by Mark Cassell
Was I going to accept a job as a chauffeur? Not an ideal job, but what really is?
After shaking Victor’s hand, I nursed crushed knuckles; the man had a mighty grip for a small guy. He gestured at a sofa, and paced before the room-length window, staring at his feet. He wore neither a tie nor any shoes…and he didn’t wear any socks, either. As he moved, his suit’s bagginess accentuated his spindly limbs, and behind him, the grey expanse of London wallowed beneath a clear sky.
The sofa folded around me and as I made myself comfortable—not too comfortable, this was a job interview after all—a lady with patterned fingernails handed me a mug of tea. The way she avoided eye contact with him suggested she wasn’t Victor’s daughter.
I reached out and made certain not to be scratched by her talons. Her perfume lingered. It clawed my nostrils.
His place didn’t have a TV, which I found remarkable—books were his thing. They were everywhere, whether flipped over like a tent or stuffed with markers. In places, precarious stacks of them rose from the wooden floor. Shelves lined two walls, where sections of reference volumes ranging from music to sea creatures remained untouched. The empty spaces, however, shared a common thread: the supernatural.
From somewhere behind me, I heard a door close.
“I won’t be seeing her again,” Victor said. “She makes a crap breakfast as well.”
I wanted to ask as well as what? but thought better of it.
“My friend,” he added, “how was the journey over?”
Calling me his friend made me smile, having never before met. “Long way from the village to the city.”
“I have never been a fan of public transport. Smells. I grew up in Sevenoaks. Not far from Mabley Holt and Periwick House.” He placed a hand flat on the glass and squinted at the only cloud in view. “Things are different here. Up here.”
Up was accurate, geographically from Kent as well as in altitude: Victor’s flat stood on the outskirts of London, on the eighth floor.
“Nice place.” In all honesty it was too contemporary for me. One day, I’d have my own place, and it wouldn’t look like this. But that felt so far away. First, I needed a job.
In a flat like Victor’s, with the cooker—which even had a pile of books on it—in one corner and a bed in the other, it was difficult to relax. There were two doors: one through which I’d entered, and the other I guessed to be the bathroom. This place was certainly large enough for him and his books. I sat on one of two sofas, the only one almost free of books, and between them crouched a coffee table. Plastic and very 70s.
On the table, upturned and impressive, lay an aged book. A peculiar symbol squinted from its worn spine: two triangles with facing apexes, one hollow, the other solid, and separated by a crude X. There was no title.
“I don’t like it,” Victor said.
I dragged my eyes from the curious tome. He spoke of his flat and not the book.
“It serves a purpose,” he continued. “A base if you will. I long for the simplicities of village life, where a population of no more than a hundred can chirp a friendly hello to one another on a morning dog walk. Somewhere I could go for an evening jog without needing to check my back pocket. Here, shadows follow us wherever we go, Leo. Even Mabley Holt isn’t without its fair share.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. The guy spoke about shadows. What the hell was he on about?
He blinked and said, “How’s Goodwin? How’s the House?” He raced across the room to stand before a bookcase. I began to suspect he was mad.
“He’s well,” I said after a moment. “House is thriving, and he’s hosting a classical concert this weekend.” I wanted to know more about the job in question, I didn’t want to talk about the House or Mabley Holt. Or Goodwin.
Victor gave me a strange glance.
“Tell me more about this job,” I said. This was about me, after all.
“When can you start?”
“What does it involve?”
“I need a driver. A chauffeur if you like. I can’t drive. Are you interested?”
I laughed. I needed a new start. A job. A new life. This wasn’t turning out how I’d expected.
Victor chuckled. “Would you like to start today?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It will be cash in hand, my friend,” he said, “and I’m a generous man.”
Goodwin had been more than generous, and now with Victor standing in front of me, I felt a little overwhelmed. New life. And today was all about my future. I needed this, even though being a chauffeur wasn’t my dream job, and perhaps it would remind me of my past. Somehow.
“Okay,” I said.
“Good.” He threw me a car key and I snatched it before it hit me in the face. It was one key and one fob, the BMW badge shiny and unscratched. I couldn’t remember what car I used to drive, but I was certain it wasn’t anything too expensive.
As I stood up, I had a flash of memory—it happened sometimes, seeing I’d lost most of it—where I drove a car. It was red, yet most recollections often featured something red, a significant colour. Red is also the colour of danger, something we’ve all come to learn. Even Mother Nature gives dangerous or poisonous creatures a hint of red: the black widow spider with its red hourglass stamp on its abdomen, for instance.
An hourglass… Often the image of an hourglass would tease me, the twin bulbs reflecting sunlight. Maybe the sun, or possibly something else. As quick as it came to mind, it would vanish. And as always, I’d be left with nothing more than frustration.
That’s what I felt then, and I ground my teeth.
Victor pointed at my mug.
“Finish your tea,” he said, and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He flexed his fingers. “Then you’ll drive me to a bookshop.”
New life.
With a wall of books behind him, I doubted he needed any more books, but I needed the money. I needed this.
I squeezed the car key. This was a start.
Victor already had his seat belt off, and as I pulled up the handbrake, he leapt from the car, eager as a kid. He wore shoes now—still no socks—and the leather gloves made his hands appear feminine. We were parked in an alleyway opposite a shop simply called Books. Its filthy windows and peeled frontage made me wonder what it was like inside.
“You can come in.” He slammed the door.
I followed, and moments later stepped over an unstable threshold. The bell above my head clanged and I hoped the thing wouldn’t fall from its housing. An aroma of coffee and books filled my nostrils.
Victor already stood at the counter, behind which stood a burly man with the heaviest of scowls.
“Victor Jacobs.” A shiny scar wriggled down his face.
“Lucas.”
I scanned the stacks of ready-to-tumble books. Near an archway stood a pile of split boxes, and bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling. In comparison to Victor’s flat, this place was even more untidy. A thin layer of dust covered everything. The room wasn’t large, made smaller by the crammed boxes, and led to a larger area beneath an archway framed by shelves held up by dubious brackets.
The two men didn’t shake hands, and I was ignored.
“Good to see you.” Victor peered up at the proprietor. It was as if he wanted to say something else, yet somehow couldn’t.
“Still searching?” Lucas asked. There was little friendliness about him. “Still playing the game?”
“It’s not a game, Lucas.”
“It was once, remember?” He held Victor’s gaze.
It annoyed me, being ignored like that. I walked closer to Victor.
“We were a lot younger,” he said.
“What brings you here?” There was something in the way Lucas said it. “What do you want?”
“I know I should have come to see you sooner. It’s been too long, my friend.”
“We were friends once,” Lucas said through yellow teeth.
“We still are. Still can be.”
&n
bsp; “Are you kidding? After what happened?”
I bounced my eyes between the two of them. What was all this?
“It wasn’t my fault.” Victor’s voice was small.
“You left me out in that jungle.”
“That was long ago.”
In his youth, Lucas probably hadn’t been bad looking, but the scar, the way it cleaved his face from forehead to chin, was ugly. I was thankful I had no scars like that. Having survived my accident was lucky enough, walking away without any visible scars even luckier. On the inside? Perhaps my brain looked like that.
I tried not to stare, and wondered how the big man got it.
“Yes,” Lucas said. “It was a long, long time ago.”
“I had no idea—”
“Look what they did to me.” Lucas pointed to his face.
I wanted to look away. What the hell were these guys talking about?
“Why are you bringing this up again?” Victor’s shoulders slumped. “Time passes. Fast. Sorry I’ve not visited sooner. I should have, I know.”
“It matters little to me.”
Victor’s eyes lingered on the man’s face, and then scanned the shelves around the room. “So much has happened between then and now.”
“And scars are permanent,” Lucas said, and followed Victor’s gaze. He still didn’t acknowledge me. The scar twitched and his eyes narrowed.
I thought perhaps he would punch Victor, and I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with that. After all, I was his driver, not his bodyguard.
Victor propped his elbows on the counter. “Lucas, I still think about that time.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“Please, you have to understand how it was for me. I nearly drowned. I’m sorry.”
“How about me? How about when they tortured me?”
My heart lurched. What had happened to him? Were they in a war? Which jungle was this?
“Lucas, seriously, my friend, this was years ago.”
“And I haven’t seen you in years.”
“I know and I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that far too often. Back then. And now.”
I felt a little awkward here, although I didn’t want to leave. Should I wander around the shop, have a nose through the books? I needed something to read. The last book I’d read was shit and I’d left it on a seat at the airport. I couldn’t even remember the title.
“It still pains me,” Victor said. “I was helpless. You know I was found floating—”
“I was there for days. In their hands. The evil little bastards.”
“Lucas—”
“And I still sleep with the light on.”
This I found hard to believe. Such a large man as Lucas, and he found comfort with a light on at night?
“What do you want, Victor?” He leaned forward, his knuckles ready to burst from fists which pushed into the counter. I was impressed Victor didn’t flinch. I would have.
I reckoned Victor could handle himself here, so I headed for the archway. It was intriguing, no doubting that, but it was no place for me. Their voices faded, absorbed by paper, as Victor mentioned a book about leaves. Victor didn’t seem the sort of man into gardening, nor anything green, I had to admit. Perhaps the ‘save the planet’ kind, but not as in grass and plants. I found it odd that we’d come to see a man he hadn’t contacted in years, all for a book he could buy in a garden centre. Or find on the Internet, for that matter, though I couldn’t recall seeing a computer at Victor’s flat.
Jungles and Victor almost drowning? Lucas tortured? I thought of Vietnam, but that was just a United States thing, wasn’t it? Sure, both men were probably old enough to have served in that war, but they’re British. I guessed they could’ve been journalists or photographers. I had no idea.
I shuffled along the corridors, sometimes sideways—and I’m not a big guy. Tall and short stacks of books heaped the floor in places, and it was a challenge not to knock any over. This place was more treacherous than Victor’s flat. I reached a corner and the shelves shot into the distance. Running parallel with them, the occasional strip light flickered. Some were dead.
I thumbed a few books as I scanned the rows, and soon made it back to the front of the shop.
The bell clanged and I heard Lucas greet a new customer with a bellowing hello. No names, this time. And friendlier.
I stepped aside for a young lady whose blonde curls filled my view. Her lipstick flashed a thank you. Victor stood near the entrance, holding the door open. A fire engine thundered up the road. Its siren filled the shop.
The girl hovered in the crime fiction section. She wore tight black jeans and a red jacket. I caught her eye—or rather, she caught me looking—and I turned away. I didn’t want to come across as some kind of pervert.
Victor’s eyebrows squeezed together, looking like his normal self. He turned to the proprietor. “Thanks, Lucas.”
The man didn’t reply. Again, it was as if I didn’t exist. The rude bastard.
We stepped into the street and I noticed Victor’s empty hands. I wanted to ask about Lucas and what had happened between them. The jungle? Torture? Victor nearly drowning? Having only known him for a couple of hours, I settled for, “On the drive over, I saw a huge Notcutts.”
“Eh?” He stopped as I dug in my pocket for the car key.
It was a lame comment and I knew it. There had been a reason why we’d come to that particular bookshop. “Yeah, the garden centre we passed coming off the motorway. They’ll have books on gardening. You’re looking for a book about leaves, right?”
For a moment his face remained blank, and then it cracked into the widest of grins.
“I just thought you could look there.” I thumbed the key fob and the BMW unlocked with a clunk. Sunlight burst from the bodywork, near blinding.
Victor laughed. A couple of passers-by eyed him with amusement.
Once in the car, I clicked my seat belt into place with deliberate attention.
“The Book of Leaves,” he said, as I released the handbrake, “isn’t a book on gardening. Not at all. There are many kinds of leaves, my friend. Many kinds.”
“What do you mean?”
“The word ‘leaf’ can also mean sin.”
“What are you talking about?” I didn’t know what to make of the guy.
“You’ll find out in good time,” he said.
CHAPTER 3
With Victor talking about sin, I’d not pressed him further. He was my boss after all. I drove him back to his flat in silence. Besides, he seemed to have a lot to think about. I enjoyed the quiet, and I enjoyed driving the BMW. It was a silver 7-series with less than a hundred miles on the clock and most of those were mine.
I hadn’t been back in the UK for long, and I already needed some time on my own. I left Victor at his flat and drove to the House. Raised voices in the lobby rushed towards me as I sprinted from the car. Rain pummelled the ground, the borders and driveway erupting. Lightning cracked the sky.
Beneath the portico, I shook myself. Relief, and I wasn’t sure whether it was the release of atmospheric pressure or that my first day at work was over. Or perhaps it was because I was finally in from the rain. The distance I’d covered wasn’t any further than twenty metres, yet my shirt stuck to my back.
Two people, anoraks dripping, blocked my way into the House. Voices spat from beneath the hoods.
“Pam, listen to me, I—”
“Shut up, Mick, not interested.”
“I—”
“No.”
“I—”
“Excuse me, please,” I said. This was ridiculous.
“Pam, the—”
“Mick.” A hand shot from a sleeve. It yanked the other’s collar. “Shut up. We’re late. It’s late.”
“Excuse me,” I said again, trying not to allow anger to leak into my voice. It was difficult. “Please, may I pass?”
“What?” The woman, Pam, spun round, her lips tight as if they’d been glued s
hut. I guessed Mick wished they were.
“Can I get through?”
Her feral glare held me for a second, and with a tut she pushed Mick backwards and he bumped the doorframe.
I felt sorry for the guy.
“Inside, you.” It felt as though the words were for me.
My boots squeaked as I hurried across the marble floor towards the staircase. No one manned reception. Goodwin’s office door was open, so I nosed in. He was shrouded in smoke while opposite him a woman, her face as sharp as her suit, spoke rapidly. Each word leapt around the room. “Even a hurricane wouldn’t stop this event from going ahead.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Goodwin waved me in. “Leo, meet Jocelyn.”
The woman beamed and slid her briefcase onto the desk. She stood up and in one stride met me at the door.
Goodwin added, “This is the son I never had: Leo.”
After two years, I still didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Pleasure.” She extended her hand.
“Hi.” I wasn’t sure which dwarfed me more, her heels or bosom.
“Jocelyn is our event organiser,” Goodwin explained. “The concert this weekend is in her more than capable hands.”
“That it is,” she said.
Goodwin puffed on the cigar.
“Well,” she added and grabbed her briefcase. Her engagement ring bulged between small fingers. “That about wraps it up anyway.”
“Don’t rush out because I’m here.” I backed out of the office. “Need to chill out for a bit. Not used to working.”
That was an understatement. I still couldn’t dislodge images of Lucas being tortured.
It wasn’t long after I’d made it to my room, showered, and gotten dressed, when a knock on the door stole me from my thoughts. Goodwin entered and stood beside me at the window. We peered through the rain-smeared glass.
“Once I get on my feet, I’ll be out of here,” I said. “Thanks for all this.”
“You’re sticking with the job then?”
“Yeah.” I thought of how Victor didn’t wear any socks.