Out Of Print

Out of Print

Martin pushed open the stiff door of the town library and inhaled. The familiar smell held out its welcoming arms to him and he embraced it.

He found that he could separate the two distinct ingredients of the library's aroma. First, and strongest, of the two scents was the musty smell of age weary books, leafed through by a thousand eager hands. This was the smell of history; a musty, dusty, reminiscent nose tickling smell of time. It was wonderful, and reminded Martin of attics and locked trunks. No matter how much sparkle, new paint and polish the library was given, this smell would not be defeated, and prevailed to welcome visitors.

The second part of the smell was the exciting waft of brand new books; virgin territory never explored. He loved it when his date stamp was the first to blemish the inside cover of a new copy.

They were having an Out of Print sale, the annual spring clean. It was a chance to get rid of the age old tomes that had lain on the shelves for a hundred years without being read or borrowed. Old novels that were thumb worn and weary, read so many times that the pages were in danger of disintegrating to dust with just one more page turn. Books on fly tying, lace making, favourite highland walks, children's books, reference books and books of indeterminate nature, unsold in last year's sale.

Martin described himself as a man of the written word. He’d developed a love and knowledge of period drama and revelled in the works of Dickens, identified with Edward Gorey, and emulated Poe. At twenty-nine, he could call himself a writer. He wrote freelance for a couple of small newspapers and was the proud author of four novels. He was waiting with his hook baited for the big one, but it wouldn't be long; he could taste it. He’d done the groundwork and had gone hungry. He’d amassed a shoebox full of rejection slips. He was ready and the big one was only words away.

He was a deceptive man; a deep thinker hiding in the body of an amiable clown. He looked younger than his twenty-nine years and could pass for a second-year student attending one of the three sixth-form colleges in the area. Only when close enough to study the depth and maturity behind his grey eyes did you get a more accurate guess at his age.

He dressed in black. With the exception of his Calvin Klein underwear, every item of clothing he possessed came from charity shops. Black boots, jeans, t-shirts and waistcoats were always topped with a long black trench coat. Summer or winter, his attire never altered. He wore his coat open and it would flap against his legs, and clung either side of a broad chest. His build was aquired carelessly with complete disregard for physical activity. The only body part that he worked out regularly was his brain.

He stood tall with curly chestnut hair flowing down his back and caught at the nape of his neck in a loose pony tail. Privately, he was a quiet, introspective man, losing himself for hours at a time in the lands of his imagination. Socially, he was a loveable fool, loud and brash, playing to his audience and loving any self-deprecating attention that came his way.

He had his ferret head on, and would spend the next few hours pouring over the unloved books, burying his head in box after dusty box of old literature, confident in the hope of finding treasure.

He strode across the polished floor and smirked as his right boot squeaked with every tread. As he passed them, everybody looked up either irritated or made curious by the pervasive noise only to be disarmed by the charming smile he gave them.

Two hours later, he was lost to time and space. He lived only within the square foot that he occupied; anything beyond had faded from reality and he was in a blissful world of words and
illustration.

That was when he found the greatest treasure of the day. Buried between an old encyclopaedia and something in Hebrew was the small book. He saw it for what it was and grasped at it avariciously. Like a parched man at a desert oasis, he turned the pages quickly but with reverence. His eyes glinted and he couldn't contain a chuckle over his find. It was an Edmund Vorey first edition printed in 1936, in excellent condition. Each page had two sentences of verse with a black line-drawing illustration opposite.

The book was titled "The Man in Black".

Flicking back to the start of the story, he read aloud.

‘Roaming the land to journey’s end on a book-bound quest.
A traveler from a future time in a long black vest.’

The page opposite showed a crude drawing of a tall thin man.

‘Looking up and face to face, the gentleman saw the past...and met,
He gazed upon what's gone, replaced, but he failed to recognise it yet.’

This picture showed the man with a pencil-thin hand shielding his eyes.

Martin turned without lowering the book. He’d pay and rush home to read his stash from the comfort of his armchair. He was so deeply engrossed that he collided with a boy who’d entered the isle from the opposite direction and was gazing at him with the curiosity of a teenager.

‘Oi, watch out Mister. You nearly `ad me over.’
The boy was lanky and thin with strawberry blonde hair that fell over his face like an unwashed curtain. Lively blue eyes looked up at Martin from beneath the heavy fringe.

‘Sorry mate, I didn't see you there. I've just found this brilliant book that's old and really rare. It’s probably worth a fortune’

Martin liked people; he didn't notice age and talked to every child as though they were on a mental level with him. Kids were drawn to him, and although he professed to not like them, they worshiped him. He would spark conversations with strangers about matters of interest and expect them to hop on the same wave of enthusiasm that he straddled. He threw the child one of his smiles.

‘How old are you kid, and hey, why aren't you at school?’

‘I'm fifteen but don't attend school, sir, I don't need all them equations `n stuff. I like it in here. I like reading and I'm going to be a writer one day.’

Martin saw himself fifteen years earlier.

‘Yeah? I bet you do too, matey. I never used to go to school much, either. You know mate, you can learn everything you need to know right here. Who did what to whom, and who was shagging who and
when.’

The lad laughed and for want of a bigger audience, Martin decided to stick around for a few minutes and entertain him. He liked the kid.

‘Hey! There were two nuns in the bath right? And one says to the other, “Where’s the soap?” Get it? Where's the soap? Yeah?’

The lad looked at him.

‘Oh never mind kid, just hang on to it and try it again in a couple of years, it's a killer.’

‘You aren't from around here, are you?’ the boy asked Martin.

He was a funny kid, pensive and thoughtful, older than his years. Martin lived only two minutes up the road, but felt a million miles away from the experiences of a fifteen year old.

‘That's right kid,’ he said, ‘I'm from another time and place, a whole different bloody lifetime.’

The boys eyes widened. ‘I'm not surprised, sir. I knew you was different. I sees it in you.’

Martin smirked at the lad. ‘You don't know the half of it mate.’

They chatted for a bit and Martin grew bored of the conversation. The book was warm in his palm and he was itching to get back home to read it.

‘Anyway, nice meeting you kid, see you around sometime.’

He paid for the books and was thrilled that the Vorey only cost him fifty pence. On the way home he smiled at everybody he passed. Today was a good day.

It was summer. Martin rose to a morning of sunlight and enthusiastic birdsong. It was a feel-good day. The town was holding a country fair and he thought he might wander along, take in the river for an hour, have some lunch out and see if there were any bargains to be had. Most of the stalls would be filled with over-priced hand-crafted goods, but he might pick up something interesting, and if not it was something to do. Some of the traditional crafts exhibited were interesting and gave him an insight into the olde ways for his books.

After an excellent Ploughman's lunch and a nice Merlot, Martin was in a great mood. He mulled through the crowds at the fair saying, ‘Good afternoon,’ and browsing the stalls. The stallholders initially loved him because he was interested and asked pertinent questions, but they frowned after him when, after doing their best to sell their wares, he walked away saying, ‘That's fascinating, thank you for your time.’

He watched the judging of the dray horses in their finery. Big sturdy Shires and Clydesdales that snorted twin plumes of steam from their nostrils like mythical dragons. He bought a black cotton scarf and a piece of homemade gingerbread for his afternoon tea. Martin was just thinking about making his way home when a child in the crowd caught his eye.

‘Hey kid! How're you doing? Remember me? We met in the library one day. You're going to be the next Steve King, right?’

The boys face brightened in recognition and they passed a few minutes. On the way home, quaint was the word that kept coming back to Martin when he thought about the serious young lad.

~*~

The young Edmund Vorey sat at his writing desk. He wanted to write and only had a little while left before the light from his candle was gone; it had almost burned down to the saucer it stood on. His
mother only allowed him two candles a week.

Edmund dipped his quill and began with the date.

The 6th day of July in the year 19 hundred and thirty-five.

He wrote in deep concentration with his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, his thick blonde hair fell over his eyes.

‘T’was at the fair, I saw him next, the travelling man in black.
He came to me from the future, then slowly vanished back.’

~*~

Martin munched on the gingerbread and flicked idly through the Vorey book. As he read, his brow furrowed and a kid with tousled hair came into his mind. He read the familiar words but they held new meaning.

‘T’was at the fair, I saw him next, the travelling man in black.’

Trembling with excitement Martin rushed upstairs and booted up his computer. That night he began the big one, the book that made his fortune and took him to the top of the best seller list.

At the top of his new document he wrote the title…

The Child From Yesterday