Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  Great. “You don’t know what an alternator is. Mum, can’t you replace the car instead of spending more money on this business of yours? Then you could drive to an office job or—”

  “I’m not going to do that when all I need to do is sell fifty power-plate machines and recruit ten salespeople, I’ll be able to buy a brand new one. Take your cellphone and mace for safety.”

  I should bring her into the shop. I bet Heathcliff could teach her a few things about the perils of a retail business.

  I pulled on my coat, propped open my umbrella against the miserable winter drizzle, and stepped out into the moonlight.

  On the corner of our street was a playground where the council estate teens hung out at night, drinking home-brew piss and smoking whatever drugs they could get their hands on. I kept my head high as I jogged past, but they were too busy laughing at one of their mates hanging upside down on the monkey bars to notice me. Miracles did sometimes happen.

  A car whizzed past, the driver yelling something out the window. His harsh voice and lewd suggestion sent a shiver of fear down my spine. As I crossed the road, angry voices and the sounds of smashing glass poured out of the windows of the house opposite. Just another night on the estate.

  Four years in New York City, and this place still terrified me. No wonder Mum tried every hokey scheme in the book to get out of here. I thought I’d escaped Argleton, but now here I was again, right back where I belonged.

  As I neared the village, the houses grew tidier, the gardens resplendent with winter blooms and gnomes peeking over stone walls. Tonight, there was a choir performance at the church hall, so the market teemed with people. Argleton villagers were serious about their hymns (although I suspected some of the eager shoppers were stocking up on hip flasks and snacks to get them through the evening). The market was an old Tudor home on the high street that circled the village green. It had been converted into a general village store. They stocked everything from groceries and souvenirs to basic household items and farm supplies. I ducked behind a display of Cadburys and checked the aisles for signs of Ashley. Nope, she’s not here. I threw myself into the fray and maneuvered my way to the homewares section. I found a couple of tubes of glue and some craft scissors, colored card and ribbon for my project. Next, I grabbed a stack of towels. As I leaned in close to check the price tag, a pair of glasses slammed into my face.

  What the fuck?

  I followed the arm that held the glasses up to a kindly old lady with an enormous floral tote bag. She waggled her glasses in front of me.

  “These will help, dearie,” she cooed. “I use them to see my crosswords.”

  My cheeks flushed. What the hell is she thinking? For one thing, I had a pair of glasses in my bag for close work (which I never wore because gross), and no way in hell her crossword specs were the same prescription. And also, did I look that pathetic? Was this my life now, strangers trying to give me their purple tortoiseshell glasses?

  “I don’t need those,” I managed to say. “I can see perfectly fine. I just thought the prices were scratch and sniff.” I shot to my feet and shuffled away, dropping a trail of towels in my wake.

  This is my life now. Everywhere I go, people are going to feel sorry for me.

  My arms wouldn’t stop shaking. I rounded the corner and dropped more towels. No way was I stopping to pick them up. Just grab the rest of Mum’s shite and get out of here. The lurid packaging on the shelves blurred together into a carnival of light and color, mocking me with words I couldn’t read.

  I’m fine. It was just some batty old woman trying to be nice. I can hold it together.

  In the next aisle I located the kitchen supplies. There were only seven plastic water bottles left. One-by-one I balanced them precariously on top of my towel stack, forming a kind of totem to my mother’s stupidity. I took my first teetering step toward the counter when my eye caught a display of condoms.

  A rush of heat flared between my legs as a series of deviant visions flashed in my mind. Morrie’s long fingers trailing over my skin with a featherlight touch while his wicked grin suggested all that might follow. My hands tangled in Heathcliff’s curls as his haughty lips parted over my nipple. The pair of them pinning me to a bookshelf as they fought with my clothing, lips and hands everywhere at once.

  Whoa, where did that come from? Are horniness and deviant visions weird symptoms of my eye condition?

  Because no way did I really want what I just saw from Morrie and Heathcliff. No way.

  I withdrew my hand, steadying my load before I lost another towel. But then I reached out again, fingering the corner of the box. It wouldn’t hurt to keep some in my purse, just in case. It’s not as though anything will ever happen with Heathcliff or Morrie, but I never know who I might run into.

  “Mina, is that you?”

  I jumped, sending an avalanche of condom boxes scattering across the aisle. My heart leapt in my throat as I recognized the figure who bent to pick them up.

  “Darren, hi.” I forced a smile for Darren Barnes, who had been in my year at secondary school. Jeez, how many people from my past am I going to run into today? I squared my shoulders and tried to look completely normal, like I wasn’t thinking about buying condoms or hiding this big gaping secret that ate me up inside. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  “Oh, I never left.” Darren stood up with his arms full of boxes and stacked them back on the shelf, lining up the edges in perfect parallel lines. His cheap polyester shirt and black trousers bore the store logo.

  He works in the market.

  Well, that’s sad.

  Back in school, Darren was about two rungs down the social ladder from me and Ashley, which was to say, he was basically in the dirt. He was one of those totally earnest nerd types who had no idea how everything that came out of his mouth made him a target for bullies. He used to follow Ash and I around like a lost puppy because he had a huge crush on her. She did sometimes string him along because he’d write essays for her and fix her laptop.

  “That’s great!” I forced my grin wider, even though my arms were starting to ache. I saved a water bottle before it toppled off my pile. “You wouldn’t want to see the rest of the world, anyway. I’ve been around – It’s just traffic jams, weird-arse coffee, and saber-toothed tigers.”

  “I’m doing well, actually. I’m up for the supervisor’s job,” Darren said, taking a pen from behind his ear and flicking it against his fingers. “I’ve even got my own apartment, right above the butcher.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Gross. “I might see you around. I’m working at Nevermore Bookshop.” Darren made a face. What? You work in a market. You don’t get to make a face. “It’s cool, actually.”

  “That place is a little creepy, don’t you think? It was always shabby, but ever since that gypsy took it over, hardly anyone goes in. My mother thinks it might have a rodent problem. Rats carry diseases, did you know? They cause the Black Death. Mother says there was an outbreak of the Black Death recently, somewhere in Africa. Wouldn’t it be just awful if the Black Death came here to Argleton?”

  “Um, yes it would.” So Darren’s still as odd as ever. “But I don’t think there are any rodents in the bookstore. There is a cat and a raven, though. And you know you shouldn’t use the word gypsy – it’s actually a slur—”

  “But that’s what he is. Mother told me he doesn’t even have any family.” Darren gave a high-pitched snort. “And he’s such a grumpy bastard. I did this customer service course a few months ago, as part of my professional development, and we learned about the importance of making customers comfortable and welcome. For me, I had to learn not to loom around them and not to make eye contact for too long. I’m so much better now, and customers respond to it. That gypsy could use a customer service course. Will you make him go on one? For example, they would tell me that I should offer to help you select your prophylactics. We have these cherry-flavored ones that are popular—”

  The woman who’d tried to
give me her glasses peered at us from behind the lettuce display, her face etched with a disapproving frown. Floor, just swallow me now.

  “That’s fine.” My cheeks burned. “I don’t need them after all.”

  “Then I shall assist you with your giant pile of towels.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t need—” but Darren was already taking the towels from me and heading toward the counter. He beckoned me to skip to the front of a line. I shrugged an aching shoulder and followed him, clutching the water bottles under my arm. Darren frowned as he counted the towels. “These are for… an art project. I’m not trying to mummify someone.”

  “I’m sure.” Darren’s face perked up as he rang up my order. “Hey, do you still hang out with Ashley?”

  I don’t want to talk about bloody Ashley. “Not really. Can you just ring these up quick, please? I’m in a bit of a hurry and I’ve got to get back to my mum—”

  “She disappeared after school finished, off somewhere exciting. Last I heard, she was in New York City working for some famous fashion designer.” Darren gave me a wide smile. “I follow her on Instagram. She still looks so classy, and she has the most impeccable taste. No wonder she’s going to be the next biggest name in fashion. And she knows about all the latest things. Thanks to one of her recent posts, I’ve started drinking craft beer.”

  Urgh, this guy is still annoying. Wait a second…

  An evil thought occurred to me. It would in no way make up for the hurt Ashley did to me, but a little revenge might make me feel better. “I bet you wish you could see her again, huh?”

  “Oh yes! I have so much to tell her about craft beer, and I want to ask her all about New York City and which designers she thinks I should wear. I’ve been saving my money so I can get some Verona Westward. That’s Ashley’s favorite, right?”

  “Oh yes, Verona Westward is a fashion genius.” I grinned, laughing inwardly at his attempt at Vivienne Westwood. “It’s your lucky day, Darren. Ashley’s actually home for a visit right now.”

  “Really?” Darren’s voice squeaked up an octave. His earnest face lit up like a puppy dog.

  “Yeah. I saw her earlier today, in fact. She’s probably staying with her folks. I bet she’d love to see you again.”

  Take that, you job-stealing, secret-spilling bitch.

  “Thank you, thank you, Mina! I’ll go over there after my shift.” Darren said, running his pen through his hair with one hand as he tossed my towels into a bag with the other. “I should bring her some flowers. Do you know what kind of flowers she likes? We’ve got some on special for three quid. Oh, and what’s her favorite craft beer? If you’ve got a minute, I’ll show you our selection—”

  “It would be my pleasure.” My grin spread wider. Ashley had no idea what she was in for.

  Chapter Eight

  Work the next day was more of the same. Two guys came into the shop and spent an hour reading Bukowski books before whipping out their ereaders and downloading the files to finish at home. One even had the nerve to ask Heathcliff for his wifi password.

  “The password is get-out-you-wankers,” Heathcliff told him, malice glinting in his black eyes. The guys fled for the door, muttering under their breaths about shocking service and ungrateful gypsies.

  “That’s a capital W on Wanker!” I called after them, which got a snort of appreciation from Heathcliff.

  I made my first sale – a book on the Great Western Railway to a kindly older gentleman in a salmon-colored cardigan. The raven shat on another bloke who quoted Poe. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that bird was doing it on purpose.

  I had no less than three deviant thoughts about Heathcliff and Morrie that left my skin flushed and my core pulsing. Clearly, I needed to get laid before I got myself in trouble.

  Most importantly, I went the whole day without once thinking about my eyes. While Heathcliff and I traded barbs and Morrie sent me flirtatious text messages from his London train, I couldn’t worry about the future or lament the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. It was glorious. Four o’clock rolled around and I didn’t want to leave. But Morrie and I had planned to work on the website in the evening, and I’d promised Mum I’d be home for dinner beforehand. I reluctantly left the shop, promising Heathcliff I’d be back around eight. The grunt of acknowledgement from behind the desk warmed my heart in a way I didn’t expect.

  After a dinner of tinned beans on toast, Mum drove down to the Argleton wrinkly village to hawk her wobbleators and “branded” water bottles to the unsuspecting pensioners. She was too excited about her first demonstration to notice when I changed my outfit three times. I finally settled on a Marcus Ribald jersey dress with black lace panels down the sides, black leggings, and my red patent Docs. Mum sweet-talked one of the druggies across the road into taking a look at the car, and it puttered to life once more, so she dropped me off at the bookshop on her way to the retirement home. The bakery was just closing up so I ducked inside and grabbed us some desserts from the owner Greta for only a quid, the last money I had left in my pocket. Icy drizzle pelted my face as I wrapped my leather jacket tight around my body and walked up the steps with butterflies in my stomach.

  Why am I nervous? It’s not like this is a date. You’re building a website with your boss and his weird flatmate. Effectively, it’s unpaid overtime.

  Even though Nevermore Bookshop was always a little gothic, at night, in the rain, it had a truly eerie quality to it. The twin peaks of the dormer windows pierced the dark clouds as the moon cast a cold glow over the glass. Bare branches scritched against the bricks like claws scraping as the rain poured from the copper spouting and pooled between the cobbles. The homeless man from yesterday slumped under the eaves, one hand thrust inside the breast of his coat. He held the other over his mouth as he sniffed back what sounded like a decade’s worth of phlegm.

  From the street, I couldn’t see any lights on in the upper floors, but I had to squint even to make out the steps to the front door. Okay, now I’m thinking about my eyes. There was a lot of stuff I could trip over on my way to the upstairs flat. At least I hadn’t decided on my second outfit choice, which involved heels.

  There was nothing else to do but move forward, slow and steady. Just call me the world’s fiercest tortoise. I gripped the wrought-iron balustrade and felt my way up the steps with my feet. I fumbled for the handle, half expecting the door to be locked. It turned, and I shuffled into the front hall, stomping my wet boots on the mat and smoothing down my hair.

  Of course neither of them had thought to leave a light on downstairs. I stopped to wring the water out of my scarf and hat, waiting for my vision to adjust to the gloom, but it never did. I edged my way down the entrance hallway, knocking books off the shelves as I went, and up the first flight of stairs.

  On the first floor a pale slash of moonlight from the window opposite the Sociology shelves gave me a clear path to follow. I managed to find the narrow flight of stairs leading to the upstairs flat without falling into any taxidermy beavers. The staircase was blocked off with a faded velvet rope and a sign which I’d seen earlier that day and knew read “cross at your peril” in Heathcliff’s neat cursive hand. I flung the rope aside, swapped the dessert box to my other hand, and pressed my fingers to the wall as I plunged into the gloom and felt my way upstairs.

  This is what my whole life will be like soon, a world lost to darkness.

  I pushed back the thought. I wasn’t ready to wallow in it, not tonight. I wanted to keep the truth hidden from the guys for just a bit longer. I wanted Morrie to keep flashing me that devilish smile and texting me flirty things, and I wanted Heathcliff to grunt at my jokes and force me to dictate vicious letters to The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named. I wanted the… the thing… we had going that made my heart flutter and my panties wet to feel amazing for just a little longer before they started treating me as an invalid worthy only of pity.

  My feet skimmed a small landing. I thrust out my hand, feeling around the three walls
until I found a handle. Something creaked on the staircase behind me. I whirled around, but I couldn’t see a single thing in the gloom. My breath leapt in my throat.

  It’s nothing. It’s an old shop. It creaks. I’m just scaring myself because it’s so dark—

  Another creak, and a shuffling noise.

  I froze, staring into the nothingness of the stairwell as though it might magically reveal this presence to me. My heart pattered against my chest.

  “Hello?” I gasped out.

  No one answered.

  There, see? No reason to be scared.

  Of course there’s reason to be scared. I’m standing in a dark hallway in the middle of a creepy bookshop with a locked door in front of me and a black hole behind me. This is the beginning of the game Cluedo, just before the good Doctor Black is brutally murdered.

  My breath came out in ragged gasps as I waited for more noises. There were none. It’s just the house.

  I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves. I knocked on the door, my fist blasting a cloud of dust into my face.

  “It’s open,” Morrie yelled from inside.

  Coughing out the dust, I shoved the door open and stepped into the room. There was another sound behind me, like the creak of a door opening somewhere else in the shop, but I was too distracted by the room in front of me to give it another thought.

  This was not the flat I’d pictured when Morrie and Heathcliff said they lived together above the shop. In my head they resided in the typical bachelor dump every guy I knew had ever lived in – a rack of damp laundry in the living room, the edges of the clothing speckled with mold. A kitchen so radioactive it would set off a Geiger counter – toast stuck to the ceiling like a modern art exhibit. A whiskey distillery in the bathtub. Posters of topless women with penises drawn next to their pouting lips plastered on every wall. Fungi that have evolved into a sentient species issuing instructions from behind the bathroom mirror…