The going of shane
The street was empty apart from the oak chest lying against the kerb, and Shane was pretty sure he could see a glint of gold illuminating the stretch of pavement. It wasn’t that he was overly nosey, but times were hard and whatever the hell was in that box, he was on the street alone, and hadn’t had a square meal for days. You couldn’t count the burger he’d rescued from a bin, and the slop served up by the Salvation Army was disgusting.
His stomach rumbled and seemed to echo off the grimy walls as he sidled up to the chest. You couldn’t be too careful; years inside had taught him to trust nothing and nobody, though he had to grin to himself. After all, was it likely a serial killer was hiding inside, flashing his gold watch chain to lure him in? He licked his lips, cast a cautious glance round the deserted street and slowly raised the lid with its scarred leather straps and battered corners. It was the oddest thing – once open, the inside of the chest appeared to beckon him in, into a golden room as huge as – as – well Shane had no words, What he did have was an inexplicable urge to be drawn in and surround himself with the golden warmth. Two thin legs, tattooed arms, scrawny torso, shaved head. All gone in an instant.
The chest shivered, seemed to settle. A glint of gold shone out onto the pavement. It waited.