Promise

The gentleman gave off an unnatural feeling. He stood a little too close, his clothes were slightly too big for his frame and his glasses were strange in their proportions. The lenses only just bigger than the eyes, the wiring rigid and straight, bent in the centre to help perch on his small ratty nose.

Just as Cain had crossed through the threshold of his home and dropped the shopping bags the quickfire knocks at the door had come.

There the man had been. Standing an inch or two, maybe less, from the frame. Cain felt a jolt through their body at this slight shift in social etiquette, even if it hadn’t altered their physical appearance. At least it seemed that was the case from the lack of any reaction.

A placid face eyed Cain as if he should be the one to start the interaction.

“Hello.”

The man made a noise somewhere between a cough and a murmur turning attention to their pockets. A mostly balding head, except for a full circle of hair at the top of the cranium, leading Cain to believe it was a hairstyle choice rather than natural. He had one of those unplaceable faces, could have been 20 or maybe even 40, a sort of youthfulness crossed with creases and waring. In the way you can tell a dog is old just by a moment's glance.

Using only an index finger and thumb he pulled a thick large brown envelope from the faux leather trench coat. Severe creasing showed it had been crammed inside the much smaller pocket space hastily.

“Today you brought a small black book from a stationery shop. I am here to procure that from you,” he said, accent unplaceable. Maybe not grasping the full implications of the comment, Cain managed to keep a calm head and mentally lined up necessary questions.

“Have you been following me?” They asked.

“In a way. But not how you think,” the man was most likely going for jovial but missed the mark by a few miles.

“Why?” Cain pressed. Leather squeaked in protest against a full involuntary body shuffle from the man, he sucked his lips in before pushing them into a pout.

“I went to that specific shop today with the intent of buying that specific black notebook for a very important reason. However, I got my timings off by a few seconds and was stopped from crossing at a set of traffic lights. Therefore I arrived late and you were already leaving the shop with the book I need.” He certainly believed that this was all completely ordinary and this was a good excuse for following a person, which meant Cain carried on with a better tone. Either this guy was a criminal or maybe needed help, neither would benefit from an aggressive tone.

“There were plenty of books in stock, plenty of this kind as well,” Cain ventured.

“I don’t want any book, I wanted that one, I need that one,” unfortunately the expected reply. He brought the envelope up, holding it as if it were dirty or diseased, offering it to them. Taking the envelope with a resigned huff of air Cain searched for an opening. Relinquishing hold of the item sent another seemingly involuntary shudder through the man’s body. Teasing open the flap they looked inside at the excessive amounts of $100 bills, loose as if they were used tissues or something equally unimportant.

“How much is this?” Cain asked, stumbling and pausing through the simple question.

“$20,000,” the man said as if it were a hand full of change. “I suppose it will be an adequate amount for the book?”

In an instant, Cain had lost any sort of composure or general politeness.

“What is this? Who even are you?” Their voice pitched up and exasperated.

“Payment for the book,” the man’s tone hadn’t changed in response. With the sudden surge of annoyance, Cain turned back into his house and rifled through the shopping bags. No care for contents, throwing them across the ground to find the item so sort after. Gripping the corner with an exaggerated intensity they approached the door like a rolling storm. Holding the book as if they were a manic preacher.

“This book? This normal book you can get anywhere else? Online, from the sodding shop you followed me from? Why this book?!” Their raised voice carried on the wind, not caring if the neighbours heard. Through the transparent discs of his focused specs, the man ogled the book, face filled with wonder, eyes following as it moved in Cain’s hand.

“It’s strange how time works,” he said. “It was always thought the appearance of the book was through excessive years of usage…”

Thoughts flooded their head. Was this some kind of elaborate new prank show? Because it wasn’t funny. $20,000 for a mass-produced empty notebook? Where did he even get $20,000? The situation felt wrong. Illegal. A dull pain started to throb at the back of their head.

“Give me a straight answer, or you don’t get the book and I call the police!”

The man reacted to this. More a show of curt annoyance than fear or worry. As if Cain were a child who was being incredibly unreasonable.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the idea that a young sports star is more expensive and sort after than one nearing the end of their career. Or the fact it’s better to invest in an up and coming musician who you can bend and mould to your want than an old one on their way out. The idea of promise, potential to become something bigger and better than something already established. That’s what that book is.”

His words were like a dangling string. Deliberately hung before Cain, just to ask another question, to push a little bit more. He raised his head in impertinence to add a period onto the sentence as if he wouldn’t tell more without prompt.

That dull ache began to blossom and spread, roots taking hold.

“You’re saying, that because this notebook is empty it has the potential to be anything? But that’s the same with any book? Why this one?” Cain asked. For the first time, the man was truly emoting.

He was smiling, gleefully.

“Oh, the price of a question,” he’d taken the envelope back and stuffed it into his pocket, manner had shifted completely. The almost alien in a human suit persona melted away and in its place stood a man who you may find at a family cookout. Smiling, shoulders relaxed, as if he would tell a risque joke at any moment. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes?” Cain replied sceptically.

“Collectors are interesting characters. You say there is a rare thing or a variation of an item they like and they will chomp at the bit until they have it. They will throw money at it because it’s one of a kind, a sort of show of power and prosperity,” he was prowling with his words whilst standing still. Circling Cain. The pain behind their eyes monotonous. “Now there will come a point where the lust, the hunger for these items becomes larger. An item to match the lofty status some perceive themselves to have. But now, in time to come, there will be ways to get those items they desire. Coins from a currency where a failed regime succeeded in their want to rule, a painting by an artist who died as a child, a taxidermied animal that evolution forgot and an empty black book before it was filled with history-changing information.”

In one nonchalant movement, the man pulled something from his pocket and discharged it before Cain could even see what it was. By the time their body hit the ground, they realised it must have been a weapon. It wasn’t pain. Nothing hurt but Cain felt the deep notion of loss. The man came into view, kneeling beside them, holding the black notebook.

“W-w-w” Cain tried to form a word. Stuck, choking on each letter, as if drowning in the very air.

“I’ll take that as either a Why, What, Where or When. Let me help you. This book here one day will contain the writings that will help a person traverse history like a forest path. Maybe one of the most important series of manic writing in history and while yes, maybe the book with the original workings would also be sort after. But any quick search could find you the contents. No, what people want is the book before it was written in. Still sparkling with the potential to shatter history. Taking this of course will make a few more alternate eventualities but… well the science would bore you.” As he explained sounds began to gradually get louder in Cain’s ears. If they concentrated for even a moment they would have heard the great tidal wave of the years they’d lived and those they were meant to. “Of course moving through the bounds of history have some rules. For example, if the information is forced from one, not in their own time, removal of the organism with forbidden information is permitted. And well… you were very persuasive. Raising your voice, waving the book with violent intent, my life was at risk if I didn’t!”

He rose to full height. Cain couldn’t feel their body, their vision was fading to darkness and a large hole grew outward from inside their consciousness.

“You should have taken the money,” he sighed. “You’re just a cog in a game of status across the years. I’ve stopped apologising because my conscious doesn’t need it and it’s no good for you now.”

The imprint on history known as Cain was scrubbed clean, the last known information still connected to their name came in the form of the last sentence of a conversation. A bookend.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” it is noted.