An ending for both of us

I hang up the phone and sigh.  Calls with Lionel, my agent, always have that effect.  Lionel, the man who got me my first break - I owe him for that, and now I owe him my third novel, the third instalment of the lives and loves of Lottie Summers and her trivial adventures in the land of passion and romance.  But it sells, and the first two books were a hit in the airports, with thousands of copies making their way to sun-soaked beaches and swimming pools.  Whether they’ll ever get nominated for a Booker prize is debatable, but Lionel likes them, the readers like them, and they pay the bills.

The manuscript for Daisy Lovelace’s third book (my pen name, I might add) of scintillating sex and boundless passion, is due at the end of the week.  I’ve promised Lionel that I’ll hit the deadline and we’ll have Lottie’s adventures out there in time for the summer rush.  The problem is, me and Lottie are not getting on at the moment.  From the lovable character that I created two years ago, she’s now become an irritation, an annoying flirt, and I really can’t stomach her ‘oh so ditsy’ mishaps and accidents that result in her either giggling her way through a gallon of prosecco or shagging the wits out of some bloke she’s ensnared.  No, me and Lottie are not getting on, but I owe this book to Lionel and the roof is in desperate need of repair.

I open the laptop and scan the page… “Oh David, you’re such a tease!  Could we find the missing Greek urn before lunch and do something a bit more interesting this afternoon?” Lottie twirled her hair around her finger, and pouted as the sun shone across her heaving cleavage.  “David, you're such a bore with all this archaeology stuff,” she tittered, “but you know how much I…” Oh for god's sake Lottie, you’re so damn obvious!  I slam down the lid of the laptop.  I’ve created a monster, a blonde, tottering, high heeled monster with a passion for strawberry daiquiris and broad chested men in equal measure.

I need to get away from my desk to clear my head and think of a way to finish this.  Kill her off?  Lionel would have a fit.  He can see this Lottie shaped money train running for miles yet.  Well, it'll have to wait.  Belinda Gibbon needs some time away from Daisy Lovelace and Lottie Summers.  I make an attempt to tidy my hair, and grab my bag and coat.  Perhaps a walk will do me good and provide some inspiration.  If I can just get the final chapter shaped up today, then I’ll have cracked it.

It’s freezing outside and the January wind is making a fine job of messing up my hair, not that it was great to start with.  My thick dark curls have a mind of their own, Medusa’s snakes would seem tame in comparison.  I pull up my hood and head towards town, a coffee in my favourite bookshop will help sort things out.

Broken Books sells second hand and pre-loved books and provides a sanctuary where I can escape from the Lotties of this world.  Somewhere I can slouch down on a saggy sofa with a mug of coffee and the comforting smell of battered old books.  It’s fairly quiet and I manage to grab a seat by the window where I collapse into a bulky old armchair which gives a sort of ‘harrumph’ sound as I land in its shiny brown leather lap.  I blow my coffee, cupping it in my hands like they do on the adverts, and watch the world outside passing to and fro.  I wonder to myself what Lottie would do if she were in a bookshop like this.  She’d be climbing a library ladder so she could show off her neat little backside no doubt, with some poor old bloke having a heart attack at the sight of it.  I smile to myself and take a gulp of hot coffee.  This isn’t helping, I can’t even escape from her here.

I finish my coffee and decide to have a look around the shelves for a while before I head home.  I haven’t had a chance to browse properly for ages, what with Lottie and Lionel and their incessant demands.  I love it here amongst the big old bookcases, like a forest crammed with millions of stories, references and adventures.  I notice an old fashioned sign that I haven’t seen before with a hand pointing to ‘miscellaneous and obscure’.  The ‘obscure’ part appeals to me and I follow the pointing hand to the far corner of the shop.  The section is quiet and I relax a little as I begin to peruse the darkened rows of books.  Paperbacks, hardbacks, leather bound, missing spines, my fingers pass over the books in turn.  I pull out a small buff coloured book, a miscellany of verse, I smile, we read this one at school, I push it back onto the tightly packed shelf where my eyes are drawn to a heavy looking tomb with a blue and green art nouveau design on the spine.  I lift it down and sneeze as a small cloud of dust follows.  I turn the book over and read the title, ‘A Book of Deserving’ by Arthur Hollinrake.  There's no other information and I wonder what the contents could be about, so I open it carefully.  The book opens on a page of its own choosing.  I don’t read the content, I’m completely distracted by what’s scrawled across the page in thick black ink, GET RID OF LOTTIE.

I slam the book shut and look around to see who’s there.  There’s no one, just me and my ragged breathing.  What the hell?  I glance around and open the book again.  There it is, no denying it, I’m not imagining things.  I shove the book back on the shelf and stand staring at its spine, not knowing what to do.  Perhaps it’s just some sort of crazy coincidence.  Calming my breathing, I reach up and pull the Book of Deserving back down, deciding the best thing to do is leave and take the book home with me.  I open the front cover to check the pencilled in price, then make my way through the maze of bookshelves, feeling conspicuous as if I’ve just done something I shouldn’t have.

I head over to the counter to pay.  A man dressed in a dark suit and bow tie greets me.  I haven’t seen him before but there’s something familiar about him that I can’t place.

“Good morning my dear,” he smiles, “have you found everything you were looking for today?”  He has an old fashioned accent, clipped but warm.

“Yes, I think so,” I reply politely, trying to mirror the man’s manners, and I warily place the book on the counter, as if it might fly open on that page again.

“Ahh, Arthur Hollinrake,” says the man, “are you a fan of his?”

“Erm, well no.  The book just spoke to me I suppose.”  I’m dreading him opening it.  He checks in the front cover for the price and I look in my bag for my purse, then he goes about smartly wrapping the book in brown paper.  I hand him the money and he nods.

“I think you’ll enjoy the book.  It was quite something for its time you know.”  The man’s long face takes on a serious note.  “Do read it, Miss Gibbon, I can assure you that you won’t regret it.”

“Thank you,” I say.  I just want to get home but my head is trying to work out what just happened here.  “How did you know my name?”

“Didn’t you tell me dear?  I’m quite sure that you did.”

“I must have!  Oh, do ignore me, I don’t know if I’m coming or going today,”  I bluster.  “Well thank you so much, goodbye” and I put the brown paper package in my bag.

“Thank you Belinda, it was lovely to meet you, goodbye.”

I don’t stop to ask questions and head out of the shop back into the cold January afternoon.  It’s later than I’d realised.  The streetlights are on and there’s a fine rain in the air that’s threatening to turn to snow.  I check my watch, oh hell, I’m never going to get that final chapter finished at this rate.  I pull up my hood, and with my head down against the wind, I walk briskly home, the weight of the book in my bag nagging me, ‘get rid of Lottie’.  As I walk I ponder.  How could anyone possibly know that I was going to pick up that book?  How could they know the thoughts that have been raging through my mind over the last few weeks?  Plain and simple, they couldn’t and this was just one big coincidence.  Get a grip woman.  The man in the shop had given my purchase his recommendation though, so at least I’ve bought something worth reading.

I get home, switch on the heating, and feed the cat.  I really do need to stop messing around and get this book finished for Lionel.  I sit at my desk and look out at the snow that’s falling now, white flakes against the dark evening sky.  Lottie isn’t going to like this.  She wants a hot beach and hot man to go with it.  I open my laptop and give myself a shake.  Come on, just get this done.  You’ve done it before, you can do it again.

“David, you're such a bore with all this archaeology stuff,” she tittered, “but you know how much…” Okay, here we go, I begin to type… “I love it when you get all hot and dirty, when you’re digging away looking for treasure!”  Lottie gave her hips a little wiggle.

“Come here you minx,” David dropped his spade to the dusty ground and grabbed Lottie around the waist, “I’ll show you how to dig for treasure,” he laughed and plunged his hand under the waistband of her skirt.

I stop, there’s a noise in the hallway.  Irritated, I go to investigate, typical, just as Lottie was getting her fix.  Smudge, my black and white cat is rummaging about at the bottom of the coat stand.  “What’s up Smudge?” I walk over but he doesn’t hear me.  He’s too busy pawing at my bag that I’ve left on the floor.  “Hey, come out, there’s nothing for you in there.”  I pull smudge away.  The little rascal has been through my bag and I can now see the reason for the noise, he’s practically unwrapped the book that I bought, there’s shredded brown paper everywhere.

“Honestly Smudge, is your scratching post not good enough for you?”  I retrieve the book from the bag, gather up the scraps of paper and go to the kitchen to deposit them in the bin.  Within the pile of debris I find a business card with a picture of the shop on the front.  I turn it over, there’s some writing on the back, elegant and neat.  With the book under my arm, I wander back to my desk where the light’s better so I can read the card.

‘Not easily may an individual escape the deep slavery of the herd.’  Regards, AB.

I turn the card over, as if it's going to tell me something else, then read the handwritten message again.  I pick up the book and look for the page where it opened before, but try as I might, I can’t find it.  No trace of those words, get rid of Lottie.  I'm not sure if I’m relieved or worried.  Am I going mad?  Did I ever see those words in the first place?  Did I tell the man in the shop my name?  I decide that it must be stress, so much to do and not enough time.  The demands of Lionel and Lottie, the charade of having to be Daisy Lovelace every day.  I really just want to be Belinda Gibbon for a while.

I pick up the book and turn to the contents page, I still have no idea of what ‘A Book of Deserving’ is about.  I scan down the list; Deeds and their reckoning, The dawn of golden ages, Shadows and such whisperings, Eternal curse to eternal sleep, Forgotten names of dark books, Judgement of the wandering soul, and so on, a list of intriguing chapters.  I smile.  This sounds like a perfect choice but it’s going to have to wait.  I take the book over to my bookshelves.  They’re already stuffed full and there’s no space between H P Lovecraft, Shirley Jackson and M R James, Denis Wheatley, James Herbert, and Mary Shelley, their dark writings all claustrophobically squashed together with more books piled on top.  I force out a block of old Penguin classics in their faded cream and orange covers, they can squeeze in somewhere else to make way for my new addition.

I drop the Penguins on my desk and stop in my tracks.  There he is, the man from the shop, I’m sure of it.  I pick up the book that’s showing me its back cover with a photograph of the author.  No, that’s just silly, of course it’s not the man from the shop.  What would the great, and very much deceased, Algernon Blackwood be doing in a scruffy little bookshop?  I study the picture some more, it certainly looks like the same man.  Then the card, I look at the writing again, Not easily may an individual escape the deep slavery of the herd.  Regards, AB.

I think I’m just having some sort of moment or something.  I put the book down and give myself a talking to.  “Come on now Belinda, this is far too obvious.  There’s some guy in the bookshop who has a passion for Algernon Blackwood, and he likes to dress in character and pass cryptic little notes to customers.  That’s it, that’s what it is.”   Smudge comes in and gives a half hearted meow.  “Are you having a bad day too Smudge?” I ask.  It's eight o’clock now and I decide it’s now or never.  I look at the card again, “What do you reckon to escaping the slavery of the herd Smudge?”  Smudge sticks his tail in the air and exits the room.

Back at my desk, I open the laptop, let’s give Lottie her ending and then Lionel will get his final version this week, Daisy Lovelace can go and have a nice long rest, and Belinda might just get her roof fixed.

“Well Lottie, you never fail to impress me,” David lay on the bed resting on one elbow, his manliness damp with exhaustion, “that was some excavation, I can tell you!”.

Lottie trotted over to the bathroom to fix herself up, David watched her little backside disappear through the door and started to dress.  “Now it’s time for some real work," he muttered as the concentric circles in his mind whirled and spun and the instructions from earlier began to crystallise.

An hour later, with Lottie dressed in her favourite hotpants, ‘something sensible for digging’, they were back at the archaeology site.  David had been quiet since their earlier antics and Lottie was sullen and bored.  The missing Greek urn had finally been located, buried up to its neck in sand.

“Hey Lottie, come and take a look.” suggested David with a curious smile that Lottie didn’t recognise.  The urn was huge, with the opening at least twenty inches wide.  “Have a look inside,” urged David, “it really is something special.”

Lottie got down on her knees next to the gaping mouth of the vase, ‘a great opportunity to show off these pants,’ she thought to herself and made a show of giving David the best view.  ‘That’s got his attention’ she thought as she felt hands on her shoulders.  But then the grip got firmer, too firm, and before she knew it, Lottie felt herself off balance and falling into the dark recesses of the urn.  Her reality tumbled as she continued to fall, through sand and dirt, the air full of gritty heat and flies, falling and falling, she struggled to open her eyes, adjusting to the dark and the abyss that surrounded her.

In the far distance somewhere on another plane she could hear David’s voice “The Keres will be pleased to have her company for a while.  I’m sure they’ll enjoy their time with her,” and she continued to tumble, the sides of the urn had broken away and now she was falling to a fated place of infinite nightmares, disease and hunger, a place where she would become a morbid distraction for the violent Keres, until madness eventually took over her completely, and the angel of death would end everything with a final dreadful kiss.

“Thank you and good night Lottie Summers!” I exclaim and I close the laptop with a thump.  I’m taking my life back, no longer a ‘slave to the herd’.  Lottie, Lionel and Daisy will just have to deal with it.  It’s half past two in the morning and it’s still snowing outside.  I take a few hours sleep and at daylight, trudge through the snow into town.

It’s early and the bookshop has just opened when I arrive.  There’s a lady behind the counter, dusting down a pile of old books.  She welcomes me with a chirpy ‘good morning’ and asks if she can help.  I explain to her that I’d like to thank the man who served me yesterday and describe him to her, showing her the card he’d written.  She laughs a little and then tactfully explains that there is no such person working there, and never has been.

But then, I already knew that, didn't I?