He headed back to the station to fill in more paperwork than was healthy for any normal human being, then trotted off home. Micro lasagne tonight, the cream of Iceland’s rich crop of ready meals. He was just tucking in when he noticed a lump in his jacket pocket. Digging about, he pulled out the book. That was odd, he’d put it back on the nightstand, hadn’t he? He shrugged and placed it carefully on the table next to his plate.
When the meal was done, fork washed up, and cup of tea in hand, he picked up the book and walked into the lounge. He hefted it, surprised by the weight considering how small it was. As the sofa worked its magic, he relaxed and grabbed the remote. Then he paused, and looked at the book sat beside him on the cushion.
He’d never been much of a reader. Crime reports and the regular bouts of random legislation they loved to come up with kept him busy. He’d try a murder mystery every now and then, but it reminded him of work far too much, and they never got it right. Never enough paperwork in those books.
Still, this was intriguing. Why had he brought it back with him? He could remember putting it back on the nightstand, so he must have grabbed it as he was leaving. He shook his head, took a swig of tea, and flipped it open.
LIFE
No author, nothing else. He cocked an eyebrow and turned to the first page. It began with a birth, and by the end of the first page he was both gripped and horrified. It was being told by the woman giving birth, and she spared no detail, making it abundantly clear that this was the worse experience of her life. By the third page, she’d been rushed to the emergency room and was being cut open, the baby dragged screaming out into the bright fluorescents. He was ready to put the book down, struggling to keep hold of his dinner, when a detail caught his eye. The baby, towelled down and set in his mother’s arms had a birth mark, described in detail and identical to his own.
He flicked forward a few pages, realising that the point of view was now with the baby, everything described in the most simple terms, everything that happened related to the mother. He’d read some boring reports in his time, but by the fifth nappy he was once again ready to give up. He put the book down, then picked it up again. The birth thing was peculiar, to say the least, not the mention that it was clearly a biography, yet one to which no one had put their name.
He opened it, jumping forward a few pages, then flicked quickly forward. The language became gradually more complex, almost as if the baby was actually guiding the writer. It was cleverly done, he had to admit. He skimmed, getting to the fifth birthday in a few minutes.
It was just after that he found it.
The child, still talking in short words, and simple phrases, described his father coming into his bedroom, and touching him. He read it again, then looked up, eyes set on the wall, swallowing hard. He’d been on a few abuse cases, and they were the toughest. Something about them made him furious, and lose all perspective. If he had his way, child abusers would be sent somewhere the death penalty was still legal.
He had no kids. Would’ve liked some one day, but work and women didn’t mix too well, it turned out. After Cathy had moved out, he’d stopped bothering, and that was longer ago than he cared to admit. He was gritting his teeth and realised the book was bending as he gripped it between whitened knuckles.
He read a bit more, the abuse becoming regular, and worse. He was gripped now, mind already whirring as he tried to work out who this could be. He grabbed his notepad and jotted down all the details that came out, the random moments of description of the house, the garden, the places they went.
He realised with a start that it was half eleven, and put the book down, spine up to save the page, and looked at his notepad. Someone else trying to decipher the shorthand wouldn’t have had a clue, but to him, there was a clear picture. He read through it, then read it again, and his hands began to shake.
He stood stiffly, and walked into the hallway. On the wall by the front door was the picture of him with his parents, their house behind them. He glanced at the notepad, then up to the picture, back and forth like he was watching tennis. Then the notepad slipped from his fingers, and something squeezed around his heart. He dropped to his knees, hands going to his chest.
His breath was coming in short gasps, heart refusing to work as it should, and the corners of his vision started to go black, like the lights were being dimmed just out of view. As he lay there on the faux-wooden flooring, he remembered. He remembered the crying and the shame and the hatred he had buried so deep it had ceased to exist. His last thoughts were of the book on the sofa, of where it had come from, then the lights went out completely.
They found him quicker than Sarah, the police swift to act for one of their own. He was curled up, his hands still clutching his chest. The notepad was glanced over, but meant nothing to anyone there, and went in the kitchen drawer for his relatives to sort through. The book was bagged, and dumped in the evidence locker at the station, where the dust slowly gathered.
Next Installment, Wednesday 17th July
