to have his head thrown back with such force it feels like he’s been hit with a sledgehammer.

 

As he staggers back against the wall of the shop, images start to appear directly in front of him, and just like a movie, a scene in vivid technicolor unfolds. A darkened room in a house. Shapes begin to slowly morph into sharper focus as the two outstretched arms belonging to the person he can see through the shades come into view. Transfixed, Birdie can only watch on open-mouthed as two large serrated blades begin to swing, moving in lazy circles as the intruder advances on a couple sleeping in the large double bed, totally unaware of what is about to befall them. They don’t stand a chance. Hacked and sliced into an unrecognizable mess, they barely make a sound or movement in defense of their lives, such is the speed and ferocity of the attack. It is soon all over for them. But not for everyone. Shaking in terror, Birdie watches on as the murderous individual exits the room, shuffling down the landing before entering another one, much smaller with just one single bed, surrounded by an army of stuffed toy animals. And there in the bed lies a very small child of just three or four, innocent in his slumber. Unable to remove the sunglasses or shut his eyes, Birdie prepares for the worst, only to see the killer hesitate and bend down to examine the toddler. And it is then that all becomes crystal clear. This is the child in all the photos laid out so prominently in his grandma’s house. This is Birdie himself.

 

As the tears begin to flow down his cheeks, Birdie is treated to one more insight he would much rather be spared. The intruder now steps to the right and looks long and hard into the full-length mirror on the wall next to the bed. He is much younger and far less stooped, but once his balaclava is removed, it is the shock of white hair underneath that exposes the pure evil that is Jack Daley. But what’s this? Stepping out of his shadow now and into the light, is a tiny figure. It’s his own sweet grandma, bony arms reaching down to gather him up.

 

Ripping the glasses from his face and hurling them to the ground, Birdie is sobbing hard as the mirror lenses slowly start to turn to black.

​

Kevin Ramsden resides in Kyoto, Japan, and is a professor of Global Studies at a university in the city. Other than writing, his interests include listening to reggae music and complaining about the performances of West Ham United football club. He has also self-published a collection of short stories titled “Here Comes Kenji – Stories from Contemporary Japan”, some of which have found homes in Japan-based journals and magazines along with several other pieces accepted for publication elsewhere.