Mystery Box, Code Included

Gabi arrives at the car boot sale at six in the morning. Her hatchback is full, and her stomach is empty. The field is already busy. Engines hum, folding tables bang open, and somebody plays music from a small speaker. She parks in her usual spot and starts to unload.

She is moving to a new city in three weeks. Her flat has too much stuff in it. Today she wants to sell as much as possible. She lays out lamps, cups, a box of old cables, and a pile of board games. Then she takes the last item from the back seat: a small wooden chest with a brass padlock.

She found it at the bottom of a wardrobe when she moved in. It has a four-digit lock. A paper tag tied to the handle shows the code in faded pencil. Gabi has never opened it. She likes mysteries too much to spoil them. But she has no room for one in her new flat. She writes a sign in thick marker: "MYSTERY BOX. CODE INCLUDED. CONTENTS UNKNOWN. FIVE POUNDS."

The man at the next stall watches her with interest. His name is Naveen, and he sells bicycle parts. He has been at the field every Sunday for a month. They have nodded at each other four times and said hello twice. Today he finally leans over the gap between their tables.

"Contents unknown?" he asks. "Is that a joke?"

"No joke. I have never opened it." Gabi shrugs. "I like to think it is full of treasure. It is probably full of dust."

"Then it is the best thing on this field." He pulls a five-pound note from his pocket. "I will take it."

Gabi laughs. "You have not even seen the code yet."

She unties the tag from the handle to read it to him. The pencil is so faded that she can hardly see the numbers. She squints, copies them onto a sticky note, and presses it into his hand. A customer is already asking about the lamps, so she does not check her work. "Good luck," she says over her shoulder.

Naveen carries the chest back to his stall like a prize. He sets it on a crate between a pile of wheels and a box of brake cables. Then he kneels down and begins to turn the little brass dials.

For the next hour, Gabi sells three lamps, a coffee pot, and half of her board games. Between customers, she watches Naveen from the corner of her eye. He turns the dials, pulls the lock, and frowns. He tries again, first slowly and then fast. Twice he looks up at her and shakes his head. Each time, she gives him a hopeful smile.

"It does not open," he calls across the gap at last.

"Try again," she says. "Maybe it is stiff."

He tries again. Nothing happens. A customer buys his last bicycle bell, and he returns to the chest with a determined face. Gabi notices that she is smiling more than the situation needs.

Around ten o'clock, the field becomes quieter. Gabi sits on a folding chair and finds the old paper tag in her pocket. She wants to throw it away. But the sun is higher now, so she holds it up to the light. The pencil looks much clearer. She reads the numbers once more, and her stomach drops.

The tag says one, nine, six, eight. The sticky note in Naveen's hand says one, six, nine, eight. In the poor light of the early morning, she wrote the middle digits in the wrong order. For two hours, a patient neighbour has been trying a code that cannot work.

"Oh, no," she says aloud. A woman at the next table gives her a strange look.

Gabi jumps up and walks across the gap. Naveen sits on the crate with the chest on his knees, turning the dials with patient concentration. A paper cup of coffee cools beside him. A few coins lie on the lid, as if he is bribing the lock.

"I have bad news," she says. "It is my fault."

He looks up. "The box is empty?"

"No. I mean, I do not know." She holds out the tag. "I gave you the wrong code. I wrote the middle numbers the wrong way round. It is one, nine, six, eight, not one, six, nine, eight."

Naveen stares at the tag. Then he stares at the sticky note. Then he starts to laugh, so hard that he nearly drops the chest. "Two hours," he says. "I tried every code I could think of. I even tried my own birthday, in case you were a witch."

"I am so sorry." Gabi covers her mouth, but she is laughing too. "You could have come to ask me."

"I was too proud to ask." He wipes his eyes. "I thought a clever person would open it in five minutes."

"A better person would not have copied it wrong." She kneels beside him on the grass. "Give it back, and I will refund you."

"Absolutely not." He hugs the chest to his jacket like a baby. "It is mine. I paid for it. Besides, I did not spend two hours with this lock to hand it back now."

He sets the dials with careful fingers. Gabi watches them turn: one, nine, six, eight. A small, warm silence settles between them in the middle of the noisy field. The padlock gives a soft click and falls open in his palm.

Neither of them moves. The lid sits on the box, quiet and closed. A ray of morning sun runs across the brass hinges.

"Do you want to know something?" Naveen says. "My hands are shaking."

"So are mine." Gabi puts her fingers beside his on the lid. "I think I want to know what is inside more than I thought I did."

"Even though it is probably dust?"

"Even then." She takes a breath. "Maybe it was a bad idea to sell it."

"Then it is lucky that you sold it to someone who tries for two hours." He grins and lifts the lid just one finger's width. A faint smell of old paper and cedar drifts out into the air. He looks at the narrow dark gap, and then he looks at her. "Shall we find out what is inside together?"