The Flyleaf Killer (3 page)

These were critical moments, however, and Henry Plowrite’s dark, unblinking gaze never wavered. He watched the boy’s jaw drop and, with the advent of dawning realisation, a look of incredulity appear—until enlightenment swept it away the instant his intelligence caught up with his greed. Intelligent the boy most certainly was; his reaction was immediate.

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed in alarm. ‘What the spiff’s going on?’ His voice rose angrily. ‘How come my name’s already in the book? Is this some sort of trick? Are you a flipping conjuror?’ Without waiting he answered his own question: ‘No, that’s something you definitely are not.’ And, following his own line of reasoning, demanded, ‘So who the devil are you, Old Nick?’ His eyes widened at the thought. What if…? ‘Yes, that’s who you are,’ he declared.
‘And I reckon you’re after my bloody soul!’

Robert had once read a book concerning contracts with the devil, when the pledge of a soul would secure for a mortal riches and fame beyond his wildest dreams. At the conclusion of the book, Robert remembered feeling envious and wondering whether
he
might one day receive such an offer, and perhaps thereby escape his own miserable existence. Whether averse to the idea or not, he had no intention of being cheated. Infuriated, thinking how close he might have come to losing his soul with nothing in return, he found himself almost shouting, despite Plowrite’s ominous warning—a warning Robert was destined never to forget.

‘Have care, Robert William Strudwick,’ Plowrite enjoined, with the barest hint of menace. ‘Calm yourself, lest you forget to whom you speak. I’m not “Old Nick” nor am I trying to steal your soul. Souls
cannot
be stolen and are
never
accepted unless offered willingly. Have you not guessed that I am Pentophiles, friend and mentor, the voice of your mind?’

Hastily, Robert swallowed his anger, partly in response to the threat in Plowrite’s tone.

A tingle from the Book reminded him of what might be at stake and he fell quiet, taking time to digest and analyse the situation and to assess the import of the shopkeeper’s words. What if this were true? It would explain why the bookseller’s voice sounded remarkably familiar. It would explain everything—might even be the opportunity he had secretly longed for. Still suspicious, unwilling blindly to concede, he decided to probe a little further.

‘If you really
are
Pentophiles, the voice of my mind, why are you pretending to be Henry Plowrite, a rotten shopkeeper?’ Robert demanded. ‘I’m not completely stupid, you know.’

The bogus bookseller leaned on the counter and gazed deep into Robert’s eyes.

It was a critical moment—vital to his aspirations to ensnare the best potential intermediary identified in centuries. He
must
convince this boy his suspicions were groundless; enlist and develop his latent talents. Displaying masterful control, the being moderated its voice, added a ring of sincerity and strove to be at its most persuasive.

‘You must believe I am but your guide and friend and am sent only to help unite you with the book, so that together you may fulfil your destiny, Robert William Strudwick. My true appearance is not of your world and although my regard for you is sincere, I fear you would find me a little frightening.’

His words, strange as they were, coupled with that deep, soothing voice had an immediate effect. Robert became calm, pliant and receptive. From the deepest recesses of his mind, strange new knowledge became available for recall, gleaned through extensive hypnopaedia over time. This being was positively
not
the devil, out to seize his soul, nor a monster intent on trickery, but a confidante with his best interests at heart and his well-being in mind. He became relaxed, anxious to please his mentor—perhaps his one and only true friend. Robert accepted Pentophiles’ revelations without further question, committed henceforth to recognise the shopkeeper for what he claimed to be.

Thanks to careful preparation over a long period of time, through frequent and regular discourse, generally whilst the boy was asleep, Pentophiles knew Robert’s proclivities well. He could readily determine, therefore, when his subject’s mind was at its most receptive.

Pentophiles’ moment was come, and he hastened to press home his advantage. His resonant voice echoed and reverberated with absolute conviction.

‘All you have read in the dedication is true, with many wondrous events yet to unfold. Come now, Robert, this is your chance! Let me explain how the Book can be yours; grant you riches untold; rid you of enemies and brilliantly enlighten your future.’

His penetrating stare lessened as he relinquished his influence on Robert’s mind. Cognisant of the probable outcome, he waited for his protégé to express himself in words. Patiently, oh, so patiently, Pentophiles watched in silence through Plowrite’s eyes—and waited. Robert conversed with his indoctrinated subconscious; reprised his unhappy years; considered those perceived as enemies, and discovered a deep-seated longing for revenge. The satisfaction of retribution; possessing the Book; ‘great power, untold riches’—irresistible. These considerations, combined with Pentophiles’ persuasive voice and dark, compelling eyes helped him decide—well, almost.

Greed his dominant emotion, animal cunning and caution demanded the best terms possible before agreeing to anything. Maybe he could negotiate. That aside, one important question remained. Taking his courage in both hands, he plunged.

‘You said I might be able to have the Book without paying? That’s fantastic—but I’m
still
waiting for you to explain, especially if, as you say, you’re not trying to steal my soul. You said I’d have to pay the full amount—no exceptions, but turned down my seven pounds. You don’t want me to work in your shop or allow me to pay weekly, so what
do
I have to do,
Mister
Plowrite—rob a blinking bank?’

Secure behind the facade of ‘Henry Plowrite’, Pentophiles was almost confident of victory. The eagerness of the boy, his avaricious demeanour and wry humour virtually clinched it. Plowrite smiled. Pentophiles was delighted! In fact, the smile was more of a grimace. Control of ‘Plowrite’s’ facial expression was never easy, harder still when at pains to ensure that no hint of elation or triumph should become evident in the voice. Continuing to select his words with care, the being from the netherworld set out to explain.

‘It really is quite simple, Robert. Because you qualify by virtue of intellect, love of books and are over the age of thirteen—a perfect combination of attributes—I am authorised to offer you a contract granting custodianship of the Book…’ He paused to raise an eyebrow and, when Robert nodded to confirm his interest, went on to elaborate.

‘To begin with I shall explain the terms of the contract. Whilst perfectly straightforward and unambiguous, you must understand they are inflexible and not subject to negotiation. There will be no coercion, no pressure and you may sign only of your own free will.’

Maintaining the image of Plowrite required effort and Pentophiles took a moment to renew control of the illusion. He dared not allow the features to distort or the limbs to fade during these critical moments. Firm control re-established, the bogus bookseller continued.

‘The contract provides that for so long as you solemnly undertake to follow the instructions from time to time made manifest within the Book, you will be invited to sign the contract. Having duly signed you will be granted immediate possession, entitling you to reap the benefits specified throughout the whole of your lifetime, without penalty, financial or otherwise.

‘The contract contains four clauses, however, and these, whilst uncomplicated and simple to comply with, are nevertheless extremely important. You will note that some collateral is required, perfectly normal in instances of no deposit. Having your interests always in mind, I can visualise no circumstances in which you would be likely to break the contract and be thus obliged to suffer the terrible consequences. To help you remember and fully understand, I propose to read the details aloud.’

Robert nodded. Rapt, receptive, eager, acquiescent; every word and nuance registered. Spacing his words and phrases with precision, Pentophiles recited:

Firstly: You must
never
allow the Book to pass from your possession unless and until a Transfer Contract be properly executed.

Secondly: No person other than yourself may view
any
part of the contents whilst the Book is under your custodianship.

Thirdly: The Book will reveal each new situation
only
when appropriate and shall always provide instructions for its resolution. You must
swear
to follow such instructions to the letter and
never
attempt to obtain information beyond that which is current.

Finally: Your mortal soul shall remain your own property for as long as these clauses remain inviolate.

Only
should a clause be broken shall your life be forfeit and you solemnly declare that in that event the aforementioned soul shall belong to Mephistopheles.

‘As I told you at the outset it really is quite simple. Perhaps you would care to see for yourself?’

Busily assimilating and assessing Plowrite’s words, Robert didn’t answer immediately. Once having weighed advantage versus penalty, however, he inclined his head knowingly.

‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘I had a feeling my soul would come into the equation somehow. But, as you rightly point out, I’m not stupid enough to renege or run unnecessary risks. What’s more, I get to keep two quid a week for spends as well as my seven quid. Right?’

It was Plowrite’s turn to acquiesce. He, too, ducked his head.

‘Absolutely, Robert,’ he said. ‘What is your wish, to proceed or to withdraw?’

The boy was no longer in any doubt. Filled with excited anticipation, Robert agreed. ‘Yes please,’ he said, eagerly. ‘Can I have a look?’

The ‘bookseller’ fished beneath the counter and produced a furled parchment secured with crimson ribbon. Untying it, he unrolled the document with a flourish and smoothed it flat.

‘There you are then, Robert my boy,’ he smiled. ‘As you can see—exactly as I said. All you need do is sign—I shall witness your signature, and the Book shall be yours to keep.’

Erudite, worldly-wise, Robert would be wary of the small print in any contract, this one certainly no exception. The text was short and concise; even so, he read and reread every word, determined to leave nothing to chance. He found absolutely no ambiguity: every word, sentence and nuance crystal clear, no hidden meaning, no word or phrase capable of more than one interpretation. Satisfied, Robert nevertheless still sought confirmation.

‘It
seems
clear enough, Mister Plowrite. I’ll be rich and famous but the devil doesn’t get my soul—not ever, as long as I obey the Book and don’t break any of the clauses, right?’

‘Yes, Robert, that is precisely so,’ Pentophiles replied. He went further: ‘But I urge you never to violate the contract lest you suffer the agonies of the damned and writhe in dreadful torment throughout eternity.’ He extended five bony digits and patted Robert’s arm. ‘I have grown fond of you, my boy,’ he said, ‘and have high expectations for your future. Whilst it is undoubtedly in your best interest to sign, I feel it my duty to make sure you fully understand the nature of the consequences a breach of the conditions would bring.’

None of this was at variance with Robert’s understanding and he was touched by Plowrite’s solicitude—a clever touch from a master manipulator? There seemed no reason to equivocate further.

‘Can you lend me a pen, please?’ Robert asked.

Again Henry Plowrite smiled.

‘Certainly, use mine and I shall witness your signature.’ He produced an expensive-looking pen and handed it to Robert: ‘Just remember one very important thing, my boy. The Book is for you and you alone. It will ensure your future and gain you ascendancy above other mortals. For these benefits, implicit obedience is but a small price to pay. But only on absolute acceptance of these conditions, and of your own free will should you sign. If you are
certain
you wish to commit yourself, then append your signature now.’ Unhesitatingly, Robert uncapped the pen, signed
Robert William Strudwick
, not with his usual flourish but, thanks to the rather viscous crimson writing fluid, slowly, carefully and laboriously. Pentophiles recovered the pen and used it to witness Robert’s signature.

And so the deed was done. A keen-eyed observer would detect a gleam of triumph in Henry Plowrite’s eyes, but not so Robert—he had bigger and better fish to fry. For starters, he tucked the Book carefully into his satchel.

Pentophiles picked up the key and signalled his intention to place the vermilion ribbon around Robert’s neck. As the boy lowered his head in acceptance, he was too preoccupied to notice the so-called book-merchant’s image turn shadowy and begin to lose substance. It was time for ‘Henry Plowrite’ to bid farewell. ‘Goodbye, Robert,’ he boomed, sonorously, ‘I shall doubtless see you again soon.’

‘Goodbye, Mister Plowrite,’ Robert replied. ‘And thank you very much,’ he added, lamely.

Emerging from the shop, Robert felt vibrant, confident, his former sense of inferiority banished. He knew no-one would dare antagonise him in future – and those who had in the past were likely soon to regret it.

The Book was destined to have a profound effect on his life—just as he expected, of course!

A glance at the town hall clock told him it was 4.15. He did a double-take: What! Less than thirty minutes since he entered the shop? Impossible. Half-an-hour might account for time with the bookseller, but what about the time spent browsing? Robert shivered. Did the power of Pentophiles extend so far beyond the material world he possessed the capability to compress time itself? What other explanation could there be? None Robert could think of! He shrugged and turned his attention to more immediate matters. Grumbling pangs were a reminder of teatime but, despite hunger, the feeling of well-being returned and he strode jauntily along the High Street and across the village green where he broke into an exuberant trot.