Little Black Book

One day it appeared, conjured in mystery and draped in black. It sat on the desk in my office, as if some ghost had placed it there one day or night with a gleeful smirk, awaiting its discovery. Like a swathe of temptation washing over me, I found myself drawn to it; the thick, black texture of the front lightly resisting my grip. And I was happy to reciprocate, my forefinger and thumb clasping at the bottom right-hand corner and turning the page slowly. I recoiled somewhat to see there was something written on the front page. For Peter. Me?

I continued to flick through the little black book, its weight seemingly changing as I picked it up and brought it to my eyeline. Several pages in, there was a list. A list of names, none of which looked remotely familiar to me, some having been crossed out. It made no sense, but I felt some sort of cosmic connection to this book. I studied the names that were crossed out, trying to understand what the context was. Are these people near me? Do they know where this book came from?

I went online and checked a name at random: Clay Lopatin. He was murdered six months ago in Luxembourg. A botched robbery, so the record states. I continued the encroaching hunch of dread on to the next name: Philippa Bolton. And you would never guess what? Philippa was the victim of a hit and run. But she was much closer, this happened in Nottinghamshire three weeks ago. Philippa’s name was the furthest down that was crossed out. I stepped back from it all. I placed the book down and shut the laptop and left the room. Things were starting to make sense to me, in a way that I did not want them to.

Hours passed, maybe days, and the temptation to go back to the little black book was overwhelming. There was something in the words, the way they were written; it was entrancing. My home was becoming a prison, the walls seemed to edge in on me every time I focused on them, the clock that hangs above my sink ticking fervently, along with the clattering of the pipes. It was a symphony of household paranoia and I needed a break from it all, so I threw on my coat and headed for the door.

Fresh air helps, fresh air always helps. It clears away the cobwebs of my brain and I feel myself again, rejuvenated by the winter winds that rasped through the trees and across my face. I closed my eyes, letting the euphoric escapism take hold, and when I opened them, I held in my hand the little black book. I looked around; the streets empty as the ashen waves of snow began to bear down on me from above. I opened it up, and immediately found myself drawn to a name: Lorne Knight. A delicate snowflake rested beside his name, and as it melted away it revealed some sort of watermark on the page… An address.

I slammed the book shut and ran back home, sieved through the kitchen drawers and grabbed at a half-filled cannister of lighter fluid. I squirted it all over the sleek black book and withdrew a match. I placed the book into an empty metallic bin and lit the match. A few moments passed, almost elegiac, before I cast it into the bin to burn this mysterious, symbiotic parasite. The flames rose from the bin in a roaring, searing blaze that spread to my jumper. I took it off, stamping out the flames and before I could check the bin, a violent knock at my front door stunned me still.

I slowly, and very quietly, walked across the landing to see who it was. An unfamiliar glare greeted me, as though he could see me through the peephole. I hesitated for a moment, and just as I was reaching for the lock the man bellowed.

“You seem to have something very important of ours in your possession.” His silken baritone voice felt like it was coming from everywhere all at once.

“I… I don’t know what you want me to do.” I feebly responded, my hands visibly shaking on the door.

“You have a name. You have an address – “

“Look, I burned it. I burned the book. It is not here anymore.”

The man began to bellow a deep laugh; “You cannot burn it. You cannot bury it. You can only do its bidding. I will leave you this present, consider it an incentive”.

I did not say a word, instead I watched as he placed a small envelope down on my doorstep. I waited a long while after he left before I opened the door. I picked it up and went back inside to check the bin. Sure enough, you cannot burn it.

I laid the envelope down on the kitchen table and poured out its contents. It was money, a lot of money. Twenty-thousand pounds, I counted it three times. Each time I did, intrusive thoughts began to fill my mind, as if the paper I was flicking through had some poison in it. I picked up the book now it had cooled down and flicked it back to the name. Lorne Knight. His address was no longer visible, but I knew it. I grabbed my slightly charred jumper and jacket and got into my car.

The snow was coming down fiercely now, laying down safety blankets of purity on the streets, and my coal black tires cut through them, reducing it all to a grey slush. I could see Lorne’s face somehow, as if I were astral projecting, and at every spare moment I had on my journey I would veer my head to the passenger seat, where the twenty-thousand pounds sat. Imagine all the things I could do with that money once this was all over. The roads began to fade into a flurry of white as the storm picked up rapturously.

And then I was there. Outside his home, peering in through the kitchen window as he sat in the dining room alone eating dinner. I snuffed out a thought that reverberated through the journey here: what did this man do to deserve this? It didn’t matter, because once this was done, I would drive off and make something of myself. I had enough money to leave this place behind, and nobody would ever know what I did to make it happen. If money is the root of all evil, at least it gives you a head start.

The front door was unlocked, so I slowly saw myself in and took my shoes off in the doorway. The hard wood flooring would be too cacophonous; and I wanted this to be quick and painless. The narrow hallway lead into the kitchen, and to the right of this was the dining room where Lorne sat eating something that smelled delicious. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a knife I do not remember ever owning. I began to walk into the dining room, still under the veil of anonymity –

“Just make it quick” Lorne suddenly spoke, putting his fork down on to the empty plate and turning to me, hunched and shocked in the doorway. I did not know what to say… What do you say in a situation like this?

“You better make something better of that money than I did…” Lorne continued. I walked over to the table and sat down opposite him.

“What did you do?” I inquired, hoping to learn something valuable.

“I did exactly what it wanted me to do. But I must have gotten something wrong. I… I do not know what they expected of me. I hope in my death, you can find out the answer to that.”

“And what if I do not?”

“Then you will be the next name in the book”.

With that, Lorne placed his hands face down on the table in front of him and stared into my eyes.

“Make it quick, please”.

And I did. As quick as you can make such things when you have no practice in it. I picked myself up and left. I had the money and I had done the book’s bidding. I drove for hours until I hit the seaside, intermittently checking the news to see if anyone had reported Lorne’s murder. Nobody had, and I felt a wave of calm wash over me when I sat on the shoreline. Almost as if it had been a fever dream, an illusion or nightmare, fleeting in its existence. I kept the black book, and of a nighttime I would sleep with it under my pillow. I had not even touched the money yet. What would I do with such things? What did they expect me to do with it all?

After a week or so, my head felt cleared and I had a burning itch to spend some of the money, even if it was just on something for me. I could still smell the dinner Lorne had prepared and I wished that I had asked him what it was. I found an up-market Italian restaurant in the town I was staying in and bought the most lavish dinner they offered. It cost me near enough one hundred and thirty pounds for just myself. I have never felt so fulfilled, and my conscience was finally giving me enough respite to find peace at night. I headed back to the Airbnb I was in to find the little black book was gone. I searched high and low, under every gap and crevasse, but it was gone. I sat up all night, anxious and afraid. And by morning, there was a knock on the door. I peered through the curtain and saw a young woman clutching at something in her hand. It looked like the black book, and it dawned on me: I let them down too. And I guess that makes me next.

But I was not scared. In that moment, I was ready to die.