FINDERS KEEPERS
When I opened the bag, I knew at once that this definitely wasn’t my luggage. That was the first shock. But the first shock was as nothing compared to the shock I got when I saw what was actually in the case. I stood and contemplated it for a while. I knew what it was, of course.
You would recognise it too. You’d instinctively know it at once, although you might well do a quick double-take to make sure that what you thought were looking at actually was what you were looking at. You’d probably peer closely at it, just to check, and blink your eyes a couple of times, because you—like me—would be tired from a long flight and you, like me, would want to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. You’d almost certainly take a photo of it, exactly as I did, strictly for the record, of course. For the purposes of proof, in case nobody believed you.
Look. Here it is. Right here on my phone. Believe me, now?
Anyway, I guess you’ve seen these things on the news often enough, just like I have, so you’d have been intrigued, excited, scared, perplexed, all at once to see one in real life. My heart was positively jumping. Yours would have too.
You might have remembered the warnings on the news, then; the big red type across the screen, the voiceovers solemn and authoritative. I certainly did. Warnings about the dangers. About what it could do in the wrong hands. Warnings about not touching such things and how—in the very remote possibility that you ever were to come across one, out here in the world—the first thing you should do is back away slowly; how the second thing you should do is run; and how the third thing you should do, only once at a very safe distance, is call the authorities, although in all honesty the authorities were never really sure what to do either.
You’d probably sit down for a bit then, as I did, wondering whether what you should do now. Would keeping it be an option? Would that be wrong? You’d wonder if such things could really be seen as belonging to anybody, given nobody really knew where they came from; opinion is divided, the law is grey on that point.
And then, I imagine you’d be wondering who this case belonged to, just like I did. After all, these things are not exactly commonplace, are they?
Perhaps other thoughts would start running through your mind. Thoughts about what this might mean for you and your life. About what you could get, acquire, achieve. Perhaps a specific person might come to mind. A woman, a man, who knows? Or maybe you’d be thinking not just of one person, but many, all lost in their own world of simple happy dreams, just like the people you’ve seen on the news.
If you’re anything like me, you’d think very hard about all that before coming to a decision. The warnings, of course; but you’d also be weighing up all the bright horizons of a new life ahead, the suddenly infinite possibilities, the locked doors of opportunity and control that would now be open. Yes, you’d think about all that, before carefully lifting it from the suitcase and placing it gently on your desk.
Still, you’d be wary, and a little alarmed too. Looking at it on the desk, and then at the anonymous case it came in, I bet you’d suddenly realise that if you had this case, then somebody else had your case, and if that was true then whoever this case belonged to might actually be able to find you. After all, your name and address would probably be on the luggage label, wouldn’t it?
So if you’re anything like me, you’d be starting to feel a bit edgy amidst all the excitement of your good fortune. You might even start packing at that point, pulling your other case from the closet and filling it with clothes. You’d grab your passport; you’d wonder how much money you could lay your hands on quickly, with no records and no fuss.
You’d need breathing space; time to learn. You’d need somewhere secluded and anonymous—somewhere like this, perhaps—to practice. Someone to practice on; probably quite a few people, actually. Somewhere to lie low until you’d thoroughly got the hang of the thing.
If you’re anything like me, you’d be out of your apartment and into your car in a matter of minutes, and you’d take it with you. And then you’d drive like hell, as far and fast as you could, and you’d never look back.
Because people who own things like this are not the kinds of people you want to antagonise, are they?