The Black Book

The Black Book

One last look he thought, the gargantuan pile of concrete which has been crushing the life out of him for 20 years. How weird it is to continuously return to a place that slowly drip feeds you the idea of what life should be.

Waking up this morning he didn't know today would be the last day. He looks down at a box which encompasses his 20 years at ’Dillon & Murphy', a debt collection agency. Things that had made his 9-5 feel like 7 hours instead of 8. Things that motivated him to stay in his job for 20 years. Things that have collected dust in his little cubicle just like him.

He turns and begins the slow walk away from that life, kicking gravel along the footpath. The 10th step is interrupted by a voice calling out his name, "Mr. Clark! Mr. Clark!" He turns around and sees a security guard waving him down as he approaches. "Sorry, Mr. Clark, but I'm gonna need your company ID badge back".

Jeremy Clark; Grade B debt collector; Dillon and Murphy. Jeremy reads his ID badge as he passes it to the security guard.

He won’t need it anymore.

Ting, Ting, Ting.... Ting, Ting, Ting.

"Stop fucking doing that".

The words bring silence back to the bar. Two trench coats are hunched over a dark and dingy bar, sipping their scotches. One of the coats begins to tap the thick gold ring on his right pinkie on his glass again, Ting, Ting.... Ting, Ting.

"I have no issue breaking those fingers".

The gold ringed man lets a smirk release. "C'mon man why can't we make the rounds early today?"

The older coat rubs his forehead creating a crease which extends all the way up his receding hairline, showing his frustration. "How many times must we go over this? It's the same routine - 9am we see the boss, he gives us the book with the addresses in it, 11am we start collecting... And my watch says 10:15 so we will sit here and wait".

The gold ringed man reaches into his coat pocket revealing the book, the binding cracks as he opens it to remind himself of the addresses. "Only two today, it’s gonna be a cruisy one".

"Put it away!" snapped the older coat while looking around fiercely.

"Easy easy". The gold ringed man grabs the book and returns it to his pocket.

The older coat stands abruptly, reaching for his wallet and throws a few tens on the bar. "We're going, c'mon, I need to get a feed!"

The coats break free from the darkness of the bar, disappearing into the daylight. As the door swings open the light reveals something. The black book lay alone on the floor next to the stool.

"Jeremy Clark, unemployed. A fucking loser." her words spray across his face hitting him in waves.

She wasn't going to understand, she wouldn't console him. If anything, she would throw him out of the house leaving him to look for a job and a home. He wasn't looking forward to going home to his wife. He kept repeating to himself as he stared down at the box of reminders of his worthlessness. "Jeremy Clark, unemployed. A fucking loser. Jeremy Clark, unemployed. A fucking loser." Louder and louder his mantra gets as it echoes in the alley he stands in. "Jeremy Clark, unemployed. A fucking loser!" It's too much, he throws his box trying to release his anger and let his belongings and accolades fall to where they belong, in the scattered rubbish, representing they're worth - shit left behind, unwanted scum of the alley. Throwing the items isn't enough. In the heat of anger, he kicks what he can, sending mixtures of his belongings and rotting trash through the air till he exhausts himself and collapses on the ground.

In defeat, he submits to recapturing his breath, calming himself. A neon sign catches his eye. The thought of drinking his problems away musters enough energy to stand, and he enters the dark hole that the neon lights shine above.

"Lager" he orders into the empty space in front of him as he collapses onto a stool. The bartender appears with his beer, served on a coaster right in front of Jeremy. Jeremy doesn't see him. He looks right through him but instinctively reaches for the beer, bringing it to his lips and inhaling. "Another" Jeremy exhales. The bartender refills the glass and sits it on the coaster accompanied by some mixed nuts. He then fades back to the end of the bar.

Jeremy grabs some nuts and starts tossing them into his mouth. Some land; some don't. Jeremy wipes down his shirt where the misfired nuts have landed. His eye is caught by the falling nut debris landing on a black book next to his stool. It was a nice-looking book, too expensive to have been just thrown away. He reaches for the book, and shakes the nuts from its cover.

The cracking of the spine once opened told Jeremy it was new - that, and also the fact that the pages were empty.

Except one. On this page there are rows and columns with 2 names, 2 addresses and 2 sums of money.

Someone is collecting, and they are collecting big, twenty grand at one address, thirty at the next. That someone could be him, that someone should be him. Dillon & Murphy don't know what they are missing.

He checks his watch. It's 10:25am and it's time to make some money.

"Where the fuck is it?"

Both coats are back at the bar searching high and low for the book.

"The Bartender said he hadn't seen anything".

"He could be lying".

They bark back and forth at each other.

"Do you remember the Addresses?" The gold ring runs through his greased hair as he thinks.

"Well?!" The older coat shouts.

"Yeah.... Yeah... um... Matt Grimm, 8/16 Beauford road, 20 g's".

The older coat makes a b-line for the door. "You better be right".

Matt Grimm, 8/16 Beauford Road, $20,000.

This container office at the docks seemed to be where Jeremy's salvation lay. It wasn't somewhere you would wanna be for long. It seemed so isolated from the bustling city or even any sign of life. That could work in Jeremy's favour though.

He contemplated how this would go, would he have to get physical? He didn't like that idea, he wasn't the best fighter. Would he pretend to be the strong silent type? He couldn't do that because to get the money he would have to say something. What if the people had already picked up the money? Maybe he should be as vague as possible so he can use deniability as an escape from the situation.

Three short exhales right before Jeremy is walking through the door. A bare room, an old wooden desk, a pin up board, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and a worn gangly man sitting behind the desk. His head shoots up at Jeremy's entrance.

"Can I help you?" he asks, with a look of confusion on his face.

Jeremy doesn't answer as he is still shocked by the bareness of the room.

"I said can I help you?"

Jeremy clears his throat as he prepares to deepen his voice.

"I have a book here". Jeremy pulls the book from his jacket pocket revealing it to the gangly man.

"In this book, there is a name. Next to the name, there is an address, and next to the address, there is an amount of money. Do you know whose name and address they might be?"

The gangly man's face drops. He reaches for the desk drawer slowly, pulls a thick unmarked envelope out, and throws it on the desk. Matt Grimm, 8/16 Beauford road, $20,000. Jeremy is stunned - this is working! He can't let his face express what he is feeling. It can't be this easy. The gangly man leans back and turns in his swivel chair to stare at the wall.

"Tell Tony I'll have more next month".

Jeremy steps forward slowly and grabs the bulging envelope. Not wanting to mess this up he decides it's best not to say anything but to quickly get out of here and get to the next address. He takes large strides to the door and closes it in a commanding manner, exhaling as the adrenaline and angst leave his body. He looks around, searching for anybody that might stop him, then runs from the container office leaving the docks behind.

The cloth can't quite reach into every crevasse to remove the blood.

"He said the guy told him he had a book with his name, address and amount of money, so he paid him thinking he was collecting". The coat tries to clean his gold ring with his handkerchief as he speaks.

The older coat burns his cigarette down to his fingers as he leans against the container office.

"I told him we would be back next week for the full amount or he would be getting more imprints from my ring".

The older coat still smoking what is clearly the filter by now just shakes his head and utters under his breath "you better know the next address".

'Maybe I don't need to go back to her', Jeremy thought. 'Maybe I can leave, start a new life. $20,000 is more than enough to start anew. Never have to listen to her complain again.' "Jeremy do this, Jeremy do that", forget that. Life is starting to look brighter as his thumb flicks over those bank notes. I could buy a car, I could have a 5-star dinner, I could go to the casino and throw it all on red.'

The more he stared at the money, the less he thought of his wife, his old job, his old life. This was a new beginning and there is nothing that could stop him.

Still, there was one more stop...

Cam Brant, 26/21 Axle Court, $30,000.

Jeremy stuffed the envelope in his back pocket as he crossed the road. Reaching the door of an apartment building, his finger scans the directory till he finds apartment 26, Cam Brant. He presses the buzzer which cuts through the sound of his surroundings.

"Hello?" the speaker cracks

Jeremy clears his throat.

"I have a book here, and in this book, there is a name. Next to the name, there is an address, and next to the address, there is an amount of money. Do you know whose name and address they might be?"

"C'mon up", the speakers cracks.

'This is getting easier', Jeremy thought as he started to climb the stairs. 'Much easier than the years at Dillon & Murphy. More fun to be honest too'.

The adrenaline rush was almost enough to do it without the payout. If there were more addresses in the book he probably would do it again and again.

He reaches the floor he needs and starts counting the apartment doors till he finds the one he needs " 23, 24 ,25, ahh 26".

He reaches for the door handle, exhales in three short bursts, then turns the handle, steps into and closes the door all in one smooth move.

He turns to reveal the room. It's dark. Not dark dark, but not well lit. Everything is covered in plastic sheeting like someone has been painting and didn't want their carpet and furniture ruined. There are 2 men standing in the middle of the room. An older man with a receding hairline, and a man with greased back hair. Both men wearing dark trench coats. The man with the greased hair steps forward as he fondles his gold ring and says, "so about this book?"