Eleven

The door to the street swung open wide.

Blaine stumbled out, the last cardboard box filled with his possessions clutched in his hands. Balanced on the box, like an imperial crown, was his precious fedora. Tucked into the band was his most prized trophy of all – the stub of a cinema ticket from Casablanca’s première night.

With care, he placed the box beside all the others just outside on the pavement, put the hat on the back of his head, and did a count.

There were fifteen boxes in all, packed tight with a lifetime’s collection of Casablanca memorabilia. Beside them was a single vinyl suitcase a little the worse for wear and, next to that, half a dozen framed posters, each one an original, of the same legendary film.

Blaine scanned the street for the truck that the doorman had ordered for him. With no sign of it, he picked up his oversized satchel and a plastic bin-liner with a few stray clothes, and went back inside to check.

‘Hey, Al, he’s still not out there.’

‘OK. I’ll give ‘em a call.’

The doorman’s bloated finger hit redial and his ear was assaulted by a shrill musical recording.

‘I hate the Beach Boys,’ he said.

Blaine tapped his watch.

‘He should have been here half an hour ago.’

There was a loud grumbling sound outside, as if it were about to rain. The doorman peered out at the sky just as the dispatcher came back on the line.

‘Yeah this is Al at Atlantic Avenue. We ordered a van to go to...’

‘To storage in Jackson Heights,’ Blaine whispered.

‘To Queens. Yeah. That’s right.’ Al hung up the phone. ‘Any minute now,’ he said.

Blaine gave a thumbs-up and went out to the kerb.

He did a double take.

All the boxes were gone.

The only thing left was a poster of Humphrey Bogart, with the word Casablanca ornamented in red along the bottom edge. The glass had been shattered, and there was a diagonal boot-print across Bogart’s face.

In the distance, slaloming away down Atlantic Avenue, was a garbage truck.

Blaine’s hands gripped his cheeks. He couldn’t make a sound. Then, slowly, the vacuum in his lungs filled with air.

‘Screw you, you bastards!’ he screamed. ‘And screw you Mr. Rogers! And you Mr. Seldon, and you too, Laurie! Screw the whole damned lot of you!’