When he opened the shop that morning, it was the scent that hit him first. Like old metal. Barry followed it through the storeroom, out onto the shop floor, and was stopped in his tracks by the big back-wall display. The rows of antique shoe boxes, wrought iron sewing machines, and vintage shoetrees were painted with arcs of blood. He stepped forward, his eyes tracing the blood curving down. And that’s when he saw the body.
He recognised her immediately, that dark, wiry hair, even though she was facedown on the shop floor below the display with a congealed puddle, black as oil now, leaking from her head. Her skull was caved in and through the nest of hair you could see inside. He didn’t know if it was the sight of the pulpy mush — mangled bone mixed with blood and brain — or the thick smell of dirty metal that wafted from the hole, but Barry had to vomit behind a rack of discount loafers.
***
Heading through town Lyle dodged left and right, hopping between people’s feet and shimmying sideways through the Saturday crowd. He kept his head down and his eyes glued to the pavement like it was about to start something, only snatching the occasional glance up to check the oncoming people in his near vicinity. A builder approached in rugged workman’s boots. Their beige bodies were smudged with paint and grime, the steel toe caps worn and scuffed from years of hard labour. Lyle veered left giving the heavy boots a wide berth and shaking his head as he passed them. He hated town at the weekend. It was always too busy and he wouldn’t have braved it unless it was absolutely necessary.
Scurrying through the narrow South Laines he was minutes from his destination. Lyle’s small, sharp eyes darted ahead to scan for threats. Registering the muddy trainers with a chocolate wrapper stuck to the bottom, the heels with silver spikes lurching from the toe like a medieval defence, and the brown boat shoes with blackened chewing gum on the sole, his mind calculated the safest route through the gauntlet. There was a student in her onesie and slippers three metres ahead, dragging her feet like a hungover sloth, getting closer. He twisted his own feet away to avoid his shoes being scuffed, bending his legs at an unnatural angle and dipping his shoulder to slip by unscathed. His eyes checked his own shoes; the three-day old burgundy brogues remained untouched but he didn’t allow himself a smile. He never should have taken the shortcut, there were too many feet and legs and knees crammed together.
He could see the end of the lane, the burst of brightness where it opened out onto the road. But there was still a gaggle of Asian tourists to get past. These dawdlers were slow, stopping every five steps to take a photo, or check a shop window display, or take a photo of a shop window display. But they also wore clean footwear — a beacon of safe passage — so the trick was to get in their slipstream before choosing the optimum time to overtake.
Lyle picked up the pace to get around them and out onto the main road, but when he stepped off the curb his box-fresh brogue slid forward on something slick. The Saturday shoppers looked round at the thirty-two-year old man shrieking like he’d shut his dick in a door. He was tall with a broad but wiry coat-hanger frame that bent back as he screamed at the sky. His shaggy mane of dark hair was greying at the edges and it shook as his face rattled with the pained howl.
After dropping into the first pub he passed and spending half an hour meticulously cleaning his shoe using soap, hand towels, and a straw to dig the shit out of the sole’s grooves, Lyle finally arrived at his favourite shop — Shoe-perb — almost an hour later than planned. As he stepped inside he inhaled the rich leather scent, then exhaled a deep, nasal sigh of satisfaction and pulled his first smile of the day. The back wall display always made him happy; the regal look of the vintage shoetrees, iron sewing machines and old shoe boxes lent an accomplished air to the rest of the shop.
He crossed the store, still minding not to graze his shoes against any of the customers’, to admire the display. Lyle picked up one of the beech shoetrees, the heel cupped in his palm. He considered beech the best, a warmer more inviting hue than the cold, metallic cedar, and far more opulent than oak. Lyle ran his fingers over the balls of the shoetree’s feet, along the growth rings and around twisted knots of wood. This one in particular had a maroon knot that swirled about the heel, and it was now, when he was fingering this perfect imperfection, that his eyes met hers across the shop floor.
***
With a smile on her face Polly cashed up the old lady’s order; two pairs of knee-high leather boots, one black, one dark navy, and a pair of formal evening shoes with a floral design across the strap. She always preferred Saturdays. They were so busy the time flew by and before she knew it it was 5pm and time to hit the pub. Polly grinned indulgently even though the old lady spat her answers out like oil from a hot pan, tapping her foot, in a hurry now despite wasting five minutes when she didn’t know her own shoe size. Polly’s mother always told her the way to handle rude people was to be twice as nice, it makes them soften or winds them up further— either way, you win.
“Thank you, and have a great day,” said Polly, her beaming smile could’ve been used to warn ships at night. She watched the old woman bustling out of the shop, hoping she’d turn around so Polly could wave her off but instead the woman practically shoulder-barged a baby to get through the exit. It was through a sea of heads and shoulders that Polly saw the Anorak Wizard enter — a regular — Polly wondering why a shoe shop even had a regular. ‘Shoe-perb’s shoe perv’, the girls called him. Polly never joined in with the jibes. She thought he could’ve been attractive if he’d get a sense of style, cut his hair, and didn’t smell the shop every time he entered. Plus, commission is commission, so Polly painted on her sales smile and strutted over.
***
She had on a pair of black ankle boots. They were suede with flappy little straps held down to the side by silver buckles and far nicer than they had to be for work. Lyle wondered whether she made an effort because she genuinely loved shoes or because she was trying to impress.
“Hey there, how can I help you?”
Her smile was like a spotlight and her ponytail bounced with her purposeful walk. He didn’t need her name tag to tell him she was called Polly, he’d been here enough times, and without bending down he could see where she’d last pulled on her ankle boots; her fingers had left rivulets of suede flowing in the wrong direction.
“I, errr… I like your boots,” he said, his eyes still pointed down at them.
“Thank you kindly.” She did a mini-curtsy “I got them on offer, New Look,” and clipped the heels together like Dorothy wanting to go home. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
When Polly touched him lightly on the forearm his eyes traced down her fingertip and up her porcelain skin to her eyes. They were a pale blue that faded to green at the centre of the iris, like a firework exploding around her pupils.
Lyle swallowed, trying to remember her question, but she was still holding eye contact and all he could muster was, “Shoes.”
“That’s good, we have those. You wanna narrow it down?” she said, not snarky — that smile of hers diffused any malevolence in her sarcasm.
“Brogues, and polish, and err, a shoe tree… It was just polish and a shoe tree but then I, I stepped in… they’re… I need to change.”
She nodded understanding, “Say no more,” and guided him with another light touch towards a rack of black, brown and navy blue brogues, all varying sizes and designs from wingtips and monkstraps, to cap toes and bluchers. They stood next to each other, admiring the selection. Some were intricately patterned up the seams with decorative perforations along the lines of lace holes and over the toe. Others were simpler, with more pared down versions of the brogue pattern, the swirling circles surrounded by a few petal-like dashes.
When Lyle reached across to select one from the rack he got a whiff of Polly’s hair, fresh and zesty like lemon with mint, and he hovered there a few moments longer than he had to.
***
With male customers Polly always helped them try their shoes on. Getting down on your knees in front of guys made them pliable as old rope. But this approach had its consequences; she’d suffered cheesy feet, jagged toenails poking through socks, not to mention hairy ankles and athletes foot. And she’d only worked there a month.
But the Anorak Wizard was different. His feet smelled fresh, good even, like clean laundry. His socks weren’t dirty or stained with sweat at the heels and balls of his feet. They looked new, the cotton hadn’t yet bobbled, the purple and mustard blocks of colour were still vibrant and eager. And his feet… his feet weren’t these hulking great pegs of flesh and bone propping up the rest of his bulk. They were slender, strong and sturdy but with a refined grace.
Tingles shot up Lyle’s leg as she held the arch of his foot in her delicate hand. Through the thin fabric of his sock he could tell her fingers were soft and his eyes followed hers as they drifted up his leg and over his body to his face.
“Size ten?” She batted her long eyelashes.
“Ten and a half,” said Lyle, the inkling of a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. Eye contact was a rare creature, an exotic bird almost extinct in Lyle’s world, but for a fleeting moment the bird’s wing brushed his face.
Polly smiled, and not a sales smile. The lips didn’t pull up so much as to reveal the wall of beaming teeth, it was more natural, less of a show.
“I’ll see what we have,” and she placed his foot on the floor with care, prompting them both to realise she’d been holding it during the whole exchange.
When Polly headed off to the storeroom Lyle adjusted his trousers and sat with his foot on his knee. He coughed into his hand and looked around, trying to occupy his mind with multi-coloured trainers and embroidered cowboy boots, but he couldn’t think of anything except Polly’s dazzling firework eyes and how she cradled his foot with the fragile care of a mother holding her baby.
The brogues he’d gone for were a dark mahogany brown with a crimson inner lining and thin crimson laces that snaked across the front of the shoe.
“I also need that errr… that polish. And a shoetree, too. Please,” he said when Polly returned.
“No problem, it’s like a forest back there.” She crossed to the display on the back wall, picked one and returned. “Here, this one’s my fave.”
She passed him the shoetree, the same one he’d been admiring when he walked in. The wooden foot with the toes cut off, made up of solid blocks of beech sanded down to a seamless finish. It wasn’t varnished, so you could still feel the fibres of the wood, a rewarding texture to his fingertips. As his palm ran over the shoetree, his eyes raised and met Polly’s gaze.
“Why’s it your favourite?” he asked.
She took it from him gently, and her hands did as his, gliding over the smooth surface. “This knot of wood.” She fingered a dark brown vein that twisted from the heel out. “It’s like a comet, see, and here’s the tail.”
She took his hand and guided an index finger to trace down the knot.
“Flirting’s not working,” said a taught voice behind them, and the moment between them disintegrated like a rope bridge falling into a deep ravine. “There are more customers to serve you know.”
Lyle’s head spun round to see a rotund Anglo-Indian girl with a name tag that read ‘Vachinda’.
“If that’s the case why are you standing around watching me?” said Polly, making Lyle smirk and then try to cover his smile by coughing into his hand.
“I’m saving my energy, Polly-pop.” Vachinda flicked her nest of black hair as she walked away, muttering. “You’re not the one who’s gotta work late and lock up.”
Polly shook her head and rolled her eyes at Lyle. He grinned and rolled his eyes more.
“I’ll box this for you and then, better get on.”
“Oh, okay,” Lyle tutted in Vachinda’s direction, a scowl stealing across his face as he watched her waddle away. “Yeah, old errr… taskmaster over there.”
Polly nodded. “If you’re not sweating blood she’s not happy.” And she placed the two brown brogues in their box. They slotted in together perfectly, facing each other.
***
Vacuuming the carpets with the tall racks of footwear towering over her, Vachinda thought all the empty shoes resembled shed skin, cast-off and forgotten. She hated closing up. When night hit, without the noisy customers filling up the store it felt like an abandoned ship. A door creaked behind her and a shiver crept down her spine making her drop the vacuum nozzle. She stood in the darkness watching it wriggle and writhe on the floor as she tried to listen. But she couldn’t hear anything over the vacuum’s throaty roar. She scanned the shop, peering into the shadows through the racks of shoes, boots, and heels. A pair of brogue laces dangled from a top shelf opposite the back wall display, swaying side to side in the stuffy night air. Vachinda knelt down to pick up the nozzle, still wriggling on the floor like a snake trying to escape a trap, wishing her boss Big Barry would listen to her and install security cameras.
“Which one legged burglar’s gonna rob a shoe shop, Chunder Thunder?” He would say, guffawing in her face.
Big Barry insisted on calling her that since the work Christmas party when she’d downed a jug of Sangria after red wine and Sambuca shots, and ended up vomiting what looked like blood for the next three hours. She hated the nickname, which only spurred Barry on more, despite her protesting it was racist and discriminatory. He’d even been good enough to get her a name tag made, the prick.
She didn’t hear the quiet footsteps padding across the carpet behind her as she knelt down hoovering in front of the back wall display. But she did see the long shadow cast against the display by the raised arm, a slash of darkness across the vintage shoe boxes, sewing machines and shoetrees. The shadow fell with a thud that sent bolts of pain splintering through Vachinda’s skull so every follicle of her hair ached. She thought it was a baseball bat, a rounded piece of wood that made a wet crack as it opened up the back of her head, and made a murky pool of unconsciousness appear in front of her. The second strike pushed her face-first into the pool, and slowly she sank to the bottom, to never think again.
He cleaned the blood off the shoetree in the staff toilets. After some furious scrubbing with a wire brush he found in a cupboard under the sink, the wood was free of the crimson splashes. But it had soaked up the water and the amorphous toes were darker where they were damp. He considered taking it home but only sentimental killers made the foolish mistake of keeping their murder weapon.
Leaving the toilet he walked back into the shop rubbing the shoetree down with a hand towel. He stared at the back wall display admiring the order of its layout. Walking towards it, his gaze honed in on an ornate beech shoetree in the centre, which wasn’t unlike his own, the heel had similar flashes of maroon. Still holding his with the hand towel he swapped them, taking time to place it in the exact same position, the heel twisting towards the adjacent window. With a smile he turned, stepped over the limp body and puddle of blood to leave the shop.
***
The detective leading the case was a portly man in his late forties who paced through the store with a powerful stride. His round belly tested the patience of his white shirt, but because he was the better part of seven foot with shoulders as broad as a building, he didn’t look overweight, just imposing.
Polly was next to be questioned. Detective Coates stood in front of the display, clicking his pen against his pad, trying to be calm as he dealt with the young, sweet looking blonde girl in her bland uniform and fancy shoes.
“There’s vomit behind the discount loafers,” said Coates. “We think it’s the victim’s.”
“Oh no, that’s Barry’s. He’s got a super sensitive gag reflex.”
Coates made a note in his pad, repeating the words as he wrote them. “Sensitive. Gag. Reflex.” He looked up at Polly. “Now, can you think of anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt Chunder? Real name — Vachinda.”
“Everyone who’s ever met her,” said Polly too quickly, before adopting a melancholy smile.
Detective Coates scowled down at her, his forehead creased in consternation
“That’s a rather cavalier attitude, young lady.”
“Sorry, officer.”
“Detective.”
“Sorry, detective,” said Polly turning her head to the window to avoid Coates’ judgmental eyes. “But Chunder, Vachinda, wasn’t easy to get on with, ya know?” And it was now she saw the Anorak Wizard staring in at her. He looked away, then back at her knowing he was caught, and gave a timid little wave. Without thinking she held up her hand to return it.
“Miss Parker,” said Coates again. “Was your relationship with Vachinda purely professional?”
Polly nodded before meeting the detective’s career stare. He’d spent decades perfecting it. The eyes slightly squinted, sombre and sincere, before they widened to flash with a hint of rage.
“Few staff parties. Other than that there’s no way I’d choose to hang out with her.”
“Polly,” called Lyle, he was walking towards the shop, marching straight through the police do-not-cross tape as if it wasn’t there. Entering Shoe-perb, he asked Polly, “You… are you okay?”
“Sure, well, no, not really,” she said blankly. “This is Officer –
“Detective.”
“Detective Coates. Detective Coates is detecting the case of the murdered Vachinda. Detective Coates, this is Lyle, a erm… regular.”
Detective Coates shook Lyle’s hand, it was soft and smooth, the kind of hand that had never seen a hard day’s labour. “What sort of person’s a regular at a shoe shop?”
“The errr… the sort of person who doesn’t drink,” said Lyle forcing his eyes to hold Coates’ gaze. It pained him, the intimacy of eye contact, it felt like he was being invaded. But he had to hold that gaze and not look at the shoetree sitting in the display on the wall behind the detective, the arches of blood framing the chalk outline of the human being on the floor.
Never trust a person who doesn’t drink, thought Detective Coates, tapping his pen against his pad. He wasn’t especially fond of the sauce himself, but no booze at all? Madness.
“This is a crime scene, Mr Lyle, you need to leave.”
“Polly, can I, can I have a word? I wanted to ask you something. When you’ve got a, a minute, of course.”
Polly looked at Coates who gestured in front of him as if to say, go ahead, but his eyes told her to make it quick.
“I know it’s errr… a bad time because of, what with the bloody crime scene and all.” Lyle nodded to the police scratching chins and the investigators pulling on rubber gloves. “But I wondered if you, if you’d maybe, sometime, like to go for a coffee, or dinner, or dinner with coffee?”
Blindsided, Polly nodded dumbly, her mouth agape as she watched a policeman squatting beside the chalk outline, talking to Detective Coates, re-enacting someone bludgeoning Vachinda to death. The policeman’s hand rising and falling, rising and falling, before Coates noticed Polly watching them and waved his hand for the policeman to stop, but it was too late. Polly was already picturing her colleague on the shop floor, the top of her head caved in like an egg shell, her nest of black hair matted with congealed blood and those big brown eyes unblinking. Polly was still nodding when Lyle said. “Good, that’s good. Are you free Thursday?”
Polly kept nodding.
“Great, I’ll pick you up after work,” and she didn’t even wonder how he knew she was working on Thursday.
***
The Carbonara came out luke warm. The bacon looked like little blocks of pink plastic and the sauce was a grey-cream that resembled Lyle’s carpet; textured and fibrous. After two bottles of rosé, when he had asked if she wanted a nightcap Polly was too tipsy to think of an excuse, and just tipsy enough to want a nightcap.
As Lyle held his front door open for Polly he said. “You gotta take your shoes off,” and smiled, brushing a thread of his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “House rules.”
Polly stepped inside and wasn’t surprised to see a shoe rack on which all his footwear was neatly laid out. There was an order too. The bigger, heavier pairs such as boots and Wellies were closest to the front door and they got smaller and lighter — brogues, Converse and canvas shoes — as the rack retreated down the hall towards the dark living room. As she bent down to unclasp her heels she noticed every pair of his shoes were in pristine condition, even the Wellies, there wasn’t a speck of mud.
Watching her slender foot slip out of the modest heel made Lyle’s lip tingle and twitch. The way her nylon tights stretched over the top of her foot and around her toes, the differing thickness of the material and varying degrees of translucency teased at the bare skin below.
Polly could feel his eyes on her feet and she wanted to keep her shoes on but the immaculate grey-cream carpet told her protesting was futile, so she dug into it with clenched toes as she placed her heels on the shoe rack. Lyle stood at the end of the narrow hallway, the light dying as he closed the front door.
“The, that nightcap. What would you like to drink?” he said.
“What’ve you got?”
“Tea, errr… coffee, or some whisky, I think.”
“Whisky,” she said too soon, and then, “Please,” to soften it.
On the rack she saw his new shoetree and picked it up, looking for the comet chasing it’s tail. But as she held it in her hands her chest deflated and all the air disappeared from her lungs. She turned to Lyle, who stood in shadow at the end of the hallway.
“Where’s the one you bought the other day?”
“What, errr… what do you mean? That is, that’s the one I bought the other day.”
“No, it’s not.” She looked at him, into his dull, grey, wet-pebble eyes. “Where’s the twisted knot of wood in the heel?”
Lyle said nothing, locking the front door behind them with a clanking metal jolt.
[Image Credit : Photo by Marek Lumi on Unsplash]
by 
Zachary Colbert
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- Knots of Wood - September 16, 2026
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