Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [27]
There were noises up ahead, somewhere near the counter: shuffling of papers, drawers being opened, books dropped to the floor, a chair shoved aside. An old coffee mug full of pens spilled and a second later smashed on the floor. The intruder swore. Then the dull drum echo of Jack’s small, wastepaper bin as a palm hit the side a couple of times and emptied it.
Jack edged forwards. He held the ashtray in his right hand, ready to swing. It was dark but he knew where the shelves were, knew which way to go. Every now and then the intruder’s torchlight reflected off something in the shop, a quick flash of glass, of metal, a sudden grainy patch of ceiling or wall, then gone. It was like being underwater at night.
For a moment, complete silence. Jack stopped. Then he heard paper being torn. Followed by the scrape and scratch of a lighter flicking sparks. He took another step. The ashtray he was carrying banged against the metal corner of a bookshelf. He froze. Three seconds later, a beam of thin, harsh light caught him full in the face.
Things happened pretty quickly after that.
10
THE TORCH SNAPPED OFF and somebody started running. Jack stood where he was, trying to focus on what was ahead of him, blinking away the brightness. As he did, something like a ten-pin bowling ball struck him in the stomach at about sixty kilometres an hour. Jack doubled over, groaning.
Whoever had head-butted him tried to shove Jack aside and scramble past, but the shelves were narrow there, between Classics, Religion and History. Blindly, Jack managed to grab hold of the flap of a jacket. He grimaced and pulled, letting his weight fall to the floor. The assailant remained on his feet but Jack forced him to bend over. The man writhed and flayed. Jack held on. He tried to curl an arm around the man’s legs and trip him up. Elbows and fists rained down, mainly catching Jack in the arm and shoulder, but a couple stung the side of his head. Then Jack remembered his suit and felt a surge of anger. He pulled harder on the jacket and as he did so lifted himself up a little off the floor. His head came up above the level of his hands. Just high enough for the guy to get a good look at it.
A terrific pain burst in the middle of Jack’s face: his nose exploded like a ripe tomato. Wet warmth began to spread around the general area. He let go of the jacket, collapsed to the floor, and put his hands to his face.
‘Stupid fucker,’ barked a thin, angry voice.
Jack was grabbed by the lapels of his jacket. He blinked and looked up. A dark face was bent over him: he could just see the whites of the man’s eyes, glazed blue-grey in the weak light of the street lamps outside.
‘Should’ve stayed at home, eh?’
Jack tried to breathe, but his nose was full of hot gravel.
The man pushed Jack away and straightened up. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife.
Jack caught a glimpse of the blade, liquid silver like the flash of a fish in murky water. ‘Oh, shit!’ He tried to get to his feet. Another punch to the head stopped him, though he managed to slip the force of the blow away from his face with his arm.
‘Should’ve stayed at home —’
The back door to Susko Books swung open and banged against the wall. A corridor of muted, night-time city light spread down the aisle of books. The man with the knife turned and looked towards the rear of the shop. Jack squinted at the face of his attacker: it was the son of a bitch who had tried to sell him the stolen books earlier that day.
‘You there?’ called out the guy with the mobile from the street. His voice was frail and nervous. ‘Hello?’
Jack filled his lungs and climbed to his feet. ‘Over here!’ The intruder swung around. His arm shot out. The knife blade reached out in a pointy curve. Jack back-pedalled but found a bookshelf. Frantic, he tried to push himself along the uneven spines.