Corrugated steel. That's what they used to make these boxes. The boxes that would haul the world's belongings from one place to the next. They'd glide on the megaships as big as cities as they crossed the oceans. Then they'd sit on lorries hunchback, as they were transported across the land, guided by GPS to their final destination.
The final destination in this case was warehouse in East London. These shipping containers had made one voyage across the South China sea, crammed full of 1170 cubic feet of saucepans for a homewares shop. After this, the containers had sat empty in the docks until they were snapped up by a man with a plan.
The man came from a place where verdant hills walled both sides of the valley, and gnarly trees grew across the peaks. The barns were full of craftsmen, the carpark full of mud-splattered vans. The metallic hulls were dumped on a patch of grass where they would be deemed storage.
"Too much stuff? Not enough space? Bring it here!" proposed the leaflets that dropped acrossed the town's doormats. This struck a chord in the two-up-two-down houses. The houses where toys were scattered across the floor, wardrobes coughed out clothes and surfaces were piled high in papers, leaflets and letters.
Thus many people sped down this valley's curvy concrete ribbons. They came to the site by the river and spoke to the man, bought a lock, pressed their PIN number into the card reader, before filling the box that wasn't their sleeping box.
One night as a couple in their car rocked up on the gravel there was a haziness around the container site. The drive-through gap in the fence panels was glowing in the evening dusk. They rolled through the gap and their surroundings changed.
The car lurched to the side. One side then the next. In front was a rail, then the sea. To their sides were towering containers. It was day.
They got out in awe and shock. Holding onto the car doors. A wave of sea dunked itself across their coats and smart trousers.
They looked at each other and got back in. He looked in his rear view mirror and saw a dark ring behind him. He hammered the Nissan Juke into reverse and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car whirled backwards into the muddy English field again. The fence panels were still as they were, except the glowing portal was
no longer there.
They looked at each other again.
"Did you see that?" said Francesca
"Yes you're wet Duncan!"
There was just a wordless panic and unsettlement.
"Shall we try again?" said the woman.
He put it into first gear and drove through the gap. But this time there was nothing. Merely the crinkly corrugated silhouettes against the pink cloudy evening sky.
The pair got out and entered their container where boxes of clothes were rotting away, and unloved books were stashed. They piled in more boxes of stuff - a Nutriblender they hadn't opened, a home gym and exercise ball. Then they got out as fast as they could.
They pulled away from the site. Were they in a dream? Were they in a hallucination? It was hard to fathom the unfathomable things they'd experienced first hand. And the pair were undoubtedly sodden.
"I need a drink" he said. He saw the swaying sign of the Old Raven pub and took a space on the verge outside.
"You've just come from the business park haven't you?" said the burly landlord.
"Yes."
"And you want to know what you saw" they nodded like children.
"This pint's on the house" he filled the portly glasses with local craft ale.
"Legend has it that there used to be witches that gathered on that site." He paused to see how much they could take in.
"They never caused no-one no harm. Witches have had a bad rep for the past 1000 years but it's completely undeserved. Apparently, occasionally in the village you'd see broomsticks at night. Or clouds would rise above their patch in the shape of messages for the villagers"
"What does this have to do with what we saw?" demanded Francesca.
"Hang on there my little pumpkin."
"Well, the villagers got along quite alright. But then in 1789 the village got a new vicar from London - Mr Flannigan. He feared the witches. Truth be told although he was a man of God he had quite a few skeletons rattling around his cupboards. He was a wretched alcoholic, taking a pass at all the village's women. And he'd also murdered a few men in London brawls that he'd successfully covered up."
"The witches put the fear of God into Mr Flannigan. They knew his tattered past and thus Flannigan was left with only one option: he started a witch hunt"
"And so they cursed the land?" asked Francesca, the accountant wasn't used to rambling tales and liked people to get to the point.
"I'm getting there my little fruitfly"
Francesca was angry at the belittling tone and tugged at Duncan's coat, but he was intrigued.
"Then came the sermons. These witches were doing the Devil's work and were conversing with Lucifer himself, the vicar claimed. Out came the pitchforks and flaming hay bales. The angry Christian mob descended on the witches' shacks and torched them in the day while they were asleep." he coughed.
"It was sordid affair. My great great great great great great great Grandfather had to deal with the ashes and remains of the site."
The landlord looked down in sadness.
"The only one who survived was a young woman by the name of Bridget. She was ferociously intelligent. She was angry and outraged but she knew the war on witches was a tide she couldn't turn. People feared what they didn't know or couldn't understand. It was easier to believe and trust the dominant authority - the Church and the crowd - than question them or believe in the wierd or bizarre."
The pair were intrigued and sipped their pints.
"Can I have some pork scratchings please" requested Duncan.
"Most certainly" replied the landlord continuing his story to the wall.
"Bridget lived as a recluse and blended into respectable society of the time. She was a single mother and claimed her husband had died on her. She travelled around the country on an invisible broomstick, casting spells to perform her own sense of justice. The oppressors were haunted by demons until they changed their
ways. The oppressed had surprising miracles occur. She had a heart of gold and her girl continued her work."
The packet of scratchings was rustling on the table and the couple were crunching and crumbing their way through them, as the landlord kept going.
"When she neared the end of her life most of the magical community had gone into hiding or had been exterminated by witch hunts. But she knew she had to leave traces, clues and elements behind for people in the future to find. Otherwise the magical traditions and knowledge would be lost forever!" his voice bellowed.
"She left a number of portals and enchanted places so that people in the future would rediscover magic."
"I've never heard so much rubbish in my life" said Francesca snarkily. Her skepticism and ability to find holes in business plans had taken her far in her career. But the landlord would not have it.
"You can doubt it as much as you like little lady, if it makes you feel better and safer. But these portals only show themselves to people who are ready to see them. Many people would die from the shock of what happened to you. But there's clearly some part of you that was ready to believe in magic."
Duncan had listened patiently now and was swirling the remainder of his drink around.
"This is all very well - it may or may not be true. But what does it mean? What do we do now?"
"Nothing" replied the publican.
"Nothing?" asked the incredulous Duncan.
"Yes, nothing. Just keep an open mind and the magic will find you as you're ready. It is mostly a benevolent force. And also if you get scared just say 'Repeltus' and the magic will back off because there's no need to be scared."
"The pair downed the rest of their ale in tandem. Francesca put a £10 note on the bar. "I insist" she said, eyeing the landlord and pulling her husband away.
"Good night guys" said the landlord, winking a knowing wink.
The car doors slammed, Duncan churned the engine to life and turned on the radio to distract them from their confused thoughts.
"What a day!" she said, frowning and tracing her fingers through her brown hair.
"He was a total nutter but it was worth it for the story" replied the driver. The pair got home safely and embraced each other on the sofa. It was cosy. It was like when they'd been students again - before the hassle of work and mortgages were clouding their thoughts.
They turned on the television.
"How does your stuff get you to you?" asked the documentary's voice over.
"The rarely-seen mechanics of the shipping industry bring us cheap goods from Asia. But what is the story behind the great vessels that traverse the sea? And who are the people who make this massive spider web of supply-chains work?"
There the couple were again, although this time behind the security of the glass TV screen. A large ship was chopping through waves, containers were stacked up high. And the horizon was an overcast sheep-grey.
They cuddled up as the presenter interviewed a Greek shipping tycoon on his Mediterraean yacht, then some Chinese captains who would work 16 hour shifts and be all at sea for weeks at a time. Then he listed various facts and figures listing the magnitude and volume of goods that were coming across the world.
"I suppose this is a kind of magic isn't it." she said as they went up the stairs to bed. "We take all these things for granted, never really seeing how everything works and how all these people are working to bring us stuff."
"Then we go and dump it back in a shipping container!" he laughed.
She was sexy when she talked like this. It made a change from her usual grumpy sarcasm.
She kept talking enthusiastically, but he wasn't listening. He went to embrace her as she changed, and gently bit her the top of her ear. She melted. And for the next hour they forgot themselves.
Their steely corrugations unfolded. They were blank metal sheets, conducting heat and warmth. They were conjoined. Contained in one another. They were safe. They were shipped away.
