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They say the truth hurts. It's true. It does. Who'd have thought I'd end up exposed to the harsh truth somewhere like that? Of all the places to come face to face with destiny, I'd have put a church fayre at about number two thousand on the list.

I should explain. This isn't the end of the world I'm talking about here, not as such. After all, what could possibly be so terrible about a little jumble sale in the middle of darkest Surrey?

I'd seen the advert in the local paper. 'Church Sale – Bring And Buy'. It ran to several paragraphs, explaining the delights of the fayre. So, in a mood to sample the wares and possibly snaffle a few bargains, I got into the car, said goodbye to the wife and drove the twenty miles from my house to the village where the big event was happening. The journey was swift though startling, thanks to an unexpected encounter with a badly driven tractor about halfway there. I probably left tooth marks in the steering wheel when that happened…

Little Henchurch is the name of the village. It's a quaint old place with history going back to the start of time. There's a big, lovely old Norman church there, with a well-stocked graveyard and when I arrived I found a big garish marquee erected over one half of what they called the Church Playing Fields.

Precisely what they played on those fields I don't know. Pass the parcel with the funeral urns, possibly.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the tale.

The sun was beating down in a glorious cascade of gold when I arrived, which seemed odd since I had driven through drizzle all the way there. There was just a hint of a breeze in the air and the green-garbed branches were swaying gently.

There were perhaps a dozen cars there by the time I arrived, but I got the impression from the throng that most of the patrons were more local. I paid fifty pence to some vague and faceless attendant for the dubious privilege of parking on a cowpat, then locked the car and headed for the marquee.

If you've ever been in a beer tent in the height of summer you'll know what I'm talking about when I say the air was so thick I could have parcelled it and taken it home with me. Forget cutting it with a knife – I could have dished it with a spoon. It was very warm and muggy and I was sweating within minutes, and I was very relieved to take my jacket off and sling it over my shoulder. There was no escape from the heat except to step back outside again, and so I loitered like a very bad store detective while I studied what was on offer.

There was another reason for my not going in immediately: the smell. It wasn't what I'd call offensive as such. It was more sort of insidious and shabby, like a salesman who wouldn't take the hint and clear off. It was an 'in-your-face' conglomerate stench of horticulture, cookery, animals and armpits, and no matter how much I feigned disgust I was sure that I was adding to it myself.

The stalls were what you'd expect for a village craft fair. There was a lot of what I'd charitably call 'tack' on offer – there's only so much a grown man can do with raffia before he breaks down and cries, after all. Just about every ornament known to man was on offer, as were an encyclopaedic spectrum of foods and delicacies, from apple pies to yams – I'm assuming a yam is edible. I've never seen one before and for all I know it could be some sort of floor wax. Safe to say I kept them at arm's length.

I had gone in search of bargains. What I found was cheap, all right, but if any of it graced the walls or garden of my home it would be after I had moved out and gone to live on the Moon. It was duffness given embodied, an unrelenting parade of junk.

Or was it?

There, tucked away in one corner of the marquee, was a neglected little stall.

I couldn't see what was on offer from where I stood, and the thin little man who ran it didn't seem to believe in the power of a good first impression. The whole caboodle, stall and retailer, combined to look in some way shifty, with that 'just nicked' look.

I'm ashamed to admit that I thought all of this before I even got close enough to see what he was selling. I suppose I'm just a cynical git at the end of the day.

So I held my jacket with one hand, stuck my other hand in my pocket and sauntered over there as cool as you like, or at least as cool as I could be, given the gigantic Turkish bath we were all crammed into.

Curiously the background noise seemed to fade away. The buzz of conversation diminished the closer I got, and it was a faintly unnerving sensation, though I couldn't doubt that it must have been a huge advantage for him. Not having to shout while haggling is always a good thing.

So why was business so slack there?

The sign on the front of the stall said 'Mysteries, Inc.'

"Good afternoon, Mr Jenkins," he said as I approached.

I stopped in my tracks, feeling suddenly vulnerable. My heart rate increased in a guilty surge and I looked around, feeling like a rabbit in the hunter's crosshairs. "Have we met before?" I asked uncertainly.

He gave me a very knowing grin that seemed to split his face in two. "Just my little guess. Did I get it right?" He held out his hands. "My name's Ivor Lewis. I sell things. Bits and bobs and stuff you really, really want. You know, anything at all. Everything you've ever wanted but were afraid to ask for. I also give things away." He added this last with a confident wink.

As sales pitches went, this was right up there with promoting life insurance for kamikaze pilots. There was nothing at all on the stall, save for copious quantities of muggy air and what looked like brown sauce stains. "Very nice," I remarked dryly. "Is the stall for sale, then?"

He laughed as if this was the funniest joke he had ever heard. Given the state of his stall that might not have been far from the truth. "Good one, sir. Good one."

"Have you actually got anything to sell?" I asked impatiently.

His grin broadened, if that was possible. It threatened to detach the top half of his head. "Whatever you want. This is right up your alley, Mr Jenkins," he said, reaching behind the stall and coming back with a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. He unwrapped it with a flourish. "Ta-daa!"

It was a box. It was made of polished wood, held together with cheap tacks. It was heavily varnished and had a brass handle on the hinged lid. It looked quite old. "What is it?" I asked after studying it for a moment or two.

"It's a Mystery Box, Mr Jenkins. A Mystery Box. It's a real lifesaver. You can't do without it. Yours for twenty quid. A real bargain, if I do say so myself."

"Twenty pounds for an old box?" I said sceptically. "What's it supposed to do, exactly?"

He beamed, leaning forward until we were almost nose to nose. "It shows you the world as it really is," he said confidentially.

"I work for an insurance company, Mr Lewis," I informed him. "I see the world on a regular basis. I travel door to door, I cold-call and I meet people and I see people. What could this box tell me that I can't figure out for myself?"

He seemed momentarily flummoxed when I said this. I don't know, maybe he was expecting his little spiel to generate instant income. If so, he had a lot to learn about the fine art of retail. First rule of selling the unsaleable – grab your audience and don't let them wriggle off the hook. You talk, you wave impressive documents under their noses and then, when they're sufficiently disorientated, make them sign on the dotted line, and then run – counting the cash as you go.

Ivor Lewis couldn't have sold fresh air to a suffocating man. I was distinctly unimpressed.

I'll give him credit, though. He didn't give up. He caught my arm as I made to turn away. "If sir would permit me to demonstrate…"

I stopped. What the heck, I thought. Might as well see what the Mystery Box actually did. Who knew? Maybe it would have some value. "Okay," I said doubtfully.

He smiled so widely I swear his lips split. Then he blinked. He obviously didn't have a clue where to start. "Let's see now. This is a Mystery Box."

"Yes, you've already told me that," I said impatiently. "Cut the drivel. Show me what it does ."

"Your wish is my command." He made to open the box, then stopped, looking at me oddly. "Have you ever felt yourself to be alone in a crowd? As if the world were having a joke at your expense? Ever wanted to be in on the secret?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, annoyed but puzzled.

"Have you?" he prompted.

I sighed. "Sometimes, yes."

"Well, be happy. With the Mystery Box that will be a thing of the past. Open the lid and see the world as it really is. Would you like to try it?" His smile seemed to harden as he spoke, and for some reason I began to feel a little worried.

Why? I hadn't parted with any money and I was only indulging his desperate pleas, after all. Sure I wanted to see the world as it was. Why was I suddenly nervous? I swallowed hard, the silence around me starting to echo like a clanging, soundless bell. "Go ahead," I croaked.

Ivor Lewis nodded and lifted the lid of the Mystery Box.

It was like plunging headlong into a bottomless cavern. Suddenly the air rushed all around me, the light bent and blurred and the stuffy marquee warped and flickered into a sort of surreal netherworld. I leapt back, startled, feeling real fear.

Everything had changed. Everything was suddenly translucent. I could see through people, stalls, the fabric of the marquee… Only Ivor Lewis and his stall were 'real' now. Even my car was gone.

He looked into my eyes, the enthusiasm of the salesman gone. Now he looked at me with sympathy and, perhaps sorrow, and, locking eyes with him, I suddenly knew why.

Rushing along a country lane, driving too fast for the road, radio on loud, tapping the steering wheel in time with the music… Feeling relaxed and happy… It promised to be a nice day once the drizzle cleared up and the clouds parted… Could be a good chance to buy some stuff for the house, or maybe – WHAT THE HELL!?

The tractor was just there! It pulled out of the siding as if from nowhere, and there's nowhere to turn, no room to overtake. Oh God, I'm doomed! Slam the brakes, feel the crushing deceleration and then the sickening impact…

And then I'm clear. The sky is sunny and there's nothing before me save the little wooden box that plays the last seconds to me as the horror of it washes over me.

And Ivor Lewis smiled again. "I really am most terribly sorry, Mr Jenkins."

The End

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