The Flyleaf Killer Page 3

  It was Plowrite’s turn to acquiesce. He, too, ducked his head.

  ‘Absolutely, Robert,’ he said. ‘What is your wish, to proceed or to withdraw?’

  The boy was no longer in any doubt. Filled with excited anticipation, Robert agreed. ‘Yes please,’ he said, eagerly. ‘Can I have a look?’

  The ‘bookseller’ fished beneath the counter and produced a furled parchment secured with crimson ribbon. Untying it, he unrolled the document with a flourish and smoothed it flat.

  ‘There you are then, Robert my boy,’ he smiled. ‘As you can see—exactly as I said. All you need do is sign—I shall witness your signature, and the Book shall be yours to keep.’

  Erudite, worldly-wise, Robert would be wary of the small print in any contract, this one certainly no exception. The text was short and concise; even so, he read and reread every word, determined to leave nothing to chance. He found absolutely no ambiguity: every word, sentence and nuance crystal clear, no hidden meaning, no word or phrase capable of more than one interpretation. Satisfied, Robert nevertheless still sought confirmation.

  ‘It seems clear enough, Mister Plowrite. I’ll be rich and famous but the devil doesn’t get my soul—not ever, as long as I obey the Book and don’t break any of the clauses, right?’

  ‘Yes, Robert, that is precisely so,’ Pentophiles replied. He went further: ‘But I urge you never to violate the contract lest you suffer the agonies of the damned and writhe in dreadful torment throughout eternity.’ He extended five bony digits and patted Robert’s arm. ‘I have grown fond of you, my boy,’ he said, ‘and have high expectations for your future. Whilst it is undoubtedly in your best interest to sign, I feel it my duty to make sure you fully understand the nature of the consequences a breach of the conditions would bring.’

  None of this was at variance with Robert’s understanding and he was touched by Plowrite’s solicitude—a clever touch from a master manipulator? There seemed no reason to equivocate further.

  ‘Can you lend me a pen, please?’ Robert asked.

  Again Henry Plowrite smiled.

  ‘Certainly, use mine and I shall witness your signature.’ He produced an expensive-looking pen and handed it to Robert: ‘Just remember one very important thing, my boy. The Book is for you and you alone. It will ensure your future and gain you ascendancy above other mortals. For these benefits, implicit obedience is but a small price to pay. But only on absolute acceptance of these conditions, and of your own free will should you sign. If you are certain you wish to commit yourself, then append your signature now.’ Unhesitatingly, Robert uncapped the pen, signed Robert William Strudwick, not with his usual flourish but, thanks to the rather viscous crimson writing fluid, slowly, carefully and laboriously. Pentophiles recovered the pen and used it to witness Robert’s signature.

  And so the deed was done. A keen-eyed observer would detect a gleam of triumph in Henry Plowrite’s eyes, but not so Robert—he had bigger and better fish to fry. For starters, he tucked the Book carefully into his satchel.

  Pentophiles picked up the key and signalled his intention to place the vermilion ribbon around Robert’s neck. As the boy lowered his head in acceptance, he was too preoccupied to notice the so-called book-merchant’s image turn shadowy and begin to lose substance. It was time for ‘Henry Plowrite’ to bid farewell. ‘Goodbye, Robert,’ he boomed, sonorously, ‘I shall doubtless see you again soon.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mister Plowrite,’ Robert replied. ‘And thank you very much,’ he added, lamely.

  Emerging from the shop, Robert felt vibrant, confident, his former sense of inferiority banished. He knew no-one would dare antagonise him in future – and those who had in the past were likely soon to regret it.

  The Book was destined to have a profound effect on his life—just as he expected, of course!

  A glance at the town hall clock told him it was 4.15. He did a double-take: What! Less than thirty minutes since he entered the shop? Impossible. Half-an-hour might account for time with the bookseller, but what about the time spent browsing? Robert shivered. Did the power of Pentophiles extend so far beyond the material world he possessed the capability to compress time itself? What other explanation could there be? None Robert could think of! He shrugged and turned his attention to more immediate matters. Grumbling pangs were a reminder of teatime but, despite hunger, the feeling of well-being returned and he strode jauntily along the High Street and across the village green where he broke into an exuberant trot.

  Had he delayed, he may possibly have witnessed the bookshop wink from existence and simultaneously be replaced by the hoarding, though passers-by appeared not to notice. He might also have heard a strangely familiar, basso-profundo chuckle, or caught a whiff of a musty, lingering odour, vaguely reminiscent of putrefaction…

  ‘The Book is mine, the Book is mine,’ his feet seemed to call, as they rhythmically pounded the pavement. Puffing a little, Robert arrived home at 4.30 and went directly to his room.

  Concealing his acquisition in the box reserved for personal possessions, he went downstairs and into the kitchen where his mother was preparing tea. She smiled as he came through the door.

  ‘Hello dear, how was school today?’ she asked, without once mentioning that he was late. Shortly afterwards, she served a heaped plate of his favourite tea – sausage, chips, smoked bacon, mushrooms and grilled tomato, served on crispy, fried bread – still without a word of recrimination. And later, his father arrived with a cheery: ‘Hello, Robert, had a nice day?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Father.’

  The boy smiled, knowingly. Much was to change from this day forward…

  Chapter Two

  A Taste of Revenge

  After tea, still buzzing from his memorable afternoon, Robert itched to consult the Book but, in order to maintain secrecy and avoid the risk of interruption, opted to wait for the privacy of bedtime. It would take time and experimentation to establish exactly what he could or could not do without exciting attention; therefore Robert pledged to conduct himself with caution from the outset. For this reason he masked his new-found confidence and amazing sense of euphoria by spending the entire evening reading.

  Father stipulated that thirteen-year-old boys should retire at 9.30, but they might read for a further thirty minutes – providing bedtime was preceded by satisfactory behaviour. It would raise eyebrows were he to retire earlier, so Robert curbed his impatience until the appointed time, when he put aside his magazine and bade his parents ‘goodnight’. He was in and out of the bathroom in minutes.

  Repairing to his bedroom, he wedged a chair under the door handle, undressed and pulled on his pyjamas as fast as he was able. Finally, an opportunity properly to consult with the Book. Tingling with excitement and from contact with the treasured volume, Robert climbed into bed. Wriggling himself comfortable, he drew up his knees to form a makeshift lectern, released the clasp and opened the Book. Turning to the flyleaf, the following message fairly leapt from the traditionally plain page:

  DO NO DEED UPON THE MORROW –

  YET MARK WELL THE FATE THINE ENEMIES

  Astounded and delighted, Robert made yet another startling discovery for, even as he watched, fascinated, the script lost substance, shimmered, and simply winked out of existence!

  He took stock. Comprehension was certainly no problem; only a fool might fail to understand. No need for notes. Those incredible words would remain imprinted upon his mind. Clearly, he must do nothing the following day. Simply observe whilst retribution, presumably appropriate in nature, was exacted against former adversaries. Brilliant—he could hardly wait! Heeding the warning never to read further, he secured the Book and returned it to his box.

  As he pondered the strange events of the day, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  In keeping with normal practice, Robert rose early for papers and was out of the house before six. Towards the end of his round, his rear tyre began losing air and was flat by the time he delivered the last paper. With no
alternative but to walk, he arrived home late for breakfast, tired, irritable and extremely hungry.

  ‘If I mess with a puncture now,’ he grumbled, ‘I’ll either miss brekker or be late for school.’ As neither appealed, he opted to eat and walk, and defer repairs for later. Decision taken, Robert packed away a hearty breakfast and set off for school on foot.

  Prefect Stanley Billham was a bully, a boy who used his fists at the slightest provocation and had a physique to intimidate those of lesser build. He led and dominated a seven-strong band of yobbish lackeys, obliged to comply with orders on threat of physical punishment. High on the list of those targeted was Robert Strudwick, who not only suffered abuse at Stanley’s hands, but was endlessly tormented by his cronies, all under instructions to harass wherever and whenever possible. Today was to present just such an opportunity.

  Nearing the school on bicycles, three of Stanley’s minions spotted Robert ahead. They stopped. ‘If Stanley finds out we didn’t bother…’ one shuddered. Another suggested, ‘Let’s sneak up and grab his cap. Keep to the grass, he won’t hear us coming.’ The third agreed. ‘Good idea, let’s make a race of it. One, two, three— go!’ And off they went.

  Something, instinct perhaps, caused Robert to sense danger and he leapt smartly to one side. With a clatter and screech of metal, intermingled with yells of alarm, thuds and groans, Stanley Billham’s over-anxious, fawning yes-men collided, lost control and crashed.

  There they were, ignominiously spreadeagled one way, bicycles another, the reason for their downfall obvious. Robert couldn’t help but laugh! All were winded and bruised, one sported a cut lip. Nor did the bicycles escape lightly, judging from an awesome jumble of broken spokes, split mudguards and bent handlebars.

  ‘Serves you jolly well right,’ Robert chortled, gleefully, and strolled blithely on his way.

  Brendon Ford – maths teacher-cum-part-time sports master and stern disciplinarian, a classroom egoist whose sarcasm and inflexible approach was appreciated by few—had taken an instant dislike to Robert when he first set eyes on the youngster. Never slow to miss an opportunity, he was especially sharp where Robert was concerned.

  Wednesday was designated ‘Sports Day’. After lunch, the class set off for the sports complex at West End, roughly two kilometres from the school and about half-an-hour’s walk, the ‘volunteers’ groaning and humping the heavy bags of cricket gear.

  West End facilities comprised three football-cum-rugby pitches, two cricket pitches, a bowling green, pavilions and changing-rooms with en-suite showers, the whole County-maintained for use both by schools and a number of recognised sporting organisations.

  Two scratch teams were chosen and took to the field. Side ‘B’ lost the toss and were put into bat. Officiating as umpire, Mr Ford took up his customary position at square leg. Following some twenty minutes of tumbling bails, Robert – whose inclusion in the team was simply to make up numbers – was called upon to take his place at the wicket. True to form, he slogged wildly at every ball that came within a metre of his bat and, as usual, missed them all except one—the last of the over, a full toss. This delivery floated lazily through the air and curved at the last instant to make contact with the centre of Robert’s flailing bat, rocketing with incredible velocity towards square leg. Brendon Ford either failed to see the ball or forgot to duck, for he was struck on the head and fell unconscious. An ambulance was summoned. Robert was a hero – temporarily, at least!

  Amid derisive cheers, the unpopular teacher left the field on a stretcher. It was later learned he had had to receive emergency surgery to relieve pressure on the brain, a consequence of a fractured skull. Mr Ford could expect to be away from duty for several months.

  Belinda Merriweather and Janice Pearson twittered, giggled and clucked, the way girls do. Walking ahead, they formed part of a group making their way back to school after the accident and the consequent cancellation of activities for the afternoon.

  The girls seemed unlikely friends. Pretty, well-developed for her age, twelve-year-old Belinda was five feet four, auburn and something of a flirt. A year older, yet about six inches shorter, dark-haired, brown-eyed Janice was still developing. Puppy-fat was evident at thigh and hip; she padded her brassiere with cotton-wool and dreamed of snaring a boyfriend.

  Coming to Moorgate Farm, Janice was first to notice a ‘Beware of the Bull’ sign prominently displayed on a board beside the gate of what appeared to be an empty field.

  ‘That’s new, Lind,’ she remarked, pointing, ‘but where’s the blinking bull?’

  ‘Dunno. I can’t see him either,’ her best mate replied, ‘but I expect he’s about somewhere. I know,’ she proposed, ever curious, ‘let’s stop and watch for a bit, we’ve got plenty of time.’

  Janice signalled agreement and the pair left the group and walked to the gate – only to be followed by Stanley Billham and two of his closest cronies.

  Billham swaggered up. ‘What are you two goggling at? Looking for somewhere to go?’ he asked, cockily. (He fancied Belinda, but she couldn’t stand the sight of him.) Belinda sniffed and stuck her nose in the air.

  Janice was fiercely loyal towards her friend, but considered Stanley quite handsome and leapt at the chance to speak to him.

  ‘Nothing really, Stanley,’ she cooed. ‘Just wondering if there really is a bull. We’ve had a bit of a look, but there isn’t a sign of one anywhere.’

  A mildly inquisitive audience gathered, providing an opportunity to show off that Stanley couldn’t resist.

  ‘That sign’s meant to scare off trespassers,’ he pontificated. ‘They haven’t got a bull.’ He grinned, smugly. ‘Nosy, soppy, girls. Haven’t you anything better to do? Mind you,’ he added, ‘if you’re stuck, I’ve an idea or two…’ and he leered at Belinda, suggestively.

  ‘Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you,’ she retorted, stung by his arrogance. ‘But they have got a bull, smarty pants—a big brown one. I’ve seen it myself, so there!’

  Stanley shook his head in evident disbelief. Both stooges grinned, knowingly.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Belinda Knickerleg,’ Billham told her. ‘There isn’t a bull. You’re talking crap – as usual.’

  He was not so much angry at being put down in front of flunkies, but by having his advances rejected out of hand.

  ‘OK then,’ she retorted, ‘if you’re so sure, I dare you to run across the field and back but I bet you’re too scared. All three of you, for that matter,’ she taunted, provokingly.

  Stanley bridled. Belinda’s outburst was not only detrimental to his status, but a direct challenge to his manhood. Maybe there was a bull – but, so what? The animal was nowhere in sight and the field no more than two hundred metres across. He could sprint to the far hedgerow and back without so much as working up a sweat.

  Any challenge to the male ego might result in the abandonment of caution, more so around the age of puberty, but especially so if you were Stanley Billham, big man, leader of the pack, out to impress a girl. The words were hardly out of Belinda’s mouth before he snapped a command to his henchmen and all three were over the gate and running across the field. They made it to the far side and were turning to come back, when a huge Aberdeen Angus lumbered from between two outbuildings where he had been taking an afternoon nap. The bull came to a halt, snorted angrily and paused to confirm that his recently-acquired territory was being violated. He shook his head, pawed the ground twice, let out a bad tempered bellow, and charged. Stanley and his companions were caught mid-field with little hope of escape.

  Alerted by the commotion, farm-hands with pitchforks came running to the rescue, but too late to save the boys. All were tossed and trampled, but Stanley was rounded on and fatally gored as he lay injured and helpless on the ground. There was little Robert could do—even had he wanted to—and whilst the watching girls screamed and sobbed in horror and shock, the boys seemed rooted to the spot.

  At the height of the furore, two lesser members of Billham’s gang happene
d by on bicycles. Trying to see over the hedge without stopping, the pair—the last of Stanley’s minions yet to suffer misfortunate this tragic day—collided, and sailed ignominiously into a wet, muddy ditch. Discounting minor scratches and an odd bruise, however, they escaped relatively unharmed.

  Shocked, crying, vulnerable, Belinda was scooped up by one of the boys and skilfully pacified. Janice also seemed comforted, when opportunist Robert insinuated an arm around her waist and walked the flattered, unresisting girl all the way to her front gate.

  Robert was more than happy with the manner in which ‘justice’ was summarily meted to those at whose hands he had suffered. But, concealing his delight and appearing sorrowful, he adopted the universally expressed sentiment: that that particular Wednesday should be remembered as ‘Black Wednesday’. Privately … well, that was another matter!

  Arriving home, Robert was gratified to find the puncture repaired, and supposed his father noticed the ‘flat’ at lunchtime and, presumably, had been unusually disposed to be of service. Allied to the events of the day, the discovery triggered a heady sense of power, and moved Robert to embark on an orgy of gleeful anticipation regarding things that were yet to come. He daydreamed blissfully until teatime.

  After the meal, he became impatient for bedtime and further consultation with the Book, anxious to discover what was to happen next and how long he must wait in order to become rich. Once comfortable in bed, he turned to the flyleaf, but it remained stubbornly blank.

  The disappointment proved temporary, however. Consulting the Book on a daily basis, he received important instructions on one or more occasions almost every week. But even on days without the benefit of written guidance he was aware that unseen forces were influencing his life and recognised and acknowledged with gratitude the power that lay behind them.