Morning comes in a bleak grey smear upon the autumnal colours that never left the street.
Ron, facing the Closed sign outside The Frayed Spine entrance, fits the bookshop key and turns it. His brows pull together when the latch slides in loosely without ever reaching the expected clack of unlocking.
He pushes the door open, and the shop’s bell gives an unenthusiastic donk for a ring before his eyes begin to take inventory.
The moment Ron notices the clock light on the till ahead blinking midnight again, he goes straight to it, yet his controlled steps allow him to move no faster than a stroll. The floorboards respond with short creaks until he reaches the till. He pushes a button and watches the drawer roll open. His eyes skim past the orderly stacks of notes to the coins in tidy piles. He lets out a relieved breath before sliding the cash tray shut.
He turns towards the poetry shelves. The trapdoor’s padlock lies on the floor, its shackle open and pointing towards the bottom shelf, as if it wants nothing to do with the rest of the shop.
His footsteps remain neat as he approaches the hatch and crouches by it. He lifts it enough to peer down as the hinges groan. Cold air breathes up from below, threaded with damp dog and mouldy stone. The shop door doesn’t resist the clashing draughts and bangs shut.
Beyond the edge of the hatch at the tip of his shoes, dimly lit stairs stretch too far down to reveal if they lead to the basement or a deeper level. His hand lowers into the opening, brushing past a thick layer of dust on the underside of the trapdoor. He feels along the side wall and flicks the basement’s light switch off, plunging the stairwell into complete darkness, surrendering only the top step to what weak light the shop lets in.
He closes the hatch. A sideward reach of his hand picks up the padlock and loops its shackle through the hasp without snapping it shut.
After he rises, he returns to the shop door to free the latch, letting it lean against the frame.
“There’s always an errand to run between thresholds.” A quiet chuckle accompanies his words.
“Still got it.” He heads back to the counter.
The bell above the door gives a muffled thud, as if it has given up on sound altogether.
Meg steps inside with the wind pressing at her back. The rain has already swept her ponytail to one side. She clocks the Closed sign and flips it to Open.
Ron makes his way back once more to his spot by the till. He reaches for the radio on the shelf behind him and adjusts the dial until a buzz of music filters out.
Meg throws her handbag to the top of the counter from two steps away. As her bag slides and slumps onto its side, her attention moves from Ron to the padlock key on the hook.
“What happened?”
“Mr. H.” He hangs the shop key back behind the radio.
“He must have come through. Left via the basement this time.”
Her hands slap the counter.
“Of course he did, Solace forbid he should actually call ahead like a mortal.” She hops up to sit on the counter as her boots knock against the wood.
“You saw him last night.”
She glances towards the poetry shelves, then the floor around the hatch.
“The boss wouldn’t just stroll up here for the ambience, would he? Either he’s got family business…” She looks at Ron.
“Most likely, right? He might just be pleased with himself and took the day off for self-congratulatory purposes, or…”
Her eyes find the floor.
“He’s checking the cracks.”
“If he were pleased, he wouldn’t have been up here to begin with.”
“All right, fine.” She rolls her eyes at the floorboards.
“So, maybe he came to inspect the bargain, found it still standing, and made his decision to leave.” She tips her head back, and her ponytail follows, its tip brushing the surface.
“Paperwork might already be on its way. ‘Dear all, you’ve fulfilled your tragic contractual obligations. Feel free to stop lying to your favourite clerks.’”
“No.” He returns to the till.
“If anybody was letting either of us off the hook, someone would’ve rung something louder than this shop bell.”
She shoots a glance at the staff room door.
“Maz and Eli aren’t in yet, I take it?”
“Not yet.”
“You saw it yesterday, right? Maz’s hands were moving like she was still filing appeals. Eli’s lining the books up by a spine code nobody up here uses.”
Ron’s finger gives the till button a delicate touch that avoids opening the drawer.
“I noticed.”
“How long has that been happening, then?”
“Getting worse every time they neglect the schedule.”
“So…” She looks ahead at the door.
“How much longer do we keep pretending they’re just bookshop clerks?”
“As long as the bargain holds.” Ron’s hand moves to smooth a crease from his sleeve. When he touches the spot, it turns out to be only dust, a streak of grey on the fabric that pretends to belong there. He tries to brush it away, but it makes no difference.
“The bargain.” Meg scoffs as her gaze drags closer to the shelves.
“You mean… an indefinite-time subscription to pretending there’s nothing under the floorboards.”
“You signed the enforcement clause.” He nods at her.
“I manage the thresholds. You keep the count every time they slip. Until…”
“Is that it?” Her head snaps to him, and the little bat wing beneath her chin looks darker in the shop’s low light.
“I signed to stop people breaking the oaths they made. They were helping, Ron. They got pulled into this for doing the job the rest of us stand around and chat about.”
Ron slides the tip jar out from under the counter and plonks it down beside the till.
“They also tried to rewrite precedent on the night Deon filled the fountains with wine.”
Meg huffs in amusement.
“That part was admirable.”
“It was.” Ron’s hands rest on the till drawer.
“You know it wasn’t about the wine at all.” Meg watches his face.
“I know.”
“So say it.”
Ron taps on the front of the cash tray.
“Say what? That they were right about the system, and the routing was already wrong before they flagged it?”
Meg tries to catch his eye.
“That’s the first time you’ve said that out loud. Well, technically asked, I suppose.”
“It won’t be policy, but we already knew this, Meg. What got them exiled was how they’ve gone about it.”
She kicks the counter with her heel.
“I’m not sure if it matters now, but since they’re already remembering more–”
“Memory runs ahead of schedule.” Ron stares at the two coins in the centre of the tip jar.
“We knew that well before we signed.”
“And when it catches up?” Her voice drops to a whisper.
“You guide them back, I drag them in chains. That the plan?”
He reaches for the jar and stops halfway as the radio’s white noise becomes the loudest sound in the shop.
“The plan… is that they choose.”
“Let’s assume they choose wrong.” Meg’s hand rests on her serpent cuff.
“What are we doing if they choose to stay up here and forget everything?”
“Then we’re supposed to do the one thing we’re told and simply document it.”
“I’m not writing that report.”
“I know,” he says.
“Neither am I.” He turns the tip jar until the coins in the centre are out of his line of sight.
“We keep this up, one day we’ll become paperwork ourselves.”
Meg bares her teeth, close enough to a smile to pass at a distance.
“Funny. Thought that was the job.”
The radio crackles into a song about roads and bad timing.
Ron looks towards the door.
“Some jobs seem to come with clauses that nobody dares to read out loud.”
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