The Shop for Unusual Doors

by Nal Borryn

It was only 30 minutes past 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning the first time Mark Garley heard about the Shop for Unusual Doors. He remembered it was a Saturday because the city council was supposed to take the recycling bins at 10:30 a.m., and they were exactly three minutes late. Mark was busy wishing upon them every kind of accident or disease that the human imagination could muster, when he heard a knock on the door.

Deciding it probably wasn’t Barnham town council there to explain themselves, he grumpily answered it with a lukewarm tea mug in hand.

“He—Jerry, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Heeyyy, sparky Markyyy!”

Jerry pushed his way past him and into the front room without asking and plonked himself down on the sofa.

“I’m here for the ket, man.”

“Here for the fucking what?”

Jerry looked up at him from the sofa like he’d been asked a difficult maths question.

“The ket, mate! Harry said you brought it back here.”

“Well, I don’t know what Harry said, but I haven’t fucking got any.”

Mark was almost ready to pick up Jerry by his polo shirt and throw him out—he just wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit today.

“You mean you don’t have it?”

Jerry used that voice which meant he needed things explained three or four more times before he would understand.

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Harry had some last night, that’s all I heard, but he never gave me any.”

It took Jerry’s tranquilised face a while to process the issue.

“But Harry said when he was passing it out that he owed you a half-ounce…”

Deep confusion was now etched in his frown lines.

“…and I thought, seeing as I helped you out with Seline that time…”

The tea mug was beginning to look like a tempting weapon, but Mark made himself stay calm.

“I told Harry the same fucking thing… I’ve been clean since last year. If you want some ket, give him a call right now instead of bothering me.”

Jerry was one of those people who only ever considered one possible outcome of his actions, so any unexpected turn of events left him speechless. He just stared at the cream carpet and uttered a kind of “huuhhhh” sound, which meant the news had finally gotten through to him.

Mark was still trying to figure out how angry he should be now. Maybe Harry really had just gotten the wrong end of something.

“Why didn’t you just message me about it?”

A rare flicker of thought seemed to have ignited behind Jerry’s eyes.

“Ahhhh, I was in the area… thought I’d come by… cheer you up seeing as I wasn’t around last night.”

He was now looking at the glass cabinets in Mark’s kitchen containing gin and whiskey bottles, his mind now losing interest as his fanciful stash of ketamine was nowhere in sight.

Mark was about to ask him what the fuck he was still doing here when he piped up again.

“Anyways, Marky… Did you err… see that new shop in town?”

“Did I what?”

Mark was so surprised by Jerry starting a conversation unrelated to drugs that he didn’t quite formulate his reply in time.

“What shop?”

“Ahh you know… The new one.” Mark would have thought Jerry was high if he didn’t know that was how he always sounded. “The shop for… you know…” a mischievous look fell over his face, “unusual doors.”

Mark was busy thinking how best to get him to leave his house as fast as legally possible when the last few words caught his attention. “What are you talking about?”

“Weird doors mate,” Jerry repeated, sitting up with a sly gleam in his eye. “They’ve got all kinds of doors you know, fancy ones, wide ones, glass ones… you know the kind with those moving inside parts.”

It took Mark a half second to wonder if this was some moronic joke he’d thought up. “What do you care about a shop for fucking doors Jerry? You live in your dad’s shed, is he redecorating?”

Maybe it was the annoying look on Jerry's face that had made him want to drop the comment. He’d been hoping to at least wipe the smile off his face, but Jerry just carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

“Well… it’s just that they’ve… you know… those fellas over there what own it…” he looked back with a satisfied expression, “bunch of rich gypos from what I heard.”

“Rich gypos?” He repeated, coming from Jerry, that could mean anyone from France to Japan. It was his word for any foreigner he couldn’t identify.

“Yeah, well loaded.” He continued still staring at the bottle of Old Grouse just visible through the glass in the kitchen. “Rolling in it… got a Bentley I heard, fancy hats, gold jewellery, Louis Vuitton bags, and err… just saying with you being a copper and all… sure seems a little ehhh… suspicious do it not?” He winked slyly at Mark, who felt he was on the verge of going insane when realisation dawned.

“Aaaahhhhhh” he replied, finally catching on. So it was all about drugs after all, “you think it’s all a front for something?”

Jerry nodded, clearly satisfied with himself for having thought of something so clever. “Gotta be mate… I mean who has all this money from selling fucking doors? How many people need to buy a door in Barnham? Maybe we’d buy a new one every couple of years, but come on… Definitely got something going on in the back rooms, and they think no one’s gonna come looking, butttt…” He then trailed off for dramatic effect. “They didn’t count on Police Constable Mark Garley did they?”

Mark was about to retort that he was only a deputy when he thought about what Jerry was saying. He had to admit that the guy actually had a point. Surely they couldn’t be making that much money as door salesmen, but he didn’t want to give Jerry the satisfaction of maybe being right.

“You know they could have just saved money…” he tried thinking it through in his head. “Maybe came here with a stash and had to set something up legally, wherever they’re from maybe…” He admitted it was quite an unusual business strategy. “Maybe they’re just good at making doors?”

“Pfffff” Jerry made a noise which made Mark think he’d already been there far too long. “Come on mate, you know that’s bullshit, and you haven’t seen them, they’ve got piles coming in from somewhere, you gotta check them out, just make sure you take a stash for me when you bust them.” He winked again and Mark was about to get him to leave when he heard the sound of the recycling truck outside.

“Wait a minute,” he jumped to his feet. “It’s the fucking bins, I gotta move them." As he ran up and pulled the nearest recycling bin to the pavement he just had time to shout out “I'll check it out later, and don't touch my fucking whiskey!”

* * *

The next day it was Sunday, and Mark had finished making his breaky, checked some emails, lifted a few dumbbells, and did his best to make his front room halfway presentable when he saw the post-it note he’d pinned to his kitchen mirror.

He’d made Jerry write it down knowing any details were apt to change in his mind depending on what time of day you asked him. But he was fairly sure he’d pinned down the name and some kind of directions. The name was Barraccio’s, and apparently, it was only a few minutes down from B&Q and opposite the Indian curry house. He’d planned to go to B&Q anyway to get some weighing scales and could still feel the curiosity tugging at him. What if, despite his mental deficiencies, Jerry was actually right? What if there really was something going on?

He tried to think through what he would actually do if he went there. He had a shot at being Assistant Constable by the end of the year, if he went, could he sniff something out? Maybe ask what they had in the back? See how they reacted. Drop that he was a cop and see if they acted nervous, but foreigners always got nervous around cops, they all thought they were out to get a shake-down. No, better to be tactful, say he wanted to know about the business, why they’d set up there, see if it all checked out. Then if it was all legit, he was just a friendly local trying to make everyone feel at home.

He congratulated himself on his cunning plan while he sipped his Nescafe and stared at the fox gloves in Mrs Picherry’s garden. He could always put in to be a detective, he always thought he’d make a good one. The idea excited him, maybe they'd transfer him somewhere a little more exciting than Barnham. He'd never fancied the idea of going to London but at least somewhere a bit bigger.

By the time he finished his coffee, he’d made up his mind, grabbed a few things to take out and set off out.

It took him less time than he’d expected to find Barraccios, the shop for unusual doors. The name to him sounded Italian, so he'd been expecting something exotic and colourful, with a carved or

painted door with stained glass windows or something, but the front of the shop looked disappointingly boring. It was wooden and kind of that reddish purple colour he could never remember the name of. It had a few ringed flower patterns with a simple metal sign that said Barraccios. It kind of looked like a lawyer’s office. It was nice he supposed, he'd just expected something a little fancier. Maybe they didn't want to waste their best stuff.

Even though he knew it was a shop, something about it made him think he should knock. It just had that kind of feeling to it, like an old woman would answer and ask what he wanted. It suddenly dawned on him how Jerry had even found out about it and why he hadn't thought to ask. But because he didn't want to waste his trip he decided there was nothing to it and knocked 3 times with a rap that he hoped wasn't too loud. He then assumed his friendly non-intimidating good cop face and waited for someone to answer.

After a second or two, he heard a shuffling of feet on the other side and the door slowly creaked open.

From Johnny's earlier description, he’d been expecting someone dressed like the Sultan from Aladdin to answer the door but was again disappointed to see a man who appeared relatively normal-looking.

He was at least wearing an interesting kind of hat. A velvety flat one that he'd seen in an old film about pirates. The man was sort of old he guessed, but clean-shaven, olive-skinned with sharp and curious eyes. He knew as a cop he wasn't supposed to judge people guilty based on their looks but he also knew there was a certain way criminals looked at you when you said hello. Usually with a kind of suspicion or sizing-you-up kind of look. But this man had a more intelligent curious gaze that made him seem like a librarian, not someone he would pin as a drug dealer.

“Hello there, how can I help you?” the voice was accented in what didn't sound to him like Italian. He didn't think of himself as the most intelligent person in the world but he liked to at least guess where people were from. He thought maybe Turkish or Egyptian or something.

“Hello,” he answered briskly. “Is this Barraccio’s?” The question was rhetorical as the sign was obviously hanging over the door.

“Why yes!” the man smiled pleasantly and Mark noticed he had one gold tooth. “We just opened so we haven't fully finished decorating, how did you hear about us?” He had a funny way of speaking, the foreigner, just like someone from that same old movie whose name he couldn't remember.

“Ah, through a friend and I er- was curious.” He tried his best to keep his manner casual. “I heard that you sell err…” he felt slightly stupid saying it. “Different kinds of… unique… furniture, like doors, is that right?”

The expression on the man's face changed to surprise. “Oh, I'm afraid there's been a mistake… here we are a shop that sells different kinds of unusual dolls.” He spoke kindly even while he emphasised the word.

“Er dolls?” Mark repeated, embarrassedly.

“Why yes,” the man's golden tooth gleamed again amidst pearly whites. “dolls of all kinds, for young or old, and all occasions.” He spoke patiently and warmly like Mark was an old friend whom he hadn't seen in years.

Damn it Jerry was such a fucking idiot. The next time he saw him he was going to smack him. He probably just heard someone talking about it at the pub and made up that entire story in his head about it. What a fucking…

He was still enraged and thinking of what to say when the shopkeeper spoke again. “But if you'd like to take a look inside sir, we'd be so happy to have you as our guest.”

“Oh er…” Mark’s face reddened, thinking of how best to get away. Now he looked like a fucking moron, he thought. “I don't usually buy er…”

“oh there's no need to buy anything, sir, we would just like to show you our new shop.” Barraccio - at least that's who he guessed he was - gave him the warm smile again like he wanted to share some heartwarming news with him. “We'd be so happy if you could just take a quick look.”

“Well er…” He glanced over his shoulder as if hoping someone he knew would magically appear and demand his attention. “Why er.. why not I suppose I could…”

“wonderful! Just follow me.” The gold tooth flashed again and he found himself following the old man through a corridor with a flowery carpet.

It took them a little longer than he would have expected to get into the shop itself, but when they entered it, he found himself in the middle of what looked to him like the back room of a magician's emporium, like something out of Harry Potter or Indiana Jones. The room had a black, red and gold tinge with thick carpets, Victorian wallpaper, ornamented gold frames, antique chairs, hanging chandeliers, painted teapots, and clocks of various sizes filling up most of the wall space. He even spied what looked like bird cages and weather vanes. It was much larger than he would’ve guessed, with strange wall hangers and odd pieces of furniture pointing out from different directions, and several conjoining rooms that made it feel like he was at the centre of a vast maze filled with every antique known to humankind.

Mark looked at him for a moment before nodding. “That's true… we like meat pies, pasties, and I guess stews, but people eat a lot of everything. Italian food, Indian food…” The tone made it obvious that Rachad and his family were quite new to the UK, and he was itching to know why they'd moved here. “But where are you from, sir? I can't remember if you told me.” He really couldn't.

“Ahhh I am from a region of Africa known as the Maghreb,” he replied mysteriously. “Our people are known as the Sarhawi people, but I think you may know it as part of Morocco, but we consider ourselves a separate people.”

“Ah got it.” Mark was a bit confused by this. So was he from Morocco or wasn’t he? He’d never been to Morocco and knew almost nothing about it. He guessed he was a Muslim, an Arab? That fitted his look, with the velvety hat; at least he seemed like one of the nice ones. But he'd never heard of the Sarawee people or whatever they were called. “Never been there myself… but I'm sure it's very different culturally…” He was suddenly painfully aware of his lack of geographical knowledge, and in need of something to say, decided to ask about his livelihood once again. “So you were an antique merchant there, were you? A kind of salesman?”

“Aha exactly, a kind of salesman,” Mark wasn't sure why he found that amusing. “But more specifically, I sell dolls, as I mentioned. The Sahrawi people have a tradition of very special kinds of dolls. They believe that dolls can be used to influence their owners. They can do all kinds of things, like heal the sick, make an infertile woman produce children, or make a deaf man hear again.” He looked wistfully at the space over Mark's shoulder as if recalling a distant memory. “In my youth, I travelled the Sahara in search of many such dolls from every desert and mountain tribe that once lived in the soil. They are so valuable that a chieftain would pay thousands of pounds for one doll.”

“Thousands of pounds?” Mark resounded in disbelief. He looked in Rachad's creased brown eyes. If he was lying, he was certainly doing a good job of it. He was sounding more like that movie character every minute, but judging from his vast collection, it made a kind of sense. He must have travelled widely to collect it all, and he had heard of stranger practices in the world. He looked around the shelves of clocks, mirrors, bird cages, and jewellery boxes, and noticed that although he was ostensibly a doll salesman, this seemed to be the one item in the collection that the merchant did not have. “Well, you have obviously led an interesting life,” he stated politely, “but if these dolls are your livelihood, why don't you have any in your shop?”

Rachad laughed again, in a warm but still somewhat disconcerting way. Like he was about to reveal some incredible misfortune that Mark was not yet aware of. “I'm so glad you asked, Mr Garley,” making Mark wonder why he insisted on using his surname. “The dolls can't be seen by just anyone. Each one must be carefully chosen for the person who sees it, or it won’t have the desired effect. In some villages, the dollmaker will spend weeks assessing an individual before they decide to create a doll for them.”

“Ahhhhh right,” he replied, suddenly wondering how Jerry had even heard of this place and whether this whole trip had been a waste of his time. He took a gulp of his tea so he could finish it and get going. “That all seems a bit…” he looked around the room for the word. “Complicated.”

“Allow me to demonstrate, Mr Garley,” Rachad dashed a golden smile once again. He suddenly saw movement and realised that his wife had returned. He wondered why he hadn't noticed her earlier, but his attention was soon caught by the large table she had just placed in front of them covered with a white cloth. Rachad continued, “During our conversation, I noticed several things about you, and I believe I have found the perfect match for you… This doll is reserved only for the most unique and gifted of customers, and in your case, it has met its match.

Mark started to protest when he realised what was about to happen. “Well, really that’s very kind but…” Before he could finish, as if she had been waiting for the moment the entire time, the wife quietly pulled the white cloth away from the table and revealed the doll that lay beneath.

Mark's words trailed off.

The first thing he noticed about it was that it didn't look like a doll. It was hard to describe, but to him, it looked more like a kind of bundle of woven knots and beads. There were tassels and pieces of fabric that made it hard to make out any kind of human figure. Its colour was a kind of brown with white and golden threads sprouting from the body. Despite the drapery, on closer inspection, he saw that the embroidery was incredibly detailed. Each tassel and fold had its own microscopic stitching, but the thing that drew his eyes the most was the face. It was an empty, sunken kind of face that seemed carved from wood. Its eyes were narrow slits with white beads while its mouth fell open in the last gasp of someone dying of thirst. But it wasn't the strangeness of the expression that made Mark unable to look away, it was that the face somehow reminded him of someone he knew. Its chiselled eyes and expression were somehow familiar, like an early memory he couldn't quite place.

The longer he stared, the more the feeling of uneasiness grew. It started in his stomach and soon filled his entire body, and he began to quiver with sickness.

“I erhhh…” He felt like he was about to be sick; nausea was suddenly filling his chest and throat. “I'm sorry I suddenly don't feel…” he could make out expressions of concern in Rachad and his wife's faces. With a herculean effort, he climbed to his feet, swaying like he was about to collapse. Rachad was saying something, but he couldn't make out what it was. He just remembered stumbling past him back into the corridor in which they'd come and aiming for the door. Then his hand made contact with the wood, and the dim light of the street hit his face.

***

He woke up in his bed the next day with what felt like a bad flu.

Shit. He thought, groping around for his phone in the dark. Shit… he realised he hadn't heard his alarm, and saw the time.

6.29. Exactly a minute before his alarm. He still had time to call in sick, but he decided to hunch over in bed first and feel his forehead. He didn't have a temperature, but he could feel the throbbing in his entire body like it was fighting a virus.

The memories of the day before were still turning over in his head. What the hell had happened in that shop? He still remembered the face of the doll with a kind of chill that he wouldn't care to dwell on. But his senses told him it must have been the food or maybe the shop interior. The thought crossed his mind that maybe Rachad and his wife had poisoned him, but it didn't make sense—they’d only just met him.

All the same, the experience left him unsettled and he resolved to do a background check on them when he got to work. Find out exactly what they were up to. There must be something more to his backstory, he thought of Rachad and his wry smile and his mysterious wife.

His mind mulled over the events of the evening while he cracked eggs into a pan and stirred a pot of charcoal coffee. Despite his bout of nausea, he felt somehow well-rested and refreshed and just prayed that it wasn't that false sense of wakefulness that came before the real tiredness hit.

He found himself at work not 40 minutes later and managed to sound vaguely normal saying hello to people before logging on to his station computer and shifting through all the unopened work messages that lay on his desktop. A car robbery on Barksfield Avenue… And a burglary next to the old Natwest office. He ignored it all and went straight to the PNC and OPUS files that only he and the other deputies had access to.

He noticed Cassey in the other room on her computer open, probably looking for illegal Facebook posts to waste everyone’s time with, he thought, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t enter before opening the OPUS file.

He found the shop's address on Google Maps and then added it to the local PNC database, searching for business registration. His mind fingered possibilities while it loaded—could he report them for false business disclosure? Or call for an official investigation based on suspicion? He knew all these things would require permission from Pete, his boss, and he’d have to convince him it was worth their time.

He pondered how best to explain it to him when the licence registration appeared on his screen. BARACCIOS, there it was. Granted 2023, household and furniture. He then opened the section on personal registration and saw the name listed. Rachad Awarmsi, Nationality: Morocco, Place of Birth: Morocco, Date of Birth: September 8th, 1976. So it was real then, that was his name, and he was Moroccan or Sararry or whatever he’d said. Mark leaned back in his chair, surveying the brown and white interior of the police station adorned with office plants and calendars.

The thought of the dolls wouldn't leave his head. Where had he got the dolls? Had customs just let him bring them all through, or had he made them here? He found it hard to believe he could have taken everything with him.

Just then Pete’s bustley face appeared from round the corner and called for him. “There you are, Mark… Could I borrow you for a moment?”

“Ah Hey Pete, of course!” His tone was neutral but Mark couldn't help but feel he was in trouble. Damn it, was it Jerry? Had he gotten up to something?

He got up from his chair and sidled over to the office, trying his best to look as professional and simultaneously upbeat as he could, to convey the feeling that anything that had gone wrong was surely not his fault.

Pete's beefy face and moustache could seem charming when he wanted to be, but his eyes also conveyed a kind of tenseness that it was better not to get on the wrong side of. Mark had always found the man slightly unnerving and distasteful somehow, not least because of the rumours that he kept all explicit photos from sex offender’s hard drives in his personal office, allegedly to prevent misuse. Mark’s instincts could never quite make himself believe that was normal police conduct, especially when he had ‘advisors’ visiting from London for long sessions in his blinded office.

“Hello, Mark, I hope you saw the car robbery we put on your desk this morning?”

Mark noted the pronoun we chosen to convey importance. “Ah yes, the one on Barksfield Avenue,” he tried to confirm that he knew the exact case without revealing he had read exactly none of it.

“Yes, we think we know the thugs that pulled it off. They’re set up just outside Pickford, out-of-towners. One of the guys cut himself on the window and he was on file from a battery charge last year. He's been coming in and out of a house in Pickford with two known associates. We expect to find a fair quantity of illegal drugs, but the issue is weapons.”

Mark nodded, trying to look stern and conceal the excitement that was building inside him. This sounded like proper detective work, the kind of thing he'd been hoping to get in on for years, and now it was finally here. “I understand sarge, I'll finish the report and go over the details with Paul.”

“Make sure you do.” Pete continued, and a look of concern entered his eyes which caught Mark off guard. “This is serious business Mark… We have word that one of them bought a firearm. A Glock-19 that he bought from a dealer out of Manchester, so we’ve got a weapons specialist coming in to help us out.” Mark was desperately trying not to say anything that might scupper his chances of being chosen. Pete looked Mark in the eye and spoke in his serious voice.

“Mark, I know you’ve finished your firearms training, and you're a big guy so that helps with intimidation, we need someone who can handle a weapon competently,” Mark was getting a bit uneasy, he’d never heard him talk like this. “We'd like you on this Mark, but I can't pretend it won't be dangerous, so if you're not willing just say the word and I'll ask Paul to lead.”

Mark met his eye, trying not to look too excited. “Pete, don't worry, I won't let you down, you know I've been training for this kind of thing, and I’m more than happy to go.

Pete nodded, reassured with a warmer colour in his face. “Good, good… one more thing…”

“Ehh yes?” Mark suddenly had a feeling like he'd done something wrong.

“I heard about the party the other night, that Harry was there dealing substances and that you were there…”

“Sh…” Mark had to stop himself from swearing, “I swear to God I didn't know Harry had anything there, and I've been clean for years now Pete, honest, I'll do a test right now if you don't believe me!”

“I believe you Mark, it's just it doesn't exactly look good does it?” Pete's serious voice had returned, and the grey stubble on his beard quivered. “Look if everyone who was ever using got stricken off it would be a very small station, but all it takes is one inspection from higher up and that'd be it, you understand?”

Mark's face was anguished but he kept his voice professional. “I understand Sarge but I swear I'm clean, and if I have to tell Harry again I'll take him here myself.”

Pete nodded, also reassured and more relaxed. “That'll be all Mark, let's do a follow-up with Paul about the report.”

As Mark got up to leave, something caught his eye as he turned to leave which made his stomach drop. It took him a second to realise his eyes weren't playing tricks on him and the colour drained from his face.

Pete saw him looking. “Ahh… That's just something I got in town, new place just opened, thought the owner was a real charmer, gave me cakes and everything.” He nodded at the doll placed on his mantlepiece. “Funny looking thing isn't it?”

The warped, deathly expression of the embroidered doll stared back at him.

***

Mark fumbled in his wallet as he neared the street, he just wanted to check it, just wanted to be sure. His nails scratched a picture of Seline there as he fumbled for the paper, wasn't sure why he’d kept it, just liked looking at it sometimes.

A few more cobblestones and he was almost there. Wet rain marks made them glisten as he drew closer, he paused just outside to catch his breath and finally pulled the card out of his wallet. There it was, the address Jerry had given him. 49 Harrogate Road, but it looked different now. The streets were darker but he was sure the door had changed. Hadn't it been wooden and reddish? And where was the name carved there? Where was the sign saying Barraccio’s? Instead, before him lay a gilded metal door, with curving steel girders like the mantlepiece of a fireplace and a brass doorknob, but nothing to indicate it except the address.

He reached out a shaking hand and knocked firmly on the girded steel, noticing too late the bell and pressing the small metal button. He gritted his teeth and waited, his face noticeably less friendly than the last time he had come.

Just when he was starting to doubt he was there the knob turned and the door squeaked open, revealing a smiling face, identical to the first appearance, except this time Rachad was wearing a long black cloak with raindrops still stuck to it.

Concern creased his dark eyelids as he looked Mark up and down. “Mr Garley! How are you feeling? I was so sorry you had to leave us last time, I did ask someone to check on you…”

“I'm alright… I'm fine, thank you, I just wasn't feeling well that day,” he tried his best to be courteous. “I wanted to ask you… about the dolls, what do they do?”

The question seemed to surprise Rachad and his eyes widened. “The… the dolls?”

“Yes!” Mark could feel himself getting annoyed and tried to control it. “Like the one you showed me last time, you said you chose it for me. I want to know, what do they do?”

“Oh, those ones!” Rachad looked relieved as if he could've been talking about any number of dolls. “Like the one I showed you… well, you could say they give you whatever you really want.”

Mark stared at him for a second without any of the friendliness he had previously attempted to muster. “I don't understand,” he spoke flatly.

“Well it is strange, but people collect them because they give you good luck. If you truly want money, you find a money doll, if you want love, you find a doll for that, health, success, anything, it's up to you.” He smiled and winked like a magician but Mark wasn't in the mood to play along.

“But you said you chose it for me…” he was now examining Rachad’s face for any flicker of nervousness but the smile never wavered. “What kind did you choose for me? What is it that you thought I wanted, exactly?”

“Ahhhh…” Rachad’s serene voice made him sound like a grandfather or an elderly teacher talking to a child which Mark was finding increasingly annoying. “Well if I told you the answer, it wouldn't work. It's like a birthday wish, if you tell people what you wish for, it won't come true!” He then let out a little chuckle which just made Mark even angrier.

He struggled with how to respond, caught between irritation and self-control. He gestured at the new door which lay open, the street light illuminating it. “I thought you said you weren't a door shop. Are you redecorating?”

Rachad chuckled again nonchalantly as if it were a joke at his expense. “Yes, we weren’t! But I'll admit after your excellent suggestion we decided to expand into the doors business too, with excellent results. People have been coming from all over Barnham to buy them.”

This struck Mark as so ridiculous that he thought Rachad was playing him for a fool. He had the feeling that there was some joke that had been played on him since the start, that he was being laughed at. Finally, he couldn't help himself.

“Do you think I'm an idiot Rachad?”

The man’s face suddenly changed, it was the first time he'd seen him look serious. “Why, no…” he seemed genuinely hurt. “Of course not, I think you are an intelligent man, more intelligent than your superiors at the police station give you credit for.”

He tried not to let the shock on his face show. How had he found out he was an officer? “You expect me to believe you made your money selling dolls and trinkets?” Mark was angry now and the words came fast. “Selling doors somewhere like Barnham? I don't know what you're up to exactly but don't think you can pull one over on people here.”

Rachad didn't say anything, he just frowned and stared back with the same hurt expression. “Well, Mr Garley… you already did a background check on me, what exactly is it that you think I'm doing here? You've already seen inside my shop, please search it all you like, I can assure you that all that you will find are my dolls, and my trinkets.”

Mark wanted to respond, he wanted to shout and push his way past into the shop, but he knew it was hopeless. He knew he'd regret getting angry, after all what proof did he have? “I don't know.” He admitted to Rachad, “but I aim to find out.”

On the way home he noticed the houses of his home town lit up in the street lights. He saw the doors reflecting in the puddles. Wooden doors, carved doors, metal doors, swivelling doors. Every single house, he noticed, with a newly designed door.

The phone buzzed almost as silently as a whisper. The gentle bzzz bzzz sound of an unanswered question.

They faded before he had time to think of what he really wanted to say. He stopped for a second to look at her picture on the screen, wondering if she’d changed numbers or found a way to block him without him knowing.

He decided to try again. This time the vibrating sounded louder, and he formulated a sentence, but still no answer. The option to leave a voicemail sounded on the other end. He hated leaving voicemails, but what choice did he have?

“Hey err… it’s Mark…” He thought about giving up but it was too late to stop now. “I know you’re probably busy but er… something’s happening at work you know… something serious… like dangerous.” He thought about the best way to explain the situation without sounding overdramatic. “Anyway, it’s just one of those things where er… Not sure if I’d get another chance to say it but… If something did happen,” He hated how pathetic he sounded when talking to her, it was a side of him almost no one else ever saw. “If it did then… I just want you to know I still thought about you, and I kind of wanted us to try again, even after… after everything” he trailed off even more pathetically. “Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, but er that’s it.”

He put the phone down and stared at it as if it was going to reassure him that he hadn’t done as shit a job as he felt he had. How the fuck was he supposed to explain something like that. Probably the whiskey hadn’t helped. ‘Yeah I have to do a raid with a gun and probably it will all be fine but in case it won’t I still love you.’ He was a fucking officer wasn’t he not a poet. The thought made him sad all of a sudden, it was only after you died people seemed to care all about you, but before then no one had the time did they? But what was he going to do, call everyone he knew every time something dangerous came up? It just went with the job was all, he’d always known that.

For some inexplicable reason, he got the sudden urge to call Jerry. Maybe it was just to feel more in control again, which was always easy to do if you compared yourself with Jerry, maybe because he was the only person that he felt sure would pick up. He just had an urge to talk to someone.

The phone rang out again, its pitiful pfff pffffs filling the inside of his dark bedroom lit only by his desk lamp. He mulled over his words for a second before trying again.

But like before, it just kept on ringing out.

Damn it what the fuck was that cunt busy with? He never did anything with his life at all, only ever went out on a Friday or a Saturday and spent the rest of his time playing video games in his shed, and the one fucking time he was busy happened to be the only time when Mark actually wanted to talk to him.

He pressed the voicemail button again out of sheer anger.

“Alright, Jerry? I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your busy fucking schedule but wanted to give you a heads up, something going on in town, can’t tell you the intricates but it’s something dangerous. Anyway, I know you still owe me for the money that I lent you last month but I wanted to say… Just forget about it alright? You did help me out with Seline before, so errhhh… let’s just get a drink over it at the Mill alright after this is done?”

He couldn’t think of another way to say it without sounding like a complete bender. “So erhhh you might not hear from me for a few days, but errhhh stay out of trouble alright?”

He let the message send and stared out of his black window into the black night, he looked over at his bed. Well, he thought, guess that was it.

The Citroen car rolled smoothly through town while Warren’s voice wafted through the car.

“Listen, gents, now that we’ve got some time to kill, let me give you the briefing that doesn’t make it into the CPS’s human rights presentations.” Mark and Pete listened carefully while grey clouds rolled between red tile roofs. “I’m not gonna mince words but I’ve been shot at before, and just so you know, there’s no ‘proportional force’ when someone starts shooting, if you see someone go for a gun in the car or their jacket, don’t hesitate. We know they’re armed, and if there’s a firearm on them you’ll never get prosecuted, so don’t worry.”

As the TFC sent down from Manchester Warren was the leader of the team so his questions were directed mostly to Mark who was there as OFC, while Pete listened as a tactical advisor.

“What if there’s more than one with a gun?” Paul asked, and Mark could tell he was trying his best to sound determined instead of nervous. “Have you ever seen that happen before?”

“Well, that’s not what the briefing said, and in all my years doing this I’ve only ever faced two armed suspects at once.” Warren continued his prep talk. “The most important thing is not to lose your head. Make sure you’re covered behind something, and you know where me and Mark are.” Warren pointed to both of them reassuringly, he spoke with confidence and experience that took the edge off their frayed nerves. “What we’d do, Paul, is from behind the car, let off some shots at them while covering each other and radio the SFOs who’d show up in four minutes and have them surrounded, so although it’s never happened, don’t worry that’s what the SFOs are for.” Warren then smiled like it was part of his daily 9 to 5, and even though they both knew it was partly for show, as the only officer who’d been in a firefight it was what they both needed to hear. Mark had a million more questions he wanted to ask but checked himself, not wanting to get inside his own head and decided to focus on what was in front of him.

“Operation Brisket” Mark mused at the name.

“Yeah, named after the pub where the boys meet,” Warren chuckled, “charming bunch of fellows aren’t they?” He checked the mirror for cars behind them. “You ever ran into this Iason Gataki before?”

“No never,” Mark admitted. “He moved over from Pickford a year or two ago, apparently survived a stabbing there over a drug feud.”

Paul shook his head in that way he did. “Gah-tah-kee, very British sounding name,” he said, in a testing-the-waters kind of way to check everyone was on the same page.

“Greek I think,” Mark offered, and shrugged when they looked at him for an explanation. “Never been,” was Paul’s only response.

The operation itself was actually fairly simple, Mark thought, while they brooded in the car. The plan was just to follow Gataki and his friend in the car to the house where they were keeping the shit they’d stolen to sell for drug money. They knew that Gataki had bought a gun and he probably kept it either inside his car or in the house. The plan was to surround him when he was in his car and arrest him peacefully along with whoever else was there. The charge would be illegal firearm possession or drug possession. He, Paul, and Warren were all in plain clothes with tactical gear inside the car in case they had to go inside the house. Mark’s pistol was equipped with tire-piercing rounds used to immobilise the car if they tried speeding away. That was the part none of them liked, if they decided to switch pistols or put on gear quickly they’d be vulnerable, but there was no way around it.

“Remember you’re there to make an arrest.” Pete had said in the briefing. “Police have raided the wrong house just because they got the wrong address or the wrong car, easily happens so remember you’re responsible for the lives of the people in that house whoever you find.”

Mark agreed with the sentiment but wished they’d been a bit heavier on specifics. Even though he’d completed his course he felt inadequately prepared, maybe it was always like that, but he kept thinking of imaginary scenarios in his head. What if another car with associates came? What if the SFOs got delayed? What if… He knew there were a thousand other things that could happen and it was better just to focus on the likely ones, that was where the nerves would get you.

As it happened, the cream Audi car that belonged to Gataki took quite a while to arrive. He was allegedly in town doing some drug business and taking some money back to the house. So he and the other two officers had the better part of two hours to chat about all the shit they’d seen on the force. It was close to 6 pm by the time the car finally got radioed in.

“GC, this is North team, The car’s moving, it’s passing you now, get ready.”

He heard and felt Warren moving the gear stick and the engine revving up.

“I can see it, just there,” Mark pointed as the vehicle started moving. “Fuck he’s speeding!” The car zoomed past in a blur and Warren started accelerating.

“Do we put out a call?” Asked Paul from the back seat.

“No,” answered Warren, he’s still going back to the house, we just have to be fast, he put his foot down on the accelerator and the car sped into higher gear, swerving around others on the high street.

“We’ll try and keep up but hang back a little,” Warren continued as he gripped the wheel tighter. Mark saw Pete’s nervous face in the rear mirror. “If we’re too close to him he might not stop, just be ready to surround him fast.”

“Do we put on tactical gear?” Paul added, at this point rather unhelpfully.

“No time!” Warren spat as the car swerved and rounded the next group of cobblestone houses, now out of the main high street and into the residential areas where fewer shops were visible. Signs and cars blurred past while they raced through the next two streets, a few people turned their heads to see the car thundering past them. All the while Mark maintained his view of the beige Audi and his grip on the radio.

“We’re in pursuit, but the suspect is speeding, we’re close behind.” He did his best to communicate urgency while Warren focused on the road.

“Message received, he’s still heading for the house.” came the reply on the radio, “two streets away, it looks like he’s stopping.”

The car screeched past the next collection of cobblestone houses a lot faster than any of them would have liked and slowed as they saw the Audi nearing the end of the road close to where the plastered brown house with a broken window stood.

“He’s slowing, he’s slowing!” Mark sounded while Warren immediately slammed down on the brakes and everyone lurched forward in their seats, all fearful that they’d been discovered and the Audi was about to race out of town.

“Wait… wait,” Warren evidently got the idea and slowed the civilian police car to a snail’s pace while it neared the end of the street. The beige Audi slid in front of the house and before any of them could blink two men were getting out of the car and making a sprint for the door.

“Fuck, shit.” Paul and Warren both swore separately as they saw the two run from the car and into the house. One was wearing a black overcoat, and the other a brown raincoat. They didn’t look like they were carrying anything. The police car slid to a halt in front of the house while Mark spoke to the radio.

“FC1 and FC2 are already inside the house, repeat, the two suspects are inside the house.”

Warren grabbed the radio without asking. “They’re inside the house, requesting SFOs now, we are changing to tactical gear.”

The response came fast on the radio “Message received North Team, FSOs are dispatched, ETA is six minutes.”

“Message received, changing to tactical now.”

“Six minutes, got to finish getting their fucking nails done do they?” Warren shook his head while they removed jackets and strapped on tactical gloves and ballistic helmets. The trousers and vests were already done, so they were ready within 60 seconds. “Weapons check? Loaded and ready to engage?”

“Ready to engage,” both Paul and Mark nodded and flipped the safety off the Glock-19s, checked ammunition, and unclasped the holsters.

Warren then spoke into the radio one last time, “Final comms check, we are moving into positions on the house.”

The reply came, and they lowere d the visors on their ballistic helmets and exited the car in unison. Mark felt the weight in his hand and heard his breath on the inside of the helmet. He checked his safety was off and his gun pointed at the floor while he walked in step behind Warren like he’d been trained. Together they took up positions beside the front door with Warren facing the right side with Paul behind him and Mark opposite. They all held their Glock-19s and stared at the entrance, listening to sounds now emerging from inside the house. It sounded like shouting, an argument, they heard the sound of glass breaking.

He looked at Warren’s face through the visor. He didn’t know why, but he found it hard to see clearly with it, maybe it was the angle, but he didn’t remember it being so hard to see in the training. But he could still see Warren’s expression and what he’d noticed.

The entrance to the front door was unlocked and slightly open.

Mark could see the other officer’s finger on the radio, waiting to ask permission for entry, but realizing, like he did, that as soon as he spoke, whoever was inside would be alerted to them, and who knows whether the gun was still in the house. He knew he and Warren were both thinking the same thing, they’d never have a better chance.

He reached out a hand to silently point to the unlocked door, and then made a circular opening motion with his hand and a thumbs up. His heart pounded for another second and then he saw Warren’s gloved hand reach back and give a thumbs up, he then nodded and held up five fingers before a hand slice.

Soft breach in five seconds.

He saw him reach round his hand to pat Paul on the shoulder and tell him the same thing and heard a slight intake of breath when the officer realized what was going to happen, then he nodded.

He saw Warren’s hand then hold up the fingers and saw them slowly retracting.

five

As the countdown unfolded one by one, Mark felt a strange sense of elation like he had never felt before.

four

It was like every cop movie and TV show that he’d ever loved.

three

Every exciting moment he’d ever dreamt of being part of, every police novel he’d read.

Two

And if it all went well maybe he would make deputy constable, maybe—

Warren’s shoulder pushed through the door with a colossal crash.

“ARMED POLICE! DO NOT RESIST! ARMED PO-”

An ear-shattering explosion filled the room and Warren felt his eardrums pop and a ringing sound in his ears, and saw Warren collapse in front of him. Something dark splattered onto his visor.

It took him half a second and another explosion for him to realize it had been a gunshot and he was raising his pistol towards the direction of fire and pulling the trigger. Time seemed to slow and nothing existed except the dark shape before him. The gun exploded in his hand and he almost dropped it, but again made himself pull the trigger, once, twice, three, four times, until hazy smoke filled the air and his ears rang.

He just couldn’t fucking see through his fucking visor. He thought he heard a name shouted to his left side. “Mark?”

He saw another shape now climbing to his feet with its arm outstretched holding something in its hand.

“KNIFE!” He heard Paul shout, “HE HAS A KNIFE!”

Mark squeezed the metal lever again, and one more time his ears shattered and the room briefly lit up as the gun flashed as the bullet left it, he saw the shape in front of him quiver and fall and was left with only the sound of his breath against the visor and Paul running to help Warren.

The whole room smelled of smoke and had a metallic odor. He felt sick and felt the blood pulsating through his whole body. He could only see the two bodies. His hands shook. Before he knew what he was doing he was taking his visor off, he just couldn’t see out of the fucking thing. That was when he looked at the body on the left side.

“Jerry?”

Jerry was looking up at him confused, while a pool of blood was forming around his body and soaking through his hoodie. He looked like he’d forgotten where he was and was looking up at Mark like he’d just performed a baffling magic trick. His mouth was moving and he seemed to be trying to say something but only a kind of choking sound was coming out. Weirdly apart from the blood around him, he didn’t even seem badly hurt, and Mark half expected him to get up and say he was fine.

He looked around the room and saw stashes of cocaine, meth, and probably every other drug known to humankind. Seconds later other officers were all around him, patting him on the shoulder and talking to him with voices from far away, time was still moving slowly he realized. It hadn’t yet returned to normal.

It wasn’t until he was back at the station giving a statement and receiving his follow-up wellness check that he saw what Jerry had been holding in his hand. It wasn’t a knife like Paul had assumed out of fear, he saw it placed on the metallic tray inside the property room facing up at the ceiling. Just to be sure he moved closer to check on it.

There It was lying face up at him.

A woven, stuffed, beady-faced, doll.

* * *

He walked down the street feeling calm, even while his hand shook. He felt the weight of the Glock pistol in his pocket which he’d taken from the property room, and although it emanated fear, determination won out.

He knew he had to do it. Whatever the fuck was happening it had to end now. He hadn’t thought all the details through, but he knew it had to be done. He was going to make that scumbag leave one way or another.

He felt the cobblestones under his shoes as he walked through the night air. He’d finished half a bottle of his Grouse, the one he’d been planning on sharing with Jerry. The whiskey still numbed his lips.

He saw the doors glittering as he walked past. Beautiful fucking doors aren’t they? He thought as he walked past, silver doors, zig-zagging doors, wooden carved doors. Every kind of fucking door you could want.

It wasn’t long before he saw the entrance to Baraccio’s down the street from his favourite pub, and recognised the carved inlay pattern. He hammered his fist against it and pounded the doorbell.

“RACHAD!” He bellowed in a voice that would not have made most people eager to answer. “RAAACHAAAAADDDD.”

He knew that scumbag could hear him, he was always inside. He had to be there. He pushed against the door with all his strength which was formidable and twisted the handle, “RACHAAAAAAAA- uhh.”

To his surprise, the door fell open and he almost tripped and fell inside. The flowery carpet swam up to meet him and he gripped the handle for stability, but even while he was regaining his balance the door was swinging shut behind him and he found himself alone in the wooden corridor looking at the other end. He suddenly felt eerie as he crept along it, it was lit so he felt someone was already home, and they must have heard him, but why had no one answered? He slowly walked down the corridor until he reached the second wooden door at the end and had a sudden urge to pull out the gun before he opened it.

He finally, steeled his nerves, wrapped his hand around the golden handle and twisted.

“Ahhh Mark, how disappointing.”

His heart froze upon hearing the voice. It wasn’t the voice of Rachad, but the voice of…

“How predictable that you’d come here now.”

He was now looking at the face of Pete, his Sergeant and boss who was sitting at his desk as if he were still at the police station.

The shop itself looked different, it was almost empty with only a few tables and armchairs to distinguish it. The Police Sergeant was sitting on a comfortable armchair at a wooden desk.

“Coming here by yourself with a gun to kill an immigrant? Not to mention an upstanding member of the community… not a good look is it Mark? Not a good look at all.” His moustache wobbled as he shook his head.

Mark opened his mouth and a small “huhhhhh” sound came out. He truly couldn’t even begin to fathom how Pete was here.

“I've always suspected you were stupid, incompetent, and racist Mark, and now here I have proof.”

Pete was now shaking his head and looking at some piece of paper he had in front of him.

“And don’t think it’s me you’ve let down Mark oh nooooo, it’s yourself you’ve let down, as well as your fellow officers.”

Mark just stood there, slightly open-mouthed, feeling like a child caught stealing from the school kitchen. He still felt the weight of the gun in his pocket.

“But he… He killed Jerry…” He mouthed weakly, the alcohol still numbing his brain, was it really him?

“Jerry? Ah, you’re friend the drug addict? But he’s right here.”

Pete turned and gestured his hand at the door on the right side where Rachad’s wife had appeared last time. Mark’s mouth fell open.

Jerry was smiling as he walked out to the desk, wearing a grey suit with a blue undershirt, something he’d never seen Jerry wear in all his life.

“Heyyyy Sparky Marky.” Jerry winked a mischievous grin at him.

“J-Jerryyy?” He stammered, his hand reaching into his coat pocket. “What the fuck?” He asked them, but they both just stood there smiling at him.

“Ois an investmunt Bankuh now I is mate.” Jerry spoke with the same dunce voice he always spoke in. “Always wanted me to make something of myself dint ya?”

“Jerry what the fuck is going on here?” Mark asked, eyes wide. “I just saw you… you know at the fucking house.”

“Oh thaatttttt,” he answered slyly, “that was all just a bit of fun wannit? Knew you always wanted to shoot me haahaa.”

“Yes, you did an outstanding job Mark.” Pete now spoke up again cheerily. “All that stuff I was saying just now was just leading you on ey… don’t worry about it, you saved a fellow officer’s life, you stopped a violent crime, and you rid the streets of this menace.” He pointed at Jerry who grinned stupidly.

Pete put a set of golden and silver keys on the desk. “That’s why I’m promoting you to chief detective, Mark, always knew you had it in you and you just needed to prove it. You can practically run the station too.” He lay back in his chair and stretched. “Frankly I’m going to go home and kill myself because I’m a nonce that likes looking at pictures of kids, but first I wanted to give you the satisfaction of promoting you.”

“Yeah, we’re all so proud of you Markey.” Jerry chimed in, and Mark realised that he’d never actually seen Jerry so happy about anything.

“Yes, yes…” Pete agreed, “Just one thing before you accept Mark.” In unison, both Jerry and Pete reached down and pulled out a small wooden box on the table. The same one Rachad had shown him. “You forgot to take this last time you were here, well we have it for you just…”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?” Mark screamed at them and reached a hand in his pocket for his gun.

“Now, now, there’s no need for…”

Before he could finish, Mark was turning and fumbling for the door handle behind him and stepping inside the corridor. He raced as fast as he could to the other side and wrenched open the final door to find…

The same room stared back at him. The same inside of Rachad’s shop. Only this time instead of Pete and Jerry at the desk, a blonde-haired woman was looking down at the floor. He put a step forward cautiously.

“Seline?” His voice was quiet and sounded as shaken as he felt.

She looked up at him, and the light from the wall lamp illuminated her beautiful face.

“Hey, Mark, what took you so long?” She spoke sweetly, her hair wisped over her shoulder and she was wearing the white dress she’d worn when he’d first met her. “I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

“Seline, what’s happening? What are you doing here?” Mark felt he was almost teary-eyed in needing an explanation. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s OK Mark you don’t need to understand…” She reached out a hand and he took it. It felt like it had been so long since he’d seen her. “We can just stay here.”

“Let’s get out of this place,” he offered, almost pleadingly, “let’s go and never come back, forget everything that happened before.”

“I can’t Mark, I’m sorry… I want to but I just can’t,” she spoke whimsically.

“WHY NOT?” Mark had shouted half pleaded at her.

“You know why…” she trailed off, looking over at the sofa on the opposite side of the room, he looked but saw nothing.

“How do you-?” But something about her expression made him stop, he took a step back when he saw the way she was looking at him, her narrow eyes, a kind of frowning, half-pouting expression, mouth slightly open in pain. And he suddenly realised what it was. The doll, her face was making the same expression as the doll he had first seen in this room.

“No,” he said, taking another step back, “no…”

Then he blinked and for the first time, he saw the figure clearly. Rachad was now sitting there at the table. Sitting like a monk in meditation with a calm smile etched on his face, his golden tooth reflecting in the lamplight.

Mark’s hand went for his gun, he held it up half crookedly. He expected Rachad to recoil, or flinch, even beg. But instead, his smile only widened, and he began to chuckle that same satisfied chuckle he had made just days ago.

“Whatever it is you’re doing here, you have to stop. You have to stop and never come back, or I’ll kill you, I’ll shoot you here and now I swear.”

Rachad didn’t say anything, he just continued to chuckle louder and louder, his face seemed to be getting bigger, his figure filling the entire room.

“I MEAN IT!” Shouted Mark, readying his finger on the trigger.

“But what is happening here is exactly what you wanted to happen Mr Garley,” Rachad’s chuckle seemed to continue even as he spoke.

“Excuse me?”

“You wanted a promotion, good things for your friends, your girlfriend back, and now when they’re in front of you you only feel anger? What’s the expression Mr. Garley? Looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

“That’s not…” His speech was slurred, “it’s not real, none of these things are… I don’t want things to change like this, no one else does either.”

“But of course they do!” Rachad’s head seemed suddenly larger, his eyes bulged, his voice grew to fill the room. “Things change all the time Mr. Garley, don’t you know that? If you want something in your life, you need to accept change.”

Rachad’s growing hands reached down and pulled out the doll, his doll, the one he’d first seen in the shop.

“And here it is Mr. Garley, the thing you’re so afraid of, come closer and you’ll see. It’s nothing to fear. It’s you after all, that’s all the doll is.” His face now seemed twice it’s size. His figure grew so that it blocked out most of the light behind him. Mark felt the room grow dark.

“No…” he whispered, stepping back. Out of fear he closed his eyes and fired the gun, feeling the gunshot ring out for the eighth time that day and the recoil snap his wrist back. The noise deafened his ears. He heard a crash and saw flames shooting up the wall. All the while the same sound of Rachad laughing filled his ears.

It was no good, the fire was spreading.

In terror he turned and ran, pushing past the desk and chair, running for the carved wooden door. He ran as the smoke and flames licked at his feet and into the corridor. He reached the end but almost fell onto the next door, this one steel engraved, the next one mahogany, a white door, a silver door, doors with those swivelling parts inside, so many beautifully made doors. He ran until the smoke from the fire filled the whole corridor and all that he knew was black.

The last thing he heard was the laughter.