Dutch Courage

A copy of 1984 flies past my head. It's closely followed by several Harry Potter novels, a collection of Plath poems, a chunky Italian cookbook and something about not giving a f@ck.

The attack stops. I look up. Emily is across the room from me. She is fuchsia, furious, and focused. For all that self-help stuff she reads, she certainly looks like she gives a f@ck right now. She is always trying to hand me one of her personal development books (or ‘woke lady books’ as I call them). Some chick Ben Brown and that, er - Glennis Doily? I don’t know, I’m not a reader. And what do I have in common with some short blonde women with bob haircuts anyway? I’d much rather shoot some computer-generated soldiers and trash talk fourteen-year-olds.

Concentrate. Should I say something? Or should I prepare for another barrage of airborne novellas? Before she can reload, I stammer out quickly, “I just want to say that…”

SMACK!

Eat, Pray, Love hits me square in the nose. Instantly, salty water begins to form at the corners of my tear ducts. A few droplets manage to break the seal and stream down along my cheekbones (which are luckily still intact). I raise my hands to my face in pain, clutching at my nose, gripping my nostrils together. Although my vision is blurred with shock, I can feel droplets of warm blood leaking onto my fingertips. All I wanted was to come home and have a nice cold beer after work and not get assaulted by Austen.

SMACK!

One last book hits me in the stomach. “Screw you!” Emily yells defiantly as she turns and stomps into our bedroom. She slams the door behind her as I collapse into a pile of paperbacks too sore and guilty to put up any further attempts to fight or reconcile. I might just lay here on this small literary mountain forever.

The ceiling fan above me is spinning around and around and around. I wonder if its blades affected the air pressure within the room and therefore allowed that book to hit me in the face. What if the fan was spinning in the other direction? Would I be uninjured right now? What if the Earth’s axis was tilted ever so slightly today and today only, which thereby altered the flight path of Eat, Pray, Love straight into my nose? Maybe that does exist in an alternate timeline like in Rick and Morty. Then again, does any of that even matter right now? I just want my cold beer. I could get up and go to the fridge right now and get one. But, if Emily heard me crack a can, she will be out here yelling again quicker than you can say Triple Hopped IPA. And she will be as bitter as one too.

I grunt in pain as I awkwardly stand up. I survey the room. Shrapnel is all around. Looks like I better start cleaning up the debris or I’ll have another mark against my name on the naughty list.

I stack some more woke lady books, a roopi koor (?) tome and a small black notebook onto the coffee table. The floorboards creak within the bedroom. I freeze. The sound continues but fades away into the ensuite.

A scratch on the black notebook catches the light and glimmers at me enticingly. I’ve never seen this notebook before. How strange. I wonder what it was doing hiding with all the other books on the shelf. I reach down and seize it to examine.

The notebook is the same size as a small softcover novel, but it is thick like those war novels my grandfather used to read. The outside cover is hard, yet soft. I don’t think the cover is made from real leather; it must be some type of synthetic material. The scratch on the front reaches almost from side to side, as though it has been hurriedly tossed into a bag and caught upon some car keys inside.

I try to tease the front page open with my thumb, but the cover wont budge. The pages are all stuck together. I run my thumb across its surface again, feeling the smooth edges of the internal pages, trying to work them apart. Nothing. I give the cover a firm yank. It tears open.

Crap! Now I’ve broken one of Emily’s books. My name will never be off the naughty list by Christmas.

But, as my eyesight catches up to my brain, my initial fears wear off. I realise that I have accidentally stumbled upon something more sinister.

The inside of the book is hollow.

Tucked neatly inside is a fat roll of candy coloured Euros accompanied by another large roll of crisp British pounds. Each wad must contain at least ten grand. The cash is perched upon something black. Another notebook? A notebook within a notebook? A notebook babushka? Nope. It’s a European Union passport. And a Russian passport. And a United Kingdom passport.

I flick open the UK passport. My face is staring back up at me. What in the Queen of England?

I quickly investigate the other two passports; they both contain the same awful photograph. It is a picture of me, but I do not remember having it taken, it doesn’t even match the photo on my actual passport or even my driver’s licence.

I stumble into the kitchen in disbelief. I don’t care what happens next now. I am opening that can of beer.