RANDOM ORDER
RANDOM ORDER
A m I really looking at human bones? I don’t know for sure, and I don’t know what to do about it if I am. They’ve been arranged on a cushion as though the skeletal hand is pointing at something, but I can’t see what.
There are a finite number of things I turn to when life is too stressful, and my life is always too stressful, so I pour myself another drink. I imagine Abby’s disapproval as I fill my glass. I can still see her face when I close my eyes, still feel her hand in mine, still hear her voice inside my head. Sometimes I think she is lying next to me in bed at night, and when I wake and remember that she isn’t, it feels like losing her all over again. People say time is a great healer, but it only seems to hurt more the longer she is gone.
The whiskey helps calm my nerves—it always does—and I take another look at what I have found, telling myself that there is no need to panic or let this unexpected plot twist spoil things. In my experience, there is no such thing as a random order of events; everything happens when it happens for a reason, even if the reason is hard to see at the time. I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation for all of this, and that the bones are nothing to worry about. They’re probably not even real.
Constantly lying to yourself requires a special variety of stamina.
I grab one of the metal tools from beside the wood-burning stove and use it to lever up the next floorboard. Then I stand and stare at what is hidden underneath.
I haven’t discovered any more bones—which is a relief—but there is something else.
At first, it just looks like a pile of A4 paper covered in dust and dirt. But when I blow the cobwebs away, it’s clear that I’m looking at a manuscript. I take my reading glasses from my jacket pocket and crouch down until I am close enough to read the title page:
BOOK TEN
By Charles Whittaker
I remember what Kitty said about Charles never finishing his tenth book, the one he thought was his best, but here it is. She also said that he never told anyone anything about it, including her, not even the title. I pour myself another drink—it helps me think—and consider the options. Charles Whittaker was once a bestselling author, a giant in the mystery and thriller genre in his day, but he hadn’t published a book for years. If he had written what he thought was his best novel, why would he hide it beneath the floorboards in his writing cabin? As always, I wonder what my wife would do and wish that I could ask her.
I pick up my mobile even though I know there is no signal. I paid to keep Abby’s phone working all this time in case someone called with information about what happened to her, but also so I could hear her again when the calls went to voicemail. Abby’s number has always been saved in my contacts as the wife. It was something we used to laugh about. I dial it now, just as I often do when feeling lost, but it doesn’t go through. I feel so alone as I stare down at the manuscript again.
There is no harm in reading it.
That’s what I tell myself as I carefully lift the book as though it were buried treasure.
I can’t think straight with the bones in my eyeline, so I cover them back up with the loose floorboards, then cover the floor with the sheepskin rug. What I need now is coffee. I don’t have any milk so it’ll have to be black. Most of the cupboards are empty, but I find some pods that are still in date and—with a little jiggery-pokery—figure out how to use the machine. Then I settle down on the couch and start reading.
It is 3:00 A.M. when I read the final page.
I have barely moved from the sofa except to feed the dog his dinner and feed myself—the entire packet of milk chocolate digestives I shoved in my jacket pocket earlier. I stopped reading only to lock the door with the key I found on the desk, and to light the wood-burning stove—Sandy was right, this place does get chilly once the sun goes down. I’m grateful to whoever left the pretty box of matches with a robin on the front for me to find. The crackling fire, Columbo’s gentle snores, and the sound of the sea outside combine to make a soothing soundtrack for my tired, befuddled brain. I lean back and close my eyes, just for a moment, my mind too restless to entertain the possibility of sleep. I’m still trying to process what I just read, but it’s undoubtedly one of the best books I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading, and nobody else even knows it exists.
The only question now is what to do with it.