Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [26]
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Annabelle went over to the stove and switched the extraction fan off. Jack drank some wine. His stomach mumbled something nasty about being empty.
‘Not much of a dinner,’ said Annabelle.
‘It’s still here.’
‘I’m sorry. And it was meant to be an apology.’
Jack stood up, slowly. Obviously time to go. ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’
‘I’ll call you. Maybe we could try this again. In a restaurant.’
‘Any time.’
Jack slipped on his coat, adjusted the sleeves and collar of his shirt. Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest. There was going to be no goodnight kiss.
‘Do you think he burnt them?’
‘You know your father better than I do.’
‘Nobody knows my father.’
She stared at the terracotta tiles. Jack walked towards the hallway door. She did not look up when he said goodbye. He stepped quietly out of the kitchen and made his way to the front door.
Outside, he lit a cigarette, walked to the gate and glanced back at the house. It looked cold and empty, even though he knew there were people inside.
Jack changed his mind about going home. He was hungry. He stopped in Paddington, ordered a pizza and bought a bottle of wine. Then he hailed another taxi and directed it into the city.
It was still quite early. Lois was no doubt curled up somewhere in a neighbour’s apartment, not thinking about him at all. Sometimes home could feel a little empty, especially on wet Monday nights. Jack wanted the dusty silence of Susko Books, and some Charles Mingus on the stereo for company. Tonight, maybe At the Bohemia, 1955. And then ease into that long bottle of red. Pick out some books, open the pages at random and see what he gets. The outside world where it should be — outside.
He had kissed her. Thirty sweet seconds. Hardly enough to count for a memory.
‘Just here’s fine, thanks.’ Jack held the pizza box off his lap and paid the cab driver. The smell had filled the taxi, greasing the stale air inside.
A street-sweeper swished loudly around the corner and Jack stepped back from the kerb as it drove past. The sky was still clear, the stars in crisp focus. It was cold, but no rain tonight. Just ahead, Queen Victoria sat in her usual spot, spilling abundantly out of her chair, the weight of the Empire in her sagging bronze jowls.
York Street. Somebody sat on the top steps to Susko Books, talking on a mobile phone, his back to the street. Jack crossed over. He watched the young guy stand up and pocket his mobile phone. Then just as he walked up, Jack caught a flash of light that seemed to come from the front door of his shop. Surprised, he stopped at the top of the steps and waited a moment, trying to see through the shadowed glass. Nothing. Then as he took a step down, the light flashed again and darted about in the darkness. What the hell?
Jack quickly put the pizza and bottle of wine down and called out to the phone guy just walking away. ‘Hey! You! Call the cops. Somebody’s in my shop!’
The guy turned around. He was a young man in his twenties, wearing green camouflage pants, a beanie and a thick, hooded windcheater. ‘What?’ He gave Jack a wary, petulant look.
‘Someone’s broken into my fucking shop. Could you call the cops?’
The young man’s eye’s widened. ‘Yeah, sure man, no worries.’ He reached for his phone and flipped it open.
‘Tell them it’s Susko Books, on York Street. The guy’s still in there.’
Jack sprinted around into Market Row. The lane was empty. He slowed down as he approached the rear door to his bookshop. The sound of traffic carried down from George Street but seemed a long way off.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket. As he neared the rear door, he saw they would not be necessary: somebody had taken out the lock and handle with a sledgehammer.
Jack held his breath and pushed the door slowly: it started to creak so he held it fast. It was open just enough for him to slip through. But wait there or go inside? He was unsure. He needed a weapon.
His heart thumped. He stepped inside. Jack Susko had