The Boy in the Book – Chapter One

Bea removed the bookmark and began reading, only to replace it and snap the book shut. “Weird!” she exclaimed, upsetting Ginger that lay sprawled in her lap. “Sorry, pussy,” she said, gently rubbing behind its ears. “I could have sworn that sneaky brat was not in the room. Now he’s lurking in an alcove.” 

She turned the hardback over and stared at the spine, checking the author’s name. Brenton Haynes. It was him all right. How odd. She’d read several of his novels – they were good – although this one was new to her. She’d stumbled on it that morning amongst her books. She hadn’t known she had it. 

Her thoughts returned to the boy. His unexpected behaviour was like an ill-fitting addition. Never had she come across such clumsy writing. Even she could do better. Could writers have off days? She certainly did. The sort of day you’d have been better staying in bed. 

She chuckled, wondering if she thumbed through the rest of the book whether she’d find blank pages because the author hadn’t got up that day. Skimming books was not her thing. She had no wish to glimpse the remainder of the story. Talk about ruining the suspense!

A girl in her class had once confided she always read the last page first. Bea could never do that. It’d be an assassination. The story was everything. When she’d asked the girl why, the idiot had retorted she couldn’t bear the suspense. It made her ill. The revelation had Bea looking down her nose at the idiot. Why ever did the half-wit read at all? People were strange. 

Letting the book fall open somewhere near the middle, she was startled to find the facing pages blank. So were the next pages and all the others to the end of the book. Returning to the bookmark, she turned to the next page. Blank. She groaned. Just her luck to get engrossed in an unfinished book. 

Her mind instinctively sought an explanation. Anything to let her continue reading. Maybe it was some new-fangled safety mechanism to prevent readers jumping forward in the story. “Come off it,” she scolded the cat, not that it knew anything about stories. “That’s too far-fetched, even for me.” Or could it be the book punishing her for skipping pages? “As if books had a mind of their own,” she berated the cat. The animal returned her stare, its look quizzical.

Just to be sure, she turned back. No. The printed words were still there, just as she remembered. The doctor was alone at Aine’s bedside. That nasty boy was nowhere to be seen. She read to the bottom of the page. Aine had been taken ill all of a sudden, which explained the doctor’s visit. 

Bea suspected the boy had poisoned her – she’d caught sight of him dabbling in weird concoctions – but she had no proof. In the few pages she’d read, she’d taken an intense dislike to him. The self-centred fool didn’t give a damn about anyone, least of all Aine, his governess. At fifteen he was surely too old to have a governess. But his parents had left abruptly, driven away by a mounting scandal about his mother. Before they fled, they had Aine, his young aunt, travel from Ireland to watch over him. Despite the young woman’s well-intentioned efforts, Liam – that was his name – could be singularly unpleasant. It was almost as if he were bent on making her pay for him being abandoned. It wasn’t Aine’s fault. She was just doing her duty. 

Bea’s parents were away too. They frequently were. On scientific missions. But, contrary to the boy’s parents, she was sure they’d come back. What’s more, they saw her as quite capable of looking after herself. Misguidedly so perhaps. Had she been saddled with someone a little older lording over her, she’d probably have been head-strong too. As it was, Manuela, a middle-aged woman, came in every day to clean up and cook. She was Portuguese and although she smiled at Bea – a smile that made her feel warm inside – Manuela rarely spoke. Bea suspected the woman only knew a few words of English. 

Bea sighed, absentmindedly stroking the cat. She could have gone with her parents, but they were understandably unwilling to cater for a teenage daughter when their focus was debating quantum mechanics with colleagues. That said, the main reason she hadn’t wanted to travel was school. She glanced at the pile of science homework on her desk and groaned. She had big exams coming up and was behind with her revision. They were an important stepping stone to university and freedom.

Holding her breath, she turned the page, hoping against all odds the story would go on. It did. She let out a squeal of delight that resonated around the empty first floor and sent the cat scurrying for cover. She fought against the desire to turn another page to check if there was more – that would be tempting providence – and pursued her reading.

Bea hadn’t been mistaken. The boy was there, sneaking out of the alcove and into a half-concealed doorframe unbeknown to the doctor and Aine. Getting wearily to his feet, the doctor called out, “Liam!”, but the boy slipped unseen into a neighbouring room, pulling the door silently closed behind him. The man called out again. When he got no answer, he swore. “Damn boy! He’s beyond hope. Just like his mother.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Aine said, her voice croaky. “He’s been thrust into this through no fault of his own. It’s not easy to get by without your parents, especially when everyone is being so beastly.”

“Let’s not exaggerate,” the doctor replied, cautiously folding the stethoscope into his bag.

“Is it exaggerating to say the folk in these parts are bent on driving him out like they did my poor sister.”

“Well, there were rumours…” the doctor began, unable to conceal his disgust.

“We all know my brother-in-law was clumsy in his dealings with the folks hereabouts. He made more enemies than friends. But that was no reason to take it out on my sister, accusing her of witchcraft. Ciara did what wise-women have done for aeons, use age-old lore passed from mother to daughter to help fellow women and their children with their health. You doctors might believe you have a god-given monopoly of healthcare, but that was never the case and never will be.”

The doctor seemed unmoved by her feisty response – apparently they’d had the conversation before – he simply shrugged and headed for the door. “Have the boy fetch those pills – if he’s as angelic as you say, let him show it – and get some rest. Lots of rest.” Halting in doorway, he added, “Call me if you need me. I’ll show myself out.”

Aine pulled a shawl round her shoulders and struggled to her feet, gripping the couch for support. “You can come out now Liam,” she croaked. “He’s gone.” 

Bea was intrigued to see if the boy reappeared – he could be so contrary with his young aunt that he might well not respond out of spite – but she could hear Manuela calling her down to lunch, so she reluctantly closed the book and slid it in the sacoche she wore slung over her shoulder. The story would have to wait. She had to chuckle at the thought of the characters frozen in their positions, dependent on her to resume their activities. Ah! The power of the reader.

It was left-overs for lunch. Manuela had reheated yesterday evening’s paella. The woman was not one to waste food. Her parents, in comparaison, would have been less careful. The two sat across from each other at the kitchen table, munching in appreciative silence. That she didn’t need to engage in conversation suited Bea. She was free to meander aimlessly through her thoughts. She didn’t get far. Manuela tapped on the table to get her attention, then pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall and to the clock. Two. Singing. Blast. She’d forgotten her lesson. The door bell rang.

Bea loved singing. Not in a choir. It was hard to hear yourself with so many others singing. But improvising. On her own. Discovering new sounds. Exploring her voice. For that, Danuta was an excellent teacher. The old Polish woman who’d been coming to the house once a week for years, was demanding, but that didn’t stop them having a laugh. How could they not? Some of the sounds she had Bea make were outrageous. Thank heavens no one could hear.

“Your head is not in your singing, today,” Danuta told her. “Where have you left it?”

Over the years, the two had talked about many subjects. Bea had got into the habit of confiding in the woman. That said, she felt strangely reticent about evoking the book. “Yes. I know. I keep thinking about a book I’m reading.”

“Books can be fascinating,” the woman said, a glint in her eye, “but they are not life. You should get out more. There’s a dance down at the church hall tonight. Why don’t you go?”

Bea had a hard time dissimulating her disgust. She knew exactly what those dances were. Danuta must have known too. They were a hunting ground for local louts who slobbered over every girl they could get their hands on. She caught herself wondering if Liam would act that way. Probably. “I’ll give it some thought,” she replied as she shouldered her bag, “but I’ve got a lot of schoolwork to do.” The old woman didn’t press the matter. If anything she looked satisfied, almost as if she’d prefer her to continue reading. Bea accompanied the woman to the door. Not because Danuta didn’t know the way. After so many years, she knew it well enough. It was that the front door was always locked. Part of her parents’ obsession with security.

Back in her room Bea was torn between labouring through more homework and plunging back into the book. In her indecision, she toyed with a paper that lay on her desk. Her father had written it. He’d been eager to explain the basics of quantum mechanics, hoping his daughter would develop an interest for his pet subject. And he’d succeeded. He’d opened a door on some fascinating vistas. Like, nothing was fixed until someone observed it. At least, that’s how she’d understood it. Every possible state co-existed until one of them emerged and all the others fell away the moment an observer came on stage.

She wondered if a novel might be like that. At any moment all was possible, but the second the reader read, one story emerged victorious. The other storylines were relegated to the sidelines as mere possibilities. She knew it wasn’t feasible – everyone read the same book, at least she supposed they did – but it was an exciting prospect. With a shudder she thought of the blank pages. Maybe there was some truth in her crazy idea after all. If the rest of story existed solely as infinite possibilities – surely the blur of so many possibilities coexisting might appear as a white page – then the story would only emerge as it was read. Which was exactly what had happened.

She sank into the armchair by the window, her head in her hands, overwhelmed by the idea. Could she be making the story materialise by reading it? That would grant her immense power. If so, what was left for the writer? Had she just done away with the author? And what did that mean for her as an aspiring novelist? Somewhat numbed at the thought that she might just have assassinated her future and her dreams with it, she reached out like a sleepwalker, rummaged in her sacoche till she felt the book and pulled it out. Reading it was then.

Liam lent over a wooden workbench, an air of intense concentration, measuring liquids with a pipette before adding them to a bubbling mixture. The smell given off was intoxicating. Flowers. Herbs. Honey. And some alcohol. He had to make an effort to remember what he was doing as the reek began to muddle his thoughts. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to make simples without a cloth over your mouth and nose?” Aine said, startling him. “You’ll make yourself ill.” She pulled a handkerchief from one of the many pockets in her skirt and handed it to him. It smelt deliciously of her. How had he not noticed she smelt so good? 

Wrapping her shawl around the lower part of her face, Aine studied the mixture. “It needs a little more thyme I think.” Despite the protective shawl, the fumes must have had an effect because she swayed. Grasping his arm, she held on tight, her hand hot on his skin. She must be running a fever. 

“You should go to bed,” he said. “I’ll bring this once it’s cooled.”

“It was kind of you to make it. The remedy is exactly what I would have prescribed.” Her praise had the boy glowing with satisfaction as he helped her to the door.

Bea had imagined their relationship to be more antagonistic. Wrong again! The kinship between them verged on tenderness. To make a point, Aine brushed a lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes as they reached the doorway. “You need to be more careful with the doctor,” she advised. “He’s an influential man and we need all the allies we can get.” Shame they were family, Bea thought. Theirs would make an intriguing love affair…

Go to: Chapter Two or get your copy of the book