Black Book, Bad Penny

Water pooled unevenly amongst the patched and scabby tarmac of the single track lane, treacherous in the darkness under tall trees. Big houses sat well back from the road, behind high hedges and expensive gates. A security light pinged into wakefulness as Jack picked his way between the potholes, sour yellow of halogen ruining his night vision. He tilted the peak of his cap against the glare and shrugged his jacket tighter, trying not to look like a prowler, kept half an ear tuned for the shush of approaching tyres – be easy to get mown down by some Chelsea tractor on an unlit stretch like this. Behind, the light went out. He trudged, picking up his feet in the fresh dark.

Ahead, down by the towpath, the night seemed paler, starlight reflecting off the river’s cold skin. The river looked placid at first glance, but it was high on its banks, running quick with meltwater from the recent thaw. You wouldn’t want to go in, not on a night like this.

His foot struck something heavyish that skittered away from him and came to rest a few feet away, half-sunk in a puddle. A smooth black oblong, perhaps a wallet, or an iPhone in one of those leather cases. He bent to pick it up, misjudged his footing, slid on the crumbling surface and stuck his toe in the puddle. A book, he saw, as cold gritty water seeped through the thin nylon of his trainer, drenching his sock, better be a good one.

The houses were smaller at this end, older, front gardens running down to the road. The spot where the book had lain was opposite a low wooden gate that had once been white, set into a crusty brick wall that had once been straight. Funny, he had walked this way dozens of times on his night time strolls and never spotted it, probably too busy watching his step. The house beyond the gate was half hidden by an enormous mulberry bush that sprouted from the centre of the lawn, but he could see veranda lights and the cosy silhouette of a window. He checked the time on his mobile – half nine – a bit late to knock on a stranger’s door, but maybe they’d be happy to see the book and forgive him. Jack pushed the gate open, his one soggy trainer slapping on the stepping stone path that meandered across the uneven lawn. The sagging wooden house had a whiff of gingerbread about it, and something about its long, pillared veranda and high gables made him think of an old-fashioned sailing ship. He pulled on the bell, heard it jangle somewhere within, heard a radio he hadn’t noticed playing go silent, footsteps, the rattle of a safety chain. A red rimmed eye set in very pale skin appeared in the crack, and a voice – not yet elderly, but heading that way – floated out.

“Hello?”

“Hi, er, I-”

“It’s late,” the voice was sharp now, “what do you want?”

“Sorry to disturb you. It’s just – I found this book in the road, I though it might belong to you…”

He held the book out like a peace offering. The eye looked down at it, widened. The door snapped shut. For a moment he thought that was that, but the chain rattled again, and the door flew open to reveal a tiny, harassed-looking woman with chalk-white skin and ash blonde hair streaked with grey. Raw, hot rage was in her voice, and she punctuated her words by jabbing at his chest with an umbrella she grabbed from beside the door.

“You poke! take poke! that poke! thing poke! away poke! from poke! here poke!”

He stepped hurriedly backwards, dodging the umbrella’s hard point. Just as he reached the veranda steps, a young man came around the side of the house with an armful of firewood, tall and massive, but round-shouldered, as if apologising for his size.

“Mum?” the young man spoke gently, his voice was deep even for his size, “what’s going on?” His mother stopped poking, gripped the umbrella, breathing heavily.

Jack turned to him, grateful for the interruption, “I – I found this book in the road, I was just trying to return it” the young man saw the book, stopped, his jaw fell open then clicked shut. His mouth became a flat line.

“You’d better go.”

The woman watched from the doorway as the young man walked him back to the once-white gate, his apologetic bulk lingering a pace or two behind. He wasn’t throwing Jack out, he was seeing him out, but he was making sure he left, all the same.

“Sorry about mum,” he said, closing the gate between him and jack with a soft click, “she’s had a hard time lately. I don’t think she ever thought she’d see that again.” He inclined his head towards the book, a complex expression passed over his face, several emotions vying for the upper hand.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Jack, rubbing theatrically at the sore spot where the umbrella had bounced off his solar plexus, “what’s the deal?”

The young man shook his head sadly. He stood silent for a moment, then took a deep, sighing breath.

“My dad had that book,” he began, “found it one morning, lying in the road” the young man gestured to near enough the exact spot on the ground where Jack had found the thing. Jack stared at the spot, the young man went on. “It wasn’t any of ours, so dad had a look to see if anyone had written their name in it, then he sat down at the kitchen table and started reading, and that was that, really.”

“What was what?” Jack knew he shouldn’t pry, but it wasn’t every day he got savaged by umbrella-wielding old ladies, and he felt entitled to an explanation.

The young man sighed again, “Dad loved puzzles. Crosswords, riddles, lateral thinking, logic problems, he was mad for it all, except sudoku. He thought the book was some kind of puzzle, said there were clues inside that led to some kind of mega prize – twenty grand, he said. I don’t know if it said so, or if that was all part of the puzzle – he never showed it to anyone, wouldn’t even let us talk about it outside the house, although sometimes he’d read out bits for us to have a go at, like he used to with the Christmas crossword – it all sounded like nonsense to me, but then I was never any good at the cryptic.

“Mum wasn’t impressed, said it was bad enough he spent the whole of Christmas staring at the back page of the Observer without having his nose stuck in some stranger’s stupid notebook the rest of the year. Dad wasn’t having any of it, he’d sit there at the kitchen table, or by the fire, muttering and scribbling little notes on the backs of envelopes – Who is the Magpie? Where did the river run green? Gobbledegook stuff.

“One night, she threw it in the bin while he was asleep in his armchair, never said a word when he woke up and started pulling the place apart like an angry bear, but the bin men must have dropped it or something, because when Dad got back with the milk and papers next morning, he was all smiles. Look what I found on the road outside, he said, must’ve fell out of my pocket.

“Mum pretended to be pleased for him, but I could tell she was furious. Next chance she got, she threw it in the river. It was late evening, and I happened to be looking out of my bedroom window, I saw her run down the garden, out on to the towpath, and fling it as far and hard as she could. It went right out to the middle – splash!

“Next morning, in saunters Dad with the Guardian under his arm. Must take better care of this thing… he drops it on the kitchen table, dry as a bone, although some of the pages had gone a bit curly round the edges, like when you get a library book that someone’s dropped in the bath. He did get more careful after that, whenever he wasn’t reading the thing, he kept it in his top shirt pocket, and he was always patting it just to make sure it hadn’t gone anywhere.

“One night, about four in the morning, mum wakes up alone in the bed and comes downstairs looking for my dad. She finds him fast asleep at the kitchen table, with his cheek resting on the book, and I woke up to the sound of her scolding him up the stairs. I went downstairs for some water a bit later and found her kneeling in front of the fireplace, watching something burn. I don’t think she knew I was there, she never looked up.

“I was up early the next day for football practice. I met the postman coming up the path and he gives me some letters, then he goes oh, found this outside your gate. It absolutely reeked of smoke, I wasn’t keen to get involved, so I left it on the table with the post and got out of there.

The young man paused for a moment, leaned on the gatepost and drew in a long, shuddering breath. His mother watched from the veranda. A gust of wind rattled the treetops in sympathy.

“When I got back, there was no sign of Dad. Mum was sat at the table just staring into space. She’d come down and found the book, and she went mental, threw it at my Dad’s head and told him to get it out of the house, she never wanted to see it again, and if he loved that book so much, he could go with it.

“Dad said that was fine, because he’d cracked it anyway, he knew where the twenty grand was now, and once he’d got it, he wouldn’t need the book any more. So he picks it up, and he’s off out the door.

“That was seven years ago,” he glanced over his shoulder at his mother, who spat into the flower bed and turned to go inside, closing the door with a snap. The young man lowered his voice anyway.

“Mum got a call last week from Oxfordshire police, could she come and identify a body they’d fished out of the river. They found him in a reed bed near Wallingford, but they said he could have gone in as far up as Lechlade and washed downriver. Either way, he’d been in the water a long time, and there wasn’t much to go on, but she recognised the shirt he’d been wearing when he left…”

“Fuck…” Jack blew out his cheeks, stared at the little black book, the night seemed chillier now.

“Yep,” agreed the young man. He stood silent for a long moment, then heaved another great sigh, “so, er… sorry about the umbrella.”

“Won’t the police want to see this?” Jack proffered the book, but the young man raised his hands and backed away, shaking his head.

“He’s not coming back. I reckon it’s your book now.” He turned and lumbered back across the lawn, disappearing around the side of the house from where he had come. A few moments later, the veranda lights clicked off. Jack stood in the dark, listening to the river, feeling the book’s smooth leather, the frayed elastic strap. He lifted it to his face and sniffed deeply – smoke, river water and… something foul.

Twenty grand…

The wind chattered through the treetops again. Jack looked up at the sky, full of racing clouds, tucked the book in his inside pocket, safe and dry, gave the pocket a little pat, as if to reassure himself it was still there, and set off along the towpath, his one wet trainer slapping on the stones.