Paid and Loving Eyes

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The lovers were making the van sway. I had to get out, from seasickness. The night was perishing cold. Donk found me sheltering under trees in the drizzling dark. He’s the antiques trade’s only profit-making messenger, has a rotten old motorbike.

“Lovejoy? Your pot’s tonight. Nine o’clock in the harbour barn.” My heart fell and rose. Armageddon time, and me minding a pair of illicit fornicators in a furniture van.

“Sure, Donk?” I looked at the van as it reached orgasm. Just my luck. First paying job for a fortnight, and paradise—antiques—spoils the money. No, that’s not right. It’s gelt that does for antiques, not the other way round.

“Josh said hurry. That’ll be a tenner, Lovejoy.” Donk’s messages are all ten quid, payable on delivery. I climbed up into my passionate van’s cabin and fired the ignition.

“I’ll owe you,” I called as he yelled after me. People don’t understand. Antiques are urgent. Anyway, the lovers inside wouldn’t notice that their trysting-place was barrelling through the rainy night at sixty. Passion is mostly oblivion. I’m an antique dealer, the only real one left. I know passion, and passion knows me.

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