F) Chapter 5

5.
Richard had known Lance Felwood since primary school. They had followed
each other up through secondary school and university and despite
persistent bickering had never felt the need to make any other friends.
Lance was slightly shorter than Richard, but better-built and much less
ghoulish looking. He had short, curly black hair and a flat-looking
face with small round ears that had been the subject of repeated
schoolyard taunts in his younger days. Neither he nor anybody who knew
him understood why he had become a police officer.

'Shouldn't you be at work?' Inquired Lance, confused, as Richard,
red-faced and struggling for air, came tumbling into the foyer.

'Richard what's wrong?' Lance continued, noticing his troubled
countenance as he rested heavily on the counter and tried to regain his
breath. 'Are you hyperventilating? You're hyperventilating aren't you?'
Richard nodded, though 'asphyxiating' was a more accurate description
of how he felt. 'Hold on, I'll get a bag.' Lance disappeared from the
counter for a few seconds, Richard felt as if he was going to faint.
Lance returned with a brown paper bag and handed it to his friend, who
took it, placed it over his mouth and began to breathe into it, first
quickly and anxiously, but then slower and more calmly until his face
returned to its normal deathly white and he felt he could talk again.
'Something's wrong isn't it? I can tell. What's wrong?' Lance
inquired again in gently concerned tones.

'What's wrong?' Richard replied, drawing the bag back from his mouth
and announcing with dramatic flair 'in six days I'm going to die.
That's what's wrong.'

There followed an appropriately long and theatrical pause, during
which both participants, well-schooled in the mechanics of television
drama, expected some kind of commercial break, roll of credits or at
least temporary blackout. None of these things occurred however, and
the pair were left trying to figure out how the conversation should
best be continued.

'What's wrong? Are you ill?'

'No' Richard sighed 'It's sort of hard to explain, I'm not sure I'm
sure of it myself yet, not sure I believe it but it's there I mean,
it's there in black and white and it keeps being there and there are
things that are there after I've checked they're not there and
everything here is there and it keeps being there and I don't know
why.'

Lance opened his mouth as if about to reply, then fell silent. There
was another pause.

'For fuck's sake say something!' Richard exclaimed.

Lance recoiled slightly as if wounded, 'Richard?.I'm still not sure I
understand.'

Richard put the paper bag back over his mouth again and tried to calm
his accelerating breathing.

'No no in fact I'm very sure I don't understand. Do we need to get you
to a hospital?'

'No, it's more serious than that.' Richard handed Lance The New
Eschatologist. 'Look at this.'

'Did you sneeze in a library book again?'

'No, no you useless fuckwit. Look in the book, look in the damn
book.'

'Okay, look whatever it is you're concerned about, there's no need to
get angry okay? Do you want my help or not?'

'Yes I want your help, now look in the fucking book.'

'And what's with all this swearing all of a sudden?'

'I'm sorry Lance, it's just that there's a fucking price on my head.
I'm think I'm fucking allowed to fucking swear. Fuck' Richard resumed
his intimate relationship with the brown paper bag.

'What am I looking at?' Lance examined the contents page with
confusion.

Richard, paper bag still in place, pointed frantically and rather
unhelpfully at several of the chapter titles.

'Look Richard, I have reports to write and stuff, I want to help you
but you're going to have to explain.

'Look at page 722' Richard surrendered the bag and sighed a
world-weary sigh.

'This chapter is about you!' Lance exclaimed. 'You're famous!' He
continued, clearly forgetting the dire circumstances in which Richard
was seeking his help. 'Death of Richard Querulous? Hey, this seems to
be describing what you've done today. How have you? I mean, I'm in
here, just now is in here, how is that?' Lance looked up from the book,
puzzled. Richard looked him straight in the eyes and said with a
sincerity and seriousness of tone nothing in his life before had ever
warranted.

'Each chapter of that book narrates the last seven days in the life of
a person. That last chapter is about me, and somehow, I don't know how,
whenever I look in the book previously blank pages have been filled
with text describing the things I have just done. Everyone featured in
that book has died in seven days. I am on my second day. I'm sure
you're finding this just as hard to believe as I am but it looks to me
like things are pretty clear even if they are incredible. In five days
I am going to die.'

'Shall I tell Sarah to put the kettle on?' Lance's suggestion met with
a look of cold disbelief from Richard. 'I'll go and ask' Lance
continued before again leaving the counter and disappearing from
view.
Lance's police station was a strange one, it was basically a small
two-roomed hut that served as a kind of outpost and contact point for
the local community. Essentially it was a satellite of the larger
station in Purbury city centre, and those officers who staffed it were
usually placed there to either keep them out of harm's way or keep them
from annoying their superiors. Lance and his only other colleague in
the hut, WPC Sarah Green, both belonged to the former category of
outcasts, and to be fair neither were really that bothered about their
exile. Life was pretty easy for them and there was never much to attend
to.
'Come through' Lance appeared in a doorway next to the reception
counter and motioned to Richard to follow him. Richard obeyed. He was
beginning to doubt Lance had really understood the magnitude of his
news.

They emerged into the only other room in the station, which served as
an office for the two constables. It was a reasonably sized room with
high windows, an old red threadbare carpet and unpainted walls with
visibly peeling plaster. It was furnished with two desks, each of which
had two chairs (the only kind of surplus the station was permitted),
several filing cabinets, a small kitchen area with a sink, a microwave
and some cupboards beneath the surfaces. 'Home sweet home' Lance
announced as they entered.

'Hello Richey!' WPC Green exclaimed jovially as Richard entered the
room. No-one else he knew ever called him Richey, it was one of many
things about Sarah that annoyed him. 'How are you doing?' She didn't
wait for answer 'I'm just putting the kettle on for some tea, you take
two sugars don't you?' Again she didn't wait for his reply, just
bounced off towards the kitchen area.

'Sit down' Lance motioned towards one of the spare seats by his desk.
Richard sat.

'Do you want biscuits you two?' Sarah called from across the room in a
needlessly loud voice.

Lance vacillated. 'Do you want biscuits Richard?' Richard stared in
disbelief.

'Lance?' Sarah called again.

'Ummmm' Lance grimaced under the weight of such decision-making. A
moment or two further passed with Lance locked in a battle of wills
between his biscuit eating self and his non biscuit eating self. 'Yes
go on then'
'Digestives or Rich Tea?' Sarah called back. Lance looked at Richard
again, pleading for help. Richard however was retreating into catatonia
again and so could be of no assistance. Suddenly Lance hit upon an
inspired idea. 'Can we have a selection of both please Sarah?' Sarah
chuckled.

'Of course you can.' A moment or two later she brought two cups of tea
over and followed them with a plate of biscuits of mixed origin. 'Shame
we don't have any chocolate ones left, I know you like chocolate ones
Richey.' She hovered by the desk for a moment or two longer, but seeing
that she was eliciting no response from their librarian friend, she
left to man the reception counter. 'I'll leave you boys to it,' she
said as she went.

'Biscuit?' Lance proffered the plate to Richard. 'I'm giving you first
choice!' He smiled.

'Fuckbiscuits' Richard exclaimed, breaking out of his stupefied state
with renewed purpose. 'Why on earth would I want biscuits when I'm
going to die?'

'You've got to eat' Lance replied, paternal concern etched into his
every feature.

'No Lance, what I've got to do is figure out what the hell is going on
with this book. How is it writing itself for a start?'

'Okay, that's an easy one. It can't be writing itself can it? That's
impossible?unless there's some kind of invisible ink thing going on?'
Lance arched his left eyebrow as if he were concocting a devilishly
evil plan.

'I've thought of that,' Richard was becoming exasperated, 'That too is
impossible.'

'Let's test it shall we?' Lance contested, 'Maybe it only appears to
be describing what we're doing because it was made by someone who knows
us very very well, let's face it Rich we're creatures of habit aren't
we?' Richard snorted contemptuously.

'Okay, so all we have to do is say or do something extraordinary,
something no-one who had made the book could predict' Lance continued,
quite undeterred by Richard's baleful glare, 'But then again, if I did
something extraordinary, maybe the person who wrote the book would be
expecting it - I mean maybe they would have planned things thinking
that we would figure it out - maybe it's a double bluff. In which case
we should just sit here and do not a lot. That'd fool them.' Lance
looked for support, Richard looked away. Lance opened the book and
read:

'Richard sat listening to his friend's ludicrous theories with a
boiling anger inside. He was due to die in five days' time and Lance
was so far being of no help whatsoever. He wanted to punch him, that's
something no-one would expect, he thought.'

Lance looked up, somewhat shocked, then his expression changed to one
of puzzlement, before briefly resting on triumphant.

'Don't punch me!' He exclaimed.

'What?'

'That's what they expect you to do, whatever you do, don't punch
me!'

Richard closed his eyes and tried to count to ten. It was no use, he
was boiling over.

'Punch you? Punch you? I could sodding kill you! I'm dying you idiot,
something or someone is going to kill me!' He bellowed, standing up and
throwing the plate of biscuits against the wall.

Lance looked down into the book again: 'With Lance's theorising having
worked him into a state of near-apoplectic rage, Richard stood up and
shouted 'Punch you? Punch you? I could sodding kill you! I'm dying you
idiot, something or someone is going to kill me!' Then, in a violent
act that was quite out of character, he picked up the plate of biscuits
and threw it violently, against the nearby wall. Lance did not respond
immediately, he merely looked back down into the book where he saw that
the incident had already been recorded on its pages.'

'Is everything all right?' WPC Green came rushing into the room as
soon as she heard the smashing of the plate on the wall.

'Yes?everything's fine' Lance ventured timidly as he raised his head
from the book. Sarah backed off into the foyer again, confused. Richard
collapsed in his seat and rested his head in his hands in defeat.

'What's going on Lance?' He moaned rather inaudibly.

'Fuckwit' exclaimed Lance for no obvious reason.

'What?'

'Fucking fuckwit.'

'Excuse me?'

'Okay, so something is definitely quite wrong here' Lance announced
authoritatively.

'What happened to your theory?'

'Well, the book now appears to document not only your biscuit throwing
episode, but also my bad language.' He closed the book with a dull
thud, 'No-one could possibly have predicted that.'

It took Lance a while to adjust himself the absurdity of the situation.
It was not the kind of thing he was used to dealing with, and he did
not appreciate the intrusion of it into his comfortable, unchallenging
little world. It could turn out to be a good mystery, and he did like
solving puzzles, but he could not shake the feeling that some
tremendous practical joke was being played upon him. He was slightly
reluctant therefore to do anything about it just in case Jeremy Beadle
jumped out from behind a piece of furniture to announce his idiocy had
been televised. Still he did not think Richard capable of manufacturing
such a grandiose prank. He had never played a practical joke before,
why start now? Yet the whole thing made so little sense. He resolved to
meet it on its own terms and try and be rational about the situation.
Before he did so however he had to ask the question.

'This isn't some kind of joke is it Richard?'

'What?'

'You're not pulling my leg, trying to make look stupid or
something?'
Richard placed his head in his hands and moaned convincingly. Thinking
it over Lance concluded that if Richard had indeed been playing a trick
on him he would not have so violently rejected the biscuits. Lance felt
certain no joke could be so important as to necessitate the destruction
of good biscuits.

'Right, let's get right down to brass tacks then.' He began, slapping
his hands down onto his thighs commandingly, 'Let's assume for the
moment that everything we fear about this book, however unlikely, is
true. Let's assume that it does indeed document the last seven days in
the lives of various people and that because there is a chapter about
you in the book, you will similarly end up?.' Lance paused, unsure of
his phrasing.

'Dead?' Richard offered gravely.

'Right.Okay, so let's assume like Sherlock Holmes that because we have
removed all other possibilities, whatever remains, however incredible,
must be the truth.'

'What other possibilities?'

'Sorry?'

'What are those 'other possibilities' that we've removed?'
Lance paused. 'Invisible ink?' Richard snorted derisively. 'Oh stop
being so pedantic Rich, now is really not the time. What I suggest we
do first is see if we can find out if any of these people are actually
real, and if they're dead, how they actually died and how accurate this
book is.'

'Makes sense'

Lance handed The New Eschatologist back to Richard and told him to
find a name in it he wanted to check. Richard had no trouble selecting
one. 'Raymond Sanchez' He announced whilst Lance booted up his
computer.

'Sounds familiar, was he local?'

'Very local, his car exploded in city centre some weeks back.'

'Ah!' Lance smiled 'I remember that! That was big news!' Then his
smile turned to a deep frown 'Ugly business.' He paused again,
thinking. 'Okay, so we're pretty sure this Sanchez man is dead. What
I'm going to do now is I'm going to phone up one of my colleagues in
the main station and see what information I can get out of him.'

'Thanks for keeping me informed,' moaned Richard

'No problem.' Lance picked up the phone and dialled. 'Anything you
want me to ask?'

'Well there was one thing-' Richard began.

'Hold on' Lance interrupted him as his call was answered. He inquired
politely as to the state of the investigation into Sanchez' death,
periodically nodding and making almost inaudible noises of assent as
the person on the other end of the phone gave him an update on how the
case was progressing. Richard fidgeted impatiently in his chair.
Five or so minutes later and the phone call was over.

'What did they say?'

'Well, I don't know how well this matches up because I've not read the
chapter. You have, right?' Richard nodded 'The man in the car was
definitely Raymond Sanchez, latest news from forensics is that solvent
fumes caused the explosion, sparked by a cigarette lighter. Freak
accident.'

Yet another shiver of fear made its way slowly but exactly down
Richard's already frosty spine. This seemed almost too easy, as if
someone somewhere had planned it. 'Lance' Richard began 'When did
forensics discover that thing about the glue fumes?'

'In the past few hours. It's hot off the press, so to speak. There's
no way any member of the public knows that yet?..is that in the
book?'

Richard nodded.

'The plot thickens?'

'I'm glad you're finding this so entertaining.'

'Well it appears to prove something very strange is going on Rich.
That information was not available to anyone, police, doctors, never
the mind the public, until a few hours ago. Either we're dealing with
the worst, most inventive serial killer in history or something
decidedly odd is going on. Hand me the book, I want to check out a few
more names.'

Some of the names yielded more information that others, but those
results that did match up with records in police database concurred
every time with the information provided in The New Eschatologist.
Sometimes the detail was quite astounding. When Lance had concluded his
search he turned to Richard with a serious yet evidently intrigued
expression on his face. 'I don't exactly know what we're dealing with
here Rich.' He began, running his hand down the rough black leather
spine of The New Eschatologist with tremulous awe, 'but I suggest we
find out as much information as we can about this book as soon as
possible. I think you should make an appointment with your doctor and
get yourself checked out that end. I'll dig up as much information as I
can about the book and its publisher using all the resources I have
here. Oh, and here's a good question, do you know who returned
it?

Richard was reminded of the fey, dark-haired girl who had returned the
book and started this whole strange episode. He felt a strange mixture
of fear and attraction flow through him. 'No, the book is not on our
records, I don't even know if it's one of ours. I could describe her to
you if you like?'

'Do that, and we'll see if we can match it with any of the criminals
in our database. In the meantime, I suggest you talk to your superiors
and find out if that book really does belong in your library, and
where.'

'Thanks Lance' for once Richard's voice was free of sarcasm. With
Lance on his side he'd sort this thing out, it couldn't possibly really
be as strange and awful as it seemed to be, could it?