Hammond Kasprowicz was far from marxist, but he strode into the kitchen like a politburo minister of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. His face was flushed and sweaty: under the whiteness of his hair, his colour reminded Jack of a hot saveloy. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and a broad, pale yellow tie. There was a black leather briefcase in his hand. He dropped it onto the floor beside the island bench and immediately began tugging at the Windsor knot around his neck.
“You should teach your daughter some manners.”
He said it without looking at Annabelle at all. His voice was gruff, but tired. He removed his jacket, then checked the pockets before throwing it onto a stool.
Annabelle walked over to the dinner table and sat down. Jack stood looking at Kasprowicz, wondering when the old man was going to acknowledge his presence.
“I thought you were flying back tomorrow night,” said Annabelle.
Kasprowicz grunted. “Obviously.” He opened a cupboard door and removed a bottle of Scotch. “Are you well, Mr Susko?”
“Any better I’d burst. Yourself?”
No reply. Kasprowicz hunched his broad, round back over the bottle and cracked the cap.
“Sit down, Jack.” Annabelle motioned to his chair.
“Yes.” Kasprowicz poured himself three fat fingers of Scotch. “Please, don’t let me disturb your dinner.” He held onto the edge of the granite bench-top, tilted his head back and threw half the Scotch down his throat.
“You’re a smooth operator, Susko,” he said, his back still to them. “One minute you’re knee-deep in smelly old books, the next you’re in my kitchen, enjoying a meal with my daughter.” He brought the glass up to his mouth again. “I can only hope you’ve applied yourself as tenaciously to my little job.”
Jack grinned. Kasprowicz was quick: he might be old, but his brain ticked over like it had been engineered in Stuttgart. “I’m giving it my full attention, Hammond. I didn’t know you were such a fan of your brother’s work.”
Hammond Kasprowicz turned around. “So you know.” He sipped his drink and glanced at his daughter. She had her back to him but shifted in her seat under his gaze. “That’s almost impressive. Maybe I’ll have to find more jobs for you.” He rubbed his chin and pulled at his tie some more. “Though I worry about your confidentiality.”
Jack smiled. He could have cut the nonchalance with a chainsaw. “I worry about your disclosure,” he replied.
Glass in hand, Kasprowicz picked his briefcase up from the floor. “Some things just aren’t your business, Mr Susko. You have your job and you’ve been paid.” Kasprowicz rolled his shoulders. “When can I expect a delivery? Have you had much success?”
“Moderate. But competition doesn’t help.”
Kasprowicz’s brows angled down and shadowed his eyes like furry awnings. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Competition?”
Jack nodded. “That’s right.”
Kasprowicz stared thoughtfully at his glass of Scotch. Jack waited, watching him.
Annabelle broke the silence “Why are you after Edward’s books?”
Kasprowicz frowned like a High Court judge. “And why would that be any of your concern?”
“Not so much my concern,” said Annabelle. “Rather Celia Mitten’s.”
“What are you talking about?”
Annabelle turned to look at her father. Kasprowicz pushed his chin out.
“Are you burning Edward’s books?” she said, a little stronger than matter-of-factly. “Is that why you’ve got Jack searching for them? So that you can burn them, put the ashes in a box and send them to a sick old man?”
Kasprowicz shook his head, disappointed and annoyed, as though Annabelle had just told him she was pregnant by the gardener. “You’ve been drinking,” he said. The man was a Fourth-Dan Black Belt in the delivery of contempt. “Who told you this nonsense?”
Annabelle stood up, determined. She knew she had already gone too far. Even the pot plants knew it. “Are you burning Edward’s books?” she repeated.
“You might want to lose the tone.”
“Then why else would you want them?”
Hammond Kasprowicz looked at Jack and then back at his daughter. His face was as hard as the bust of a Roman emperor. He did not care that the risotto was getting cold. “It’s not your business,” he said. That was it. Question time was over. He picked up his jacket, turned and walked out of the kitchen. His footsteps were loud but unhurried down the hall.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Annabelle went over to the stove and switched the extraction fan off. Jack drank some wine. His stomach mumbled something nasty about being empty.
“Not much of a dinner,” said Annabelle.
“It’s still here.”
“I’m sorry. And it was meant to be an apology.”
Jack stood up, slowly. Obviously time to go. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
“I’ll call you. Maybe we could try this again. In a restaurant.”
“Any time.”
Jack slipped on his coat, adjusted the sleeves and collar of his shirt. Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest. There was going to be no goodnight kiss.
“Do you think he burnt them?”
“You know your father better than I do.”
“Nobody knows my father.”
She stared at the terracotta tiles. Jack walked towards the hallway door. She did not look up when he said goodbye. He stepped quietly out of the kitchen and made his way to the front door.
Outside, he lit a cigarette, walked to the gate and glanced back at the house. It looked cold and empty, even though he knew there were people inside.
Jack changed his mind about going home. He was hungry. He stopped in Paddington, ordered a pizza and bought a bottle of wine. Then he hailed another taxi and directed it into the city.
It was still quite early. Lois was no doubt curled up somewhere in a neighbour’s apartment, not thinking about him at all. Sometimes home could feel a little empty, especially on wet Monday nights. Jack wanted the dusty silence of Susko Books, and some Charles Mingus on the stereo for company. Tonight, maybe At the Bohemia, 1955. And then ease into that long bottle of red. Pick out some books, open the pages at random and see what he gets. The outside world where it should be — outside.
He had kissed her. Thirty sweet seconds. Hardly enough to count for a memory.
“Just here’s fine, thanks.” Jack held the pizza box off his lap and paid the cab driver. The smell had filled the taxi, greasing the stale air inside.
A street-sweeper swished loudly around the corner and Jack stepped back from the kerb as it drove past. The sky was still clear, the stars in crisp focus. It was cold, but no rain tonight. Just ahead, Queen Victoria sat in her usual spot, spilling abundantly out of her chair, the weight of the Empire in her sagging bronze jowls.
York Street. Somebody sat on the top steps to Susko Books, talking on a mobile phone, his back to the street. Jack crossed over. He watched the young guy stand up and pocket his mobile phone. Then just as he walked up, Jack caught a flash of light that seemed to come from the front door of his shop. Surprised, he stopped at the top of the steps and waited a moment, trying to see through the shadowed glass. Nothing. Then as he took a step down, the light flashed again and darted about in the darkness. What the hell?
Jack quickly put the pizza and bottle of wine down and called out to the phone guy just walking away. “Hey! You! Call the cops. Somebody’s in my shop!”
The guy turned around. He was a young man in his twenties, wearing green camouflage pants, a beanie and a thick, hooded windcheater. “What?” He gave Jack a wary, petulant look.
“Someone’s broken into my fucking shop. Could you call the cops?”
The young man’s eye’s widened. “Yeah, sure man, no worries.” He reached for his phone and flipped it open.
“Tell them it’s Susko Books, on York Street. The guy’s still in there.”
Jack sprinted around into Market Row. The lane was empty. He slowed down as he approached the rear door to his bookshop. The sound of traffic carried down from George Street but seemed a long way off.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket. As he neared the rear door, he saw they would not be necessary: somebody had taken out the lock and handle with a sledgehammer.
Jack held his breath and pushed the door slowly: it started to creak so he held it fast. It was open just enough for him to slip through. But wait there or go inside? He was unsure. He needed a weapon.
His heart thumped. He stepped inside. Jack Susko had never held a gun in his life, but he was sure it would have felt better than the old, 1970s Smoker’s Please ashtray he picked up off the floor behind the door. First thing tomorrow he was buying an aluminium baseball bat.
There were noises up ahead, somewhere near the counter: shuffling of papers, drawers being opened, books dropped to the floor, a chair shoved aside. An old coffee mug full of pens spilled and a second later smashed on the floor. The intruder swore. Then the dull drum echo of Jack’s small, wastepaper bin as a palm hit the side a couple of times and emptied it.
Jack edged forwards. He held the ashtray in his right hand, ready to swing. It was dark but he knew where the shelves were, knew which way to go. Every now and then the intruder’s torchlight reflected off something in the shop, a quick flash of glass, of metal, a sudden grainy patch of ceiling or wall, then gone. It was like being underwater at night.
For a moment, complete silence. Jack stopped. Then he heard paper being torn. Followed by the scrape and scratch of a lighter flicking sparks. He took another step. The ashtray he was carrying banged against the metal corner of a bookshelf. He froze. Three seconds later, a beam of thin, harsh light caught him full in the face.
Things happened pretty quickly after that.