opposite row.
"How much for the dag?" A voice from behind Joe said, its tone shrill and grating.
"Sorry?" A young man, busy unpacking his wares from the back of a car, said to the dirty-looking thirty-something man that was looking at the Staffordshire Bull Terrier that was on a lead held by a good-looking blonde woman stood nearby. Joe recognised the owner of the shrill voice as a traveller.
"How much for the dag?" The dirty man repeated, pointing at the dog.
"Dag?" The young man said. "Oh, you mean dog!" He said, almost sarcastically. "He's not for sale, sorry." The traveller moved away, grunting something inaudible as he did so.
"They want them for fighting." Joe told the young man once he was sure the traveller was out of earshot.
"I thought as much. He's not mine anyway and she's never going to give him up." The young man said, smiling as he looked towards his partner, who was stroking the dog's forehead.
Joe looked over the assembled offerings from the young guy. Mostly books and film memorabilia, none of which was of interest to him. Carole joined Joe's side.
"Come look at this." She said, excitedly.
Joe nodded a farewell to the young man and his lovely female friend and took Carole's hand as she led him through the steadily growing throng of people towards a stall a few cars away from where he'd been admiring the dog's owner.
"There." Carole said, pointing at an ornate box sat upon the table behind a large transit van.
Joe looked at it more closely. It was a decorated hard-wood box, with a lid on rails that, when lifted, could be slotted into an enclosure at the rear. The action was smooth and effortless and revealed the contents of the box. Inside, was a record player. Despite the apparent age of the box, the internal mechanics looked relatively modern. The headshell, attached to the tone arm, enclosed a cartridge and stylus that wouldn't have looked out of place on an eighties music centre. The box itself suggested an adapted phonograph but a panel, hidden on the front of the box, slid back to reveal volume, bass, tone and treble controls. It was a strange amalgamation of old and new but Joe was delighted in the find.
On the platter was a thick LP-sized record. The label, which covered the centre of the disc was all black, with very tiny writing in a faded white colouring that ran around the outside of the informational sticker that looked to have seen better days. Joe attempted to lift the record from the deck, pulling at it vertically above the spindle, but it appeared stuck to the turntable.
"It doesn't come off." A woman nearby, whose presence Joe had been oblivious to, told him.
"Ah, right. Does it play?" He asked.
"Yes. It does. I'm here every week. If you find it's not working, bring it back." The woman, who Joe noticed was dressed in a black gown which reminded him of the outfit the witch wore in Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, her voice gravelly in tone, said to him. He noticed she looked nearly as old as the film was.
"How much?" Joe asked.
"Fifty." The woman uttered. Joe coughed.
"Fifty?" He spluttered.
"It's worth it. Makes a wonderful sound." She told him, justifying the cost which seemed ludicrous to him.
"I'll give you twenty." Joe told her.
"Fifty." The woman retorted.
"Thirty. I won't go any higher than that. I don't even know if it works." He said.
"Fifty." She said again.
"Jesus. Well, good luck." Joe made to walk off.
"Forty." The woman offered.
"Thirty-five." Joe said, turning back instantly.
"Done."
"I think I just have been." Joe said.
He pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and counted out thirty-five pounds which he gave to the woman. She offered no assistance with the player. Joe pulled the lid from its hidden enclosure and closed it along with the front panel. He lifted the box from the table.
"Jesus. It weighs a ton!" He said, surprised at the unexpected weight of the thing. "Best take this straight to the car." He said to Carole who nodded and began weaving through the swathes of people that now populated the car boot sale towards where the car was parked.
After putting the box in the boot of the car, they returned to the car boot sale area. The sun’s rays started to break across the horizon illuminating their path, as they headed back. They traversed the remaining stalls and jockeyed with other members of the public to view the various arrangements of old and new items that were peppered around the field. Carole picked up a couple of knick-knacks for stocking-filler presents for her parents and Joe obtained a copy of the special edition of Brazil on DVD.
They returned home, leaving the car boot sale some two hours after they'd entered it, but managing to be away early enough to miss the queues that were starting to form at the exit. Joe was relieved as they made good their “escape” as he called it and was glad to be going home as the roads became busier. When they got home the sun was fully in the sky and Joe surveyed the garden for any signs of animals as he waited for the engine to idle before switching it off. A black raven flew into the garden and, almost immediately, flew out again after seemingly realising Joe and Carole’s presence.
They left the warmth of the car and Joe lifted the box from the boot, carrying it into the home they'd inhabited since shortly after getting married. Joe placed it on the dining-room table whilst Carole put the kettle on and fired up the oven to start breakfast.
"Needs a bit of a dust." Joe said. Carole bent down and opened the cupboard beneath the sink and retrieved a yellow duster from within it. She tossed it towards Joe who caught it mid-air. He started wiping around the top of the box, and anywhere over the raised decoration where dust and dirt had accumulated.
Joe took the plug connection from the back of the box and pushed it into an extension lead already connected to a socket on the wall. At the back of the box was an ON/OFF switch which Joe switched to ON. There was a low hum for a brief second, then no further sound came forth from the box.
Joe lifted the lid and slid it into its hideaway at the rear.
"That's a really nice bit of design." He said, as Carole placed a cup of tea on the table beside the box for him.
"What's the box made of? Which type of wood is it?" Carole asked.
"I don't know. Hardwood of some kind. I'd have to check, but I think it's holly." Joe said. "It's been stained quite heavily, so hard to tell."
Carole looked closer at the decoration around the sides of the box.
"That's gross." She said.
"What is?" Joe asked, peering around the side of the box to that which Carole had reacted to.
"That." She informed him, pointing at a part of the decoration. It showed a contorted face, with what looked to be a snake coming out of the mouth, its tail extending from the owner of the face's chest, looking curiously like he'd been staked.
"Wow. I never noticed that before. That's brilliant." Joe exclaimed excitedly. He started looking at the decoration on all sides of the box.
"It's a bit... Macabre." Carole said.
"Yeah. It's a tableau of suffering. Look, a guy on a cross here. A woman tied to a stake on a pyre here. Is that a dog or a wolf? How come I never noticed this back at the car boot?" Joe wondered aloud.
"Maybe the light." Carole suggested.
"Well, I love it. Let's hear what it sounds like." Joe said. He pushed the button marked "33" to select the speed for LP's and then pressed the "START/STOP" button. The turntable platter moved slightly but Joe couldn't be sure it wasn't because of his pressing the button or whether the mechanics of the deck were initialising. The platter stopped moving.
"Hmm." Joe uttered.
"Is it on?" Carole asked. Joe pulled open the panel at the front of the unit. The controls were lit up, a sepia glow of dim light-bulbs illuminating them from behind the wooden frontage.
"Seems to be. Maybe the belt's perished or worn out." Joe offered.
He lifted the arm, using the small finger r
od attached to the headshell to steady it against the counterbalance that threatened to up-end it and pushed the arm in towards the record's surface. The platter started rotating. It seemed to be slow, weary almost, at first, but then seemed to be at the requisite speed for playing the record within a couple of seconds.
Joe paused before he released the arm from his finger and he and Carole watched as it gently floated down until the stylus met the record's surface. There was a sharp sound from the internal speakers as the stylus made contact and was guided into the lead groove of the record as it channelled into the main body of the disc.
A moment passed as they waited for the stylus to reach the programme that was embedded into the wax of the plastic.
When it did, they experienced a sound which was like nothing they'd ever heard before. Carole immediately covered her ears as the piercing, screeching scream reached her senses. Joe reeled back at the suddenness of the cacophony that slaughtered his eardrums. He recovered and leant forward, turning the volume control on the front of the box to try and reduce the sound level. Nothing happened. The wailing, alien almost in its intensity, persisted.
Joe reached inside the box to lift the stylus from the record's surface. Just as he reached the little arm that would give him purchase to do so, the headshell moved away and across the surface of the record, making the familiar scratching sound as the stylus leapt across the groove horizontally. The wailing was suddenly replaced by a shouting, maniacal voice, in a language neither he nor Carole understood. He moved his hand