The Dark Return of Time

by R. B. Russell

  Hopper raised his eyebrows, inviting me to go on, but I dried up.

  He said, ‘Candy Smith was in here earlier, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, she stopped by.’

  ‘I hope she has told you everything. And I mean everything.’

  ‘She has, yes.’

  ‘She told you what the professionals think of her stories, and the legal opinion.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned back to my father.

  ‘I’ll leave you to bid on this book for me.’

  ‘I’m happy to do so.’

  ‘I’d still like to be there, though, to make sure everything goes to plan. You said it’s in a mixed lot?’

  ‘Yes, with an estimate of three to four hundred euros. It’s overvalued, if you ask me, considering the condition of the books.’

  ‘We’ll have to work out a commission for you.’

  ‘I’m sure we can titivate a few of the other books, and sell them in time.’

  ‘It’s a little premature to celebrate, but I’m having some friends around tomorrow evening for dinner and I’d like you two to join us.’

  ‘We couldn’t intrude,’ said my father.

  ‘Nonsense. I enjoy having company and I insist. I’ll consider you both my guests of honour. Now, you are both single, aren’t you? I’ll have to arrange the seating plan, you see, and I’ll make certain the rest of the party is congenial.’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ I said.

  ‘Flavian... If I may call you Flavian? I imagine that because of what Candy’s told you, you’re wary of me. Well, give me a chance to show you that I’m not the monster she’s described. I’d like you and your father to think of me as a friend, as well as a customer. I’ll be offended if you don’t take up my invitation.’

  I said that I would think about it.

  ‘Good! Then, you’ll both be there at seven. Formal dress.’

  VI

  My father claimed to be unwell, but I didn’t believe him. He was standing behind the counter with a handkerchief to his mouth, making ineffectual coughing noises. He explained that, of course, he could not possibly travel up to the auction in Saint-Quentin.

  ‘So I have to go with Hopper?’

  I was reminded of how he had once been with my mother; full of unbelievable excuses.

  ‘Then he can go to the bloody auction on his own,’ I said.

  ‘I hate to pull rank, but this is my business.’

  ‘I can always go back to England.’

  ‘That’d be a shame, of course. But perhaps you could make it up with your mother… She really wasn’t to blame for Corrina’s death…’

  I refused to reply. In fact, I refused to talk to him all morning. I was meant to be mending a shelf in the office, but instead I read the newspaper until Hopper’s Mercedes arrived. When it stopped at the door nobody appeared and I realised I was expected to go out to him.

  Hopper and I sat together in the back of the car and there was an uncomfortable silence as we threaded our way out to the A1. Once we were travelling north past the Stade de France, he asked general questions about my mother and father. He enquired as to where we had lived in England, and where I had been to university. They were not unreasonable questions, they were friendly even, but I had no desire to be friendly.

  ‘I’d ask after your past,’ I said, ‘but you’ve conveniently forgotten it.’

  ‘It’s not that convenient,’ he replied, with a smile.

  ‘People must have told you about your life?’

  ‘Yes, and they tried to kick-start my memory. I’ve had many meetings with people I was supposed to’ve known; their stories meant nothing to me. Likewise, photos and mementoes were meaningless. Apparently I was brought up in South London, with three younger sisters, and though I was married my wife passed away a couple of years before I ever met Candy Smith. I ran a couple of nightclubs, quite successfully.’

  ‘You didn’t want to keep on with that old life?’

  ‘As far as I was concerned I was going to have to start again, no matter where I was or what I did. And I found that I didn’t get on with the people I was meant to’ve known all my life. They said I’d changed, and how was I to argue with them? Selling up and starting again in Paris was easier.’

  ‘It must be odd not having memories of your childhood, your family, your wife.’

  ‘Perhaps, but you don’t miss what you don’t remember.’

  ‘Where did you start-up cash come from?’

  ‘Selling my assets in the UK…. My accounts have been thoroughly investigated by the authorities and are all above-board. You know, I’ve just started reading the Sherlock Holmes stories again…’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes. When I first came over to Paris I was searching amongst the bouquinistes on the banks of the Seine and came across a man who sold detective fiction. It was trashy stuff mainly, but he persuaded me to buy the first of my Folio Society editions. Among them was the Sherlock Holmes set.’

  ‘So you’d read Doyle before?’

  ‘You’re convinced that I’m a complete philistine.’

  ‘No,’ I lied.

  ‘You understand as well as I do that certain books become personal.’

  ‘And the book you’re hoping to buy today?’

  ‘The book I will buy today,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I’ll tell you whether I’m admitting it to my collection when I finally get my hands on it.’

  Throughout the conversation I had been looking without much thought between the front seats, through the windscreen at the heavy traffic on the dull, busy road. Once we had left Paris the Al was full of lorries and we were constantly in the outside lane, overtaking them. As Hopper talked about buying his book I became aware of the back and side of the driver’s head and I realised that under his hat he was bald. It was Handley, the thug that Candy had said Hopper used for his dirty-work. I knew he must be listening to our conversation.

  Brignole’s, from the outside, was the same as any other large, modern industrial unit on the outskirts of a city. With its painted block walls and great metal roof it could have been a superstore selling carpets or paint. It was only when you drew up to the incongruous classical entrance that it appeared to be anything different. Wide, glazed doors were flanked by ionic columns, and inside, the small foyer was plushly carpeted and warmly decorated. It was busy with people registering for the auction and inspecting choice items for future sales displayed in glass cabinets.

  ‘Perhaps you could deal with the formalities?’ Hopper asked.

  ‘You’ll have to do that yourself. I don’t mind bidding for you.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back immediately,’ he said. ‘With ten percent extra for your trouble.’

  ‘I could use my credit card, I suppose.’

  ‘It’ll only be a few hundred euros....’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s legal for one person to bid and another to pay.’

  ‘It’s just a box of books.’

  The woman behind the desk took my details and issued me with a numbered card. She solemnly pointed towards the large, echoing space beyond the foyer.

  Inside the main hall, to one side, were row upon row of assembled lots.

  ‘What’s the number?’ asked Hopper.

  ‘1052,’ I said. ‘I’ll help you find it.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ He was trying to act casually, but he was too tense. ‘Go and wait.’

  At the far end of the hall was a rostrum faced by a hundred or so chairs, very few of which were occupied. I chose one that allowed me to watch Hopper as he walked down through the rows of lots, picking up items at random, with no apparent interest in anything specific. When he found the box of books he sought, he took out a couple and hardly glanced at them, and then a few more. I guessed that my father would have buried The Dark Return of Time at the very bottom. Hopper’s body-language was anxious, determined, as he excavated the volumes. When he found the book he was after he opened it and flicked through it, no
w oblivious to everything and everyone around him. Even from a distance I could see a range of expressions pass across his face as he started to read.

  There was not much time left before the buyers would be asked to leave that part of the hall, and it was busy. For some reason my eye was drawn to the movement of one person by the furthest of the lots; a woman with dark hair and a long black coat.

  Candy had seen Hopper, but he was too engrossed in the book he had come for. When he re-buried it amongst the others in the lot he was left wearing a deep frown and was not looking at anyone else around him.

  I didn’t need to ask him whether it was the right book when he walked over to me. His affected insouciance was even more unconvincing than before.

  ‘There’s a small café,’ I told him. ‘We’ve time for a drink or something to eat.’

  From his waistcoat pocket he brought out the watch on its chain and shook his head. ‘We’ve only got fifteen minutes before the sale starts. Please go down to the front. We don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘It might still be an hour and a half before your lot comes up.’

  ‘I’d rather you went down to the front,’ he said, trying not to make it sound like an order. If I had been worried by Hopper before, I was really quite frightened of him now that he had so obviously lost his composure. It was prudent to completely ignore the fact that I had seen Candy there, although I sensed that her presence might mean trouble.

  ‘How much would you like me to bid up to?’ I asked.

  ‘As much as it takes.’

  ‘But what if it goes up to something silly? My credit card limit...’

  ‘Just concentrate on getting it, at all costs. I can sort the money out afterwards.’

  I didn’t want to antagonise him, and so I agreed and sat exactly where he had specified. I was worried how much I would have to pay, but consoled myself with the fact that the higher the price, the more I would earn as my commission.

  A quarter of an hour later the auction started with the sale of a group of three eighteenth-century watercolours. Several of the early lots were of some interest, but my mind soon wandered, ranging far and wide. I came close to nodding off a couple of times, but the lot that I was interested in was slowly approaching. After an interminable number of porcelain items were sold, the first lot of books was offered and I was able to take an interest. By the time our ‘boîte de fiction révélatrice’ was announced I was awake and ready.

  I had recently attended several auctions with my father, and I felt quite calm bidding on Hopper’s behalf. The auctioneer suggested opening at five hundred euros. I sat still. He quickly suggested four hundred, then two, and when he wearily asked for one hundred I lifted my card. I was slightly annoyed that he accepted the first bid from elsewhere, but he took two hundred from me, and then three from somewhere off to the side of the hall. I bid four and then quickly had to bid six. Before I knew it we were up to a thousand euros.

  The auctioneer seemed as surprised as I was, and he took the bidding up slowly, in small amounts, certain it would close at any time. I had resigned myself to insisting that Hopper would have to pay with his own credit card. When the price reached two thousand I was seriously concerned, but I also started to realise that something odd was happening. Then I guessed what the cause might be.

  Slowly and inevitably the price rose.

  At three thousand euros the auctioneer commented that there must be a rarity in the lot that he hadn’t noticed. He asked if there was a gold bar at the bottom of the box and drew a laugh from his audience. He tried asking for three thousand five hundred and got it. I agreed to four thousand and then he immediately managed to get five from elsewhere. I resisted the temptation to see who I was bidding against. There was silence as I bid five thousand five hundred, but then I heard footsteps hurrying down the aisle and I guessed it was Hopper.

  The auctioneer asked if I wanted to bid six thousand five hundred euros. Hopper was alongside me, though, angry, and shook his head vehemently.

  The lot was sold to ‘the woman by the window’, who was asked to display the number on her card. Standing up, I looked over and saw Candy, was unable to do so because she hadn’t registered. She was in no position to pay the ludicrous sum she had bid the lot up to.

  Hopper was striding away, out of the room, and the auctioneer asked what was going on. Candy was simply staring down at the ground, refusing to communicate, and when he looked at me I was only able to shrug. The auctioneer suggested that all parties should go to the director’s office, and that the lot should be considered unsold.

  As I walked out I could see that Candy was not moving, and she would not look up. I wanted to go over to her, but even though the auctioneer was trying to sell the next lot, everybody was staring at either her or me.

  ‘Who the hell is meant to be in charge?’ Hopper was demanding at the front desk.

  A smartly-dressed woman told an usher to fetch Candy out of the hall.

  ‘He was bidding for you?’ she asked Hopper, looking at me. ‘You will all come into my office. The director will be here immédiatement.’

  Hopper, though, told me to stay outside. Through the closed door I could hear voices, although they weren’t raised. Some moments later a man in an expensive suit passed me and went in, and then an usher, who left again, almost immediately, with the woman. I still hadn’t seen Candy leave the hall.

  While I waited, Handley came in through the main entrance. He seemed to have sensed that something was wrong and looked around suspiciously.

  ‘Successful?’ he asked me.

  ‘There’ve been complications.’

  I was wondering whether I should give him any details, when the office door opened again and Hopper appeared.

  ‘Would you come inside,’ he invited, obviously suppressing his anger.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Handley.

  Hopper shook his head.

  In the office the director asked me, ‘‘You were bidding on behalf of this gentleman?’

  ‘Yes, for Mr Hopper.’

  The door opened and the auctioneer now entered. The director asked me, ‘Do you know the madwoman who was bidding against you?’

  I glanced at Hopper who gave the slightest shake of his head.

  ‘No,’ I said dutifully.

  ‘Never seen her before,’ affirmed Hopper.

  ‘Well, she’s just run off,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An usher had restrained her but she bit him and escaped. I ought to call the police.’

  ‘I don’t care about her,’ said Hopper reasonably. ‘But I do care about that lot.’

  ‘We will have to put it into next month’s auction.’

  ‘I would like to make the seller an offer for it now.’

  ‘But we can’t say how much it would have raised? There might have been another potential bidder who was put off by that woman.’

  ‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that means Brignole’s receives its share.’

  The auctioneer addressed me directly: ‘What was the maximum you were told to bid up to?’

  Without hesitation I said ‘A thousand euros.’

  He raised his eyebrows, looked at the auctioneer and told him to leave. When we were alone the director looked at Hopper, then back at me: ‘If you are willing to pay one thousand euros I will put it through as a sale, no questions asked.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Hopper. ‘Perhaps the woman was working for you? Your guide price was three to four hundred euros.’

  I wondered why Hopper was quibbling.

  ‘Eight hundred,’ suggested the auctioneer. ‘Otherwise you will have to wait until next month’s sale.’

  Hopper agreed and I passed over my credit card. It would probably result in my account becoming overdrawn, but the commission from Hopper would make amends. The man left the room with my card, regarding it suspiciously as though he thought it might be a fake.

  ‘Why did you say a thousand?’ asked Hopper. ‘For that box of old rubbish! You should’ve sa
id five hundred.’

  ‘It has to be worth his while.’

  ‘Maybe I do need Handley’s help. Wait here.’

  I did as I was told, though I feared for Candy. I hoped that she would have had the good sense to leave. The auctioneer returned and the money was debited from my card. I was handed a receipt and was told that I could collect the books. I obediently followed him back out into the reception area and was given a heavy box without a lid. He opened the door for me and seemed pleased when I left.

  I’d never seen such an unpromising lot. The books gave every impression that they had been stored outside for several months; most of them were misshapen with damp. As I carried them to where Hopper and Handley stood in conversation by the car I peered amongst those I could see on the top. There was nothing that looked as if it might be Hopper’s precious volume.

  They stopped talking as I approached. The car boot was opened and I put the box inside. Hopper bent over it with some distaste and pulled away those books he did not want. The volume he sought was tatty, a rusty-brown colour, and when he opened it the pages appeared stained.

  ‘Would you like to ride in the front?’ he asked me, unimpressed. ‘You’ll see the countryside better on the way back to Paris.’

  Whatever might have been wrong with my father earlier in the day, he no longer showed any sign of illness.

  ‘Had you told her about the book?’ he asked me.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did she explain why she was bidding for it?’

  ‘Nobody got a chance to talk to her; she ran off.’

  ‘Well, if she didn’t get the information from me or you, it must’ve come from Hopper himself. Do you think he might have told her to go to Saint-Quentin so that he could continue the games he’s been playing?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘More importantly, was he happy with the book?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I travelled back in the front of the car and he sat behind me, reading it, saying nothing.’

  ‘Did he reimburse you?’

  ‘No; I was just pleased to get out of the car. His chauffeur was Handley; the man Candy said did his dirty work for him.’

  The phone rang and my father walked back into the office saying, ‘If you can believe anything she says.’