Invasion

I don't like the term 'Home Invasion' - I'm not invading your home. I'm challenging the paradigm, questioning your proposed authority and seeing if you've got what it takes to hang on to this or that. I've read that nothing is ever created or destroyed, that it just changes state. Or hands. Ownership is only ever finite and arbitrary.

Either that or I just like to take expensive things and exchange them for goods or services.

Circle of life. Food chain. Evolution. Whatever.

So I stand outside the house having scope and assessed, pried and poked, checked and double-checked everything that shouldn't be left to chance. The rest would be skill and luck had both been on my side so far. No arrests, some warnings, a number of suspicious side-glances but nothing to tarnish my standing as a valuable member of society. I pay the taxes I'm owed, pick up litter that isn't mine and always, always generously tip. There are a lot hander ways to earn a living than what I do, and those people deserve a leg-up no matter how small.

In fact, it was in my local cafe-slash-bookstore that I heard about this opportunity since I was on good such terms with the barista-slash-cashier. We always liked finding out about rare, weird and forgotten things so this day I was talking about Leonardo's science diary.

"They call it the Codex Leicester and it sold for over thirty million. Can you imagine?"

"Whoa, that's amazing. Imagine what's inside it - like, seeing what he was thinking about. Or on the edge on new ideas beyond his time."

"Even better, imagine what you could do with that kind of money."

She points to a man sitting at a table not far away.

"See that guy? He's got a little black book worth twenty thousand."

He didn't look like much, plainly dressed and talking animatedly with his companion - not the often calm, detached air of someone with real money. Of course this could be a job so my interest was piqued.

"How do you know?"

"He comes in fairly often, always with a different companion and usually only for an hour or so. I've overheard him mention this book and how much it's worth five or six times. He's not trying to hide it.”

"Why's he talking about it?"

"Wouldn't you? Maybe he's just bragging, you know how rich people are. Or trying to sell it? Dunno. But the takeaway here is it's $20K, for one book."

"First edition or something?"

"No idea."

I diverted the subject but kept the man in sight so that as he moved to say his goodbyes, I did the same and followed him out. He didn't have much with him, no tell-tale lump of car keys in his pocket and shoes with a worn instep so I hoped he was local and up for a walk. I could always stake out the bookshop if I lost him, but luck was again with me and it was a clear shot to his house.

Good area. Probably protected with some sort of security. Solid hedge coverage from the street. Distant neighbours. High walls. Single car in the driveway. He seemed old enough to be irritated by using technology, but not old enough to be living in fear of the outside world and taking every precaution. A week of watching his comings and goings should do it. I wasn't in any rush and this would be a decent reward.

The stakeout part was always enjoyable. I would get inside their routines, effectively living life as they do. Grabbing the paper from the front lawn in the early hours, eating a hard-boiled egg out of a cup, doing some gardening in the late morning, popping down the street for my early afternoon coffee. Their sense of routine and peace would become my own and I would be living their simple life for a time. It was the closest I'd ever got to the tranquillity some people much feel for most of their lives but always the itch would start. Softly at first, then growing and taking over until I knew I had to make the move the next day, just after he went out for his usual afternoon coffee.

High-visibility workwear and a ladder can get you anywhere at any time and still generic enough to be indescribable. It affords caps, gloves and full-length clothing to hide any distinguishing marks. The uniform of yet another group of people who work far harder than I ever intend to. I rang the bell, then after a time went around the side and checked the electricity meter to look intentional and to see if anything was running that he might be back for soon.

There were no open windows but there was a key under a pot plant on the step. It's like hiding your keys at the beach in the toe of your shoe because it's well known that people with nefarious intent only check the heel and move on. The alarm was off so he'd likely not be gone long, but I didn't need much time. Precious things are usually clumped together, probably in his study near the back of the house.

I slid into the study and couldn't immediately see any displays that housed the book. Small and black wasn't a lot to go on, but it should be in a prized place. There was a safe in one of the cupboards, but I'm no safe-cracker. Might have to wait for another day, keep an eye on it. There's a chance of a combination in his desk so I opened a drawer and inside the first one there was a small, black book. Could I be that lucky?

I opened it up but it was just a journal. Some drawings, random notes, a shopping list, a clipping. Nothing of any value, so I kept looking. Nothing. No combinations, no notes-to-self, no secret buttons, no other books, nothing. I had to get something more to go on and, if I knew it was in the safe, I could get someone in. That’s when I saw his business card on the desk – “Greg Hunt – Life Coach”. Couldn’t hurt to give him a call, maybe set up a meeting, see if I can pry more info out of him

“Hello, Greg Hunt speaking.”

“Hi, Greg? Hi. I got given one of your cards from a friend at the pool who recommended you for Life Coaching. Is now a good time to talk?”

“Absolutely. I’m just out for a walk. Off to get a coffee, but I’ve always got time for a chat.”

“That’s great. Look, I’m interested in getting some direction to my life and I thought you could help. Can you tell me anything about your process?”

“I’d be happy to. Any particular area of life? Work, relationships, finances?”

“Finances, mainly. I’d like to make large amounts of money quickly.”

“Ha! Yes, you’re not alone in that endeavour. Well, I may be able to help there - I’ve got something called my $20,000 Black Book.”

Surely it couldn’t be this easy.

“Go on.”

“There’s a small, black book that I keep in my top desk drawer that’s worth twenty-thousand dollars.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I started looking for cameras, listening for police sirens. Nothing. I walked over to the desk to look at the book again while he was talking.

“Who owned it? Tutankhamun?”

“No, I bought it myself. It’s just a regular journal.”

I flicked through the pages but couldn’t see how it could possibly be worth that much. It was just…rubbish.

“So how could this possibly be worth that much?”

He missed my gaffe.

“It’s just somewhere to note down what I’m thinking about, what I’m interested in, random ideas, inspirations, that sort of thing. But I use it, constantly to hold a stream of consciousness.”

I rifled through some more, still no wiser.

“So what makes it so valuable? Anyone can do that.”

“One day, about half-way through that book I jotted down a fragment of an idea. It didn’t seem like much at the time beyond being ever so slightly note-worthy. Then a number of pages later I wrote a little more about it. Then later still a little more. You see, I’d planted a seed and it was starting to sprout. So many of them wouldn’t because it wasn’t the right place, or right time, or I couldn’t nurture them, or they just flat-out weren’t any good. But this one grew.”

“And what happened?”

“Long story short, I turned the idea into something valuable and sold it for two thousand dollars.”

I stood for a moment with the worthless book.

“Let me guess – then you did it ten more times?”

“No, I did it thirty more times. For various amounts – some more, some less. My point is that it came from nothing and nowhere. Or rather, it came from me. I’m worth all that and more.”

“So hard work and perseverance paid off?” The words grated as they squeezed out.

“In the end, yes but I was happy to do it because it all came from the small seeds I grew from that little black book. That book is a natural extension of me.”

“I don’t think you’re the right fit for me.” And I hung up.

It had been a complete waste of time. I thought about setting fire to the book, the study, the house but that wouldn’t have helped. I’d been duped, kind of. I got out of there to find some way to drown my sorrows.

Some time later I was back at the bookshop, sitting down with a beverage. My friend came over to be to strike up a conversation.

“Hey – have you heard of the Voynich manuscript?”

“Yeah, that’s the gibberish book that no-one’s ever deciphered?”

“That’s the one. Why do you think someone would go to all that trouble to write something no-one else could understand?”

“Probably just trying to plant a seed or two.”

I smiled and went back to writing in my brand new little black book.