THE GAME

Counting out her antipsychotics in delicate rows of six across the lacquered rosewood desk hidden deep within the town’s only book shop, the young woman confirmed she had taken two of the heart-shaped tablets earlier this morning. She wasn’t hallucinating. Her gaze slowly panned back to the petite black leather-bound book on her right beside her new bamboo reusable coffee cup. She had found it tightly wedged between Neil Gaiman and Benjamin Alire Sáenz while browsing the stacks; so thin she hadn’t seen it at first glance. Her secret administrator had taste.

She had thought it odd someone had slid what appeared to be their diary so thoughtlessly into a public space. Not that she’d seen another soul besides the owner Mr. Picklebutter to grace the shop with their presence since her move to Mullumbimby two months ago. Of course, there was every intention of returning it until she’d caught a glimpse of the contents inside. She had expected at least a dozen of the textured pages to be littered in scrawled inky black handwriting. However, upon closer inspection back at her desk, she’d uncovered the book’s purpose. It was a game. One-hundred-dollar bills had been gently taped to each page with the instructions printed neatly in two lines tucked inside the battered cover across the very bottom.

Three other books are hiding within the walls of the shop. Behind each of the notes in this one, are clues to find them. Or you can take this five thousand and choose not to play…

So there she sat, eyes locked on what she considered her serendipitous discovery. Above her, the clock ticked down monotonously, challenging her wavering consciousness between itching to play and the spiralling thought of leaving the shop twenty thousand dollars richer. She didn’t need the clues, she reasoned as she cleared her mind and stood up to tiptoe across the patchy rotting carpet to the leaning bookshelf in the farthest back right-hand corner. She would start here and scour the shelves until she’d found them all and then, and only then, would she allow her mind to vortex into a whirlwind of ideas. She placed a finger softly against the rigid spine of the first book and began gliding across at a glacial pace.

She hadn’t participated in a treasure hunt since Easter when she was seven and had caught her parents fighting in the early morning over where to stash the eggs. A small dimple appeared in her right cheek as a soft smile pulled up the corner of her lips in response to the memory. Puzzles had always enamoured her as a child. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed being thrust into the void of the unknown with a tightrope leading her towards the promise of reward.

However, after she had perused every square inch of the rickety shelves twice, and picked out a couple of straggling favourites she hadn’t seen before, she was still only in possession of the one tiny black notebook. Her shoulders slumped slightly forward as her exhaling breath left her feeling deflated. She could hear the game master laughing at her feeble attempt to disregard the rules.

Shuffling back to her seat, she pulled her earlier find conspicuously onto her lap and began lifting up the first note gently so the tape wouldn’t tear the page. Once free from its bound form, she slid the note to the other side and her fingers came up to trace the words that had revealed themselves.

Please note, this is a quest of creativity and skill. Searching the stacks will not help you.

The young woman huffed so brazenly, her fluffy ginger fringe danced upwards before floating back down to rest against her forehead. She would not allow her intelligence to be mocked so shamelessly, not to mention second-hand through a notebook. Flipping the next page with a bit more aggression than she had intended, she moved to the second clue which was much more accommodating.

She found the second little black book roughly three hours and fifteen clues later. It had quite literally been ‘within the walls of the shop’. The clues had illustrated a mind map that lead to a dusty collection of Britannica encyclopedias that had been statistically placed to mask the gaping crack through the plaster behind. It was sized so perfectly for the second book, she couldn’t help but wonder if the creator had notched it in just to hide it.

Overcome with success and a detective complex that had possessed her mind at some point along the way, the third book had been much easier to find, but also harder to retrieve. It had been taped underneath Mr. Picklebutter’s chair behind the front register. The forty minutes she’d spent waiting for him to leave his faded floral spinning chair to go to the bathroom, had felt like mere seconds as she waited patiently like a wild tigress monitoring its prey. As soon as he’d walked behind a curtain off to the side, she pounced, wincing slightly at the ripping sound of the Scotch tape against plastic. Only once the book had been safely secured and she was halfway back to what had become her home base did she allow herself to breathe.

It was at the final hurdle that she began to feel the glowing embers of frustration. The clues to the final target were seemingly random book titles with no interwoven connection of author, subject matter, or aesthetic. The blended orange and pinks of the sunset shining through the front windowpanes of the shop did nothing but stoke the fire of her irritation as a raw guttural growl ripped through her throat. She hadn’t meant for it to ricochet around the silent ambiance of the store but there she was, staring awkwardly into the eyes of Mr. Picklebutter himself. Clearing his throat, he straightened his glasses and ducked back behind the book he’d been reading as if he’d been the one caught red-handed. Come to think of it, besides the occasional judgemental stare, he’d never once asked why she’d been there all day looking for something without requesting his assistance.

Squinting at the book in his hands, she could just make out the title: A Kind of Freedom by Margaret Wilkerson Sexton. Clue number forty-five. Her eyes scanned the other books scattered across his desk eagerly as more and more of the clues that had stumped her for hours came to light. All the straggling pieces of the puzzle clicked into place neatly and suddenly she was on her feet pointing an accusing outstretched finger towards him.

“You’ve got it!” she cried out in triumph, springing out of her seat to perform an instinctive victory dance, that moved her closer to the bemused shop owner. His laughter was infectious and as he smiled, and his eyes crinkled into crescent moons, the years fell away from his face.

“You know,” he wheezed, “you’re the only one who has found my game in nine months? You’re lucky nobody dared to move the books on my desk.”

“Do you always hide wads of cash around in black moleskins?” she heard herself ask cheekily. For a split second in time, young Annie Young could feel every fibre of her soul pulsing with being alive as her body mirrored his and shook with mirth. Reality hit her hard. Coming face to face with her game master, guilt began gnawing at her heartstrings as she flashed him what she hoped to be a genuine smile before swivelling in her suede ankle boots to return to her desk and collect her treasures.

“I can’t take your money, Mr. Picklebutter,” she spoke softly, laying them out before him. “I did enjoy the game though. I haven’t had this much fun in-”

“You’re taking the money,” he interrupted sternly. “You won fair and square. Why wouldn’t you want your prize?” It was a fair question. Anxiety penetrated each of the delicately folded walls within her brain. When you’re raised on nothing, you fear having anything, she thought to herself quietly. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she replied simply.

The older man made his way out from behind the desk to lean against the front with his arms crossed and she couldn’t help but shrink back, a little intimidated.

“You know,” he spoke tenderly, “my father taught me about money. How to make it. How to save it. How to give it...I watched him make the rest of my family jump through hoops to fight for pennies.” He bit his lip for a moment to collect himself before continuing on, as tears welled up in each corner of his eyes. “When he died last year and I inherited it all, I tried to help them, but he’d burned so many bridges they didn’t want any part of it. So I bought the shop and vowed to share my wealth with those I met along the way for the rest of my life. So tell me, kid, what are you going to spend the full twenty on?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and pulling the final book from the inside pocket of his brown leather coat before placing it down beside the others.