Lee Raven, Boy Thief

by Zizou Corder

  This took my thought back to the young man who had brought it round and to whom I had paid all that money.

  How had he got his hands on the book? How had it got from Maggs to him? Who was he?

  I pictured him in my mind and another question rose quietly up.

  Why did he look so like the young thief who was making my life hell?

  I sat quietly, and I thought, and I thought, and I thought.

  And then I decided to take a step back in this puzzle. I would go and see Mr Edward Maggs.

  CHAPTER 30

  Mr Maggs

  Eliane was drinking hot chocolate on the roof. I took this as a good sign. She had been so thin and unhappy, and surely chocolate and the view out over the cherry blossom of London would cheer her up. I was desperate for news of Janaki, and to know that at least one of the young women for whom I felt responsible was all right made me feel a little better about that.

  Eliane had told the police everything. She told them about the drug dealers in Paris and they said they would look into it. I had told them about the boy who had stolen the book. They said they would look into it. Sergeant Foley was very kind and helpful. And then he came back and told us that the police were at a loss. None of these leads led anywhere. He was frustrated about it. He was very sorry. There were hundreds of drug dealers in Paris. He couldn’t really go and ask them all if they or their bosses were interested in old books, could he? Nobody knew who had killed her father. It was, they said, a professional job – as if a gangster had done it, or an army hitman. No clues at all. He had been shot, the gun had been found in the lake with no fingerprints. They had been unable to trace it. Its manufacture numbers had been filed off; it had never been registered anywhere, no ID chip, nothing. There were no witnesses other than the person who had heard the cry of ‘Eliane!’ in the night. And the boy thief couldn’t be found.

  And that was it.

  I went and joined her in the evening sunshine. She was sitting on the lead tiles, looking out over the park where her father had died.

  ‘Monsieur Maggs?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘Where is the book now?’

  ‘With the boy who took it.’

  ‘Monsieur Maggs…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My father left it with you because he trusted you. I leave it with you also. I think I know he left it to me in his will – but I do not want that book. It has made too much pain in my family. But one thing I ask you.’

  ‘What, my dear?’

  ‘Do not sell it. Do not let anyone have it for money. This writer who says my father gave it to her – she is lying. Do not let her have it. Do not sell it. Keep it quiet and safe. Only if somebody understands it let them see it. It is a strong and strange thing. I cannot tell you all that it might be… Keep it safe.’

  I wondered if the grief had disturbed her sanity. But she seemed quite rational, apart from on the subject of the book.

  ‘But – Eliane…’ I said. ‘My dear – as you have raised the subject, please allow me to… Eliane, your father told me the book contained Mesopotamian legends. But when I looked at it…’

  She turned to me and smiled. ‘It contained something else?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I haven’t mentioned this to anyone because I had no time to confirm my hopes… but why would your father say that what looks very like Shakespeare’s diaries were Mesopotamian legends? Why did he tell me this story about not being allowed to look inside? What is all this about a family curse?’

  ‘Shakespeare’s diaries? Oh!’ And she began to laugh.

  ‘What!’ I demanded. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Oh, monsieur,’ she said. ‘Oh, I am sorry. Oh, my lord. Well.’ She sighed. ‘Monsieur, I will have to tell you. Yes. I wasn’t going to, but I have thought it through and if you are to keep the book, if we ever get it back, then you need to know. We are not in the Middle Ages now.’ She looked at me closely. ‘You would never have the patience and obedience my father had. I will tell you what I found out simply because I was a naughty curious little girl who on one occasion did what she had been told not to do and opened a book she had been forbidden to open. Then you will understand exactly how desperate I was – desperate – to save my brother. You will know why I am to blame for my father’s death. And you will know what you are dealing with.’

  And she told me. How the book, each time you go back to the beginning, has a new story in it. How as a girl she would sneak to it when her parents were out, and read and read and read. How as she grew older the stories grew with her. How they were always right for her mood and the moment. As if the book knew what it was giving her each time.

  I couldn’t quite understand what she was saying and made a stupid answer.

  ‘So it’s not Shakespeare’s diary?’ I said.

  ‘Shakespeare’s diary is what it knew you would like,’ she said.

  ‘How right it was,’ I murmured. I was keenly disappointed. But at the same time, my god! My god, what a thing! If it is real, my god!!

  ‘And where is it from? What is its history? Such a thing must have made itself known before…’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It had been in the family for many years, but before me the instruction not to open it was respected.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know where we got it from.’

  But as she spoke, I realized that I knew something of it myself.

  The Book of Nebo. The old legends.

  I must ring the British Museum immediately – somebody in the Mesopotamian department would be able to tell me all about it.

  Oh, my days…

  That was when the doorbell rang. I jumped up and rushed down the stairs. Perhaps it was news of Janaki!

  It was a very over-made-up young woman.

  ‘Mr Maggs,’ she said, smiling, ‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you. I am Nigella Lurch, the authoress. May I come in?’

  Perhaps she knew something. Cautiously, I led her into my study.

  ‘I am so concerned about the lack of progress by the police in poor Ernesto’s murder,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you had heard anything.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said truthfully.

  She didn’t seem to know that Eliane de Saloman was here. I wondered if she even knew that Eliane existed. I wondered if she had ever even met Mr de Saloman. I wondered – and then it hit me.

  She knew the book’s secret.

  Why else would a total stranger claim to have been given an old book by a murdered man? Why else would she offer this great reward?

  She knew what the book was.

  She was looking at me now, bright and smiley. Lying toad.

  ‘And of course the book he so kindly gave me before he died…’ she said. ‘I suppose you haven’t heard anything… since it was stolen…’ I knew what she was getting at. Since it was stolen from here, implying it was all my fault. Her property, and my fault. Well, it was my fault it had been stolen, but it wasn’t her book, or her business.

  Perhaps she had murdered him! Or had him murdered!

  I would tell Sergeant Foley.

  Oh. Tell him what – that the book is an ancient mythological book with magic powers? I can imagine what he would say to that! No. But I would tell him she desperately wanted it and should be investigated.

  I smiled at her.

  ‘I’m afraid I have heard nothing at all, Ms Lurch,’ I said. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, smiling back at me.

  And that was it.

  After she left, I rang Janaki’s mobile number again. I wished I had paid more attention when she had taught me how to text. I would have used any method I could to get in touch with her. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since I heard from her and I was worried sick.

  CHAPTER 31

  Janaki

  So there we were in Norwich, drinking tea in a cafe again, armed with food, water, sleeping bags, wellies and a couple of waterproofs. Lee seemed to have plen
ty of money. Lord knows where he got it from. He’d found a special waterproof bag for the book as well, and wrapped it in it, and tucked it back inside his jacket.

  ‘Where are we going, Lee?’ I asked at last. I’d been desperate to ask since we got in the cab.

  ‘We’re walking,’ he said.

  ‘Walking where?’ I asked cautiously.

  I could see he didn’t want to tell me.

  ‘We’re walking east,’ he said finally.

  East!

  ‘East is the Drowned Lands,’ I said. ‘The border is right here. We’re not allowed. It’s dangerous. All washed away, remember? Perilous swamps and sea currents? What are you talking about? We’ll never get through and if we do we’ll drown too. The quicksand’ll get us. There’s nothing there anyway. Why do you want to go there? Don’t be crazy. Don’t you mean west?’

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell me.

  ‘You can go back if you want,’ he said, cool as you like.

  ‘No,’ I replied firmly. ‘Just explain to me what’s going on. Where we’re going.’

  ‘If you want to come with me,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to trust me.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘You’re full of ultimata, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘Bossy. All right. I’ll just go to the loo and then I’ll follow you blindly into god only knows what.’

  So I went to the bathroom and I got out my phone. I’d been keeping it turned off. I didn’t want to remind Lee that I had independent connection to the rest of the world. He was so touchy… but now, finally, I was able to speak to Mr Maggs.

  He was so relieved to hear my voice and at the sound of his I began to realize what a desperate situation I was in.

  ‘Mr Maggs,’ I said, when he had calmed down a bit, ‘listen, I’m all right. I’m with Joe English, only his name is Lee Raven, and he’s all right…’

  At this Mr Maggs huffed and puffed a bit.

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure he’s all right. He’s got some bad habits but he has a good heart – trust me, Mr Maggs. He has the book – it was damaged –’

  Here he gave me three minutes on why we should’ve brought it back to the shop for mending.

  ‘Lee is very attached to the book, Mr Maggs. Nigella Lurch got hold of it somehow, and it was damaged, and Lee now just wants to…’

  How could I explain this without letting on what the book was?

  Then Mr Maggs said, ‘How much do you know about the book, Janaki?’

  Ah. He knew all about it then.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know it is… special.’

  ‘He must bring it back,’ he said. ‘Please. Persuade him.’

  ‘He thinks the police are after him for Mr de Saloman’s murder. He won’t come.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We’re – we’re in Norwich. We’re going into the Drowned Lands.’

  There was a horrified silence.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ he said at last, and his voice drew smaller and tighter.

  I was so ashamed to worry him like this. I had to sound confident – far more confident than I felt – to reassure him.

  ‘It’s his plan,’ I said. ‘He seems to think he knows what he’s doing – Listen, I have to go. I’m taking too long, he’ll get suspicious. I’ll ring you again. I –’

  I couldn’t do it. I rang off. I didn’t want him to hear me cry.

  Oh, lord, what was I doing? Was I doing the right thing?

  I heard in my mind again the book saying, ‘Stay with me’, and Lee saying, ‘I ain’t going nowhere.’ I know he’s not a bad boy.

  I can’t let him go off alone with the book. They both need me. And I am carrying the honour of the House of Maggs.

  And then we left the cafe, and once we were out of town we pulled on our kit, and we walked and walked till the road suddenly disappeared from beneath our feet, to be replaced by a salty dark swirl of shallow sea water.

  The great dark eastern sea, the drowning sea, spread out before us, shallow, treacherous and cold. Beneath it, washed away by it, undermined by it, still bravely sticking up through it, were the remains of East Anglia: the cities and fields, cathedrals and houses, farms and factories, the broads and beaches.

  ‘High tide,’ Lee murmured. ‘Head north.’

  I followed him. The wind off the sea was keen, and I pulled my coat collar round me and tucked in my scarf, but even so it slid cold fingers down inside my clothes. We were walking on long scrubby rough grass, the kind that cuts your legs when it whips against them, leaving the long rolling waves to our right.

  It grew darker. There was a small moon, high and solid in the clouds. The going was tough. I was shivering and sweaty at the same time. Night-time drew in and I walked on through it.

  After about a mile and half, Lee suddenly said, ‘Here we go!’

  I nearly tripped over it. Something solid and rough in the reeds. It was a boat.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said he.

  ‘But where are we going?’

  I was terrified. No way was I getting in that tiny boat to go out on this treacherous sea, with all the ruins of the old towns and villages under the shallow water, bits of them sticking up, sharp, at night, in this wind, by moonlight, with a thieving boy…

  ‘Janaki,’ he said, and for the first time he touched me. He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Look at me,’ he said. I couldn’t see him anyway. The clouds were scudding over the moon in tatters.

  ‘I am not putting you at risk the way you think. I wouldn’t do that to myself and I wouldn’t do it to the book. Just shut up and we’ll get on with it. We’re going in the boat, not very far. I know where we’re going. All right?’

  It wasn’t all right by a long chalk. But there didn’t seem to be any choice.

  The water eddied and swirled around my feet as I climbed into the little boat. Lee got the oars. They were locked up but he seemed to have a key for the padlock. This reassured me – up to a point.

  Almost as soon as we pushed off, the sea wanted to befuddle and thwart us, sending us this way and that with contradictory currents and waves. Lee took the oars and handled it. He found a path. He rowed us – straight out from the low, vulnerable land.

  He seemed to know where he was going. The sea grew calmer. He was counting strokes, and changing course from time to time, and listening to the sounds of the sea. Once or twice he touched the bottom with his oar and pushed us off again like a gondolier. I sat in the stern, shaking with fear, clutching my coat around me, shoulders hunched and jaw tense.

  After about twenty minutes he said to me, ‘Do you see a shadow to the left?’

  I looked. Left was north. Shadow? It was all shadow. I couldn’t even make out the horizon where the dark sea met the dark sky.

  And then I did. Darker on the dark sea, I saw several. Some were low. Some were sharper, larger and angular. One seemed to have arms, stretching out. Behind them all loomed a great ring, standing high in the night sky, a silhouette of starlessness. A shaft of moonlight shone on it and I saw it was a real thing, something solid. Further over, something was flapping.

  I heard a high distant creaking.

  Lee pulled the boat round and headed towards the low, looming shadows.

  I bit my lip.

  One of them was drawing really very near.

  And when he rowed us right into it, I screamed out loud.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said, and rowed us through a big hole, an entrance of some kind, as if into a cave. The darkness became much smaller around us. The moon disappeared. And Lee pulled the boat over, and fumbled, and anchored it.

  CHAPTER 32

  Lee

  We spent the night in our sleeping bags, in the boat, anchored inside the old concrete skating pipe. Not exactly comfortable. Ate some biscuits. Got some kip. It was all right.

  First light woke us. A few shady fingers of grey came in the entrance at each end. Crike but it was cold. Janaki stirred, and sat up, and burst in
to tears.

  Looking around at the slimy concrete and the dull grey expanse beyond, I can’t say I blamed her.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Sun’ll be up soon. It’ll warm up. We’ll straighten things out.’

  I got up, stretching out my cramped and twisted legs. The water was about a foot deep, flat and sheltered. I pulled on my wellies.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll find a gaff and I’ll dry some weed and we can have a fire…’

  That livened her up. ‘A fire? We’re in the middle of the sea. How are we going to have a fire?’ But she sat up, and scratched her head wildly so her hair all stood out, and she asked for a bottle of water.

  I waded out and climbed up the concrete steps on to the roof, and looked out over our peculiar haven and its mad landscape. Soon enough, she joined me.

  ‘Oh, my days,’ she said, staring around her. ‘What is it?’

  All around us were the skeletons of giant machinery, up to their knees in long rolling sea. Huge rusted hulks, collapsed or lurching in the seabed, still rooted in their twentieth-century concrete, but ravaged by twenty-first-century sea levels. You might think they were scaffolds and cranes and terraces from sports grounds, reduced to their iron frames, but for the last remnants of tattered and faded decoration and revelry that still hung from them. A tall round twisting structure had a few painted candy stripes just visible at the top, where the water hadn’t battered it quite so much. A framework like a great frozen octopus, legs awry, still had a little pointy boat hanging from one or two of its limbs, a spaceship perhaps, with a shiny number eight on it. A couple of other spaceships lay nose first in the water underneath it, where they had crashlanded. Barnacles clung to their rusted upturned bottoms. A huge flapping sign hung down from a crane arm, green and yellow remains of a flowery design in its corners, and the blackened stubs of a hundred missing light bulbs studding the edges. From the great geometric circle, still towering above the rest, small cabs hung and creaked in the sea breeze. All it needed was little human skeletons in them, shrieking and waving and losing their caps and popcorn.