The Book: Chapter 26

She stared at the book. It lay on her desk, unmoving, but, as always, it lurked. It made its presence felt. It was always there, waiting to destroy everything Alice touched.

She opened it to see what carnage the day would bring. Despite herself, she opened it every morning and hated herself for succumbing. It was a disease. And it was her addiction. Alice returned the makeshift bookmark—one of Mick’s old flyers—to page forty-six, where Debbie was about to be stung by a wasp and scream the place down in terror, fearing anaphylactic shock. Previously, the book had hinted that Debbie used cocaine to get through the day. Alice had been watching her but hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. There were only so many times she could follow a colleague into the ladies' room. 

The book had grown slyer and more tricksy. It wrote things that sometimes ran as written—but more often than not, they’d lead her astray and warp into something that explained the cryptic text but was flipped sideways so that Alice made a fool of herself.

She couldn’t get rid of the book. She’d tried many times and failed. But it didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep trying.

Alice was distracted but saw the skips outside the hospital on her way to work. One was for non-clinical waste, the other for items intended for charity. On impulse, she decided to make another attempt at freedom.

During her break, she wrapped the bastard book in an old jumper, ensuring it was well hidden before walking to the back of the hospital with feigned nonchalance. She knew she’d fail but couldn’t face living like this any longer. Suicidal thoughts made her selfish. She didn’t want to die, and at that moment, if she could have passed the book onto her aged granny, she would have. But despite these thoughts, she couldn’t bring herself to drop it into the charity skip and pass the problem on. She’d have done it in a heartbeat to be rid of it, but not when there was an alternative option to try first.

The skips waited to be fed. Their weathered, rusted frames stood side by side, looking hungry. The one for general waste was half-full with plastic bags, broken office furniture, sandwich packaging, and old magazines. The other bin, for donation, was tidier and filled with books, toys, and discarded clothes.

Alice hesitated. Her conscience pricked but only until she heard the book in her head. It was laughing at her. She swore, thought, let it burn in hell, and threw the bundle into the skip for rubbish. It landed with a thud, swallowed by other refuse. And she stepped away, knowing it was futile. It had the survival instincts of a cockroach and the attitude of a jilted lover. By tomorrow, or even sooner, it would be back where it always was—on the corner of her desk like a bouquet of nightshade. But she had to try.

For the rest of the day, Alice held her breath every time she opened her office door. She reached for a glimmer of relief as she locked up to go home, but it didn’t come to her on a ray of blinding light from heaven. The book was biding its time, that’s all. It would be back. Alice refused to be lulled into any kind of security.

That night, as she got out of her car, she saw a surprise waiting for her, and it wasn’t that sodding book. Mick stood on her doorstep, leaning on his crutch and holding the prettiest arrangement of flowers she’d ever seen. A vision of deadly nightshade crossed her mind and she pushed it away, forcing a smile.

Her delight would have been unmistakable, however, she faltered. He was there, but she couldn’t tell if he was real. The last time she saw him, it was an illusion conjured somehow by the book infiltrating her mind. This could be a similar cruel delusion.

She wanted to run to him and fling herself into his arms. He was smiling, and that in itself wasn’t right. He’d been hostile since they split so, more than anything else, his expression, told her this was another psychotic episode. ‘You’re not real,’ she said to him.

He let out a shaky breath. ‘It’s me. The real me.’

‘How can I tell?’

Still unsure, she unlocked the door. If this was a vision, it was a good one, so she’d run with it. She was cool-headed in her demeanour but stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. He limped through. Would he have the cast on his leg if he wasn’t real? She thought back and tried to recall whether he had it in her last vision. He did, and she blushed, remembering how it had hampered their rough lovemaking. At least my delusions have excellent taste in men, she thought.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said, attempting a smile and not making it work.

Alice crossed her arms, studying him. If she reached out too fast her hands might pass right through him. ‘Do you blame me? What do you want, Mick?’

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. And Alice filled up with love for him.

‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry,’ he said.

They went to the kitchen and she put the kettle on, taking down two mugs, convinced he’d have vanished when she turned around. The last time this happened, he disappeared while she was making coffee. Why should this be any different? She turned, expecting to be alone. But he was still there.  

He handed her the gigantic spray of summer flowers, her favourites, and he unbalanced, almost falling over as she took them. She motioned him to a chair as though he was a stranger visiting for the first time, and he slumped into it. Her Mick. Here again—just another illusion, designed to keep her from sanity.

He looked as though he was gathering himself for a speech. ‘After the call, I couldn’t get your words out of my head. I admit, I wanted to ignore you and go back to sleep, but when I hung up I was wide awake. You’d unnerved me. So I went to check on Dad as you asked. I did it because of you.’

Alice finished making coffee and put a mug in front of him. She marvelled as he took it straight to his lips, and grimaced because it was too hot. He could drink, just like a real person.

‘And?’ she asked.

‘You were right. You saved my father’s life, Alice. I knocked, but there was no answer. I heard moaning and remembered Mum was working a night shift. My dad was in there alone. So I went in and he was writhing on the bed, groaning in agony. His face was white. He was soaking wet with sweat, and couldn’t breathe to call out for me. My father was curled in a foetal position, clutching his belly and crying from the pain. He had tears glistening on his cheeks, but my dad doesn’t cry, Alice.

‘Oh God, that’s awful. Is he going to be all right?’

‘Thanks to you. I called an ambulance and they got to him in time. At the hospital, we got a faster diagnosis because I told them it was possibly a stomach ulcer. I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t warned me.’ He stopped, seemed overwhelmed, and took another sip of his coffee without vanishing. Maybe he was here. Only real people were dumb enough to burn their tongues and then do it again.

‘It’s good to know I have my uses. I do a mean cat’s cradle, too. And my scrambled eggs are to die for,’ she said. This was a Mad Hatter’s tea party so she could say whatever she liked.

‘Stop it. I’m being serious.’

‘So am I. I haven’t mentioned my homemade Yorkshire puddings yet. They rise so well, you don’t know whether to eat them or climb them.’

‘Why are we talking about food? I’m trying to apologise.’

‘So do it.’ She had no idea why she felt so angry.

‘Thank you for saving my dad. The doctors ran a scan and it showed that the ulcer was engorged and about to rupture. The surgeon told me that if I’d waited, even another hour, he wouldn’t have made it.’

‘He’s okay?’

‘Yes. They treated him successfully. He’s recovering. But Alice, if I hadn’t listened to you, I’d have lost him. I don’t even want to think about it.’

‘So you believe me? About the book, I mean?’

‘You diagnosed my father’s illness from a hundred miles away. I don’t know what the hell to believe, but I’ve got my ears wide open and I’m listening, darling.’

She closed her eyes. Relief flooded through her, but so did something else—fear. The book messed with things. But it had given her the chance to warn Mick. Why?

She opened her eyes to see him watching her.

‘I need you to trust me,’ she said.

‘I do. Oh, God, I do trust you.’ But trust was the currency the book had stolen from her, and she wasn’t sure he could earn it back.

‘I need more, Mick. I need you to believe I’m not insane.’

‘I’m here aren’t I?’

‘That’s just it. Are you? You were just as real last time—but it was a manipulation.  I need you to believe in me, but I don’t trust myself. I don’t dare turn around in case I turn back and you’re gone.’ She started crying and he stood up, hobbling on one leg as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him, kissing her hair.

‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen before. But I’m here now. I want to know about the book. All of it.’

Alice’s throat tightened. It was what she’d wanted to hear, but the words felt too big to fit inside her. She wanted to say something profound to make him understand what she’d dealt with, but she could only speak in simple terms. ‘It’s been horrible.’

‘I’m so sorry I let you down.’

‘You did. You left me and I’ve been alone.’

Mick looked sad, but then he smiled, a genuine ear-splitter. His hands grabbed hers. ‘We don’t have all the answers. But I know I don’t want to lose you.’

Alice swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘You have to be sure. I can’t go through this again.’

Mick laughed. ‘For the record, I’m not moving in, though. You went full-on Annie Wilkes on me for a second there.’

Alice didn’t laugh.

‘Too soon?’ he asked with a grin that said he could get away with anything.

She nodded and a tear rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away and kissed the end of her nose.

‘My leg’s in plaster, I’m barely functional, and I’m pretty sure you’d get sick of me in a week.’

Alice managed a weak laugh. She shook her head. ‘I’d give it three days—at best.’

They stood together with their hands clasped, finding something new between them. It was familiar, but renewed and different, more mature for the suffering. Despite the madness of the past few months, they’d found their way back to each other.

For now, that was enough.

.I write under the pen name Katherine Black and I have 17 books published. All on Kindle Unlimited. I’d love it if you’d try one.

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