by Richard Lee
“Oh, yes,” the man said, pulling his wallet out. He produced a business card and started toward the counter. “I own Riley and Hans Antiques. Have you heard of us?”
“Who hasn’t? My father received your magazine every month. The subscription was changed over to me when I took over the shop.” Peter didn’t add that the large envelopes they arrived in had remained unopened, except for a couple of issues on a small magazine stand in the toilet.
“We are visiting all the shops that order our magazine. We’re especially interested in shops that have been constant members for more than five years. That is why I am here. Well, it is the primary reason. I had given up on this place until I found that book. Unfortunately, it is gone, but you have proved yourself to be knowledgeable in antiques. A rare gift among the younger generation.” He reached the counter and froze. His eyes were locked in a position next to Peter’s empty coffee cup.
“What?”
The man’s lip trembled. “That’s the book,” he stuttered. “That’s the book I’ve spent nine years looking for.”
“Nine years? And you didn’t buy it on the spot?”
“One must have patience and check all details. I’ve found many reprints and forgeries in my search. Although I was almost positive about this book.” The man smiled. “Old habits die hard.”
“It’s three hundred dollars,” Peter said, knowing full well what his next question would be.
“Do you take Visa?”
“Not really,” Peter answered. Visa meant payment straight into his bank account, which also meant he wouldn’t see a cent of it. The bank was poised to take everything, including his account.
“I don’t carry that much cash on me.”
Peter decided to be honest. He liked this guy. The guy had something about him that made him likeable. Peter told the truth about his business and what was happening to it.
The man listened carefully and surprised Peter by saying, “Riley and Hans are looking to expand business into New Zealand. We have already spoken to another dealer in Auckland and one in Wellington.”
“What did they say, sir?” Peter wanted to know.
The man smiled. “Sir? Please call me Hans Gurber.”
“Okay.”
“All mergers take time and effort. The companies must come to an understanding between what each wants. Then you go from there.” Hans looked at his watch. “I must be going. I’ll be back in New Zealand in three months. Let’s talk more then.”
“I couldn’t hold on for three months.”
“Then I’ll have to have that vase and this book via Visa.” Hans smiled.
Peter’s head reeled. Two thousand, eight hundred bucks! The bank would be his friend again, although not a very trusting friend. He would be almost out of the red, just a few thousand dollars shy. And a merger with a large company could very well save him.
Hans paid with his Gold Visa and left with a promise to return. Peter trusted him and looked forward to their meeting. In the meantime, he would study antiques and put that Internet thingy on hold.
After Hans departed, he poured another cup of coffee and contemplated the problem of the bookcase. He was worried there might be more valuable books in there, but on second thought, if there were more, Hans would have found them. He looked at the vase Hans would collect on his return. He still found it hard to believe two and a half thousand dollars had sat in front of him all this time. Two and a half! And to think that Meph-Man had almost kicked it over when he attacked.
The agent of Hell and his promise of all wishes fulfilled. The Meph-Man and his hints of...Peter didn’t want to think of the hints. He thought of the wishes and he knew what he would wish for first.
That book. He had to have that book. He had already agreed in his mind to accept any and all of the terms printed in those pages. No matter what they were, although he had a pretty fair idea of what those terms would be.
Fuck it, he thought, looking at the bookcase. Best to stack those books outside for the garbage collector in the morning and be done with the hassle.
Peter decided it was the best idea he’d had all day and proceeded with the job at hand. It took thirty minutes to stack the tomes outside. His back and face dripped an ocean of sweat and he was breathing hard. The shop would look bare if he threw away the bookcase. The thought had crossed his mind of doing just that but he liked the musky smell that came with old books and furniture. He decided to keep it.
He listened to the radio as he dismantled it. A couple of people knocked on the shop door but he ignored them, and after a few more knocks they went away.
Humming to a song, Peter’s heart skipped a beat as the bookcase shifted slightly and he heard something thump to the floor. He raced to the side of the bookcase and started to pull at the bottom corner. He yanked at it, not caring if the bookcase should fall and smash half his stock. He needed that book. And there it was. He could only see the edge if it. It was very thin. What little light graced it from the bulb overhead showed it to be covered in a thick layer of dust.
There wasn’t yet enough room in the gap for his arm to fit through, and judging by the position of the book, he doubted if his arm could even reach that far. It was dead centre of the bookcase. He was going to have to turn the heavy beast almost ninety degrees to get it.
All good things never come easy, he told himself as he pulled again.
The bookcase tilted and Peter swore. Jumping to his feet and moving in front of it, he pushed forward. It steadied. The only direction this bookcase was going to move was down and he didn’t want that. Perhaps he could use the vacuum cleaner funnel. It might be long enough.
Taking a second look at how far away the book was, he saw it sitting at the edge, no more than an inch in. He wondered how it had moved. But his question did not require an answer.
He bent down and picked it up. It was very thin. Taking a seat against the bookcase, he examined the book. The cover was leather with a branding print of a circle with a couple of upside down triangles in the centre. There was faded writing around the circle. He tried to make it out but failed.
Gently he opened the cover and found the first page. It was titled in English: Contract. The rest was written in ancient script. After a moment of staring at it, he realized the meaning of the words. Like a language he hadn’t used for years, it suddenly all made sense.
He decided to skip the contract and just look at the other pages to see what they offered. He found the second page to be part two of the contract. There was a long line at the bottom of the page.
This must be where I sign up, he told himself.
He turned to the next page and found it blank. The following pages were also blank. The entire book was blank. At first he thought he was being tricked, or something to that effect, then he remembered the Meph-Man telling him to agree and his wishes would come true. Signing is what he probably meant. And he didn’t think a pen would be good enough.
He didn’t want to prick himself. The thought of the pain held him at bay, wondering if he should try a pen first. It was then he noticed the paper wasn’t standard paper. It was a type of leather. Human skin came to mind, but he quickly pushed that thought away and went to the kitchen looking for a safety pin. He found one in the kitchen drawer next to the stove.
It took a couple of minutes for him to prick himself deeply enough to draw blood. When it finally came, he smeared the blossoming red liquid on the line.
Instantly the book enlarged. It grew in volume and width. Peter dropped it in fright. He jumped up and pushed himself against the wall. His eyes were wide-open, taking in the scene before him. He couldn’t believe it. Was the Meph-Man telling the truth after all?
The sounds of the day surrounded him; cars zooming past on the road, two cats fighting behind the shop, and a dog barking madly somewhere in the distance. These sounds mixed with the birds in trees. The sound of life filled his head. His senses were heightened and he felt more alive than ever before.
And f
ear. He suddenly felt fear. Fear of the unknown and fear of what was contained in that book. It was the size of a Stephen King hardback novel now. It had stopped growing and just lay still next to the bookcase. The writing on the front was now readable: The Black Book of Satan.
It was the real deal. He didn’t know how he knew this but he did. This was not a book to play around with. It was all going to come true. All his wishes and dreams would be fulfilled. The future was his. But he had paid with his soul, a more than fair price, he thought at the time.
He had to protect this book. He had to find some place secure for it. And he knew exactly where. But the price was initially high. He would deal with that problem tomorrow.
Right now, all he wanted to do was read the book from cover to cover. Take in its words and their true meaning. Peter was excited at the prospects of his future. There was nothing he could not do; nothing was out of reach any longer. He was the king of his future.
He crossed his legs in a sitting position and started to read. It was slow going at first but he quickly got the hang of it. The words followed more smoothly as time went on and the pages turned.
He finished the book at daybreak. The rising sun was burning a bright yellow and the sky was turning into a nice soft blue. He rose slowly, his legs stiff from the night’s sitting.
Stretching, he went to the kitchen to make his first cup of coffee of the day. He had things to do today and he had to get information on a safety deposit box, which required a trip to Opera Sands Central Bank. The biggest bank in New Zealand. The drive would take at least an hour in his crappy car, but that was the least of his worries. The big question was: how was he going to pay for a safety deposit box? If lucky, the bank would accept his maxed out Visa. Peter had the feeling luck was on his side.
The drive was pleasant. He decided to leave early and get the bankers in the morning when they were still in a good mood. Arriving at eight thirty, he found a parking spot directly in front.
Nervously, he made his way to the front door, carrying the book in a plastic shopping bag. He stood outside, waiting for the bank to open. Many people looked at him as he stood there with a line of sweat beading on his forehead. The day was warm but the sweat was from his strained nerves, surrounded by worry. He believed all the people who saw him knew what he had and wanted it. He grew tense as the time ticked by. Salary men, office ladies and laborers, all of them looked at him, eyed him suspiciously.
Peter thought he was being overly cautious, but that didn’t stop the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
A buzzer went off behind him and he heard the automatic doors slide open.
It was the flashiest bank in Opera Sands. Stained wood counters, high security, and it was also one of the oldest in New Zealand. A hundred and three years serving the New Zealand public, it boasted in adverts on television and radio and in newspapers.
None of that impressed Peter. He didn’t care if it was as fancy as the White House. All he cared about was its security. His book was worth more than people’s lives.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
Unsure where to go, he was reading the large signs above each teller when the man spoke to him from behind. He turned around to see a pot bellied man in his late forties or early fifties. The guy had a grey horseshoe lump of hair and a large nose. Peter could tell this was the manager, but had no idea why he was talking to him.
“Ah, I’m looking to open a security box in the bank’s safe. Is that possible?”
The manager smiled. “Of course it is, sir. Please follow me.”
He led Peter to a private room. It looked like a den he had seen on television once about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. There was a large desk with a computer on one side. A large memo pad covered with jottings occupied most of the desk. A silver penholder held two pens. One gold coated and the other silver coated.
The manager took his seat behind the desk, interlocked his fingers and placed them on the jotting pad. He smiled.
“We have several types of security boxes available. What is it you wish us to hold?”
“A book,” Peter answered plainly.
The manager nodded. “It must be important to you. Not many people hold books in security boxes.” He raised his hands in a shrug and added, “Not that I’m aware of, anyway.”
“Yes, very important. What kind of security do you offer?”
“The very best, sir.”
Peter leaned forward in his chair, “Well, if I was to have your bank hold my book, how would I know that someone else can’t gain access to it?”
“Sir, our boxes contain three keys to open. One is for you, a separate one is for the bank, and the third is to open the keypad.”
“Keypad?”
“Yes, sir. We use a keypad to open the doors leading to the security boxes.”
Peter felt uncomfortable with the manager smiling the way salesmen do when trying to close the deal. Was the guy playing with him? He knew he wasn’t dressed for a meeting with the bank manager, but he had never expected to meet the bank’s manager.
Behind the manager were several portraits of New Zealand Prime Ministers. Peter recognized four out of the nine hanging across the back wall. He brought his attention back to the man sitting opposite him.
Peter said, “I thought keypads are easy to break into.”
This made the manager laugh. He unlinked his fingers and ran his hands through his horseshoe head of grey hair.
“That’s just movies, right?” Peter also smiled.
“No, no. The movies have it part right,” he replied. The smile vanished and was replaced with a serious look. “Our system has two codes. The second automatically runs onto the third and the third contains three letters of the alphabet. And that’s after the security check allows anyone to enter.”
Peter was impressed.
“If a person should be so inclined to enter our bank during closed hours, and if said person did indeed manage to gain entry to the keypad, even with the most sophisticated software, it would take at least two days to get into the vault. From there he would need two specially designed keys, for your box alone.” The manager leaned back in his chair and the smile returned.
“All this security must cost a packet,” Peter said
“Three hundred dollars a month.”
Peter nodded. “I see.”
“Of course there is also an activating fee of two hundred and seventy five dollars.”
Peter stood up to leave. He extended his hand. “Thank you very much for your time.”
“May I ask you a question?” the manager enquired.
Peter shrugged. “Sure,” he said, heading out.
“How valuable is that book to you?”
“Very,” Peter answered, stopping at the door.
“We do have other security boxes available at a lower rate.” The manager had his hands clasped in front of him again. “Are you a customer of this bank?”
“Yes,” Peter said, unmoving.
“Did you happen to bring your account number with you?”
“No.”
“Please have a seat,” the manager said, waving his hand, gesturing to the chair.
“Tell me you name and address and I’ll see where we can hold your black book.”
Peter froze.
The manager smiled. “This is all I’ve ever wanted. My dream was to be a bank manager. And here I am. I’ve been here twenty years.”
Peter sat in the chair. This man knew his secret.
“This is my last day,” the manager said. His head dropped a little.
“How do you know about the book?” Peter stared at him coldly. He was angry and upset. No longer was the book a special gift for him alone. Obviously it had been passed down through the years and offered to others. A question sprang to mind, “Do you also have a copy of this book?”
“No. It is passed onto the next willing person. One day it’s with you, the next it’s not. And if that person signs it, your
contract is finished.”
Peter thought about that. “So if no one signs it...”
“That’s right, the magic continues until it is signed. Which you did last night.” The manager sighed loudly. “It is a good deal, don’t you think?”
Peter nodded, unsure why the man was so suddenly depressed.
“This has been the best twenty years of my life.”
“Why are you so sad then? You had everything you wanted.”
The manager smiled. “When you reach the end of the contract, you will understand. It’s just sad to see it all end.”
Peter said, “The book says after twenty years you must give your blood to the dark prince.”
The manager nodded. “I have already made arrangements. Know how I knew you had the book?”
Peter was interested.
“The person who signs the contract will be the first person you meet the following morning in regard to your business. It could be anyone. The post office worker, deliveries man. Everyone who signs the contract will run a successful business. That’s how the system works.” The manager spoke low, and then added, “You don’t need a security box. Only those who have signed the contract can see it.”
“Shit,” Peter mumbled, as a smile spread across his face. “That’s why I got all those strange looks outside. People thought I was holding an empty bag.”
“But I saw the book.”
Peter sat silently staring at the man. He knew what he heard was the truth and didn’t want to believe he would be this depressed at the end of his twenty years.
The manager’s droning voice broke through his thoughts. “You don’t need a security box. But if you feel that it’s necessary then I’m sure we can bypass most of the paperwork and fees.” He watched Peter a moment. “You reminded me of myself when I first had the book. My nerves were wound tighter than an over wound jack-in-the-box.”
“Have all your wishes come true?”
“This is the only wish I wanted. I’m the bank manager.” He stood up. “Let me show you our security boxes.”
