Cora Franks generally shut Curios at four-thirty, but on that day it was a while after. She’d got stuck into the book organising and decided to make new signs for her sections: Romance, Crime/Horror, Action, Fiction, Cooking and Misc. The signs were good, she thought, since she’d used a ruler under the letters to make the bottom edges straight, and she’d made them out of fluoro cardboard, so they stood out from the front of the shop if you were looking back towards the bookcases.
What stood out when you looked at the front of the shop, though, now that Cora was on her way towards the door, was the silhouette of the man in the suit, who had sat down there—how long ago now? A long time. What on earth was he still doing there? Begging? Cora Franks shook her head in annoyance and stepped out the front door, closing it behind her, and while she was in the process of locking it she began speaking, very sternly, to the suited gentleman on the ground. ‘Excuse me, sir. That is not the best place to sit.’
The man stared calmly forward. His eyes were fixed on the chemist across the road. They were blue—his eyes—or they were grey; it was hard to tell in the five o’clock light.
‘Sir?’ said Cora, looking across at him now.
She finished locking up and shuffled on her brief legs the three or so metres to where he was sitting.
He was leaning back so his head was propped against the glass. His legs were straight out in front of him and his feet, in polished shoes, splayed out to either side. Looking at him front on, the gold lettering of Old Wares appeared to go right through him like a stake, impaling him sideways. His body covered most of the W. He looked so peaceful it seemed almost a shame to disturb him—and he had such a likeable face. Cora was already feeling bad for thinking ill of him. He was the kind of man who made you feel safe just to look at, like a gentlemanly hero from an old movie. He would know the way out of a difficult situation, a man like that. And what a nice suit it was, a properly authentic vintage suit.
‘Sir?’ she said again, more gently.
‘Not one for conversation, is he?’ said Lil Chapman, who had wandered out from the quilting shop next door to have a cigarette. ‘I’ve seen you sitting there most of the afternoon, doing your stretches. You like to stretch, do you? Are you from out of town?’ This last part was said slowly in a loud voice, as if he were either a moron or lacking basic knowledge of the English language. Lil Chapman, her hair faded and her cheeks creased with age, looked up to the sky and blew out a line of smoke.
Cora just stared downwards. Perhaps she went a little pale.
‘Sir? Please!’ she said, urgently this time, and waved her hand in front of his face.
The man did not blink. His chest, under a wide-striped tie that looked moderately expensive, was perfectly still.
‘Lil,’ said Cora, ‘I think we’d better call someone.’