R.E.C Konstantin Electrical Retailer

On the high street, nestled somewhere between the department store and the newsagents sits a shop that appears permanently closed when it is in fact, entirely the opposite; eternally open. It has strict cast iron security bars, possibly stolen from a set of railings, in front of it's blinding window. For some reason the security is never peeled back. Looking up the high street at night, when the street lights have turned in, you can see the light pour out onto the pavement and onto the street as if someone has kicked over a bucket of gold and to stand in front of the window is to gaze in on a 1950's retail archeological dig. Bakelite televisions and radio's as polished as the day they were moulded. Vinyl albums by crooners and hot steppers long dead, arranged with a love of the equipment that has never imagined the careless leap into soulless electronics. I cannot remember but perhaps there was a day when the goods sold here were of their own time and the shop thrived, but now it seems only modern antique collectors and ancient stylus hunters are the only traffic.

An apparently random collection of letters sit above the shop in solemn dark capitals, shrouded by the light of the window. They almost, but not quite spell a word. R.E.C KONSTANTIN. Mr. Konstantin, is the owner of the shop and has been for over fifty three years. For those who know Mr Konstantin, you will now that he is ageless. Some put it down to the rubbery face and the enthusiasm he has for his stock, others to his beautiful hair, which, whilst unfashionably combed over, is dark chestnut without a speck of grey along its elliptical course. I imagine that Mr Konstantin would be seven foot tall if he could engineer his remaining strands to stand on end. I remember as a boy standing outside his tiny emporium squinting quizzically up at the letters rather than the golden display that tanned my face, trying to make something out of his name.

“Got one yet?”

“Um, hello Mr. Konstantin.”

“I assume you are trying to work out an anagram?” His voice was slow and Germanic sounding although it was possible he was Russian or even Greek.

“How did you know that?”

“Unless you are trying to work out what the R.E.C stands for?”

“No, of course not Mr. Konstantin.”

“Good. What have you come up with so far?”

“Nothing much.”

“Want one?” I nodded and Mr Konstantin took my pencil and paper and jotted down three words. He handed them back to me and went to make his way back inside his shop. I looked down at the piece of paper and read aloud.

“Tarts Conk Nine.” My brow furled and my eyebrow lifted. From the doorway of the shop I heard Mr Konstantin’s stuttered tone.

“It’s not as easy as it looks is it?”