convulsed with laughter. Porrig now knew
why that was. Porrig thrashed and Porrig drummed, but laughter wasn’t in it.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, wishing not only that he was dead, but indeed that he never had
been born. Although not a one for religion, he now prayed hard that the angel
the old bloke on the train had told him of might fly down from heaven this very
instant and carry him off to a far better place.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
he went once more.
Passers-by
in the street made the sign of the cross and hurried on by with their shopping.
‘God’s
bollocks!’ Porrig kicked about and tried to gain his feet. He stumbled up, put
out his hand to support himself on the wall and in doing so pressed down the
light switch.
Lightning
flashed and tore about the shop and Porrig ducked his head. ‘I’m sorry, God,’
he mumbled. The lightning stopped and Porrig blinked his eyes.
Not
lightning.
Neon
ceiling lights.
The
lights had come on to illuminate…
A
stunningly beautiful bookshop interior, all polished ebony bookshelves and Victorian
leather-bound books.
Sadly,
no.
The
lights had come on to illuminate a long, low-ceilinged room, furnished all
about with shelves. But not one book upon them.
‘Not a
single sodding book,’ said Porrig. ‘Not a single one.’
But
plenty of cardboard boxes.
Porrig
managed one more sigh, straightened himself up as best he could and peered at
the boxes. There were dozens of them on the shelves. All open-topped and packed
with something or other. Porrig dug into the nearest one and pulled out…
‘A
comic book,’ said Porrig. He moved along the shelves, peeping into the boxes. ‘They’re
all packed with comic books. And they’re…’ Porrig examined the one in his
hand. It was Marvel Comics’ issue number one of The Silver Surfer.
Porrig
gaped at it, then gaped at it again. ‘Issue number one,’ he gasped in a very
choked kind of a whisper. ‘Issue number one.’
This
shop was full of thirty-year-old comic books. And if they were all like this
one, all in mint condition …untouched and unread, pristine, perfect…
Porrig
stared at the treasure in his hands. He didn’t need to strain his brain to know
what this was worth. If there was one thing he did know about, it was comic
books. He had the price guide at home, but this was easy stuff. Your starter
for ten.
Magnus Magnusson:
The price please of Marvel Comics’ issue number one of The Silver Surfer?
Padraig
Arthur Naseby: One thousand, four hundred and fifty quid!
‘Oh,
dear God,’ prayed Porrig. ‘Please let it be true. Please don’t let me be lying
unconscious on the floor dreaming this.’
Porrig
dared another look at the comic. If he were dreaming it would probably change
into a pork sausage. Things often did in his dreams, although he had never been
able to find out why. The comic book was not a sausage. It was still The
Silver Surfer.
Porrig’s
hands began to tremble; he glanced about in sudden fear. Fear that someone
might burst in and steal it all away.
Porrig
rammed shut the door and locked it from the inside. Then he took a great
breath. Turned slowly to survey the room. And then went just a little mad.
He
rushed along the shelves, going from box to box to box, pulling out comics
(though with great care) and letting free cries of delight.
The
Mighty Thor, Dr Strange, The Fantastic Four, Spiderman, the entire early Marvel back catalogue. All new. All unread. All in
mint condition.
‘I’m
rich!’ Porrig danced a silly jig. ‘I’m rich. I’ve done it. I’ve hit the mother
lode.’ He found himself now at the rear of the shop and here he came upon a big
plan chest.
Porrig
eased out a drawer, bringing to light something beautiful. Porrig stared down
at it. A poster. A 1960s poster. A Martin Sharp poster. The famous Bob Dylan ‘Blowing
in the Mind’ poster, printed in black and red on gold card. Porrig dug into the
drawer. There were five copies. And beneath this, five copies of the
why that was. Porrig thrashed and Porrig drummed, but laughter wasn’t in it.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, wishing not only that he was dead, but indeed that he never had
been born. Although not a one for religion, he now prayed hard that the angel
the old bloke on the train had told him of might fly down from heaven this very
instant and carry him off to a far better place.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
he went once more.
Passers-by
in the street made the sign of the cross and hurried on by with their shopping.
‘God’s
bollocks!’ Porrig kicked about and tried to gain his feet. He stumbled up, put
out his hand to support himself on the wall and in doing so pressed down the
light switch.
Lightning
flashed and tore about the shop and Porrig ducked his head. ‘I’m sorry, God,’
he mumbled. The lightning stopped and Porrig blinked his eyes.
Not
lightning.
Neon
ceiling lights.
The
lights had come on to illuminate…
A
stunningly beautiful bookshop interior, all polished ebony bookshelves and Victorian
leather-bound books.
Sadly,
no.
The
lights had come on to illuminate a long, low-ceilinged room, furnished all
about with shelves. But not one book upon them.
‘Not a
single sodding book,’ said Porrig. ‘Not a single one.’
But
plenty of cardboard boxes.
Porrig
managed one more sigh, straightened himself up as best he could and peered at
the boxes. There were dozens of them on the shelves. All open-topped and packed
with something or other. Porrig dug into the nearest one and pulled out…
‘A
comic book,’ said Porrig. He moved along the shelves, peeping into the boxes. ‘They’re
all packed with comic books. And they’re…’ Porrig examined the one in his
hand. It was Marvel Comics’ issue number one of The Silver Surfer.
Porrig
gaped at it, then gaped at it again. ‘Issue number one,’ he gasped in a very
choked kind of a whisper. ‘Issue number one.’
This
shop was full of thirty-year-old comic books. And if they were all like this
one, all in mint condition …untouched and unread, pristine, perfect…
Porrig
stared at the treasure in his hands. He didn’t need to strain his brain to know
what this was worth. If there was one thing he did know about, it was comic
books. He had the price guide at home, but this was easy stuff. Your starter
for ten.
Magnus Magnusson:
The price please of Marvel Comics’ issue number one of The Silver Surfer?
Padraig
Arthur Naseby: One thousand, four hundred and fifty quid!
‘Oh,
dear God,’ prayed Porrig. ‘Please let it be true. Please don’t let me be lying
unconscious on the floor dreaming this.’
Porrig
dared another look at the comic. If he were dreaming it would probably change
into a pork sausage. Things often did in his dreams, although he had never been
able to find out why. The comic book was not a sausage. It was still The
Silver Surfer.
Porrig’s
hands began to tremble; he glanced about in sudden fear. Fear that someone
might burst in and steal it all away.
Porrig
rammed shut the door and locked it from the inside. Then he took a great
breath. Turned slowly to survey the room. And then went just a little mad.
He
rushed along the shelves, going from box to box to box, pulling out comics
(though with great care) and letting free cries of delight.
The
Mighty Thor, Dr Strange, The Fantastic Four, Spiderman, the entire early Marvel back catalogue. All new. All unread. All in
mint condition.
‘I’m
rich!’ Porrig danced a silly jig. ‘I’m rich. I’ve done it. I’ve hit the mother
lode.’ He found himself now at the rear of the shop and here he came upon a big
plan chest.
Porrig
eased out a drawer, bringing to light something beautiful. Porrig stared down
at it. A poster. A 1960s poster. A Martin Sharp poster. The famous Bob Dylan ‘Blowing
in the Mind’ poster, printed in black and red on gold card. Porrig dug into the
drawer. There were five copies. And beneath this, five copies of the
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