The Word Cloud

Chapter Two

 

Elizabeth picked up the phone next to her and pressed the well worn key upon the grimy keypad that allowed her to summon Bill from his lair during the day. It took a good half a dozen rings before she heard his footsteps cross the room above, and it was half a dozen more before he deigned to answer her. It usually annoyed her intensely when he kept her waiting, but at that current moment, she felt off kilter and forgot to be irritated. 

“Yup?” Bill's response was abrupt, but not unkind. 

Confronted with his voice, Elizabeth all of a sudden felt tongue tied and awkward and so did not reply. 

“Well?” Bill's tone grew a little impatient. “Beth – you want something, or are you just pissing around?”

Mentally shaking herself, Elizabeth referred to the brief notes she had written upon the pad she kept by the telephone and composed herself. “No... sorry, Bill,” she apologised, trying to maintain a steady tone. “I just had some bloke in looking for an old book, but I've never heard of it, and wondered if you have?” She glanced at the jotter again and took a deep breath, knowing she ran the risk of sounding like an uninformed idiot in front of her mentor. “He asked for a book called the Crimen Inritus.” She stumbled a little over the unfamiliar words. “He said it's a late 17th century work, but there is a mid 19th century reprint, which will do if necessary.” 

Elizabeth heard Bill's unmistakeable heavy tread upon the floor above her, followed by the distant tapping of fingers upon a keyboard. “Hmm... what did you say it was called?” 

“The Crimen Inritus.” She said the words slowly, so he could easily spell them out.

“Crimen... Inritus...” The keys tapped again as he repeated the words slowly and carefully. “Sounds Latin. Hmm. Odd.” He paused again, obviously reading. 

“What's odd?” Elizabeth prompted, winding the telephone chord around her nervous fingers. 

“Nothing, really... no mention of a book by that name at first glance... I wonder if the bloke was having you on?”

Her heart sank a fraction; Elizabeth suddenly felt very much the fool that she had been so taken in by an air of confidence and a coolly handsome face, when in actual fact, the stranger who seemed so sincere was nothing more than a player of pranks upon the gullible. 

Bill's voice turned gentle. “Hey, don't fret, pet; you aren't the first and you certainly won't be the last to be taken in by things like this. It's the book sellers dream: a stranger wanders in, asks for a ridiculously rare book, you find it, fanfares all round...”

 Elizabeth sighed as she nodded past a shameful lump that welled suddenly in her throat at his kindness. “Yes... I guess you're right. Forget I mentioned it.”

“Mentioned what?” There was no mistaking the grin in Bill's voice.

Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude towards her mentor for understanding. “Thanks, Bill.”

“Hey... no need for that.” He paused again. “Look – it's half four and it's bloody hot. Want to close up and grab a beer at the Crypt? Then I can tell you about all those times I got sucked into some wanker's book fantasy and went off on a half-arsed wild goose chase myself?”

Despite everything, she found herself nodding, even though she knew Bill wouldn't be able to see her agreement. “Yeah... that sounds cool.”

“Give me five, then and I'll be down.” His voice took on a sly caste. “They've got black Death on tap again, or so I hear...”

At this, Elizabeth couldn't help but groan as Bill chuckled at her down the line before she hung up, fumbled for the shop keys in the desk drawer to her right and locked the till, knowing that he would cash up no matter how hideously drunk he got on the infamous Black Death that evening.

o0o

She awoke to the explosive shrieking of the alarm clock. Elizabeth's hand groped from under the duvet, knocking over a half glass of water that shattered upon floor of her bedroom into a thousand crystalline fragments. She groaned to herself and uncovered her head, leaving the warm womb of her bed and willed herself to face the day.

After thumping the alarm clock to silence its cacophonous caterwauling, she ran a heavy hand over her face and tried to clear her fuzzy head. As promised, Black Death had been served and duly drunk, meaning that for all her good intentions and protestations, she had not left the pub in time for supper... or indeed for a decent bed time. Instead, she had spent the evening (and a large portion of the night) in the company of jovial bearded men and be-cardiganed women sporting frizzy hair in desperate need of a cut, drinking vast amounts of real ale, which hardly amounted to the kind of evening a young and sophisticated woman should really have been involved in. Still, she couldn't deny that she hadn't enjoyed herself. 

She ran a claggy tongue over furry teeth and pulled herself from her bed. It took a few deep breaths to steady a stomach that all of a sudden threatened to heave its contents all over the room. She then leaned carefully against the wall opposite and, being mindful of the broken glass upon the floor, stood up. She winced at the mess and ran a hand through tangled, unkempt curls that nearly – but not quite – rivalled the frizzy mops of the women Bill had been chatting up the night before and padded carefully across the hallway to the bathroom. 

Switching on the light, she blinked at its ferocity before she relieved herself of a whole night's worth of drinking. After washing her hands and face, she reached for a toothbrush in dire need of replacing and began her morning ritual, all the time trying to ignore the thumping in her head and the haggard apparition that twinned her in the mirror. 

After the ritual was completed she finally allowed herself to inspect her face, taking in with some level of revulsion the dark circles that ringed her eyes and the beginnings of a rather impressive spot beside her nose. With an exasperated sigh, she chose to ignore the lines upon her forehead that seemed to be deepening on a day by day, and instead pulled the old T-Shirt she wore as a nightshirt over her head and stepped into the warm haven of the shower.

When she was a child, Elizabeth had always believed that two things heralded the onset of true womanhood: slinky pyjamas and matching underwear. Since she had achieved neither, she did wonder exactly where that left her in the grand scheme of femininity. Somewhere near the bottom, she guessed as she grasped a rusting Bic razor and dragged it over her calves.

Once the shower was over, she got dressed and felt a little more human. She wandered into her kitchen in slippers, topped by a towel turban. The kettle was switched on and tea duly made – toast followed soon afterwards, nearly burnt and smothered in butter. Her mouth full, she then switched on the television and allowed the warm, comforting tones of the newsreader – completely at odds with tales of horror and worry that she shared with the country – anaesthetise her mind whilst it dealt with her hangover. Breakfast completed, she dusted the crumbs from her lap, set down her mug, switched off the television, picked up her bag and resolutely set off for the day.

The day had dawned warm again, promising another hot one. After the warmth of the morning sun the shop felt delightfully cool, the smell of paper and must comforting. Bill had already opened up for the day's trading; he smiled through his greying beard looking as fresh as a daisy as the accursed bell atop the door heralded her arrival. 

“Y'all right, pet?” he enquired, taking in Elizabeth's tired eyes and pale skin. “You need a coffee?”

Elizabeth readily agreed with a nod and a smile, eager in the knowledge that Bill always treated himself to what he called 'proper coffee' in the morning: fresh, strong and hot, exactly what you needed after a night on the booze.

After accepting the cup, she made small talk with her employer for a while before he made his excuses and disappeared behind the beaded curtain with promises to relieve her at eleven so she could take a break. The morning continued without issue as the sun rose from behind the buildings opposite, in turn warming the shop and making her feel sleepy. Treating herself to a Kitkat from the tin Bill kept under the counter, she settled down with the newspaper and dealt happily with the small yet steady stream of customers, most of whom just browsed and made small talk before giving her a sheepish grin and leaving. 

It was their indifference, their obvious lack of knowledge in the fields her employer's expertise lay, that made her mind wander and begin to dwell upon the day before and ultimately the stranger that had breezed so easily into the shop. He had been different; he obviously knew what he was talking about and, fraud or not, he had made Elizabeth feel like a purveyor of rare books for once, rather than a glorified shop assistant to those who fancied themselves the next Crowley. Everything about him and his enquiry spoke of mystery, and even though she still felt a twinge of shame at the possibility that he had been having her on, she couldn't help but be intrigued. At times like this – times of deep thought – she would once have reached for a cigarette, but now, after groping for a moment in her battered handbag, she instead reached for the packet of chewing gum that served as a rather poor substitute. Rather than finding the small blister packet, however, her searching fingers brushed up against something thin and crumpled.

She brought it forth and took in its yellowed aspect. A frown creased her brow as she unfolded it; her fingers trembled a little once she realised exactly what it was. It was the piece of paper the stranger had referred to the day before. Since she was sure he had not given it to her but had instead tucked it safely back into his waistcoat pocket, her frown deepened as she smoothed it out on the desk in front of her.

Upon it, written in a scrawling, old fashioned hand, were a few notes, obviously jotted down over time given that each point was was written in a seemingly different ink. It read:

Three copies? If so, only in private collections. The Vatican – won't let me near. Mme Blanchard?

Mme. B. a lost cause. Copy destroyed by fire, probably for the best R.E. Son's involvement with the Acolytes of the Maelstrom.

Copy in BM a reprint. Features the errors, so is of no harm.

James Penderson? 

Roderick Penderson. Disappeared off coast New Guinea – cast his copy to the deeps? Unknown. 

James incarcerated in Siddlesham Asylum. Fear of reflections / angles. Possible last copy, even if fragmentary?

Lights over Beacon Hill. In keeping with summonings. V. Worrying. Investigate?

Cruor no viscus inritus prognatus vinco audite nostrum votum quod refero, nos indignus, excito pro venia...

Screwing her face up in confusion, Elizabeth read the cryptic notes again and wondered what they meant. She felt a jolt from deep within her stomach when she realised that they obviously pertained to the book: did this mean that it was real? 

The thought made her feel inexplicably nervous. 

And what exactly did the last passage say?

Her concentration was shattered when a polite cough announced that someone else was in the shop with her.  

With a start, she instinctively swept the piece of paper from her the desk and back into her handbag, her heart suddenly in her throat as the urge to hide the note overwhelmed her. Before her stood a small man, dressed in an exclusive suit complete with dark glasses. Outside, a sleek black sedan was parked, its windows tinted, its interior hidden. 

The man cleared his throat again. A smile crawled its way across his face and settled into something seedy, causing Elizabeth's skin to creep. It was not lost on her that, like the stranger yesterday, he had seemingly not stopped to browse the books in the shop; rather than being intrigued, however, she felt something deep within her stomach twist and drop.

The new stranger had stopped but a hair's breadth from the counter, and now he had her attention, he held out a hand for her to shake. She took it reluctantly, and had to suppress a violent shudder as her warm palm met his cold, clammy one; his handshake was weak, and instantly the shudder transformed into a revulsion so acute that she had to physically stop herself from snatching her hand back and wiping it down the sides of her jeans. 

“Good morning, my dear...” Although articulate in his speech, there was a breathy, oozing quality to his voice. “I was wondering if you might help me...”

The avalanche that was deja-vu then struck, raising goosebumps along her forearms: She knew exactly what he was going to say…

She said nothing, but smiled with what she hoped was encouragement and not disgust, Elizabeth silently invited the man opposite her to speak.

Instead, he paused for a moment and watched her face carefully as if he had noticed something flash within the depths of her eyes before he spoke. 

“I am looking for a particular tome – a rather singular book. Very rare, you see… I was informed that this might be the place that can find it for me.” He hesitated, watching her again. Determined not to give her suspicions away, Elizabeth just smiled in what she hoped was a feather-headed way and hoped he had not seen too much of the note she had been previously reading.

“Well, we can only try!” she exclaimed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically as the man rose one thin eyebrow, half concealed by the dark smoke of his glasses.

“Indeed,” he all but drawled and treated her to what he obviously thought was a rewarding smile. “The tome in question is old – it was written around the late 16th century, and then only a few copies were ever made. As far as I know, only three copies have survived to modern times, but each one is, shall we say, hard to locate. It is my belief that one of the copies was owned by a man that might have lived near here – a man who died in the 1930’s with no issue – and I have been led to believe that his copy may still be in the area…”

He trailed off, his breathy voice sounding hopeful. The hairs upon the back of her neck rose and Elizabeth fought the urge to swallow convulsively; it was too much of a coincidence that two separate people would enquire about the same, unknown book in as many days.

One thing she knew – if it did turn up, it wasn’t going to this fellow, with his hissing voice and clammy skin.

Clearing her throat to disguise her sudden nervousness, Elizabeth picked up a well-chewed pen and the same jotter she had made sparse notes upon yesterday from the desk drawer, carefully turned the page and placed it in front of this new stranger.

“I see,” she answered and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose in an attempt to focus. “And what is this book called?”

The new stranger gave her a long look before replying.

“It is called the Crimen Inritus,” he said eventually. “The man that owned the book was allegedly called James Penderson, if that helps…”

She scribbled down the names upon the jotter and once again reached for her copy of the Oxford Catalogue, just as she had done the day before. It was then that she noticed that despite the sunglasses, the new stranger was giving her a singularly odd look. Glancing down at the jotter, she soon guessed why.

Unlike the day before, she had not asked how to spell the name.

The man in front of her said nothing and allowed her to flick through the heavy bibliography she had lain upon the desk. 

“Nope.. nothing in here,” she murmured, hoping to disguise her discomfiture. “If it is for sale, it would probably turn up for auction in London and therefore be catalogued here.”

“I seriously doubt that would be the case, Ms…” he trailed off, inviting her to supple her name. 

Trapped, Elizabeth had no choice but to reply.

“Harrington,” she supplied, with perhaps too much bite.

“Ms. Harrington,” he continued, a cadaverous smile spreading across his pock-marked face. “I expect this tome will have to be sourced – something I have been led to believe you are capable of?”

“Sorry,” she replied a little stiffly. “That wouldn't be me. That would be Bill, the owner of the shop.” She smiled a little, hoping to disguise the curtness of her voice. “He's just upstairs – I can fetch him if you like?”

“No... no, it's no bother,” the man replied. “It's not that essential.” He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and brought forth a small, rectangular card. “If you do find it, however, could you please call me?” He handed the card to her, a predatory smile stretched across his face the whole time. “Well, I believe that is our business concluded; I bid you good day, and hope to hear from you soon.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned smartly upon one foot and marched towards the door, leaving Elizabeth holding the card. The bell tinkled as he opened the door and left.

Something within her chest loosened as she watched him leave; she hadn't realised she had been holding in her last breath, almost as if anticipating trouble. Outside, the strange man slid into the back seat of the sedan and she watched as it left with an expensive purr, its tinted windows concealing the identity of the driver completely.

She didn't move until she was sure the car had definitely left. Her hand hovered for a moment over the phone, but after a few seconds, she dropped it back into her lap, picked up the jotter and sighed as wrote a few notes of her own. She'd speak to Bill later.