The Flyleaf Killer (2 page)

There was evidence of use and a sense of antiquity about the book, but the quality of manufacturing craftsmanship couldn’t be denied. Robert supposed it to be hand-finished and must surely therefore represent the very epitome of the bookbinder’s art.

Who wrote it? What was it about? Robert didn’t know and didn’t care. His longing for
Oliver Twist
was eclipsed and superseded by an overwhelming desire to own and cherish
this
book. Permanent acquisition became paramount. This book
had
to be his, above all else!

Totally engrossed, Robert failed to notice a door swing open, but something—instinct perhaps—prompted him to look in time to see a man appear a split-second before the shopkeeper (for it was surely he) elected to greet his one and only customer. ‘Good afternoon, Robert,’ the newcomer said loudly, in deep, sonorous, sepulchral tones. ‘Yes,
you
, Robert William Strudwick,’ he boomed, as if to counter the boy’s incredulity. ‘I am pleased to welcome you to my humble shop,’ he added, quaintly old-fashioned.

Book in hand, mouth agape, Robert was rooted to the spot, astonished to be addressed by name. He was equally struck by the way the man moved, a peculiar sort of gliding motion.

The bookseller leered a manic leer, thrust a long, pointed nose across the counter and treated Robert to a fearsome glare. Or was it a smile? Cor, crikey! The fellow was positively
UGLY
. He bore no resemblance to anyone Robert had ever met nor to how he imagined a bookseller might look: narrow, coal-black eyes, jet-black hair slicked back from a central parting and huge thrusting sideboards resembling twin, hairy scimitars. Ugly? No, not ugly. Sort of—
DEVILISH?

To be thus confronted unnerved Robert, and although his mind and vocal cords made a concerted effort to respond his throat refused to produce even the tiniest of squeaks.

‘Well, come on, Robert,’ the shopkeeper prompted. ‘Aren’t you going to say “hello”? Where’s your manners, boy? I
have
been expecting you!’

The staring eyes appeared to soften. Grotesquely, there was even the hint of a smile. The man seemed to pose no immediate threat and the resonant voice seemed vaguely familiar. Robert relaxed a little and by dint of effort managed to regain his voice.

‘H-hello, Mister P-Plowrite,’ he stammered. ‘I—I’m v-very pleased to meet you!’

‘Yes, and I should think so too!’ came the unkind reply. ‘You boys of today!’ He fell silent, regarding his customer thoughtfully. Long moments passed.

The book in Robert’s hands felt warm, comforting—alive, almost. How could he make it his own? He knew he was intelligent—teachers said so. Father expressed doubts, but what did
he
know? It was time to put his brains to work and come up with a solution:
I want this book!

Bravely, Robert countered the bookseller’s stare with a contemplative study of his own. So this was Henry Plowrite, whose name appeared above the door? Appearances notwithstanding, he was probably a typical shopkeeper, in business solely for profit—but perhaps, just perhaps, open to negotiation? Robert certainly hoped so. If anything, his longing intensified. Little money or no, he was more determined than ever to possess the book. Perhaps it was time to go on the offensive—try a touch of subterfuge—but first, a question.

‘Er, excuse me, Mister Plowrite. How did you know my name?’ he asked, hesitantly.

‘A-hah,’ Plowrite boomed, ‘I
knew
you’d ask me that. Well, all you need to know is that I
do
know.
How
I know is
because
I know.
Why
I know is because
you
know
me
.’

‘But I’ve never seen you before—never! But I think I remember your voice from somewhere.’

‘Well, there you are then, proof enough,’ Plowrite replied, smug but hardly logical. Once again he lapsed into silence, regarding his customer with an even greater intensity.

Robert stared back, wonderingly. It was curious, but although every bit as ugly, the shopkeeper seemed less frightening. Maybe he was becoming used to the man? What had appearance to do with the situation, anyway? Shrugging, Robert decided the man’s looks were irrelevant. All that really mattered was finding a way to secure this beautiful book. But he remained suspicious. After all, this shop hadn’t been in existence a couple of weeks ago…

‘I see you’ve selected a top quality book,’ the bookseller eventually observed. ‘But don’t imagine you can read it, borrow it or keep it without full and proper payment.’ From his tone and attitude it was abundantly clear he meant exactly what he said.

‘Tell me, which title is it?’ he asked. ‘Then I shall be pleased to tell you the price.’

Robert held out the book. ‘It doesn’t say, Mister Plowrite. Look, see for yourself.’ He turned the book spine uppermost and thrust it towards the shopkeeper but, glancing down, hastily snatched it back for there, in gold-embossed letters he read:

THE SECRET OF SUCCESS

Pilo Sephten

Rotating the book through forty-five degrees showed the front cover to be similarly inscribed. Robert was both astonished and perplexed.

‘That’s strange!’ he exclaimed, a-flush with embarrassment. ‘I’m
sure
it was blank before—the front cover too,’ he endeavoured to explain. ‘Sorry, I just couldn’t have looked properly…’ Lamely, his voice tailed off.

The bookseller rubbed claw-like hands and shaped his mouth into a tolerant smile—in reality a hideous grimace—and said, ingratiatingly, ‘A wise choice, a very special book. One with many titles and, therefore, everything to all men. Look again, boy,’ he commanded.

Obediently, Robert looked down and was staggered to find both style and title changed:

YOU
CAN
YOU
MUST
YOU
WILL

Pilo Sephten

While Robert gaped in astonishment, the original title reappeared briefly before vanishing altogether, leaving both spine and cover completely blank.

It would have been incredible, had not Robert witnessed it with his own eyes! Desire for the book became even more profound.

Think, old son
, he told himself. What should he do to gain his objective? He shifted his mind into top gear.

A course of action became apparent in a flash. Well practised, he decided to play the sympathy card for all it was worth. Even if it didn’t help, it certainly would do no harm.

He screwed his eyes to make them glisten, puckered his face in anguish and prevailed upon his lower lip to tremble, pathetically…There now, that should do it! Confident an entreating expression was firmly in place, Robert blinked back a tear and gazed at the bookseller. Taking a deep breath, he launched his campaign.

‘I’d like to buy the book, Mr Plowrite,’ he began. ‘Please, can you tell me how much it is?’ (Surely his carefully pitched, plaintive tones deserved
something
in the way of sympathy?) ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have much money,’ he added, hopefully.

‘Certainly, Robert, of course. Now let me see.’

Henry Plowrite reached beneath the counter. Producing a clipboard, he rifled through typewritten sheets, stopped abruptly and ran a bony forefinger halfway down a page. Emitting a grunt of evident satisfaction, he looked up.

‘Ah, yes, here we are,’ the apparent bookseller said, with a calculating rub of his beak-like nose. ‘This rare and very special book can be yours for’—he paused—‘just sixty-six pounds and six pence. And very reasonable too for such a fine volume, as I’m sure you will agree,’ he declared, with an unmistakable air of finality.

Robert’s heart sank. His dismay must surely be apparent for again his lower lip trembled—this time of its own accord. Realising his back was up against the wall he thought furiously. He had little chance of raising such a large amount, yet felt in his heart the book was worth more. He simply
had
to acquire this exciting treasure; nothing else seemed to matter. Robert’s mind raced, calculating assets at top speed.

His newspaper round was worth eight pounds a week. A princely sum, were he not obliged to hand over six pounds towards his keep. An evening round would bring in more, but Father forbade it, saying it would interfere with homework and prevent him from carrying out chores. He was therefore left with two pounds. (A wage-earner no longer qualified for pocket-money.)

‘That’s an awful lot of money, Mister Plowrite,’ Robert eventually brought himself to say. ‘I’ve seven pounds saved. Will it do as a deposit? Can I have the book and pay the rest at two pounds a week? I really want the book and I promise to bring you the money every Friday.’

Slowly, Henry Plowrite shook his head. He even contrived to seem regretful as he said, ‘I’m sorry, Robert, but the price is a cash price and must be paid in full. Company policy forbids giving credit and I regret there can be no exceptions.’

He extended his hand for the book, but Robert tightened his grasp on the volume, unwilling to give up without a fight. In keeping with generations of youngsters, Robert was no stranger to materialistic aspirations—in his case, mostly frustrated, but no previous acquisitive yearning came within light-years of his desire to possess this wonderful, beautiful book.

‘Oh,
please,
Mister Plowrite,’ he begged, ‘I’ll do anything. What if I come and work for you after school every day? I’ll run errands, sweep up, clean windows—and I won’t expect any payment, either.’ And when the shopkeeper still seemed unmoved, the boy added, desperately: ‘I could come Saturday mornings after papers as well—and
still
give you two pounds a week.’

It was his last shot, his final offer. With bated breath he waited, hoping the bookseller would accept. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Henry Plowrite appeared to waver. He knew his ‘customer’ extremely well, was perfectly aware the boy nurtured a violent dislike for the world in general and a deep, abiding hatred for the majority of his contemporaries.

The boy possessed—even if unaware of it as yet, a deep-rooted capability for cruel, spiteful retaliation towards anyone who crossed his path or frustrated his ambition, together with an innate potential for depravity and evil, rare in anyone regardless of age or circumstances: highly desirable characteristics which had first attracted the attention of Pentophiles, who knew, given the right circumstances, the boy would do anything to further his own ends.

But the being lurking behind the facade of ‘Henry Plowrite’ still had much to achieve. Gaining trust was an essential step towards the eventual fulfillment of his special ambition. Until the boy was irrevocably committed, the possibility of failure remained, especially should he sense danger and be warned off. The so-called bookseller selected his words with great care.

‘We-ll, Robert,’ he began slowly, ‘if you really
are
prepared to do anything—and because you are over the age of thirteen—there is just a possibility I may be able to help you.’

Robert’s carefully constructed air of pathos disintegrated in an instant. He listened intently to Plowrite’s every word to make sure he didn’t miss a single nuance.

‘I do
not
require assistance but you might be able to possess the book without actually buying it. However, before I explain, you might find it helpful to open the book and read the dedication.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Robert cried eagerly, ‘of course I will. I said I’d do anything and I meant it!’ Excitedly, he put the book down and attempted to raise the cover…but the cover wouldn’t budge. Tugging simply lifted the volume up from the counter.

Disappointed and angry, Robert threw caution to the winds, glared at Plowrite and yelled, ‘What’s the game then? The rotten pages must be stuck together. Your stupid book isn’t worth coppers. Shove it! I’m off home.’

He slammed down the book and turned away.

‘Wait!’
The bookseller commanded. ‘You may not address me thus without forfeit. Atone immediately!’

Inexplicably afraid, Robert’s anger abated as swiftly as it had arisen. ‘S-sorry, Mister Plowrite,’ he stuttered. ‘I d-didn’t mean to be rude. I thought something must be wrong with the book. W-what’s g-going on then? Why
won’t
the pages open?’

Without speaking, the counterfeit bookseller reached to his neck, removed a small golden key suspended from a crimson ribbon and offered it to the boy.

Puzzled, Robert deferred acceptance until, with a flash of intuition, he re-examined the book. Turned spine downwards it became clear the volume was fitted with a small clasp and lock.

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t notice
that
before. You must think me stupid. I really am truly sorry, Mister Plowrite. I hope you won’t hold it against me…’

‘Of course not, my boy, I understand completely. Let that be an end to the matter.’ Although the shopkeeper spoke graciously, he didn’t sound in the least sincere. ‘Now mark me well, Robert William Strudwick,’ he continued. ‘Not only is this the key to the book, it may also be the key to your future. Only if well prepared should you take the key, open the book and read the dedication therein.’

Robert didn’t hesitate. Having scant regard for the import of Henry Plowrite’s words, and with fingers fairly trembling with excitement, he eagerly accepted the proffered key.

Carefully, he inserted it through a tiny escutcheon and into the lock, where a single half-turn rotated the tumblers and released the hasp, allowing the book to open. Lifting the front cover and turning to the title page revealed the dedication.

Robert found it relatively easy to comprehend, despite the quaint script and archaic phraseology. He began to read aloud and before the end of the first line his recently deepened voice reverted to a shaky soprano squeak:

This Book was writ for thee, Robert William Strudwick. Follow and obey as counselled, when great power and fortune shall be thine to command, as will the lives of all who cause mischief unto thee or mayhap wish thee ill.

Robert’s voice tailed off.
For me?
He asked himself, wildly,
how can it possibly be?

Dumbfounded, he read the sentences again, word by word. But the message was unambiguous, incapable of misinterpretation…and the gleam of avarice in Robert’s eye betrayed his complete and absolute comprehension.