by Philip Kerr
“There,” said Mr. Rapscallion. The upset he felt was clearly written on his face. And in his voice. “Just look what they did to my mummy. Ruined. That’s what it is. Ruined.”
“Couldn’t you just change the bandages?” suggested Billy.
“Bandages?” exclaimed Mr. Rapscallion.
“I mean, that’s what they did to me in the hospital, after my accident, when my old bandages got dirty. So why not just take the pink ones off and put some dirty new ones on?”
“These weren’t just any old bandages from a hospital, Billy,” explained Mr. Rapscallion. “These were proper mummy wrappings from a genuine mummy of the New Kingdom of Egypt, nineteenth dynasty. They were covered with…years, many years of dust from the real Valley of the Kings.”
“Yes, but would anyone know the difference?” asked Billy. “If you did just put ordinary hospital bandages on the mummy?”
“I would know the difference, Billy,” Mr. Rapscallion said stiffly. “All of my sideshows in the Haunted House of Books—my little horrors, as I call them—they are all as close to the real thing as I can make them.”
“Isn’t that very expensive?” asked Billy.
“Of course it’s expensive,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “But I have my standards, Billy. I have my standards. This is what gives me pleasure. It’s one of the reasons why this is no ordinary bookshop.”
Billy nodded. He could not disagree with the argument that he was in no ordinary bookshop.
“Did you find out who did it?” asked Billy. “Who it was that spray-painted your mummy?”
“The culprits are known to me, yes, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Their ugly little juvenile-delinquent faces were recorded on closed-circuit television.” His face wrinkled with distaste. “The police told me their names. Not that they did anything about it, of course. The police just bent their horrible little ears about damaging property and then let them go.
“Their names are Wilson Dirtbag, Simon Snotnose, Robbie Roach and Holly Hurl; Hugh Bicep, Brad Undershort and Lenore Gas; Michael Mucus, Kate Ramsbottom, Kevin Clipshear, Wilbur Dogbreath and Lloyd Sputum. And when I die you will find those names written on my heart, Billy.”
Mr. Rapscallion ushered Billy out of the Curse of the Pharaohs room.
“Yes, the whole incident left me feeling quite depressed. I even saw a psychiatrist about it. The one who helped me with my number thing.”
“And did it help?” asked Billy.
“Yes. It did. He advised me to write a song about it. That’s what I do when I need to get something out of my system now. I write a song. Would you like to hear it, Billy?”
“I’d love to hear it.”
They went down to the entrance hall, where Mr. Rapscallion sat down at the grand piano. To Billy’s surprise, this was in tune.
Mr. Rapscallion composed himself and started to play.
Billy thought he played very well. And so, it seemed, did the other customers in the bookshop, because they came out of the various sections where they’d been book-browsing to listen.
Mr. Rapscallion played for several minutes. And then he began to sing.
“The Children of Today,” a song by Rexford Rapscallion
VERSE 1
Wilson Dirtbag, Simon Snotnose,
Robbie Roach and Holly Hurl.
We’ve every little nasty habit
A boy or girl can exhibit.
Here you see, one group of us.
Yes there is a troop of us,
Nasty little brutes who must do bad.
We know we’re pretty handy
When it comes to stealing candy;
But we’d much prefer to stay in bed all day.
Our mothers and fathers are encouraging,
When what we need’s a walloping,
Or a clip around the ear.
Instead give each one of us the benefit of the doubt,
We loudly shout,
But getting it, we laugh and sneer.
CHORUS 1
The children of today
Are such a wicked streak.
They scrawl things on the wall
But think reading’s for a geek.
Then there’s the fact they swear so much,
Routinely call you such-and-such,
Have manners that belong in a hutch
To a horrible guinea pig,
A rabbit or a rat,
Or even worse than that.
They seldom do their homework,
Or help around the house.
If you ask them they’ll just smirk
Or begin to loudly grouse.
And if someone else excuses them,
And argues it’s all okay,
The rest of us will say—Baloney!
It’s the children of today.
VERSE 2
Michael Mucus, Kate Ramsbottom,
Kevin Clipshear and Lloyd Sputum.
Here you see, just four of us.
Yet there are still more of us,
We’re the kids who’ll make you sick of us.
Since we’re appallingly behaved
We watch TV all day and half the night
Or play computer games and fight
Whatever monster some nerd created
But our amusement’s never sated
By destruction on a small square screen.
So we’d much prefer to have been
And smashed your window for the kick.
On cell phones we’ll text illiterate tripe
To some poor bullied type
Even though it’s rather sick.
CHORUS 2
The children of today
Are much nastier than of old
They don’t get up in the morning,
Or go to bed when told.
There’s the boy who threw his weight about.
His mother thought him such a lout
She bopped him on the snout,
And the boy let out such a wail,
That his mother’s now in jail.
The girl who kicked her sister
Got taken off to court.
She called the judge a blister,
Then a blackhead and a wart
Not to mention a nasty smell.
The judge ordered her to a cell
In which she should be locked.
He was shocked
By the children of today.
VERSE 3
Wilbur Dogbreath, Hugh Bicep,
Brad Undershort and Lenore Gas.
We can’t see the point of this or that,
We’d much prefer to set fire to a cat,
Or maybe an automobile,
But only after we’ve tried to steal
The contents of the trunk.
School we don’t believe important
Which is why we’re mostly playing truant.
We’d rather hang around the city streets,
Like a gang of idle deadbeats
Without a future or a purpose.
You’ll find our expression is morose,
Each of us you’ll probably think’s a punk.
So don’t be fooled we’re actually quite vile
Given an inch we’ll take a mile
And turn your property into junk.
CHORUS 3
The children of today
Have the chance to turn out well,
We’ve only ourselves to blame
If they make our lives a hell.
The court appoints them a defender
Who provides a story to embroider
And helps them get away with murder,
Or at least that’s how it seems.
So to parents we would remind
Sometimes it’s cruel to be kind.
You have to teach kids right from wrong,
And personal responsibility.
So that to something they’ll belong
And contribute to society.
But if we don’t, then we’re in trouble
; This song’s incontrovertible,
Tomorrow’s citizens we must develop
Or we’ll simply end up
With the children of today.
When Mr. Rapscallion had finished singing his song, the customers on the gallery applauded enthusiastically. Billy had noticed some of them joining in the chorus, which made him think that they must have heard the song before. Mr. Rapscallion himself stood up and took several bows, as if he had been onstage in a concert hall.
Billy applauded as well, although he was just a little shocked by what he had heard. He was well aware that some children were naughty. And that some children from King Herod the Great Middle School could be very bad indeed. It could even be said that, sometimes, they were actually wicked. All over the walls and sidewalks of Hitchcock there was graffiti that had been put there by the KHG. And there was no doubt that much of this graffiti said some very wicked things indeed. Much of it about the KHG principal, Miss Dorkk.
Billy hoped Mr. Rapscallion didn’t think he—Billy—was as bad as some of those other children. So he decided to try to make up for their behavior with some exemplary behavior of his own. And remembering that Mr. Rapscallion couldn’t even afford to take on a book clerk, he said, “Mr. Rapscallion, sir? I’d love to help out around here. And I wouldn’t want any money for it. Helping out here would be a pleasure.”
“Thanks, Billy, I appreciate the offer. But I couldn’t let you work for nothing. I’d be taking advantage of your generosity.”
“I could volunteer,” insisted Billy. “Perhaps we could even call it an internship. And since I don’t actually buy any of the books, it sounds to me like a fair exchange. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mr. Rapscallion nodded thoughtfully. “All right. It’s a deal. When I need some help, I’ll let you know. But I’d like to make one thing quite clear, Billy.”
“What’s that?” asked Billy.
“The only children I don’t like are just a dozen or so nasty ones. The kind of children who could make an Egyptian mummy look like a giant pink rabbit. Most children I like. I only ever wanted to scare the kids because I thought they might appreciate it. Kids like a good scare, don’t they?”
“Sometimes,” said Billy. “Yes. A good scare is sometimes the best fun there is.”
Mr. Rapscallion nodded again. “I just want you to know that, Billy, in case you think I’m a bad man.”
“I know that,” said Billy. “I wouldn’t have volunteered to help if I thought any different.”
When Billy came into the shop the very next day, Mr. Rapscallion said, “Good morning to you, Billy.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Rapscallion.”
“Billy, I wonder if I could impose on your kind offer of yesterday and ask you to mind the shop for half an hour while I go to the bank.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted.”
“There’s just one thing I have to warn you about,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And it’s this.” He placed his hands on Billy’s shoulders and steered him behind the metallic brown cash register.
“Is it a ghost?”
“No.”
Up close Billy thought the cash register was the size of a Russian czar’s throne and almost as shiny.
“Ever heard of Joe Louis?” Mr. Rapscallion asked him.
“No.”
“Joe Louis was the greatest heavyweight boxing champion in history. His nickname was the Brown Bomber. I call this the Brown Bomber on account of the cash register’s oxidized brown finish. And because it has a heck of a right hook. In other words, this register can hit you pretty good if you’re not expecting it.”
Mr. Rapscallion moved Billy to one side of the register. Then he reached out and carefully, as if he had been touching something very hot, pressed one of the keys. Immediately the heavy cash drawer shot out like something on the end of a powerful piston. At the same time a bell rang loudly like at the end of a round in a boxing match.
“I still forget sometimes,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And it catches me in the belly. Which is why I always remember that it’s called the Brown Bomber.”
He slammed the drawer shut.
Billy nodded.
“All right.” And then Mr. Rapscallion went out of the shop.
Billy stood proudly behind the cash register. To the book-loving boy, this seemed like a dream come true: him, left in charge of a bookshop. And not just any bookshop—he was in charge of the Haunted House of Books.
The telephone rang. It was a company selling designer kitchens, and although Billy couldn’t imagine Mr. Rapscallion being very interested in the company’s half-price sale, he took a number anyway and told the salesman he’d pass on a message.
The next thing that happened was that the mailman turned up. The mailman wasn’t a man at all, but a woman, and she seemed pleased to see Billy and talked to him for several minutes before handing the boy an important-looking envelope with the letters “IRS” on it.
As the mailwoman walked out of the door, a girl walked in and gave the place a dim once-over before approaching the cash register and Billy. Her face was pretty and round with big eyes, only she was dressed older than she looked. She was wearing jeans and a skirt, a hoodie and a pair of sneakers. Over her shoulder was a fisherman’s bag and on her head was a green cap with a picture of Che Guevara.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Is my dad around?”
Billy shook his head.
“Good,” she said.
“You must be Altaira,” said Billy. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
The girl winced. “Nobody calls me that.”
“What do they call you?” asked Billy.
“Redford,” said the girl. “Like the famous movie star.”
“Sounds a bit like your dad’s name,” said Billy. “Rexford?”
“That’s not why I chose it,” she said stiffly.
“But isn’t that a man’s name?” asked Billy.
“I don’t think that sort of thing matters, do you?” She wasn’t looking for an answer to the question. “Names aren’t gender specific. Not anymore. There are models who call themselves Kelly, soccer players called Silvinho and basketball stars called Amar’e and LeBron.”
“I guess you’re right.” Billy shrugged. “My name is Billy,” he said. “It’s short for William. Your dad stepped out for half an hour to go to the bank.”
Redford pulled a face. “You look kind of young to be working in a place like this.”
“I’m just helping him out. I’m a volunteer. An intern.”
“That sounds just like my dad. Get someone to work for him without paying them any money. What a cheapskate. You’re being taken advantage of, do you know that? In case you didn’t notice, this place isn’t a charity shop. They do expect to try and turn a profit, you know.”
“Actually, it was my idea for me to work here,” said Billy.
“I doubt that. You’ve no idea how devious he can be.”
“No, really. In the beginning he was against the idea. He took quite a bit of persuading. And I’m the same age as you, Altaira. I mean, Redford. Besides, it’s not a bar, it’s a bookshop.”
Redford gave the shop a withering look. “Really? You could have fooled me.” She shook her head. “Who buys all this junk, anyway? No, wait, I’ll tell you. No one. There’s a layer of dust on some of these books that’s as thick as an old encyclopedia.”
“As a matter of fact, we have lots of regular customers. There’s Father Merrin, of course. Miss Danvers. Dr. Saki. Mr. Stoker. Mr. Quiller-Couch. Mr. Pu Sung Ling. Miss Maupassant. Montague James.”
Redford laughed scornfully. “I’ve seen them. Those aren’t customers. They’re just creeps and losers who come in here to get out of the rain, or because there’s nowhere else for them to go in Hitchcock. Most of them are even too weird for the library, and that’s saying something. Nobody ever actually buys a book in here. They sell more stuff in a funeral parlor.”
“That’s a little harsh,” said Bill
y.
She turned and walked back to the door.
“Do you want to leave your dad a message?” said Billy.
“No,” she said. “Why would I want to do that? Besides, haven’t you heard of texts? Email? If I wanted to send him a message, I certainly wouldn’t trust a mere intern to do it.”
“Then I don’t understand. You said you were glad he wasn’t around and you don’t want to leave a message. So why did you come in here?”
“You ask a lot of questions for a volunteer, do you know that?”
“I don’t mean to pry,” said Billy. “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”
Redford winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I guess I just wanted to know that he’s still alive.”
“You’re very like him, you know,” said Billy. “Tough on the outside. Not so tough on the inside, perhaps.”
Redford Rapscallion rolled her eyes. “Now I really am going. Before I barf.”
She went out of the shop even as two customers came toward Billy from opposite ends. One was Miss Danvers and the other was Mr. Stoker. Each of them was carrying a book and it seemed clear to Billy that he was about to make his first two sales.
Mr. Stoker, a tall man with a beard, arrived first. He wore a suit that seemed almost too large for him and a tie with little golden symbols on the dark silk. He was also very polite and insisted that Billy should serve the lady first, and Billy took this to mean Miss Danvers.
Miss Danvers was wearing the same dark green leather coat. Underneath it she wore a black dress with a little white collar that made her look a bit like a nun. She handed Billy a copy of Rigor Mortis: 19 by Esteban Rex and a fifty-dollar bill to cover the $39.99 price.
Carefully, Billy pressed the fifty-dollar key on the register and narrowly missed being struck by the drawer. He put the fifty-dollar bill in the tray for large notes and took out the customer’s change.
“Would you like a paper bag?” he asked her politely. “For your book?”
Miss Danvers let out a weary sigh. “Do I look like someone who would want a paper bag?” she asked Billy.
“I don’t know,” said Billy.
“The green coat should tell you something, boy,” she said coldly. “I’m green.”
“Oh,” said Billy, still none the wiser.
“All bags and packaging in shops have a cost to the environment,” she said. “Didn’t you know that?”