Death Of The Black Book

‘What would I want? Death? Or twenty thousand? Well if those things are quite separate, I choose death... I mean twenty thousand’. Said Jules, mostly to himself, though Mole was sitting across from him. His nose unusually close to the open book he was reading.

‘HORCRUX’! Mole yelled, and all about him within the artisan cafe fell silent and stared quizzically at the pair.

Jules looked up from his own book and mimed his apologises as all around returned to they’re business. ‘Sorry’. He repeated to those still gawping, though Mole continued to read as though nothing had happened. ‘You don’t even know your doing it’. He whispered to Mole. ‘At least try and suppress it’.

‘It’s not exactly something I can suppress’. Returned Mole. ‘It’s actually a condition’.

‘Yes, I know. But at least try and keep it in. Like a sneeze. Or perhaps the usual swearing would be less embarrassing’. Added Jules. Though as he stared across the cafe on this popular Saturday morning, and also the children upon the opposite table, perhaps his Harry Potter themed Tourettes might even be a blessing. I might have to cough loudly the next time I feel he’s about to erupt. He thought.

‘Where was I? Oh yes, twenty thousand’.

Moments ago, he was at his desk next door at Bloomsbury Publishing. As an intern, and in his sixth month at the company, he had finally been given a desk of his own. Though the one person that called it his own previously had gone missing, and what’s more, suspected dead.

Jules’ heart had continued to drum at the same pace as it had the moment he found the black book he now held in his hands.

‘Mysterious’. He uttered quietly. His eyes continually darting towards the door whenever someone new had entered.

It was found in the bottom draw of the desk. Blood stained its pages, and almost as a book mark, five hundred pounds was wedged at its centre.

‘Internship does pay’. He said as he had found it. By this time he had hurried to the toilets. He would not want to divulge such a find around other such hungry wannabes like himself. They’d snatch, and bite, he thought. Then, what’s more, a terribly frightening text was written on the same pages the money was wedged. An invitation. But still frightening.

Not an invitation to a party, or other social gathering. That too was frightening, he admitted. But something different. Something perhaps he should expose, and provide to the police as he was quite sure it was to do with his successors absence, and possibly his death.

Blood marked the bills. He didn’t know what was worse for the owners of this small artisan cafe. To receive a £50 note, or for it to be stained heavily with blood. Luckily, fifties are red anyway, and two, he had told them to keep the change. So after a befuddled look, they seized it and gave him an extra pot of milk for his stupidly small sized coffee and an extra home made ugly looking scone. And surely they wouldn’t be thrown out due to Mole’s inexplicit bursts of Harry Potter themed tourettes. One, they received the biggest tip they had in they’re lives. Two, everyone liked Harry Potter. And Three, Mole’s worked at the Artisan Cafe. At least for now.

Mole was on his lunch break. And Jules, well he pretty much worked for free, so who would care if he weren’t at his desk?

‘I think these are coordinates’. He continued to himself. Across from him, the book Mole was reading, was indeed the Prisoner of Azkaban. Perhaps that’s where it’s coming from. He thought, and then gazed back at the pages trying to figure out what he could about the almost unreadable scribblings within the pages. The most exciting script he found so far, was the assurance of a further twenty thousand on arrival. Though this was written on a small bit of parchment, and wedged with the money.

‘Of what. And where’? Again he muttered, feeling as though he should film his every move and blog every thought. ‘I’d be a YouTube sensation. Don’t forget to subscribe to the channel. And smash that like button’.

Just as this thought of possibly becoming a YouTube hit wonder fled his mind, his eyes drew across the way towards the entrance of Bloomsbury where several black SUV’s screeched to a stop and countless broad-shouldered men jumped out and stormed through the doors.

Jules swallowed hard. Perhaps Bloomsbury was avoiding tax issues, like Starbucks. I think the Artisan Cafe had a party as soon as that news was heard. One less competitor perhaps. But no. He knew that could not be. He lowered the black book and brought it below the table. They weren’t police. And he knew exactly what they were after.

‘We’ve got to go’. Said Jules.

‘DOBBY’! Again the mighty yell provoked the eyes of many.

‘Look, that’s all we need. Don’t draw attention. Tell them you’re feeling ill and you’ll make up the time another day. And tell them to buy bigger coffee cups’. Jules added, slurping the last of the overly strong coffee and downing the extra pot of milk to wash it down. ‘I feel like I’m playing with a child’s tea set. Meet me outside’.

Moments later, they both walked along the pavement and crossed beneath the trees of Bedford Square Garden. A small yet vibrant retreat from London’s grey concrete jungle.

From where they stood they looked across the way and still the black mysterious vehicles occupied half the road and a queue of cars began to erupt noisily declaring they’re frustration. Many watched the ordeal as several of those who had entered the building descended its broad steps and back into the SUV’s. With little regard for those around, they sped off tailing closely to each other.

Jules and Mole watched as they followed Bedford Square’s route and finally out of sight down Montague Place.

Jules shivered, as what he clutched within his hand seemed to be calling for attention. From whom, by the looks of it, and the tarnished pages of crimson, they were not to be trifled with.

Despite this, his mind drew back to the more glamorous prospect of twenty thousand pounds. As though nothing had happened he flipped open the pages again and studied the text.

‘I think this will be our most menacing case yet Mole’.

They strode across the park and took rest on one of the benches, still facing the row of Georgian Houses in which the office was one of them. It’s door stood ajar with an unsettled bunch now lingering outside.

Though Jules couldn’t be seen from such a distance, he raised the black book towards his face to conceal himself. It would be the most inopportune moment for them to call him back and place him once again at his desk.

With the £450 pocketed, he read the letter in which the money was in.

‘Keep contents safe. Do not read. Bring at once. Someone will be notified at this address’.

Below the message, a set of coordinates were written. Such detective work would usually need a quick witted brain, and he was quick to whip out his smart phone and put the figures into google.

‘’A games afoot my dear Mole’. He proclaimed aloud. ‘It takes us to the British Museum. That’s just round the corner’.

After some time and multiple outbursts, in which perhaps those outside Bloomsbury Publishing thought it was devoted bursts of tribute to the founding workers of the said quotes, they walked passed the crowd still lurking outside, and that too of the Artisan Cafe.

Just moments later, the broad steps of the British Museum splayed before them, and its trunk like pillars launched skyward to its white stoned character scene of ashen statues.

Through the towering doors and across its facade, the glowing light of day glistened through its glass facade. Tucked to one side, a desk organised with brochures and pamphlets and two bobbing heads of the ticket masters gleamed welcomingly as they approach.

‘I’m here to redeem the rest of the money’. Started Jules excitedly. Mole trailed at his heel and stood beside him as the receptionist gawped. ‘The twenty thousand’. He whispered.

With little more then a perplexed expression he waved the little black book before her.

Suddenly the second receptionist caught his stare and took the lead.

‘I think the Lost and Recovered Artefacts Exhibit will be of interest to you’. He said, and a sharp glint registered in his eyes.

‘Ah!’ Jules replied, winking.

Nudging Mole, they scurried across towards the west wing and passed below a sign saying “Rediscovered Artefacts of the Lost World”.

‘It’s got plenty of mystical drawings and maps in here, Mole’. Jules continued to sift through the black book. Despite not recognising the language in which was written, there appeared plenty of sketches and vague drawings of destinations and perhaps even hidden locations.

He stood before a glass display case in which written above it were the very words that reverberated clearly to him.

“Hidden and Recovered Artefacts”.

He stared at the book with renewed eyes. ‘I might meet Indiana himself’.

A shadow drew near and Mole no longer lingered by his side. In his place a beaded eyed man faced him and spoke in a stern voice.

‘Take the money. Forget about the book. Once you have done these two things you shall have your friend back’.

As these words took time to sink in, he noted Mole was nowhere to be seen. Intermittently throughout the crowds, a few men appeared to stand menacingly, clothed in drench coats and high collars and watched the exchange.

‘Deal’. Jules responded. ‘I’m a sucker for a bargain. You may keep the Mole. He could even come in handy with your adventures. He makes a great distraction’.