Stop Dicking About and get on with the Story

I decide there is plenty of time for more messing about with the book, but what I probably should do is to find out more about it. There must be a reason it came into my possession; there has to be some sort of higher purpose here. I ought to see if I can work out what it is before it sneaks up and slaps me in the face.

I walk into town, stopping for a coffee on the way, and climb the steps to the library. I love this building: a grand Regency façade, pillars, big leaded windows. It always feels important, coming here. The inside doesn’t match the exterior; it has been updated with a mezzanine floor, brushed steel and glass handrails, and generally altered quite a lot to house the bookcases and art gallery spaces. In the centre is a circular desk with some computers, and I place my coffee cup next to one of the monitors, stash my rucksack under the chair, and sit so I can see the main door. A paranoid part of my brain feels as though I shouldn’t search for information on the book at home, or on my phone, just in case I raise a red flag somewhere.

I stare at the screen for a moment. What am I actually going to search for? A book with blank pages? A book I can write in? I’ll just end up ordering a notepad from a stationery shop.

I pop the white plastic lid off my coffee cup and carefully place it next to the keyboard. Sipping the drink I sit back and people-watch for a moment. There is only one guy at one of the other computers: gaunt, pale skin, bloodshot eyes, he has the look of somebody who has not slept properly for a while. He might be looking for a job, and he’s grumbling at the screen in front of him. Over in the children’s library there are a few parents sitting around while their kids sit at a big white table making Lego cars and houses. Two guys in black suits are standing at the main counter where you can ask for leaflets and local information. They look out of place, very still. Both wearing sunglasses. If I had been looking stuff up about the book on my phone I might have been nervous that they were some kind of police, but in reality they were probably just bouncers or security guards from somewhere. I watch a couple of old ladies browsing crime fiction. I stare at the screen in front of me again, still with no idea where to begin searching for information.

Maybe the book has a clue? Fishing it out of my bag, I’m about to open it when I notice the two suits again, standing near the cookery books. I feel anxiety crawling around the back of my neck. They couldn’t be anything to do with me, I haven’t really done anything to draw attention to myself, have I?

I look away from them, which makes me feel like I’m being shifty. I really want to open the book, see if there is a clue in there, but I can’t do it while those guys might be watching. I can’t tell if they are watching from behind their dark glasses. They might just be looking for a Yotam Ottolenghi recipe.

I stand up, casually, definitely not shifty, and meander over to the nearest bookshelf. I’m worried that I’m walking too quickly, or maybe too slowly. I take a random book and hold it in my hand over the magic book. I grab another, so it’s sandwiched between them. Slowly, I walk along the shelf, taking a couple more books, then glance over to see the two guards are still at cookery. I move to the other side of the shelf so I’m out of their sight.

There is another old lady here, so I absent-mindedly pick another book off the shelf, then move my book to the top of the stack in my hands. When I open it I get tunnel vision, staring at the page, and it’s suddenly the only thing in the world. I feel as if all the blood has drained from my body.

‘Zanzibar stared at the page, barely comprehending the words. He felt his blood pressure drop suddenly as the meaning bored into his consciousness. The two agents quietly moved toward him on the other side of the bookcase, one on each side, blocking any escape route. Engrossed in the book, Zanzibar only became aware of the agent standing directly behind him when he heard the soft, slow voice. “Mister McFate, please come with us.” Zanzibar closed the book and turned to look up at the man.’

‘Mister McFate, please come with us.’