Read Online Underground Rivers by Mike French - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike French
Tags: Fiction, Short Stories, Authors, Literature, Library, Writing, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), writers, Culture, Book Club, Local, Town, morecambe, Luton, bedfordshire
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her coffee cup down and looked expectantly at her sister.
Rachel slammed her mug down on the table and some coffee sloshed onto her hand. She winced and put it into her mouth. Then she leaned towards her sister.
âNo.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, you need to get this straight. What happened is behind me. I know Iâm innocent. I donât need you to prove it to make yourself and Mum feel better.â
âBut you have to clear your name.â
âNo. I donât. You need me to. Sorry, but if you want to find out who really killed Dad, youâre on your own.â
Words
by Muriel Nicola Waldt
It is not unusual to see random books in odd places in the library where I work but when I reach out to pick this particular book up it slowly opens, all on its own, right in front of my eyes. Now some books do this. Paperbacks tend to have a mind of their own, especially when they have only been read a few times. The lovely pristine pages open up like curtains on a stage offering all manner of wonderful words that dance across the page like eager young ballerinas waiting for praise. But not hardbacks. Despite having as many delights hidden between their cardboard covers, they remain firmly shut, relying only on the tantalising words and pictures splashed across their covers to tempt the waiting public.
So, it is fair to say that when the book in question settles on pages 128 and 129, I find myself staring at it in disbelief and feel my heart go into a frenzy of wild thumping. Halfway down page 129 the words âhelp meâ are outlined in a browny red colour, which is definitely not biro. Even though I remind myself that this is not the first time I have seen words circled in books (admittedly usually in pencil) I find that this smudge of colour sends a bizarre scenario rushing through my head of blood seeping from a wound to be used as ink. I think I might faint so taking a deep breath I gather my absent wits, grab the book and make my way back behind the counter. This is the latest in a string of strange incidents involving books and my colleagues just humour me and tell me I am going mad.
At the enquiry desk I scan the item number to check the last borrower. Her name is Joan Fredericks, a woman in her mid fifties. She lives in Maple Road; a stretch of old terraced houses just round the corner. The address seems familiar but for now I cannot think why. I am unable to bring her to mind at the moment but then out of all the hundreds of people that come through the door each week this is hardly surprising, I know most of our customers by sight only. I see that she has ten books out, all junior fiction and her records tell me that she takes ten out on a regular basis every three weeks. Her books are due back tomorrow. I am sure I will recognise her when I see her. I take another look at the book; it is junior fiction about a lost dog and when I check page 129 again I convince myself that the strange colour circling âhelp meâ is definitely dried blood.
When Joan comes in the next day I do indeed recognise her. I remember that she has hardly ever said a word to any of us, simply putting the books on the return desk then making her way to the junior fiction and picking another ten books almost at random. A busy library, we often do not have time to make conversation with all of the customers, but I make time today and comment on the awful weather. She mumbles something, possibly in agreement, grabs her books and practically runs out of the door.
After work I go home to my own small terraced cottage not far away in a road parallel to Maple Road. The houses are identical, built at the turn of the century over a hundred years ago. The niggle I feel that there is something relevant about her house eludes me until the early hours of the next morning when I wake, as you do, and instantly remember. The house next to hers was the subject of news coverage only a year ago. Archie Meadows,
Rachel slammed her mug down on the table and some coffee sloshed onto her hand. She winced and put it into her mouth. Then she leaned towards her sister.
âNo.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, you need to get this straight. What happened is behind me. I know Iâm innocent. I donât need you to prove it to make yourself and Mum feel better.â
âBut you have to clear your name.â
âNo. I donât. You need me to. Sorry, but if you want to find out who really killed Dad, youâre on your own.â
Words
by Muriel Nicola Waldt
It is not unusual to see random books in odd places in the library where I work but when I reach out to pick this particular book up it slowly opens, all on its own, right in front of my eyes. Now some books do this. Paperbacks tend to have a mind of their own, especially when they have only been read a few times. The lovely pristine pages open up like curtains on a stage offering all manner of wonderful words that dance across the page like eager young ballerinas waiting for praise. But not hardbacks. Despite having as many delights hidden between their cardboard covers, they remain firmly shut, relying only on the tantalising words and pictures splashed across their covers to tempt the waiting public.
So, it is fair to say that when the book in question settles on pages 128 and 129, I find myself staring at it in disbelief and feel my heart go into a frenzy of wild thumping. Halfway down page 129 the words âhelp meâ are outlined in a browny red colour, which is definitely not biro. Even though I remind myself that this is not the first time I have seen words circled in books (admittedly usually in pencil) I find that this smudge of colour sends a bizarre scenario rushing through my head of blood seeping from a wound to be used as ink. I think I might faint so taking a deep breath I gather my absent wits, grab the book and make my way back behind the counter. This is the latest in a string of strange incidents involving books and my colleagues just humour me and tell me I am going mad.
At the enquiry desk I scan the item number to check the last borrower. Her name is Joan Fredericks, a woman in her mid fifties. She lives in Maple Road; a stretch of old terraced houses just round the corner. The address seems familiar but for now I cannot think why. I am unable to bring her to mind at the moment but then out of all the hundreds of people that come through the door each week this is hardly surprising, I know most of our customers by sight only. I see that she has ten books out, all junior fiction and her records tell me that she takes ten out on a regular basis every three weeks. Her books are due back tomorrow. I am sure I will recognise her when I see her. I take another look at the book; it is junior fiction about a lost dog and when I check page 129 again I convince myself that the strange colour circling âhelp meâ is definitely dried blood.
When Joan comes in the next day I do indeed recognise her. I remember that she has hardly ever said a word to any of us, simply putting the books on the return desk then making her way to the junior fiction and picking another ten books almost at random. A busy library, we often do not have time to make conversation with all of the customers, but I make time today and comment on the awful weather. She mumbles something, possibly in agreement, grabs her books and practically runs out of the door.
After work I go home to my own small terraced cottage not far away in a road parallel to Maple Road. The houses are identical, built at the turn of the century over a hundred years ago. The niggle I feel that there is something relevant about her house eludes me until the early hours of the next morning when I wake, as you do, and instantly remember. The house next to hers was the subject of news coverage only a year ago. Archie Meadows,
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