The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy

      inter’s come, and it’s a slow day, and cold, and Danny is in the backroom strumming on his guitar, a battered old six-string he’s had since he was fourteen. Inspired by Stephanie, he’s singing ‘Spancil Hill’ by the Dubliners.

      He’s playing softly enough to listen out for the bell over the door, and when it tinkles he puts down the guitar and walks out to greet his prospective customer. Two of them, actually. There’s a tall old man over by the magazine rack, his back to Danny, and a younger, shorter, fatter man waiting at the counter. He has a black goatee beard that is failing in its attempt to hide twin moles, one on his upper lip, one on his chin. His thinning hair is long, pulled tight into a ponytail. He looks like he’d be more comfortable in a grubby Black Sabbath T-shirt, but here he is, stuffed into his shirt and tie like a sulky schoolboy forced to dress up for church.

      “Do you sell rat poison?” is the first thing he says.

      “Afraid not,” says Danny, “but we do have some rat repellers that work on an ultrasonic frequency if you have a rodent problem.”

      The fat man considers this by chewing his lip. “You sell knives?”

      “Penknives, yes.”

      “Hunting knives?”

      “No.”

      “OK. You sell hammers?”

      “We have a few,” says Danny. “Other side of the shelf behind you.”

      The fat man doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Usually this kind of time-wasting is done by kids to distract Danny from shoplifting going on elsewhere, but the only other person in the store is the old man, and he stays in plain sight.

      “You sell guns?” the fat man asks.

      “No,” says Danny, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to prickle.

      “Pity,” says the fat man. “I like guns.”

      He doesn’t say it in a threatening manner – in fact, he says it wistfully, almost like a sigh – but a feeling starts to grow in the hinterland of Danny’s mind, and it grows fast and it grows big.

      The fat man has a Boston accent. A long way to travel for a hammer and some rat poison. With just the counter between them, Danny can examine the unhealthy pallor of the man’s skin and pick out the different stains on the badly-knotted tie, fixed so tight it makes thick rolls of flesh bulge out at his shirt collar.

      “Anything else I can help you with?” Danny asks, meaning you can leave my store any time now, thank you very much, but the fat man doesn’t take the hint, and he stays where he is, eyes moving sluggishly over the racks of stuff on the wall before he comes to something that snags his interest.

      “You sell padlocks.”

      “Yes we do,” says Danny. “You want one?”

      The fat man shakes his head. “We have all we need. Chains, too. I was just remarking on the fact that you have them, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I intend to buy any.”

      “Right.”

      For the first time, the fat man’s eyes meet Danny’s. It isn’t a pleasant experience. “You shouldn’t be so quick to try to sell me things. That’s the problem with this country, you know. That’s the problem with America. Everyone is out for number one. Everyone’s out for themselves. So eager to part me from my money. If I keeled over of a heart attack this very moment, you probably wouldn’t think twice about rifling through my wallet before calling for an ambulance, would you?”

      “I’m sorry,” Danny says. “You pointed out the padlocks. I took that to mean you were interested in buying one.”

      “Didn’t I just say I have enough padlocks? What are you, stupid?”

      The last of Danny’s politeness washes away. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my store.”

      The fat man’s eyes bug. “What? You’re the one started this! You’re the one trying to take my money! Customer’s always right, you ever heard that? The customer is always right. You were being stupid and dumb and selfish, and what, I’m not allowed to call you on it? I’m not allowed to stand up for ordinary, decent values?”

      “Leave or I’ll call the police.”

      “Police?” the fat man screeches, his face going a deep red. “You’re the one in the wrong! I’m the victim here! Call the police! Go on, do it! We’ll let them decide who here is the aggrieved party! Oh, not so cocksure now, are you, now that I’ve called your bluff?”

      “Are you going to leave, or not?”

      The fat man’s lip curls unattractively. “What’s wrong – you don’t want me to make a scene in front of all these customers?”

      “What are you talking about? The only other person in here is your friend.”

      “Who, him?” says the fat man. “I’ve never seen that gentleman before in my life.”

      On cue, the old man turns, smiling. His face is a fascinating map of lines and wrinkles clustered round the landmarks of his features. A large nose, small, bright eyes, a thin, wide mouth. His hair is white and trails from his mottled scalp in wisps. There is something of the vulture about him.

      He marches forward, moving surprisingly smoothly for someone so elderly, his gnarled hands held at his sides. “Pardon me ever so,” he says, “but I couldn’t help but overhear this lively debate from where I stood, perusing the magazine stall. If I may interject, in the spirit of an impartial observer and a stranger to you both, I would offer the opinion that a simple misunderstanding is at the root of this current discord. May I enquire as to your names, kind sirs, so as to better sow the seeds of calmness and brotherhood?”

      “My name is Jeremiah Wallow,” says the fat man, standing a little straighter. “I hail from Boston, in Massachusetts, which is in the region known as New England.”

      “It is a singular pleasure to meet you, Jeremiah Wallow,”