Arthur Vale had been dead for forty-seven years, and no one had ever complained about his hours.
Midnight was traditional. Three in the morning was respectable. Half past two on a wet Thursday could be justified.
Ten forty in the morning was, in his opinion, showing off.
The new owner arrived at eleven seventeen at night.
She brought a kettle, a folding chair, and six boxes marked BOOKS. A seventh box was marked OTHER BOOKS.
Arthur watched from the ceiling.
At least she had her priorities in order.
By eleven fifty-eight, she had discovered the leaking window, the jammed back door, and the fact that none of the lights worked. She sat behind the counter eating a sandwich by torchlight.
Arthur took his position behind Travel and Exploration.
He had prepared this entrance carefully. There would be a cold wind. There would be a terrible groaning from within the walls. Then he would emerge, slowly, through the shelves.
He had once tried emerging quickly and got a dictionary through his face.
At midnight, the temperature fell.
The woman pulled on a cardigan.
The walls groaned.
She looked up at the damp patch above the window.
“Oh, don’t you start.”
Arthur rose through the floor.
His coat trailed into darkness. His eyes shone like distant candles. Behind him, every book on the nearest shelf opened at once.
The woman stopped chewing.
“Are you the previous owner?”
Arthur spread his arms.
“I am the sorrow that remains.”
“Lovely. Do you know where the fuse box is?”
Arthur lowered his arms slightly.
“What?”
“The fuse box. I’ve looked under the stairs.”
A long silence followed.
“Behind European Railways,” he said.
“Thank you. I’m June.”
“I did not ask.”
“No. But we’ll save time later.”
By morning, Arthur had decided she was an unusually difficult haunting.
He arranged three books on the counter.
LEAVE.
THIS.
PLACE.
June studied them.
“Two verbs and a noun. You’ve mixed the sections.”
“It is a warning.”
“Then we ought to keep them together.”
She fetched a little wooden stand and wrote STAFF RECOMMENDATIONS on a card.
Arthur withdrew into the wall.
He remained there for twenty-three minutes.
Then he came back out.
“Leave is dreadful,” he said.
“Is it?”
“The ending contradicts chapter nine.”
June removed it from the stand.
Arthur watched.
“You believe me?”
“You’ve had a long time to finish it.”
At ten, June put a handwritten notice beside the till.
PLEASE HAUNT DURING BUSINESS HOURS.
Arthur read it twice.
“This is deeply irregular.”
“You woke me at four.”
“A widow’s lament.”
“You were saying ‘woe’ down the chimney.”
“The acoustics are excellent.”
“I’m sleeping upstairs.”
“I know.”
She gave him a look.
Arthur examined the notice again.
“What are business hours?”
“Ten until six.”
“And outside those hours?”
“I’d appreciate some warning.”
He considered this.
“I could ring the bell.”
“That would be helpful.”
“The bell will ring with no visible hand.”
“I had assumed.”
Arthur drifted away, privately pleased that something had finally frightened her into negotiation.
Behind him, June tested the card machine.
It declined her own card.
“Oh, excellent,” she muttered.
For the next two hours, nobody came in.
June cleaned the front window. She changed the display. She went outside to inspect the display, came back inside, and changed it again.
Arthur followed her progress from the staircase.
“The poetry is getting wet.”
She moved the bucket.
“The bucket was for the other leak.”
She fetched a second bucket.
At twelve fourteen, she counted the money in the till.
At twelve nineteen, she counted it again.
Arthur stopped rehearsing his lament.
At twelve twenty-three, the bell rang.
June stood up so quickly she knocked over her tea.
A woman in a raincoat entered, shook out her umbrella, and looked around.
“I’m after a book.”
“Yes,” said June. “Good.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
The woman glanced at the shelves.
“Something short. A murder, preferably. Nothing horrible happening to a dog.”
“Right. A short murder with a safe dog.”
June looked towards Crime.
Unfortunately, Crime was still in three boxes beneath a tarpaulin.
She crouched and began opening one.
“No,” Arthur said.
June froze.
“That is Gardening.”
The customer turned.
Arthur had forgotten to remain invisible.
For a moment, nobody moved.
He hovered halfway through the staircase, pale and severe, with the lower edge of his coat passing through the umbrella stand.
The woman took one careful step backwards.
Arthur recognised the moment.
Here it was.
His opportunity.
He raised one translucent hand.
Then he saw June kneeling beside the wrong box, holding a book about compost.
“Blue spine,” he said. “Second shelf. Beside the damaged atlas.”
June looked over her shoulder.
“That’s Local History.”
“Only because you put the atlas there.”
A slim blue book slid from the shelf.
It floated across the room and settled into the customer’s hands.
“Two hundred and twelve pages,” Arthur said. “The murder occurs early. The dog lives to an unreasonable age.”
The woman looked down at the cover.
Then back at him.
“Have you read it?”
“Four times.”
“Does it hold up?”
“The murderer’s shoes are a minor weakness. Otherwise, yes.”
She opened the first page.
June remained very still.
After a minute, the woman closed the book.
“I’ll take it.”
The card machine worked.
June watched the receipt emerge as though it were a rare animal.
At the door, the customer hesitated.
“Is he here every day?”
Arthur drew himself upright.
“I am bound to this place.”
“Wonderful. My sister reads those dreadful seaside mysteries. I’ll bring her.”
When the door shut, Arthur looked at June.
“She did not flee.”
“No.”
“I had an excellent opportunity.”
“You did.”
June picked up the compost book.
“Thank you for helping.”
Arthur glanced at the empty space on the shelf.
“She wanted something quite specific.”
“Yes.”
“It would have been a shame to send her away with the wrong book.”
June said nothing.
After a while, he added, “The atlas belongs in Travel.”
She moved it.
By four, Arthur had recommended a biography, disputed the classification of a cookbook, and told a university student that buying a large philosophy text would not make him read it.
The student bought a smaller one.
At five, June placed a cup of tea on the counter.
“I can’t drink that.”
“I know.”
Arthur bent towards the steam.
“Assam?”
“Whatever was cheapest.”
“Mm.”
He stayed beside the cup.
June took a fresh card from beneath the till and wrote on it.
She pushed it across the counter.
ARTHUR VALE
BOOKSELLER
He looked at it for a long time.
“You’ve left something out,” he said.
June offered him the pen.
With considerable effort, Arthur added:
DECEASED
“People should have the facts.”
“Of course.”
At five fifty-eight, their last customer folded down the corner of a page.
Every light in the shop went out.
The window rattled. A low, dreadful sound travelled through the walls.
Arthur rose behind the man, tall enough to brush the ceiling.
“WE,” he said, in a voice that seemed to come from beneath the foundations, “USE BOOKMARKS.”
The man made a small, sincere noise.
June reached beneath the counter and handed him a bookmark.
“Complimentary with every purchase.”
He bought two books.
After he had gone, Arthur lowered himself to his usual height.
June turned the sign to CLOSED.
“That was rather good.”
Arthur adjusted his coat.
“During business hours, too.”
He glanced towards the notice beside the till.
“Would you mind leaving that up?”
June smiled.
She left it up.
The end