Chapter 1
There’s a saying. “The customer’s always right.”
This customer, however, was about to catch a right hook.
‘But it’s cheaper online!’ he insisted. The finicky idiot had said that at least five times now.
Apparently, we’d returned to the start of this particular conversational dance. So, pinching
the bridge of my nose and summoning my last iota of patience, I tried again.
‘That’s correct. But that’s because online, it’s an eBook. A digital copy. That’s why it’s a third
of the cost. There’s no manufacturing, no shipping…’ I was only scraping the surface, but,
honestly, it was still more words than I wanted to say to this guy. However, Tisha kept telling
me “fuck off” wasn’t an acceptable form of customer service, so I didn’t say that. Not even
“fuck right off” which would, technically, be more words. Let it be noted I was trying. Trying
really, really hard.
‘But that’s not my fault!’ he screeched.
I mean, technically, he was correct. It was, indeed, not the fault of this paunchy, balding
middle-aged man that the paperback he wanted to buy was not, in fact, digital. He hadn’t
worked some sort of weird techno-wizardry to make it happen or plunged us into a reverse
Matrix. He could sleep easy, rest assured that he was not the source of the difference
between an eBook and an actual book.
I didn’t think explaining that to him was going to help.
‘Look.’ I drew in a breath, scraping the barrel of my patience one last time. ‘You’re quite right.
But…’ I grasped around desperately for a comparison. Something this person, who,
apparently, lived in a different century to the rest of us, might understand. Inspiration struck.
‘You’d pay a different amount for a paperback and a special edition hardback, right?’
This. This he’d understand, surely? To illustrate my point, I gestured across to the special
edition section. Sprayed edges, book boxes, slip covers, and ribbons. All the pretty pretties,
the shiniest of book treasures. The ones that made me want to go full on Sméagol every
time a customer picked one up. Until I remembered the unpaid electricity bill, at least. The
one in red, pinned to the board in the back office. The back office I never went into because
if I did, I’d have to see it looming large. So I’d effectively just quarantined the only place I
could get any admin stuff done.
Luckily, I rarely did any admin stuff. Admin stuff was the boring part of running a bookstore.
Of course, that may be why I had a big red unpaid electricity bill in there.
The customer screwed up his already puckered face, the wispy, sparsely spread bristles
crunching into something that could almost be mistaken for a goatee. Frankly, his poor
efforts just made him look like he had never learned how to shave properly. It made the
horror film my legs looked like when I got lazy and forgot about them (far too damn often)
look like a Disney film. Mental images danced in my mind of my legs breaking into songs
about disposable razors and their upkeep. I shuddered. Nightmare fuel, right there.
‘I don’t like those fancy ones.’ His petulant whine told me he’d not only missed the point, but
he’d also hit my last nerve. Who didn’t like special editions? A monster, that was who. My
last shreds of patience disappeared with a twang.
He insulted the shinies. He must pay!
Just as I started to open my mouth to tell him all the things Tisha had told me I shouldn’t say,
she swooped in, a gracious smile plastered across her heart-shaped face, which was framed
by tight black curls.
‘Why don’t I show you some of our discounted books, sir? Perhaps you’ll find something you
like in there, at a price to suit any budget.’
She guided him with style, her hand almost on his elbow, close enough to shepherd him
where she needed to go without actually laying a hand on him. Good, because it meant he
couldn’t start a lawsuit for physical abuse – he definitely seemed the type, but also because
it meant she didn’t have to touch him.
Tisha traipsed away, guiding the grumbling but lucky, not-punched customer with her,
practically gliding down the narrow aisle, the crammed bookshelves pressing in close on
either side. It amazed me that she could glow in the shoddy lighting of the shop, a bronze
bubble of positivity, every customer’s lucky penny. Letting her help out had been the best
decision I’d made. I adored books, the customers not so much.
One day, I’d earn enough to be able to pay her too.
I’d been aiming for cosy vibes when I’d set up the store, but it tended more towards gloomy,
especially on a rainy day. Otherwise known as three hundred and sixty days of the year in
the UK. Okay, an exaggeration, but not by much.
Movement caught my eye, off down the side. I casually tilted my head back. Yup. Shoplifter.
The kid was still halfway to having the book inside her jacket when I coughed behind her.
She whirled around, flush-faced, though whether from embarrassment at her actions or just
at getting caught, I couldn’t say.
‘We have bags, you know.’ I looked her up and down. She was young. No older than thirteen
at a guess.
Her clothes weren’t deliberately torn in a punk aesthetic. Nor was the stitching and patching
some artsy reclaimed upcycling, some slow fashion. It was necessity. Desperation. Much of
which I was sure she’d clumsily done herself.
I recognised the signs. I’d been there myself. My heart wrenched in sympathy, but I was
careful to keep it off my face. She would see my sympathy as pity.
‘What are you after? A book to sell for a few quid?’ Dammit, I didn’t have much, but if she
was going to just run it down to one of the secondhand shops, she wouldn’t even get what
I’d paid for it as stock.
She shook her head, sullen, silent, surly. But she eased the book slowly out of her jacket,
holding it out to me. I took it. It was a hardback edition of Mary Shelley. Frankenstein. The
grifter had good taste at least.
I sighed. ‘You won’t get much for this at a pawn shop, kid. They’re a dime a dozen.’ Even if it
was a nice dust cover version, she’d still get ripped off.
Again, that shake of the head, the denial that she’d be selling it on.
Now I was curious. ‘So what?’
She looked at me from behind her shield of hair, draped across her eyes, a protection from a
world that stared and judged constantly. But the question finally dragged a response from
her. ‘At school. We… we read a bit. Supposed to study it. Don’t care about that,’ she added
quickly as though I, who owned a book store, would judge her for wanting to get a decent
education. Hell, I wish I’d had one. I was doing what I could to make up for that with the
books though. You could begin self-education at any age; it was never too late to expand
your horizons.
‘So what do you care about?’ I asked lightly. I stared at her moody expression – closed
down, suspicious, holding the world to account for all its failings, of which it suddenly
seemed like there were many. I felt a sense of deja vu. It was like I was staring into a magic
mirror, to view myself at her age.
‘I…’ She stopped. Shook her head, gave a bitter laugh close to despair as if I wouldn’t
understand, the way no one ever did. ‘I just needed to know. What happened. Did the
monster get any peace?’ For the first time, there was a spark about her, a gleam to her eyes.
‘Did Frankenstein pay? For what he did to it?’
Of all the things. Of all the things she might think I wouldn’t understand, she couldn’t have
been more wrong about that one. She’d been hooked by a story. Captivated by the magic
words could weave on a page. A seed had been planted. One that if nurtured properly,
would blossom into a lifelong love that’d do more to change her life than any few coins could.
All it would take was a little nurturing.
I pushed the book back into her hand. ‘Do you a deal.’ I tried to act casual, tried not to let the
hot wetness I could feel building around my eyes show. ‘You come back when you’ve read it.
Tell me the answer, okay?’
The girl stared up at me unbelievingly. No doubt waiting for the other foot to drop.
‘Go on,’ I said roughly, trying to look entirely unbothered and failing miserably. ‘Off you go,
chop chop.’
She didn’t need telling twice. She didn’t quite dash for the exit – she was too savvy, too
aware that’d make her look guilty if this was some sort of trap, but she made top speed as
she hightailed it out of the front door.
I smiled for a second, a secret smile just for myself. Not one I shared with the difficult
customers who frequently ruined my day.
That girl had made mine. I hope I’d made hers too.
The smile didn’t last long though.
Because right then, my head exploded. ...
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