The Terrible Toyshop
It was the dead of night in the High Street.
Tina, Trog and Jamie knew where the CCTV cameras were
pointing and how to avoid them. Despite causing mayhem in the small town, they
had not been caught yet.
The more disruptive troublemakers they used to steer clear
of had disappeared weeks ago. Now the three teenagers had the town to
themselves.
The porch of the small shop offered plenty of cover, and the
glass-fronted door had only one draw bolt. It would be easy to break into, so
there was probably nothing worth stealing inside. They could still trash the
place, though. That’s what they were best at; the worst nightmare of all
shopkeepers who opened up in the morning to discover their valuable stock
destroyed. If Tina, Trog and Jamie just stole what they could carry it would
have been understandable, but they only did it to inflict grief on others. It
gave them a feeling of control in an increasingly complicated world.
Tina broke the stained-glass panel in the door and reached
through to open the single bolt securing it. There was no alarm and the inside
of the shop was lit by a safety light, so she beckoned Trog and Jamie to follow
her in.
As they explored, the teenagers became aware that they were
being watched. Malevolent glass eyes were turning to follow their every
movement.
The young delinquents were terrified and would have dashed
back out if a deadlock on the door hadn’t turned with a resounding “clunk” and
shut them inside. There was no key to open it and the broken glass panel too
small to escape through.
They were trapped.
The only way out was through a small door at the rear of the
shop.
One pair of marble-sized glass eyes belonged to a sinister
clown which loomed from the shadows towards them.
Panicking, Tina, Trog and Jamie tripped over each other to
escape through the door.
When they were on the other side of it there was no one to
hear the teenagers scream.
The shelves of the newly-opened Victorian toyshop were
filled with dolls wearing thin-lipped smiles on their ceramic faces, monkeys in
fezzes, which could jump up and down on a stick, glove puppets of cats and
dogs, and picture puzzles of flowers, cottages and children with wistful
expressions. And at centre of it all was the merry-go-round of prancing ponies,
unicorns and a flying pig.
In this mysterious shop the rocking horse rocked without
being touched, the ballerina on the music box whirled to its trill tune without
needing a turn of the key, and the merry-go-round waltzed round and round at
the slightest draft. The local newspaper had dismissed it as electronic
trickery because the proprietor refused to be interviewed by one of their
reporters.
The occasional customer came in to stand and marvel, yet no
one purchased a toy for their children. There was something too sinister about
these playthings to inflict on a modern infant. It was more like an outlet for
grandmothers who disliked technology’s gadgets and their grandchildren. Toys
that had to be pushed, pulled or wound up should have thrilled many infants, but
the sinister, glass-eyed ones displayed in this toyshop were more likely to
make them burst into tears.
So how did this shop make any money? Did it carry out all
its business online? Were its customers wealthy collectors? None of the toys
were priced and there was no proprietor to purchase them from. The antiquated
till with yellowed keys looked as though it had not been used for a hundred
years and its float was probably in shillings, pennies and farthings. With the
lack of security it should have been a shoplifter’s paradise, but the menacing
ambience of the place was a deterrent in itself. And then there was the way the
toyshop had appeared overnight, fully stocked, in the small property between
the local supermarket and newsagent. The premises had been empty for years, and
both outlets had tried to purchase it, but the agent told them that the
leaseholder was holding it in reserve for when the community needed it most.
One young mother reported the toyshop to the police for
scaring her children. But they had other things to worry about. Local teenagers
had been disappearing. All of them were troublemakers and it was assumed that
they were hiding to avoid being charged with criminal behaviour. Now so many
had gone missing it could no longer be ignored, however glad law enforcement
was to see the back of them.
The local newspaper was also more interested in the lost tearaways
than wasting column space on the strange toyshop. As that was so low on their
list, Coral, an aspiring reporter, decided that this would be a good
qualification project for her course on journalism. Her writing skills were
exemplary and interviewing techniques remarkable for a 15-year-old. All she
needed now was an A pass for investigative reporting.
Coral checked in the wardrobe mirror that she looked the
part before setting out. It was essential to appear professional and five years
older.
Was her skirt too short, too tight or the wrong colour?
Should she wear lipstick and mascara, or tie up her box
braids?
Heels, trainers or sensible flat shoes?
If she had stood and thought about it any longer she would
have never left the house, and it was a good mile walk to the town centre. So
flat, sensible shoes it was - the trainers were far too shabby anyway.
When Coral reached the toyshop it seemed different, but she
couldn’t work out what had changed since she last went past. The clown in the
stained-glass door panel looked larger - though that wasn’t possible when the
door was the same size... and its smile had turned into a scowl.
Shrugging off the uneasy feeling, Coral pushed the door
open. The bell rang resoundingly on its coiled spring and she felt the glass
eyes of the toys gazing at her. At this point her less determined friends would
have quickly left. This teenager was made of sterner stuff though, and strode
to the mysterious merry-go-round, trying not to wonder what had set it in
motion.
Another sinister clown in its cabinet cackled insanely,
daring her to put a coin in its slot. The teenager refused to be intimidated
and explored the small shop of scary toys until she came to an alcove concealed
by a faded maroon curtain. Coral drew it aside to find a child-sized door.
Perhaps the proprietor was in the parlour on the other side, creating another
magical invention?
This was Alice in Wonderland territory. Should the aspiring
reporter go in and eat the cake or drink the potion which would make her the
height of the Eiffel Tower or rabbit-sized, and be rewarded with the story that
would secure her career? Having seen what cannabis did to people, there was no
chance of that.
But there was no harm in peering inside, so Coral lifted the
latch. This was a door to no parlour.
It really was Wonderland.
Despite its Victorian ambience, this world lacked Lewis
Carroll’s dreamlike reassurance. Coral mustered all her confidence and went
through into a place inhabited by life-sized toys that giggled manically or
frantically waved as she passed by. They were all horribly real.
The ballerina pivoting on the huge music box did so as
though she desperately wanted to escape. The monkey on the stick was more boy
than simian, contorted into awkward movements against his will, and other huge,
stuffed toys flapped their boneless arms as if trying to break out of their
stitches.
It was quite terrifying.
Passing the monstrous toys as fast as she could, Coral
reached the imposing roundabout at the centre of this weird playground. It was
a life-sized version of the replica in the shop and the only exhibit not
moving, as though waiting for the next visitor gullible enough to get onto one
of its sinister looking mounts. Even if she had been tempted, the evil squint
of the flying pig was deterrent enough.
The aspiring reporter pulled out her camera.
She was recording the collection of nightmare toys when a
forbidding figure dressed in a long black skirt with the sheen of a raven’s
wing glided towards her. The woman must have had legs, yet moved as though she
had no use for feet. Her beauty was spoilt by - what the teenager thought was -
a wicked expression. She was hardly the benign proprietor the teenager had
anticipated, more vampire than mortal toymaker.
“Well now, what are you doing here, little one?”
Although the woman was floating threateningly above her,
Coral resented being spoken down to as though she was an infant. “I might ask
you the same thing?”
“I am the Toymaker, and merely passing through.”
“To do what, and for how long?”
“To fulfil a popular public service, which will last as long
as it takes.”
Coral had already guessed what that - somewhat disturbing -
public service was. “There are probably laws against using a toyshop to trap
badly-behaved teenagers. Just what have you done to them?”
The sinister woman was taken back by her acuity and floated
down to look her in the eye. “Well aren’t you the clever one. Worked it out
without having to ask.”
“So this is what you call a public service? Trapping young
people my age and turning them into toys?”
“Oh, it won’t be forever, just until they learn how to
behave themselves.”
However much Coral disapproved of delinquent behaviour in
her peer group, it was difficult to believe that they deserved to be turned
into animatronics and stuffed dolls. “And I suppose you are the judge of when
that will be?”
“No, not at all. As soon as they are genuinely sorry, they
will automatically be released.”
“You are aware their parents must be going out of their
minds with worry, aren’t you?”
“Well of course they aren’t. Their children wouldn’t have
turned out this way if they had cared enough to bring them up properly. And
time in the real world is a mere blink of the eyelid. They can stay here for as
long as it takes, but return to whatever point in time they choose.”
“I suppose you supply packed lunches and the fare to start
new lives in the Andromeda Galaxy as well?”
Coral was obviously being sarcastic. She didn't expect the
sinister woman to admit, “If that’s what they need to be free of their old
ways, certainly.”
Coral glanced at her camera and saw that it hadn’t recorded
one image. It was enough to make her wonder if she wasn’t imagining it all. One
glance at the unguarded expression of the Toymaker told her that was what she
had been counting on it. A promising student damned by the label of fantasist
would be no threat to her ‘public service’.
“I’m still not leaving without a story,” Coral declared
defiantly.
There was not much the woman could do about that. This tough
teenager was totally unlike the others she dealt with. She was intelligent.
“What sort of story?”
“A good exposé that can be backed up by facts.”
“Oh, you are a little madam, aren’t you?”
“You’d better believe it.”
Coral’s main fault was ambition. That was no reason to turn
her into one of the terrible toys.
The Toymaker decided to give her what she wanted, and at the
same time put to rest one of her failures. “Some while ago a couple of youths
killed a young boy for fun. Unfortunately I cannot be in all places and watch every
miscreant but, had I been paying attention at the time, I could have prevented the
murder by including them in one of my ‘corrective’ facilities before they
committed it. They got away with it, buried the child's body, and went on to
have the fulfilled lives they had robbed him of. The police and boy’s parents
have been searching for him ever since.”
Coral was immediately enthused. “Tell me who they were?”
“Not so fast, little one. Before dying, consumed with
remorse at helping to cover up what his son had done, a father of one of the
youths wrote a letter. It reveals where boy’s body was buried. In the grave is
enough forensic evidence to convict the perpetrators.”
“Why not just tell me who his murderers were?”
“Don’t be foolish. If you approached them - as you well know
- you could be killed as well, and your ambition to be a reporter will end
there. I will tell you where you can find this sealed letter. Research the
details, write up the story, and then take what you find out to the police.”
It was an offer Coral could not refuse. Any story about the
phantom toyshop would destroy her career before it started. “How can I trust
you?”
“Look at your phone.”
Coral saw a text message arrive. It gave instructions on how
to contact the executrix handling the estate and papers of the father in
question. How she persuaded her to surrender the letter would be up to Coral.
This gave the budding journalist an idea. “We couldn’t come
to some agreement about you supplying me with more stories, could we?”
“Don’t push it, kid.”
The Toymaker’s black gown folded about her like raven wings
and Coral suddenly found herself was standing in the high street outside the
toyshop. The front was now boarded up with a TO LET sign nailed above it.
Learning about the youths who murdered a child for fun
tended to dampen any empathy Coral had for the teenagers trapped by its last
nightmare proprietor.
The shoppers spilling out of the supermarket with loaded
trolleys on one side, and customers leaving the newsagents with their
cigarettes and newspapers on the other, restored normality. Would any one of
them have believed that the toyshop between the two outlets had trapped several
young tearaways who had been disrupting the life of the neighbourhood? And
would they have particularly cared?
Coral went to the park to check out the story in the text
and plot her next move. According to news reports of the time, the murder had
been true. Traces of tissue and blood had been found but, as the Toymaker had
told her, no body or incriminating evidence. It was more than ambition which
made her feel obliged to pursue the story. The bereaved parents needed to know
where their child was. The fact the culprits were now adults, probably with
families of their own, was an injustice too far. Coral didn’t know it at the
time, but this was the moment her life was set on course as a crusading
journalist.
The budding reporter closed her smartphone and strolled
around the lake to think. The ducks were squabbling and trying to beat the
pigeons to chunks of bread tossed by children. The park was peaceful without
rowdy clusters of young people congregating to drink cider and intimidate
passers-by. It was such a relief to be able to walk from one end of it to the
other without some lewd comment or the risk of being mown down by a mountain
bike. These had been the teenagers who made it difficult for pupils like her to
study.
The story of the phantom toyshop was absurd anyway? The only
things on her camera were snapshots of her parents in a loving embrace when
they thought the younger children weren’t watching and a beautiful rainbow over
the gasometers, which had been irresistible.
Thank goodness there was still some beauty in the world.