Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Annabelle went over to the stove and switched the extraction fan off. Jack drank some wine. His stomach mumbled something nasty about being empty.

“Not much of a dinner,” said Annabelle.

“It’s still here.”

“I’m sorry. And it was meant to be an apology.”

Jack stood up, slowly. Obviously time to go. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I’ll call you. Maybe we could try this again. In a restaurant.”

“Any time.”

Jack slipped on his coat, adjusted the sleeves and collar of his shirt. Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest. There was going to be no goodnight kiss.

“Do you think he burnt them?”

“You know your father better than I do.”

“Nobody knows my father.”

She stared at the terracotta tiles. Jack walked towards the hallway door. She did not look up when he said goodbye. He stepped quietly out of the kitchen and made his way to the front door.

Outside, he lit a cigarette, walked to the gate and glanced back at the house. It looked cold and empty, even though he knew there were people inside.

Jack changed his mind about going home. He was hungry. He stopped in Paddington, ordered a pizza and bought a bottle of wine. Then he hailed another taxi and directed it into the city.

It was still quite early. Lois was no doubt curled up somewhere in a neighbour’s apartment, not thinking about him at all. Sometimes home could feel a little empty, especially on wet Monday nights. Jack wanted the dusty silence of Susko Books, and some Charles Mingus on the stereo for company. Tonight, maybe At the Bohemia, 1955 . And then ease into that long bottle of red. Pick out some books, open the pages at random and see what he gets. The outside world where it should be — outside.

He had kissed her. Thirty sweet seconds. Hardly enough to count for a memory.

“Just here’s fine, thanks.” Jack held the pizza box off his lap and paid the cab driver. The smell had filled the taxi, greasing the stale air inside.

A street-sweeper swished loudly around the corner and Jack stepped back from the kerb as it drove past. The sky was still clear, the stars in crisp focus. It was cold, but no rain tonight. Just ahead, Queen Victoria sat in her usual spot, spilling abundantly out of her chair, the weight of the Empire in her sagging bronze jowls.

York Street. Somebody sat on the top steps to Susko Books, talking on a mobile phone, his back to the street. Jack crossed over. He watched the young guy stand up and pocket his mobile phone. Then just as he walked up, Jack caught a flash of light that seemed to come from the front door of his shop. Surprised, he stopped at the top of the steps and waited a moment, trying to see through the shadowed glass. Nothing. Then as he took a step down, the light flashed again and darted about in the darkness. What the hell?

Jack quickly put the pizza and bottle of wine down and called out to the phone guy just walking away. “Hey! You! Call the cops. Somebody’s in my shop!”

The guy turned around. He was a young man in his twenties, wearing green camouflage pants, a beanie and a thick, hooded windcheater. “What?” He gave Jack a wary, petulant look.

“Someone’s broken into my fucking shop. Could you call the cops?”

The young man’s eye’s widened. “Yeah, sure man, no worries.” He reached for his phone and flipped it open.

“Tell them it’s Susko Books, on York Street. The guy’s still in there.”

Jack sprinted around into Market Row. The lane was empty. He slowed down as he approached the rear door to his bookshop. The sound of traffic carried down from George Street but seemed a long way off.

He pulled the keys out of his pocket. As he neared the rear door, he saw they would not be necessary: somebody had taken out the lock and handle with a sledgehammer.

Jack held his breath and pushed the door slowly: it started to creak so he held it fast. It was open just enough for him to slip through. But wait there or go inside? He was unsure. He needed a weapon.

His heart thumped. He stepped inside. Jack Susko had never held a gun in his life, but he was sure it would have felt better than the old, 1970s Smoker’s Please ashtray he picked up off the floor behind the door. First thing tomorrow he was buying an aluminium baseball bat.

There were noises up ahead, somewhere near the counter: shuffling of papers, drawers being opened, books dropped to the floor, a chair shoved aside. An old coffee mug full of pens spilled and a second later smashed on the floor. The intruder swore. Then the dull drum echo of Jack’s small, wastepaper bin as a palm hit the side a couple of times and emptied it.

Jack edged forwards. He held the ashtray in his right hand, ready to swing. It was dark but he knew where the shelves were, knew which way to go. Every now and then the intruder’s torchlight reflected off something in the shop, a quick flash of glass, of metal, a sudden grainy patch of ceiling or wall, then gone. It was like being underwater at night.

For a moment, complete silence. Jack stopped. Then he heard paper being torn. Followed by the scrape and scratch of a lighter flicking sparks. He took another step. The ashtray he was carrying banged against the metal corner of a bookshelf. He froze. Three seconds later, a beam of thin, harsh light caught him full in the face.

Things happened pretty quickly after that.

The torch snapped off and somebody started running. Jack stood where he was, trying to focus on what was ahead of him, blinking away the brightness. As he did, something like a ten-pin bowling ball struck him in the stomach at about sixty kilometres an hour. Jack doubled over, groaning.

Whoever had head-butted him tried to shove Jack aside and scramble past, but the shelves were narrow there, between Classics, Religion and History. Blindly, Jack managed to grab hold of the flap of a jacket. He grimaced and pulled, letting his weight fall to the floor. The assailant remained on his feet but Jack forced him to bend over. The man writhed and flayed. Jack held on. He tried to curl an arm around the man’s legs and trip him up. Elbows and fists rained down, mainly catching Jack in the arm and shoulder, but a couple stung the side of his head. Then Jack remembered his suit and felt a surge of anger. He pulled harder on the jacket and as he did so lifted himself up a little off the floor. His head came up above the level of his hands. Just high enough for the guy to get a good look at it.

A terrific pain burst in the middle of Jack’s face: his nose exploded like a ripe tomato. Wet warmth began to spread around the general area. He let go of the jacket, collapsed to the floor, and put his hands to his face.

“Stupid fucker,” barked a thin, angry voice.

Jack was grabbed by the lapels of his jacket. He blinked and looked up. A dark face was bent over him: he could just see the whites of the man’s eyes, glazed blue-grey in the weak light of the street lamps outside.

“Should’ve stayed at home, eh?”

Jack tried to breathe, but his nose was full of hot gravel.

The man pushed Jack away and straightened up. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife.

Jack caught a glimpse of the blade, liquid silver like the flash of a fish in murky water. “Oh, shit!” He tried to get to his feet. Another punch to the head stopped him, though he managed to slip the force of the blow away from his face with his arm.

“Should’ve stayed at home —”

The back door to Susko Books swung open and banged against the wall. A corridor of muted, night-time city light spread down the aisle of books. The man with the knife turned and looked towards the rear of the shop. Jack squinted at the face of his attacker: it was the son of a bitch who had tried to sell him the stolen books earlier that day.