The Flyleaf Killer Read Free Page A

Father forbade it, saying it would interfere with homework and prevent him from carrying out chores. He was therefore left with two pounds. (A wage-earner no longer qualified for pocket-money.)
    ‘That’s an awful lot of money, Mister Plowrite,’ Robert eventually brought himself to say. ‘I’ve seven pounds saved. Will it do as a deposit? Can I have the book and pay the rest at two pounds a week? I really want the book and I promise to bring you the money every Friday.’
    Slowly, Henry Plowrite shook his head. He even contrived to seem regretful as he said, ‘I’m sorry, Robert, but the price is a cash price and must be paid in full. Company policy forbids giving credit and I regret there can be no exceptions.’
    He extended his hand for the book, but Robert tightened his grasp on the volume, unwilling to give up without a fight. In keeping with generations of youngsters, Robert was no stranger to materialistic aspirations—in his case, mostly frustrated, but no previous acquisitive yearning came within light-years of his desire to possess this wonderful, beautiful book.
    ‘Oh,
please,
Mister Plowrite,’ he begged, ‘I’ll do anything. What if I come and work for you after school every day? I’ll run errands, sweep up, clean windows—and I won’t expect any payment, either.’ And when the shopkeeper still seemed unmoved, the boy added, desperately: ‘I could come Saturday mornings after papers as well—and
still
give you two pounds a week.’
    It was his last shot, his final offer. With bated breath he waited, hoping the bookseller would accept. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Henry Plowrite appeared to waver. He knew his ‘customer’ extremely well, was perfectly aware the boy nurtured a violent dislike for the world in general and a deep, abiding hatred for the majority of his contemporaries.
    The boy possessed—even if unaware of it as yet, a deep-rooted capability for cruel, spiteful retaliation towards anyone who crossed his path or frustrated his ambition, together with an innate potential for depravity and evil, rare in anyone regardless of age or circumstances: highly desirable characteristics which had first attracted the attention of Pentophiles, who knew, given the right circumstances, the boy would do anything to further his own ends.
    But the being lurking behind the facade of ‘Henry Plowrite’ still had much to achieve. Gaining trust was an essential step towards the eventual fulfillment of his special ambition. Until the boy was irrevocably committed, the possibility of failure remained, especially should he sense danger and be warned off. The so-called bookseller selected his words with great care.
    ‘We-ll, Robert,’ he began slowly, ‘if you really
are
prepared to do anything—and because you are over the age of thirteen—there is just a possibility I may be able to help you.’
    Robert’s carefully constructed air of pathos disintegrated in an instant. He listened intently to Plowrite’s every word to make sure he didn’t miss a single nuance.
    ‘I do
not
require assistance but you might be able to possess the book without actually buying it. However, before I explain, you might find it helpful to open the book and read the dedication.’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ Robert cried eagerly, ‘of course I will. I said I’d do anything and I meant it!’ Excitedly, he put the book down and attempted to raise the cover…but the cover wouldn’t budge. Tugging simply lifted the volume up from the counter.
    Disappointed and angry, Robert threw caution to the winds, glared at Plowrite and yelled, ‘What’s the game then? The rotten pages must be stuck together. Your stupid book isn’t worth coppers. Shove it! I’m off home.’
    He slammed down the book and turned away.
    ‘Wait!’
The bookseller commanded. ‘You may not address me thus without forfeit. Atone immediately!’
    Inexplicably afraid, Robert’s anger abated as swiftly as it had arisen. ‘S-sorry, Mister Plowrite,’ he