The Boy in the Book – Chapter Two

Love affair! She shuddered. What was she thinking? It’d be a tragedy. She slammed the door on that line of thought and slid a thousand bolts in place. What if her wild imaginings influenced the book? Surely that wasn’t so fanciful. Hadn’t her father taught her that being able to influence events across the immensity of time and space was not only feasible but necessary? Another of his quantum gems. 

She got to her feet, crossed the room and buried the book deep amongst others on the bookshelf. It was time to do some homework. Half an hour later she pushed aside her work. She’d barely read a page of chemistry. Visions of Liam entwined in Aine’s arms haunted her. Or, if it wasn’t that, it was Liam chasing a squealing Aine through the orchard. She’d got it all wrong. It wasn’t her influencing the book, but the book influencing her. 

It was too early for tea but she went down in the hope of scrounging a snack. Maybe a change of scenery would lessen the book’s hold. Ginger followed her down. Manuela was preparing the evening meal. The woman greeted her with a smile and slid an apple across the table as if reading the girl’s thoughts. Bea hiked herself onto a stool by the table and bit into the fruit. After a few minutes silent munching, she placed the apple core on the table next to her and began, “Can a book bewitch someone?” 

Manuela’s only answer was a quizzical look which seemed to say, ‘What do you mean by bewitched?’

“I mean, force me to think about it all the time, making it impossible for me to do my homework.”

Manuela grinned.

“I know. I know. I’d much rather be reading a book or, even better, writing my own instead of swotting boring chemistry. But I have to study if I’m to get to university and be free to write.” Manuela was the only person she’d confided in about her plan to switch from the sciences to creative writing at university and become a writer. “Instead, I keep dreaming up paths for this silly book to follow. Not all of them tasteful.”

Manuela handed her a bowl of potatoes and a peeler. Bea set about peeling. If the woman thought manual work would calm her, she’d got it wrong. Bea’s mind went into overdrive. Could the book be evil? Evil? Her father had once expounded at length on the concepts of good and evil, saying they were quite relative. She hadn’t been able to follow much, but she’d retained that good called up evil and vice versa. They fed on each other. So the idea of good fighting evil was misguided. Fighting only made it’s would-be opponent stronger.

No. The struggle she was having with the book was just that, a struggle. And she needed to win. “I have it,” she said, handing the peeled potatoes to Manuela. “I’ve got to fight back.”

The woman looked perplexed.

“If the book’s trying to influence me,” she said, scooping up the peelings and dumping them into the compost bin. “I have to beat it by influencing it back, ten-fold.”

Manuela’s smile was that knowing sort which was difficult to interpret. Bea imagined it said something like, ‘You’ll see.’ As if the woman were privy to things Bea wasn’t. She probably was. But it was frustrating. Asking questions was futile. Having thanked Manuela, she returned to her room to prepare her riposte.

Ginger joined her with a discontented meow. “I know,” she told it “I’ve been neglecting you for that book.” She bent down to stroke it, but the cat hissed and swaggered  away haughtily refusing any caresses.

Bea picked up a pen, opened her notebook and sat down to write, only to discover that drafting a counterattack was no easier than chemistry revision. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. After what seemed like ages of doodling, she decided to try influencing the book in small ways. As a start. Recovering it from its hiding place, she chased the cat from the armchair where it lay splayed and settled in its place, shifting several times till she got comfortable. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the book and began.

Liam’s heart was pounding and his breath came in short, sharp bursts as he struggled to contain his emotions. Aine was gasping too as she lay sprawled on top of him, pinning him to the settee. The way she nibbled his earlobe and raked her nails through his hair was sending excruciating shivers down his spine. Never had he been in such a state of confused rapture. His whole body was on fire, as if her fever had rubbed off on him. 

The situation was worse than Bea had feared. She had to put a stop to it at once. Especially as she suspected her rogue thoughts had sparked it. She willed the doorbell to ring. Nothing happened. The two continued to cling to each other like shipwrecked wretches. She tried imagining the Bible that lay on the table tumbling noisily to the floor. The good book refused to be an accomplice.

Bea pulled herself back into the armchair, having slithered half to the floor only to be rewarded by a loose spring jabbing her in the back. Of course. It was obvious. A spring would do the trick. She wafted the idea in the direction of the book, casually, as if it didn’t matter. A kind of side-ways, sneaky shot at the target. It worked. Aine sprang to her feet, crying out in pain. “Cursed spring,” she swore, rubbing her knee. Bea was triumphant. She’d done it. As for Liam, he scratched his head as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Aine re-buttoned her blouse which was hanging open and straightened her skirt. Her hair – which she invariably wore in a ponytail – had come loose and floated in joyous curls around her face. The moment of passion was over. She ducked her head in shame. Not so Liam. He was staring greedily at her, his mouth fallen open. She was unquestionably the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. 

Oh no! Now Bea had a smitten boy to deal with. What a mess! It was then that Aine held up a hand to halt the boy who was inching closer and said, “It’s true I care for you, Liam. Affection you might call it. Love, even. After all, you are my nephew. But not that.” Her lips curled in disgust. “That can never be.” She shook her head. “It was my fault. I got carried away. The fever clouded my mind…” Her voice trailed off as tears sprang to her eyes. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed, muttering over and over, “I failed her.”

When Liam moved to take his aunt in his arms to console her, she pushed him away. “No,” she said, her tone firm. “What we were about to do would have been a terrible sin. That must never happen.” 

Liam was heartbroken. He’d tasted of the forbidden fruit only to be cast out of the garden before he could sink his teeth into it. All that remained was a bitter longing and a deep sense of frustration. He turned away and shuffled towards the door leaving it wide open as he went out.

Outside, beyond the orchard, across the fields, Liam staggered on, oblivious to his surroundings. The world was downright mean. He’d finally found someone he loved and who clearly loved him, yet he couldn’t have her. He kicked a clod of earth sending it skittering into a hedge and stepped out onto the lane. He was a long way from home, somewhere above the village, in one of those many winding tracks used only by farmers. It was late and the sun was nearing the horizon casting somber shadows over the lane. A scene that suited his mood.

The sound of footfalls had him spinning round in alarm to find a gang of youths from the village sauntering along behind him, their hands shoved deep in their pockets, their expressions grim. “Look what we have here,” the eldest exclaimed. “The witch’s spawn.”

Liam turned to face them. No point in running. They’d outrun him any day. Fighting was out of the question. Even the smallest looked stronger than him. He braced himself for a thrashing.

“I wouldn’t mess with him,” the youngest said. “He’ll turn you into frog spawn.”

“I was thinking more of a slug,” Liam said, trying, but failing, to sound sure of himself. It was a dangerous game. But did he have a choice? 

“Nah!” the leader said. “Look at him. He’s pissing himself with fear. He’s not going to cast a spell on anyone. Let’s teach him a lesson.” In one fluid movement he sprang forward and grabbed Liam by the collar, raising him into the air.

A strident whistle nearby had the youth relaxing his hold. Liam, whose legs  refused to hold his weight, sagged to the ground. The youth gave him a farewell kick in the stomach and turned and ran, followed by the others. Liam lay where he’d fallen, rubbing his belly. If that had been a police whistle, he’d do well to scarper too. The police would be no friendlier than the youths. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. His terror took a long time to subside, but no inquisitive policeman emerged to question him. 

Struggling to his feet, he looked around. Night had finally fallen and sinister shadows masked almost everything. As far as he could see, no dark silhouette lurked in the night ready to arrest him. Who had blown the whistle? He didn’t believe in ghosts or guardian angels, but he could find no other explanation. Whoever it was, it had saved him. Spooked at the idea of being in the presence of ghosts, he began a fearsome trek home.

The whistle had been Bea’s idea. She’d tried several other things first. None had worked. Then she thought of the whistle. For the second time she’d been able to intervene. The trick seemed to be to approach the book sideways, catching it off guard. When she tried to confront it face on, it was as if her intentions bounced off. Desperately wanting something to happen didn’t work either. What was required was some sort of benevolent indifference. 

She was eager to know if Liam made it safely home. What if he stumbled on those thugs again? Then there was Aime. What if he pestered the young woman and it started all over again. Bea forced herself to set the book aside, much to her regret. For her own mental health she decided to ration its use, although whether she’d comply with her good intentions was another question.

She planned to do more chemistry revision, but it was already time for tea. Manuela was not one to stand on ceremony, but she did insist on punctuality. Tea was served in the kitchen. Crumpets oozing with butter, judging from the smell. Bea’s mouth watered in anticipation. The woman greeted her with the habitual smile and gestured to a chair.

As usual they ate in silence. Once the plate was empty, Bea was about to gather up the dishes and carry them to the sink when Manuela leant across the table and laid a hand on her arm. There was an urgent question in her eyes. Bea was sure it was about the book. “Yes,” she replied. “I managed. But it wasn’t easy. I might have learnt how to influence the book, but there’s no knowing how it will react.” She related the event with the spring, omitting much of the dodgy details. “I managed to avert a catastrophe, but I could well have caused another, depending on how the boy reacted. As it was, he stormed off and almost got beaten up by a band of yobs.”

Manuela shrugged and, picking up an unpeeled potato that must have escaped her earlier efforts, rolled it across the table towards Bea. Instead of moving in a straight line, it cavorted right and left finally ending up on the other side of the table and promptly fell to floor.

Nodding in understanding, Bea got up to recuperate the potato which had rolled under the table where Ginger had decided it would make a good plaything. Bea was obliged to get down on all fours to snatch it from the cat’s claws and hit her head under the table as she moved to dodge a swipe of the cat’s paw. When she emerged clutching the wayward potato in one hand and rubbing her head with the other, Manuela gifted her a cheeky grin. 

Go to: Chapter One or get your copy of the book.