Pot of Gold
Flash fiction
Hot air floods over the old man’s head as he crosses the threshold into the shopping mall. He pauses for a moment to absorb the warmth, dizzied by the contrast from the frozen night he has just passed in the car park hidden beneath the mall. His bones, heavy with damp and cold, begin to lighten and ease under the hairdryer blast of the air conditioning.
He shuffles further in, blinking his eyes against the sharp gleam of tile and window. Behind him the doors breath open again, admitting late-arriving staff in dark trousers, bright shirts emblazoned with store logos.
Their gazes slide over him; over his frayed jeans, battered army boots from the surplus store across the High Street, the green padded parka with its matted, fur-lined hood, then slide away as they hurry on. A half-smile tugs the old man’s grimy lips.
He is content with his invisibility.
The shop fronts are still half shuttered with white metal blinds like eyes heavy with sleep. Early shoppers have ducked within before the daily rush begins and hurriedly fill baskets from the rows of goods on the restocked shelves.
The old man, Abe, hitches his trousers and makes his way to the heart of the mall.
The scent of coffee and fresh-baked pastries blossoms in the airy space. A fountain pushes water upwards, shooting between three floors towards the glass dome above before running back over itself and splashing down into the wide pool that encircles it. Abe climbs the white steps leading up to the pool with care. His joints creak, a noise audible only within himself.
He eases himself onto the wide marble rim encircling the pool. Drops of water mist the air and he turns his face up so that they bead his skin. Exotic plants strategically placed to some architect’s plan spike the air. Fountain water pearls the dark polished leaves, their bases ringed by smooth pebbles stolen from a far off beach.
The glass dome casts a muted circle of daylight over the pool. The water stirs endlessly, stippled by the fall of the fountain as it patters like raindrops. Discs of bronze and silver shimmer beneath the surface. Abe doesn’t look at them but he knows they are there, wishes cast into the water by passersby.
‘Thou shalt not steal,’ Abe says, his voice creaky with disuse.
Reliant as he is upon the whims of strangers, Abe dares not tempt fate. Some days he leaves the fountain empty-handed and must beg for spare change as soon as he is back on the streets. So Abe waits, his face still upturned into the spray.
Outside the mall, the weak winter sun fights higher into the sky. A single ray hits the dome, lances through the dusty glass, down and down through the plume of the fountain. Soft pastel light dances, tantalizingly near yet impossibly far above Abe’s head. He catches his breath. Reds and yellows, blues and greens and oranges flicker over him in a series of tiny arcs.
Grace is given; the pot of gold is his.
Abe glances around surreptitiously at the few other people hurrying along the arcade. No one looks at him. He pulls off his black fingerless gloves and slips one hand into the water, gasping at the icy silk of it. He always expects it to be warm, but it is freezing as though, like him, it has found its way up from the dark bowels of the earth beneath this man-made place.
His fingernails clip a coin and scoop it up, a second one evades capture sliding away from him but then he has it, followed swiftly by more. He scoops his dripping haul into his lap and counts them into the creased, waiting palm of his other hand.
The coins wink and glitter at him. Enough to set himself up for the morning. He glances around the heated square of the mall; not here though in these fancy cafes with their lattes and pastries.
Abe’s mouth hums at the thought of a mug of tea from Terry’s Caff down the High Street and a bacon butty served with one of Terry’s unfunny jokes. The old man huffs with effort as he pushes himself up and away from the stone rim of the fountain and the fleeting iridescent shimmer of the rainbows. There is a lilt and a bounce in his shuffle as he heads for the nearest exit.