Live and Let Drood

waters, making sure I saw everything there was to see. The gift shops were of course packed wall to wall with overpriced tat, loud and gaudy and tacky with it, the kind of thing tourists buy because they think it’s expected of them. And then when they get it home, they look at it and say, What was I thinking? Some nice watches, though. Along with a whole bunch of miniature clocks shoehorned into every kind of objet d’art and objet trouvé you could think of.
    What really caught my eye was the line of cans containing Brighton air. Really. Large and colourful containers full of fresh air from the seaside, sealed shut. Enjoy the breezy Brighton Air! Breathe in that ozone! And then take it home with you! said the sign on the front of every can. Molly got the giggles.
    “They’re actually selling air to the tourists!”
    “Reminds me of something I once saw on eBay,” I said. “Genuine Transylvanian Grave Dirt! Each in its own sealed container, of course. For vampire fanatics who only think they’ve got absolutely everything…My first thought was that the Eastern Europeans had finally figured out a way to sell dirt to foreigners, but it turned out to be more complicated than that. An old vampire count was shipping his ancestral estate to England, one bit at a time. We soon put a stop to that. I tracked down the location in London, got a few friends together, we all drank a lot of holy water and then pissed all over the new earthen plot. And that took care of that.”
    “You’ve lived, haven’t you, Eddie?” Molly said admiringly.
    “You want me to buy you a can of air or not?”
    “I’ll pass.” She frowned. “Am I remembering correctly—someone once tried to sell his soul on eBay?”
    “Yeah, but they made him take it down. He couldn’t provide proof of ownership.”
    We went through the games arcade next. All the usual noisy video stuff, of course, along with a surprising number of old-fashioned traditional games of no chance whatsoever. Clearly designed to painlessly separate a punter from whatever spare change he happened to have about his person. Whilst at the same time fooling said punter into believing he was having a good time.
    “You miserable old scrote,” said Molly, when I explained my insights to her. “You don’t come here to win money. You come here to enjoy yourself! You really don’t understand being on holiday, do you?”
    “Apparently not,” I said.
    Molly squealed excitedly as she recognised an old favourite from her childhood, and then nothing would do except for her to drag me over to show it off to me. The game was a simple mechanical affair called The Claw. A tall plastic cylinder with toys piled up at its base and a claw that descended from the top. You paid your money, which gave you a measure of control over the claw and a limited amount of time for you to use the claw to grab the toy of your choice. Skill was apparently involved. What could be simpler? Except somehow the claw never did get a secure grip on any of the toys before the time ran out. Funny, that.
    Molly jumped up and down excitedly before the clear plastic cylinder, regaling me with tall tales of the ones that got away…and then she went all quiet as she realised one of the toys she remembered was still on offer. She pointed it out to me: an overbearingly cute little stuffed pony in an unnatural shade of sky blue. With a purple mane. Molly slammed both hands against the cylinder, making it shiver, while growling, “I want it, I want it, I want it.” Several parents hustled their children away. I produced a handful of small change; Molly snatched it off my palm and the game was on. Molly took control of the claw, and several times got hold of her prey with it, but somehow it always came loose just as the time ran out. Funny, that.
    I may not know much about holidays, but I know a con when I see one.
    Molly scowled at the cylinder. I sensed trouble coming, and movedforward to block people’s view of her. She ghosted her hand through the clear plastic, grabbed the stuffed pony, took it out and hugged it to her. The greasy-haired teenager in charge of the game started to say something. I gave him one of my looks, and he didn’t. Molly cradled the pony to her bosom and looked at me defiantly.
    “I’ve always wanted one! It’s mine!”
    “Of course it is,” I said. “Anyone can see you two belong together. Can we please move along now?”
    “I thought there’d be alarms,” Molly said vaguely.