The Olivie Crowne Affair (Excerpt)

Central Astwick’s IT Emporium was not as Olivie Crowne had remembered it.

It was the right place, judging from the mountain of white boxes haphazardly stacked into one corner, and the colourful packages with large words on display behind the counter.  However, there was no acne-ridden, bespectacled young man rolling his eyes and thinking, ‘Oh lord—not another old biddy who can’t differentiate between her mouse and keyboard‘.

Instead, a grey-skinned horned teenage girl sized her up from behind the counter.  Olivie had suffered her share of patronising tech-savvy young men, but at least they were human.  This girl looked like she had either never touched a computer, or touched far too many.

Olivie cleared her throat.  “Excuse me,” she ventured.

The horned girl pointed at the door.  “The Lost Memories Bureau is across the road.”

Olivie shook her head.  “Oh no, I haven’t lost anything.  I’m here for a...what’s the word...”

“Memory?”

The old lady snapped her fingers.  “Yes, that’s it!”

The girl beamed.  “Well, you’ve come to the right place: if you’re looking for it, we probably have it!  What memory are you looking for?”

“RAM.”

There was an awkward silence.  The girl’s canary-yellow eyes blinked rapidly.  “...RAM?”  

Olivie sighed.  This was the problem with youth: all fancy horns and contact lenses, but no general knowledge despite having the internet at their fingertips.  Some people just had no business working in a computer store.

The girl recovered.  “RAM.  Right.  How many?”

“One eight-gig RAM will do.”

The horned girl’s mouth gaped.  “An eight-gig RAM?  Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure of that.”  Olivie was finding the conversation unnecessarily tiring.
The horned girl wandered over to the shelves behind the counter.  Her lips silently read the labels as her finger slid along the boxes, then took out a weathered brown box.  “This one’s got eight gigs—that’s a really specific order, though.  First time I'm hearing of it.”

“No it’s not; everyone has at least that these days.”

The girl’s eyebrow twitched.  “Says who?”

Olivie’s forehead creased as she tapped her bottom lip.  “Drat; it’s just on the tip of my tongue.  Anyway, my son probably said it—he works with computers.  Takes after his mother.”

The girl nodded and smiled politely.  “That’s nice.”

Olivie held up the box.  “How much is this?”  

The girl waved the question away.  “Nah, take it.”

“What, for free?”

“Yeah.”  The girl rested her forearms on the counter and leaned in.  

“Why is it free?”  Olivie searched the box for a ‘Made in China’ label.  “Is it faulty?”

The horned girl shrugged.  “We never charge for memory.  If it’s yours, it’s yours.”  

As much as Olivie knew she should heed her instinct to drop everything and flee, she was still an old lady, and old ladies never pass up anything free.  She hugged the box.  “Who do I call if I need to return it?”

“You can come back, but nobody’s ever returned.”

Olivie stared at the girl’s odd confidence before dropping her eyes to the box in her hands.  Inside, the memory chip lay on a swathe of red satin.  The parchment finishing on its surface fuelled her suspicions.  “Why does the chip look funny?”

“Customisation.”

“It looks like a toy.”

The girl puffed out her cheeks.  “Well, if you don’t want it, best give it back.”

Olivie tucked the box under her arm.  “No, I’ll take it.”

The horned girl flashed her most respectful smile.  “Excellent choice, madam.”  She bowed so low her horns nearly hit the counter.  “We hope you’ve enjoyed our service.”

Olivie turned to leave.  “You’re welcome—but take off those silly horns and yellow contact lenses next time.  You look like a goat.”  The wind chime hanging above the entrance jingled, and the girl was left alone once more.