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‘Are they worth something?’ Lisa asked. ‘That could be why they are after uncle.’

‘Oh no, practically worthless, but it’s old, no doubt about that.’

The professor pointed to the spine. ‘That’s why the spine has gone. Look, it doesn’t close properly.’

Fraser fiddled with it. ‘Well, generally the spine was the best part; it was the part the binder would be most proud of. The calf skin would have been soaked and stretched just right. These particular books very rarely perish in the binding.’

Fraser peered into the spine. ‘There’s something lodged in it, that’s the problem. I wonder if it’s a love letter. You haven’t been receiving any billets-doux, have you, professor?’

The professor blushed. ‘Not for many years, no.’

Fraser grabbed a chopstick from Lisa’s plate and thrust it into the spine. After a few seconds of digging the map fell out onto the table. ‘There,’ Fraser said in a triumphant tone.

‘What is it?’ asked the professor. Fraser unfolded the paper.

‘Looks like a map of some sort,’ Lisa said.

‘Where of?’ asked the professor.

Fraser turned the map over in his hands. ‘Do you know, I have no idea? Could be anywhere. There’s jungle, there’s a river, there’s more jungle…’ He thought. ‘I’d say it was the jungle, wouldn’t you?’

Lisa grabbed it. ‘There’s writing on it. Look — on the back. It must have been written at a different time. It’s not nearly as faded,’ she said and held the map up to her eye. ‘Ami… Amichi?’

Everyone looked puzzled. The professor was just about to offer a solution when his thoughts were interrupted by the waitress bringing their food. Fraser folded the piece of paper back into its tight square and replaced it back into the spine of the book. The professor still looked worried. Lisa watched as he ate, barely able to swallow, looking around him, trying his best not to let his feelings show but failing miserably.

‘Uncle, why don’t we walk you home and we can look at the map there. You look like a fish out of water here.’

The professor smiled. Now that she mentioned it he was feeling a little tired and his head hurt so much from the excitement. He was not used to such action, a man of his age and constitution.

After they had paid for the food, they walked home in the cool evening, chatting, trying to keep their minds off things. Every now and then the professor would stop and look behind him, desperately looking for the blue Nissan, but he could see nothing; either they had given up or he really was a stupid old man with too much imagination. He put his key in the lock and opened the door. Before him his apartment lay in total disarray. Everything was turned upside down. His bookcase was lying on the floor next to a pile of books that had smashed the glass table in the middle of the room. His TV had been thrown to the floor and lay in pieces with the cord still plugged into the wall. In his bedroom his clothes had been strewn over the floor, paint had been thrown over his bed and his mirror had been obliterated. The professor couldn’t believe his eyes. Everywhere about him lay the debris of his life as if a hurricane had smashed every memory, everything that he held sacred. Every personal item had been either broken or defiled. From the other room, he heard Lisa screaming and he rushed in to see her. On the kitchen table was a long lock of black hair and the distinctive red shirt of the girl they had seen that day and beside it a piece of paper with the word BOOK, written in what looked like blood. The professor sank to his knees. His imagination had just seeped into reality.

Chapter Two

It was strange how the city seemed alive some nights, the breathing of its people combining to form one great mass that moved in and out with mechanical regularity; the lights in the harbour blinked like its scales. The professor poured another drink into a glass that was already half full and took a gulp. He had always said to himself that at moments of extreme stress one needed to be at one’s best, not fall apart or fall into drink. In this case, though, none of that seemed relevant and all he wanted to do was get smashed, absolutely smashed. Fortunately, Lisa was on hand. She pulled the glass gently away from his lips. He barely noticed, and rested it on the table. Then she straightened his collar and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You should go to the police, uncle.’ The professor stared ahead making no sound. ‘They have gone too far doing this, whoever they are. Do you know who they are, uncle?’ The professor shook his head absently-mindedly, not wanting to re-join the world — not yet. Fraser brought Lisa a coffee from the kitchen. ‘It’s a mess everywhere,’ he said. ‘Even in there. Were they looking for the book?’

Lisa nodded. ‘I think so, don’t you, uncle?’

‘The book,’ the professor answered.

‘Uncle, you really must get some sleep. Fraser and I will stay here tonight, if you want.’

The professor stood up. ‘No,’ he said, kindly, drawing what little strength he had left back into his heart and mind. ‘No, they won’t be back tonight; they have done what they came here to do. They have terrified an old man — that was their intent.’

Lisa patted his shoulder, then hugged him. ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?’

‘Yes, yes, you go. Be careful. I’ll go to bed. I’ll go to bed straight away.’

Lisa and Fraser left, leaving the professor alone in his apartment. Outside, the city hummed and throbbed, its dark shadows closed in around it, its winds encircled anyone walking along its streets. The lights, pink and orange neon, shone brightly against the black background of the night sky and the cars moved eerily along the roads.

Silently, a wisp of blue smoke twirled around the street lamp and spiralled up into the light. Quickly and quietly, it made its way along the horizontal of the lamp and, as if carried by some invisible internal force, flew into the air with languor. It weaved and swirled on the thermals of the night sky until it reached the professor’s window where it crept through the crack between the glass pane and the wall. It moved through the apartment until it found the professor, asleep in bed.

All was black and he was unable to breathe. There was no light anywhere. He scrabbled with his hands and felt only cold hard mud. The walls seemed to be closing in and there was a smell of iron in the air. Reaching down, he felt, on the floor, something hard, something brittle — it snapped as he picked it up and fell into shards in his hands.

He guessed it was bone he was touching and he guessed that this was a place where death had happened, where death had been invited. Gradually, his eyes began to become accustomed to the light and he groped about and felt the artefacts of the dead, shoes, clothing, hats, hair. He was glad that he could barely see, as his fingers drifted over partially recognisable objects that had been left by those who had perished here.

Suddenly he felt a wind on his cheek and turned, expecting to see light, but caught only a glimpse of a bright blue smoke that seemed to contain its own luminescence as it flitted through the black air of the cave. He thought to follow where it was going, hoping that it would lead to the outside, assuming that it was the smoke of some cigarette or camp fire that burned in the open air. He found that he was in a tunnel. Feeling with his hands he made out the distinct rounded construction of a military design. Still he followed the blue smoke; he felt by now as though it were leading him somewhere, although where he didn’t know. Then he heard a ringing. He turned his head. The ringing was incessant, constant. He placed his hands over his ears to stop it but it carried on. It got louder and louder until he thought he could bear it no longer. He closed his eyes and held them shut for minutes.