Karin Slaughter - Like A Charm

She's weeping so much now, her words are muffled. I wish I had a handkerchief for her.

'I knew that Eliza had died for a handful of pimples. Because in our vanity, our dreadful pride, we couldn't accept the least defect in our daughter. We were ungrateful, and she was taken from us, and all the years since, and all the years ahead allotted to me, will be expiation.'

The bracelet seems to burn me. I've managed to undo the catch. I pull it off, the little gold charms tinkling.

Tante Fanny wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. 'Throw that away. My curse on it, and on all glittering vanities,' she says hoarsely. 'Get rid of it, Aimée, and thank God you'll never be beautiful.'

Her words are like a blow to the ribs. But a moment later I'm glad she said it. It's better to know these things. Who'd want to spend a whole life hankering?

I go out of the room without a word. I can feel the blood welling, sticky on my thighs. But first I must do this. I fetch an old bottle from the kitchen, and a candle stub. I seal up the bracelet in its green translucent tomb, and go to the top of the levee, and throw it as far as I can into the Mississippi.

Most of us around these parts had never seen a coloured person until Cornelius Jubb walked into the Nag's Head one fine April evening in 1943, bold as brass and black as Whitby jet.

Ernie the landlord asked him if he had a glass. Glasses being in short supply, most of us brought our own and guarded them with our lives. He shook his head. Ernie's not a bad sort, though, so he dug out a dusty jam jar from under the bar, rinsed it off and filled it with beer. The young man seemed happy enough with the result; he thanked Ernie and paid. After that, he lit a Lucky Strike and just stood there with that gentle, innocent look in his eyes, a look I came to know so well, and one that stayed with him throughout all that was to happen in the following weeks, for all the world as if he might have been waiting for a bus or something, daydreaming about some faraway sweetheart.

Now, most of us up here in Leeds are decent enough folk, and I like to think we measure a man by who he is and what he does. But there's always an exception, isn't there? In our case it was Obediah Clough, who happened to be drinking with his cronies in his usual corner, complaining about the meagre cheese ration. Obediah was too old to go to war again, and he drilled the local Home Guard and helped out with ARP, though air raids had been sporadic since 1941, to say the least.

Obediah swaggered up to the young coloured gentleman with that way he has, chest puffed out, baggy trousers held up with a length of cord, and looked him up and down, an exaggerated expression of curiosity on his blotchy red face. His pals sat in the corner sniggering at his performance. The young man ignored them all and carried on drinking and smoking.

Finally, not used to being ignored for so long, Obediah thrust his face mere inches away from the other man's, which must have been terrible for the poor fellow because Obediah's breath smells worse than a pub toilet at closing time. Give him his due, though, the lad didn't flinch.

'What have we got here, then?' Obediah said, playing it up for his cronies.

Whether because he recognized the question as rhetorical, or because he simply didn't know the answer, the young man made no reply.

'What's your name, then?' Obediah asked.

The man put his glass down, smiled and said, 'My name's Jubb, sir. Lieutenant Cornelius Jubb. I'm very pleased to meet you.' He held out his hand, but Obediah ignored it.

'Jubb?' Obediah's jaw dropped. 'Jubb? But that's a Yorkshire name.'

'It's the name I was given by my parents,' said the man.

'Tha's not a Yorkshireman,' Obediah said, eyes narrowing. 'Tha's having me on.'

'No word of a lie,' said Cornelius Jubb. 'But you're right, sir. I'm not a Yorkshireman. I'm from Louisiana.'

'So what're you doing with a Yorkshire name, then?'

Cornelius shrugged. 'Maybe my ancestors came from Yorkshire?'

Cornelius had a twinkle in his eye, and I could tell that he was joking, but it was a dangerous thing to do with Obediah Clough. He didn't take well at all to being the butt of anyone's joke, especially after a few drinks. He looked over to his friends and gestured them to approach. 'Look what we've got here, lads, a black Yorkshireman. He must've come straight from his shift down t'pit, don't you think?'

They laughed nervously and came over.

'And what's that tha's got on thy wrist?' Obediah said, reaching towards some sort of bracelet on the GI's right wrist. He obviously tried to keep it out of sight, hidden under his sleeve, but it had slipped out. 'What is tha, lad?' Obediah went on. 'A bloody Nancy-boy? I've got a young lady might appreciate a present like that.' The young man snatched his arm away before Obediah could grab the bracelet.

'That's mine, sir,' he said, 'and I'd thank you to keep your hands off it.'

'Doesn't tha know there's a price for coming and drinking in here with the likes of us?' Obediah went on. 'And the price is that there bracelet of thine. Give us it here, lad.'

The boy moved a few inches along the bar. 'No, sir,' he said, adopting a defensive stance.

I could tell that things had gone far enough and that Obediah was about to get physical. With a sigh, I got to my feet and walked over to them, putting my hand gently on Obediah's shoulder. He didn't appreciate it, but I'm even bigger than he is, and the last time we tangled he came out with a broken rib and a bloody nose. 'That's enough, Obediah,' I said gently. 'Let the lad enjoy his drink in peace.'

Obediah glared at me, but he knew when he was beaten. 'What's he think he's doing, walking into our pub, bold as you like?' he muttered, but his heart wasn't in it.

'It's a free country, Obediah,' I said. 'Or at least Mr Hitler hadn't won the war last time I checked.'

This drew a gentle titter from some of the drinkers, Obediah's cronies included. You could feel the tension ease. As I said, we're a tolerant lot on the whole. Muttering, Obediah went back to his corner and his pals went with him. I stayed at the bar with the newcomer.

'Sorry about that, lad,' I said. 'He's harmless, really.'

The GI looked at me with those big brown eyes of his and nodded solemnly.

Now that I was closer, I could see that the object Obediah had referred to was some sort of gold chain with tiny trinkets suspended from it, a very unusual thing for a man to be wearing. 'What exactly is that?' I asked, pointing. 'Just out of curiosity.'

He brought his arm up so I could see the chain. 'It's called a charm bracelet,' he said. 'My lucky charm bracelet. I usually try to keep it out of sight.'

Everything on the chain was a perfect miniature of its original: a gold locket, a cross, a monkey, an angel, a golden key, a tiny pair of ballet slippers, a lighthouse, a tiger and a train engine. The craftsmanship was exquisite.

'Where did you get it?' I asked.

'Fishing,' Cornelius said.

'Pardon?'

'Fishing. Caught it fishing in the Mississippi, down by the levee, when I was boy. I decided then and there it would be my lucky charm.'

'It's a beautiful piece of work,' I said. I held out my hand. 'Richard Palmer. Dick to my friends.'

He looked at my outstretched hand with suspicion for a moment, then slowly he smiled and reached out his own, the palm as pink as coral, and shook firmly. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Palmer,' he said. 'I'm Cornelius Jubb.'

I smiled. 'Yes, I heard.'

He glanced over at Obediah and his cronies, who had lost interest now and become absorbed in a game of dominoes. 'And I don't know where the name came from,' he added.