Penguin Books

He knew it was over after receiving a text message describing the viscous dog she had a close encounter with.

Apparently the animal approached in her in the park whilst she was eating her leaf salad. The story seemed unlikely to Tom. Firstly, why would the dog be interested and secondly, who says leaf salad?

This little vignette merely served to reaffirm his burgeoning resentment toward her. Rather than simply ask the dog what it wanted, she assumed it was trying to steal her lunch when it may simply have needed directions or even the time. Some breeds, he knew, were notoriously lacking in punctuality.

Initially he had attempted to give her the benefit of the doubt, we have all had embarrassing auto correct errors, haven't we? However, when he asked how sticky and slow moving this viscous creature had been she replied that it wasn’t slow it was like really fast.

Leaf salad should have been enough. His logic though was that if avoided women who eschewed carbohydrate his available dating pool would be so puddle-like that he might as well go and live with his uncle Norman, collect pottery figurines and masturbate into a sock. A different sock to Uncle Norm of course but the image was vivid, nonetheless.

Looking back, the point at which they had combined books had been a flag so large and red it could be seen from space. His ‘The Day of the Jackal’ had found itself ignominiously sandwiched between the ramblings of a pneumatic blonde, whose name escaped him, and Blanche the Donkey, whose name was difficult to forget, the self-proclaimed psychic to the stars.

In a parallel universe he fantasised he would simply hire The Jackal to take them both out.

It was wet outside, pouring in fact. He stood at the top of the marble steps that led from his front door to the street, hunched his head down into his shoulders and carefully descended. They steps were of a design that became comically slippery when even the slightest hint of moisture appeared. Who on Earth though making them out of marble had been a good idea? The Jackal would be receiving the name of the evil step architect as his second assignment.

Lots of people and animals mingled together in the city and he found himself constantly speeding up and slowing down as he sidestepped, weaved and swore under his breath. The noise level was the standard cacophony of cries, roars and rattling diesel engines but the rain had made the usual animal smell especially pungent, assaulting his nose like a straight jab.

With head bowed against the weather, and his imagined correspondence with The Jackal, he suddenly noticed he had walked straight past his favourite bookshop where so many fruitful hours had been burned. A relationship with a book was simple, they promised nothing, save an attempt to command the attention, and if they weren't right for each other he could simply close the cover and move on, no hard feelings, no difficult conversations.

He slowed his a little pace and thought of the warm interior, small and labyrinthine with shelves too high to be safe that audibly groaned under their load. The aisle containing the titles on History was so narrow that your shoulders brushed both sides simultaneously as you tried to navigate your from Ancient Greece through to World War Two. Patrons constantly needed to be aware of catching Hitler or Alexander the Great with an errant jacket sleeve and bringing the literal weight of the past down on them.

He made the choice and turned abruptly on the slick pavement, almost a half pirouette. Two fat horses loaded with a variety of shopping bags had been immediately behind him, one of them swore and called him a tourist as they swerved evasively to avoid a collision before clip clopping away into the throng.

As he opened the door the little bell dutifully announced his arrival to Pascal, the penguin. Tom teased him about the irony of his species running a bookstore who, in turn, accepted the good-natured ribbing because Tom was a big spender, at least in second hand book terms.

“Hey Pascal.”

“Hey yourself.” The small, rotund black and white bird said as he carefully dropped off his stool and waddled over to greet him.

They bumped fist to flipper as was their habit.

“Anything new in?” Tom was always on the lookout for a fix.

“Not much, there are two bags down the back I haven’t opened yet.” Pascal pointed a stubby wing behind the cash desk.

“Where did they come from?”

“Not sure.” Said the little bird. “They were on the step when I opened up.”

“No note or anything?”

“What am I, Colombo? There might be a note inside one of them, I’ve been up to my beak since I got in.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Tell you what, you know where they go as well as I do, if you put them on the shelves you can help yourself to one.”

“Deal! How could I resist a booky dip?” He said as he carefully slid himself between two stacks of books and behind the register.

Pascal ignored that. “How’s that girlfriend of yours?”

Tom shrugged in response as Pascal continued. “Let me guess, she chewed too loudly or turned over the corner of a page in one of your priceless books?”

Ignoring the barb he parted the bead curtain and stepped into the corridor that led to Pascals living space. As promised, there on the floor were two plastic bags that each clearly contained several books. He lowered himself down and sat cross legged on the carpet, inspected the top of the closest one which had its handles crudely tied together to create a fastening. The knot had been pulled too tight, due to the weight of the contents, so he gave up trying to undo it and just ripped through the plastic, allowing the books to disgorge.

He picked up one and turned it over to view the title, it was an old-style hard cover encyclopaedia, full of facts and figures about the World, interesting for sure but not for him. He placed it next to him on the floor, starting the first of several piles that would correspond to the shelf on which he would ultimately locate them. Next was a paperback romance novel and a couple of spy thrillers by authors he had never heard of. He duly placed them in the correct spot on the floor and tipped the bag upside down to dislodge the final book which was caught in the bottom. It was thin, more like a magazine from the feel of it.

“How are you doing back there, is there anything interesting?” Pascal shouted hopefully from the shop.

Tom was about to answer as he turned over the final book to read its title.

“Oh shit, what the actual hell?” Tom shouted so loudly as he dropped the book that Pascal immediately appeared through the bead curtain.

“If you’ve broken anything in here.” The little penguin started the threat but when he saw the face of his friend he stopped. “What’s wrong?”

Tom was ashen, visibly shaking in the confines of the small hallway with the awful flowery wallpaper.

He pointed to where the book lay. It was pale and faded like it had been in a shop window for too many summers. The back cover was facing up and was all but blank save for a few short, faded words and a non-distinct photograph which was presumably the author.

Pascal reached down a flipper to turn the book over.

“Don’t!” Implored Tom, his voice was wavering but loud which startled the penguin who fumbled the book to the floor again.

This time it landed with cover facing up, the title was faded but clearly visible, written in a kind of medieval style font.

Delicious! Ways to Prepare and eat Meat.

“Jesus Christ!” Exclaimed Pascal. “What the hell, is that real?”

Tom bent down again, his hands still shaking. “It must be some kind of sick joke, this can’t be a real picture, can it?”

The jacket of the book had a photograph that was in colour, but faded. There was a large, ornate dining table with place settings for six people including wine glasses and multiple sets of cutlery. On a large, round platter in the centre of the tableau was what appeared to be a large, dead bird that had been laid out in preparation to be eaten. Its head was missing, the feathers were gone, and its naked flesh looked like it had been cooked until it was golden-brown in colour.

“Is it real?” The usually rambunctious little fellow was serious and hushed.

“It looks real.” Said Tom. “But who the hell would photograph it?”

“We need to report this.” Said the little bird as he reached for his coat.