The Flyleaf Killer Page 2

  ‘That’s strange!’ he exclaimed, a-flush with embarrassment. ‘I’m sure it was blank before—the front cover too,’ he endeavoured to explain. ‘Sorry, I just couldn’t have looked properly…’ Lamely, his voice tailed off.

  The bookseller rubbed claw-like hands and shaped his mouth into a tolerant smile—in reality a hideous grimace—and said, ingratiatingly, ‘A wise choice, a very special book. One with many titles and, therefore, everything to all men. Look again, boy,’ he commanded.

  Obediently, Robert looked down and was staggered to find both style and title changed:

  YOU CAN YOU MUST YOU WILL

  Pilo Sephten

  While Robert gaped in astonishment, the original title reappeared briefly before vanishing altogether, leaving both spine and cover completely blank.

  It would have been incredible, had not Robert witnessed it with his own eyes! Desire for the book became even more profound.

  Think, old son, he told himself. What should he do to gain his objective? He shifted his mind into top gear.

  A course of action became apparent in a flash. Well practised, he decided to play the sympathy card for all it was worth. Even if it didn’t help, it certainly would do no harm.

  He screwed his eyes to make them glisten, puckered his face in anguish and prevailed upon his lower lip to tremble, pathetically…There now, that should do it! Confident an entreating expression was firmly in place, Robert blinked back a tear and gazed at the bookseller. Taking a deep breath, he launched his campaign.

  ‘I’d like to buy the book, Mr Plowrite,’ he began. ‘Please, can you tell me how much it is?’ (Surely his carefully pitched, plaintive tones deserved something in the way of sympathy?) ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have much money,’ he added, hopefully.

  ‘Certainly, Robert, of course. Now let me see.’

  Henry Plowrite reached beneath the counter. Producing a clipboard, he rifled through typewritten sheets, stopped abruptly and ran a bony forefinger halfway down a page. Emitting a grunt of evident satisfaction, he looked up.

  ‘Ah, yes, here we are,’ the apparent bookseller said, with a calculating rub of his beak-like nose. ‘This rare and very special book can be yours for’—he paused—‘just sixty-six pounds and six pence. And very reasonable too for such a fine volume, as I’m sure you will agree,’ he declared, with an unmistakable air of finality.

  Robert’s heart sank. His dismay must surely be apparent for again his lower lip trembled—this time of its own accord. Realising his back was up against the wall he thought furiously. He had little chance of raising such a large amount, yet felt in his heart the book was worth more. He simply had to acquire this exciting treasure; nothing else seemed to matter. Robert’s mind raced, calculating assets at top speed.

  His newspaper round was worth eight pounds a week. A princely sum, were he not obliged to hand over six pounds towards his keep. An evening round would bring in more, but Father forbade it, saying it would interfere with homework and prevent him from carrying out chores. He was therefore left with two pounds. (A wage-earner no longer qualified for pocket-money.)

  ‘That’s an awful lot of money, Mister Plowrite,’ Robert eventually brought himself to say. ‘I’ve seven pounds saved. Will it do as a deposit? Can I have the book and pay the rest at two pounds a week? I really want the book and I promise to bring you the money every Friday.’

  Slowly, Henry Plowrite shook his head. He even contrived to seem regretful as he said, ‘I’m sorry, Robert, but the price is a cash price and must be paid in full. Company policy forbids giving credit and I regret there can be no exceptions.’

  He extended his hand for the book, but Robert tightened his grasp on the volume, unwilling to give up without a fight. In keeping with generations of youngsters, Robert was no stranger to materialistic aspirations—in his case, mostly frustrated, but no previous acquisitive yearning came within light-years of his desire to possess this wonderful, beautiful book.

  ‘Oh, please, Mister Plowrite,’ he begged, ‘I’ll do anything. What if I come and work for you after school every day? I’ll run errands, sweep up, clean windows—and I won’t expect any payment, either.’ And when the shopkeeper still seemed unmoved, the boy added, desperately: ‘I could come Saturday mornings after papers as well—and still give you two pounds a week.’

  It was his last shot, his final offer. With bated breath he waited, hoping the bookseller would accept. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Henry Plowrite appeared to waver. He knew his ‘customer’ extremely well, was perfectly aware the boy nurtured a violent dislike for the world in general and a deep, abiding hatred for the majority of his contemporaries.

  The boy possessed—even if unaware of it as yet, a deep-rooted capability for cruel, spiteful retaliation towards anyone who crossed his path or frustrated his ambition, together with an innate potential for depravity and evil, rare in anyone regardless of age or circumstances: highly desirable characteristics which had first attracted the attention of Pentophiles, who knew, given the right circumstances, the boy would do anything to further his own ends.

  But the being lurking behind the facade of ‘Henry Plowrite’ still had much to achieve. Gaining trust was an essential step towards the eventual fulfillment of his special ambition. Until the boy was irrevocably committed, the possibility of failure remained, especially should he sense danger and be warned off. The so-called bookseller selected his words with great care.

  ‘We-ll, Robert,’ he began slowly, ‘if you really are prepared to do anything—and because you are over the age of thirteen—there is just a possibility I may be able to help you.’

  Robert’s carefully constructed air of pathos disintegrated in an instant. He listened intently to Plowrite’s every word to make sure he didn’t miss a single nuance.

  ‘I do not require assistance but you might be able to possess the book without actually buying it. However, before I explain, you might find it helpful to open the book and read the dedication.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Robert cried eagerly, ‘of course I will. I said I’d do anything and I meant it!’ Excitedly, he put the book down and attempted to raise the cover…but the cover wouldn’t budge. Tugging simply lifted the volume up from the counter.

  Disappointed and angry, Robert threw caution to the winds, glared at Plowrite and yelled, ‘What’s the game then? The rotten pages must be stuck together. Your stupid book isn’t worth coppers. Shove it! I’m off home.’

  He slammed down the book and turned away.

  ‘Wait!’ The bookseller commanded. ‘You may not address me thus without forfeit. Atone immediately!’

  Inexplicably afraid, Robert’s anger abated as swiftly as it had arisen. ‘S-sorry, Mister Plowrite,’ he stuttered. ‘I d-didn’t mean to be rude. I thought something must be wrong with the book. W-what’s g-going on then? Why won’t the pages open?’

  Without speaking, the counterfeit bookseller reached to his neck, removed a small golden key suspended from a crimson ribbon and offered it to the boy.

  Puzzled, Robert deferred acceptance until, with a flash of intuition, he re-examined the book. Turned spine downwards it became clear the volume was fitted with a small clasp and lock.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t notice that before. You must think me stupid. I really am truly sorry, Mister Plowrite. I hope you won’t hold it against me…’

  ‘Of course not, my boy, I understand completely. Let that be an end to the matter.’ Although the shopkeeper spoke graciously, he didn’t sound in the least sincere. ‘Now mark me well, Robert William Strudwick,’ he continued. ‘Not only is this the key to the book, it may also be the key to your future. Only if well prepared should you take the key, open the book and read the dedication therein.’

  Robert didn’t hesitate. Having scant regard for the import of Henry Plowrite’s words, and with fingers fairly trembling with excitement, he eagerly accepted the proffered key.

  Carefully, he inserted it through a tiny escu
tcheon and into the lock, where a single half-turn rotated the tumblers and released the hasp, allowing the book to open. Lifting the front cover and turning to the title page revealed the dedication.

  Robert found it relatively easy to comprehend, despite the quaint script and archaic phraseology. He began to read aloud and before the end of the first line his recently deepened voice reverted to a shaky soprano squeak:

  This Book was writ for thee, Robert William Strudwick. Follow and obey as counselled, when great power and fortune shall be thine to command, as will the lives of all who cause mischief unto thee or mayhap wish thee ill.

  Robert’s voice tailed off. For me? He asked himself, wildly, how can it possibly be?

  Dumbfounded, he read the sentences again, word by word. But the message was unambiguous, incapable of misinterpretation…and the gleam of avarice in Robert’s eye betrayed his complete and absolute comprehension.

  These were critical moments, however, and Henry Plowrite’s dark, unblinking gaze never wavered. He watched the boy’s jaw drop and, with the advent of dawning realisation, a look of incredulity appear—until enlightenment swept it away the instant his intelligence caught up with his greed. Intelligent the boy most certainly was; his reaction was immediate.

  ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed in alarm. ‘What the spiff’s going on?’ His voice rose angrily. ‘How come my name’s already in the book? Is this some sort of trick? Are you a flipping conjuror?’ Without waiting he answered his own question: ‘No, that’s something you definitely are not.’ And, following his own line of reasoning, demanded, ‘So who the devil are you, Old Nick?’ His eyes widened at the thought. What if…? ‘Yes, that’s who you are,’ he declared. ‘And I reckon you’re after my bloody soul!’

  Robert had once read a book concerning contracts with the devil, when the pledge of a soul would secure for a mortal riches and fame beyond his wildest dreams. At the conclusion of the book, Robert remembered feeling envious and wondering whether he might one day receive such an offer, and perhaps thereby escape his own miserable existence. Whether averse to the idea or not, he had no intention of being cheated. Infuriated, thinking how close he might have come to losing his soul with nothing in return, he found himself almost shouting, despite Plowrite’s ominous warning—a warning Robert was destined never to forget.

  ‘Have care, Robert William Strudwick,’ Plowrite enjoined, with the barest hint of menace. ‘Calm yourself, lest you forget to whom you speak. I’m not “Old Nick” nor am I trying to steal your soul. Souls cannot be stolen and are never accepted unless offered willingly. Have you not guessed that I am Pentophiles, friend and mentor, the voice of your mind?’

  Hastily, Robert swallowed his anger, partly in response to the threat in Plowrite’s tone.

  A tingle from the Book reminded him of what might be at stake and he fell quiet, taking time to digest and analyse the situation and to assess the import of the shopkeeper’s words. What if this were true? It would explain why the bookseller’s voice sounded remarkably familiar. It would explain everything—might even be the opportunity he had secretly longed for. Still suspicious, unwilling blindly to concede, he decided to probe a little further.

  ‘If you really are Pentophiles, the voice of my mind, why are you pretending to be Henry Plowrite, a rotten shopkeeper?’ Robert demanded. ‘I’m not completely stupid, you know.’

  The bogus bookseller leaned on the counter and gazed deep into Robert’s eyes.

  It was a critical moment—vital to his aspirations to ensnare the best potential intermediary identified in centuries. He must convince this boy his suspicions were groundless; enlist and develop his latent talents. Displaying masterful control, the being moderated its voice, added a ring of sincerity and strove to be at its most persuasive.

  ‘You must believe I am but your guide and friend and am sent only to help unite you with the book, so that together you may fulfil your destiny, Robert William Strudwick. My true appearance is not of your world and although my regard for you is sincere, I fear you would find me a little frightening.’

  His words, strange as they were, coupled with that deep, soothing voice had an immediate effect. Robert became calm, pliant and receptive. From the deepest recesses of his mind, strange new knowledge became available for recall, gleaned through extensive hypnopaedia over time. This being was positively not the devil, out to seize his soul, nor a monster intent on trickery, but a confidante with his best interests at heart and his well-being in mind. He became relaxed, anxious to please his mentor—perhaps his one and only true friend. Robert accepted Pentophiles’ revelations without further question, committed henceforth to recognise the shopkeeper for what he claimed to be.

  Thanks to careful preparation over a long period of time, through frequent and regular discourse, generally whilst the boy was asleep, Pentophiles knew Robert’s proclivities well. He could readily determine, therefore, when his subject’s mind was at its most receptive.

  Pentophiles’ moment was come, and he hastened to press home his advantage. His resonant voice echoed and reverberated with absolute conviction.

  ‘All you have read in the dedication is true, with many wondrous events yet to unfold. Come now, Robert, this is your chance! Let me explain how the Book can be yours; grant you riches untold; rid you of enemies and brilliantly enlighten your future.’

  His penetrating stare lessened as he relinquished his influence on Robert’s mind. Cognisant of the probable outcome, he waited for his protégé to express himself in words. Patiently, oh, so patiently, Pentophiles watched in silence through Plowrite’s eyes—and waited. Robert conversed with his indoctrinated subconscious; reprised his unhappy years; considered those perceived as enemies, and discovered a deep-seated longing for revenge. The satisfaction of retribution; possessing the Book; ‘great power, untold riches’—irresistible. These considerations, combined with Pentophiles’ persuasive voice and dark, compelling eyes helped him decide—well, almost.

  Greed his dominant emotion, animal cunning and caution demanded the best terms possible before agreeing to anything. Maybe he could negotiate. That aside, one important question remained. Taking his courage in both hands, he plunged.

  ‘You said I might be able to have the Book without paying? That’s fantastic—but I’m still waiting for you to explain, especially if, as you say, you’re not trying to steal my soul. You said I’d have to pay the full amount—no exceptions, but turned down my seven pounds. You don’t want me to work in your shop or allow me to pay weekly, so what do I have to do, Mister Plowrite—rob a blinking bank?’

  Secure behind the facade of ‘Henry Plowrite’, Pentophiles was almost confident of victory. The eagerness of the boy, his avaricious demeanour and wry humour virtually clinched it. Plowrite smiled. Pentophiles was delighted! In fact, the smile was more of a grimace. Control of ‘Plowrite’s’ facial expression was never easy, harder still when at pains to ensure that no hint of elation or triumph should become evident in the voice. Continuing to select his words with care, the being from the netherworld set out to explain.

  ‘It really is quite simple, Robert. Because you qualify by virtue of intellect, love of books and are over the age of thirteen—a perfect combination of attributes—I am authorised to offer you a contract granting custodianship of the Book…’ He paused to raise an eyebrow and, when Robert nodded to confirm his interest, went on to elaborate.

  ‘To begin with I shall explain the terms of the contract. Whilst perfectly straightforward and unambiguous, you must understand they are inflexible and not subject to negotiation. There will be no coercion, no pressure and you may sign only of your own free will.’

  Maintaining the image of Plowrite required effort and Pentophiles took a moment to renew control of the illusion. He dared not allow the features to distort or the limbs to fade during these critical moments. Firm control re-established, the bogus bookseller continued.

  ‘The contract provides that for so long as you solemnly undertake to follow the
instructions from time to time made manifest within the Book, you will be invited to sign the contract. Having duly signed you will be granted immediate possession, entitling you to reap the benefits specified throughout the whole of your lifetime, without penalty, financial or otherwise.

  ‘The contract contains four clauses, however, and these, whilst uncomplicated and simple to comply with, are nevertheless extremely important. You will note that some collateral is required, perfectly normal in instances of no deposit. Having your interests always in mind, I can visualise no circumstances in which you would be likely to break the contract and be thus obliged to suffer the terrible consequences. To help you remember and fully understand, I propose to read the details aloud.’

  Robert nodded. Rapt, receptive, eager, acquiescent; every word and nuance registered. Spacing his words and phrases with precision, Pentophiles recited:

  Firstly: You must never allow the Book to pass from your possession unless and until a Transfer Contract be properly executed.

  Secondly: No person other than yourself may view any part of the contents whilst the Book is under your custodianship.

  Thirdly: The Book will reveal each new situation only when appropriate and shall always provide instructions for its resolution. You must swear to follow such instructions to the letter and never attempt to obtain information beyond that which is current.

  Finally: Your mortal soul shall remain your own property for as long as these clauses remain inviolate.

  Only should a clause be broken shall your life be forfeit and you solemnly declare that in that event the aforementioned soul shall belong to Mephistopheles.

  ‘As I told you at the outset it really is quite simple. Perhaps you would care to see for yourself?’

  Busily assimilating and assessing Plowrite’s words, Robert didn’t answer immediately. Once having weighed advantage versus penalty, however, he inclined his head knowingly.

  ‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘I had a feeling my soul would come into the equation somehow. But, as you rightly point out, I’m not stupid enough to renege or run unnecessary risks. What’s more, I get to keep two quid a week for spends as well as my seven quid. Right?’