"Hey Uncle," he said. "I wanna buy a book, Uncle." It sounded like he said "bayah buk".
"Sorry, we're closed."
"Ach, no man, Uncle man. I wanna bayah buk, man."
The girl on his arm giggled, and clutched at his pleather jacket. "Let's go, Luke."
"Nah, but I wanna book."
"Tomorrow, Luke. We'll get you a book tomorrow." She yanked his arm, and he stumbled after her.
"Ok, bye. Bye, Uncle."
Every weekday at 6pm, Frankie carried a yellow crate to his car. He always parked illegally, on the pavement, so that cyclists and pedestrians had to give the vehicle a wide berth. The cops knew about it, of course. He was the owner of Grimsby's Books, so some loading was allowed. As long as he was finished by ten past.
Fridays always made him anxious. He could sense a shift in the particles of the air. It was as though something informed all the students of the town that it was Binge Time, and they would start their boozy lunches in the burger joint up the road at 11am. By six, when he was ready to leave, they would loll down the hill, imagining that their movements resembled a swagger, while hollering incoherences at one another. It made him want to manoeuvre himself like a squirrel on a treetrunk to avoid them.
He'd parked outside the shopfront as usual, and retrieved his crate from the store. He hovered in the doorway, listening. He dared to put the toe of his shoe over the threshold. The clicking tyres of a speeding cyclist made him retreat in fright. The crate grew heavy in his arms. He decided to chance it and bolted for the open car door. He slammed the hatchback and dusted his hands on his thighs.
It was then that a small orange light caught his eye. A shadow was moving in front of it, just there, on the balcony across the street. The shadow paused to lean over the railing. He could just make out the features of a woman with a pixie cut. A tattoo climbed her arm like ivy and he was certain that it wasn't a cigarette glowing between her fingers.
"Look, it's that guy from the bookshop."
"Nobody reads books any more, man."
"Unless you're, like, seriously old like my nan."
"Ha! Your nan is older than God."
Frankie ducked into the shop and slammed the security door in the face of their laughter. He was in no mood for delinquents. After flicking off the lights, he stood behind the shelf near the window and searched for the woman across the street. She was still leaning into the night, smiling at the goings-on. She must be new because Frankie hadn't noticed her before. He knew everyone who lived in the street, including those determined not to be lived out by the partygoers that traipsed along the pavement ever since the kebab shop opened a basement pub that promised Happy Hour from five 'til seven every night, except on Sundays.
Satisfied that they were gone, Frankie let himself out of the shop and bundled into the car. It was twenty-five past, but no police in sight. He was lucky, this time. As he tried to find the ignition in the half-light, he dropped his keys. He swore and reached down, raking the space between the pedals with his fingers. The tap on the window made him start. Or stop. He sat, motionless, his heart pounding in his throat.
"Mr Grimsby?"
He dared to look at the voice. It was her. He panicked and opened the door, making her jump backwards in surprise.
"You are Mr Grimsby?" she said.
"Yes, er. I am."
She smiled and stuck out her hand, which he shook out of habit. "Theodora Crumb. I live..." Her head indicated the flat across the street.
"Yes." He didn't know what else to say. "Can I help you?"
"You might tell me your name."
"Franklin. But everyone calls me Frankie."
She was resting her cheek on the door frame, cradling the top corner in her hand.
He caught himself staring at the various parts of her: the way her hair circled her ear; the silver stud that bobbed on her cheek in the nest of her dimple; the daisy chain tattoo that connected her shoulder to her index finger. He swallowed hard and looked at the footwell. The keys were lodged behind the brake pedal.
"Oh, let me," she said, leaning in to retrieve them. He tried to beat her to it, and they collided.
She stood up, rubbing her forehead. "I hope that doesn't bruise." She upturned her palm. "Your keys?"
"Thanks," he said, his voice gruffer than intended. "Well, I'd best be going."
"Yes. Of course. Goodnight, Franklin." She shut the door and waved, watching him start the engine and nudge the hatchback off the pavement.
The next day he was unloading a set of 'good as new' editions he'd had rebound. It was his way of paying tribute to Russia's best authors; he hoped a collector would appreciate the new bindings as much as he did. The bell above the door made him cast a glance at the shopfront. Usually, it was the wind playing with the loose hinges. That day, it was Theodora.
"Hi Franklin."
"Morning."
"It's nice to see you too," she said. Her sneakers squelched on the linoleum.
His grip tightened on War and Peace. "Looking for anything in particular?"
"Hmm. I'm not sure I'll find chick lit on your shelves."
"You're right. I keep it in the back."
"A sense of humour! I like it." She browsed the bargain table. "Seriously, though. Where's the chick lit?"
He led the way to a shelf that was dustier than he would have liked and gestured at the pastel covers. "Knock yourself out."
Her gleeful expression told him she'd be there for a while, so he returned to the Russians.
"You have quite a collection here," she said, her voice carrying through the shop.
"Hmm-hmm," he said.
"And they're in quite good condition too." She emerged from behind the shelves with six thick books in her arms. One looked as though it was plotting an escape from the crook of her elbow. He reached forward to grab it, just in time, grazing her skin with his thumb.
"We have shopping baskets at the door," he said, fetching her one.
"Which I have only just noticed." She dumped the remainder of the books into it and smiled her thanks. "It must be wonderful to work here," she said, sighing deeply. "Intoxicating, really." When she saw his expression she said, "The way books smell? It's the perfume of words, I think."
"It's ink and glue. Nothing to get too excited about. But if you like the stinky ones, I have a map of Europe from the Cold War era that still reeks after months of airing it out."
"I'll take it."
It surprised him how she kept coming back, kept finding reasons to ask him something or comment on his window display. And, in the evenings, when he loaded his car after closing time, he knew, without looking, that she was watching him from the balcony.
Seventeen Fridays after their first encounter, Theodora was lounging on his counter, sucking the chocolate off the peanut clusters she'd brought round. "I have a question," she said.
"I'm not ordering more chick lit until next week."
"That wasn't the question." She plopped some peanuts onto the counter and crossed her legs. "What do you take home in that yellow crate every night?"
Frankie swallowed. "Nothing." He picked up some books and retreated to the storeroom.
"Ah, c'mon Franklin. It's not nothing." She bounded after him, hovering at the storeroom door. "I watch you load that yellow crate into your car every night and unload it again every morning. I'm here most of the time and yet I never see the crate until you leave."
He pushed past her, carrying copies of Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge and Keats. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine," she said. "Have your secrets. But I will find out." She gathered up her peanuts and made for the door. "You forgot Byron," she said, before stepping onto the street.
Frankie locked the shop early for lunch. He went to the curtain under the sink and pulled it back to make sure the crate was still there. He sank onto the three-legged stool, wiping his hands on his thighs. She couldn't know, could she? He would have to be more careful.
Theodora didn't visit the shop for a week. Then it became two. He waited until Wednesday and walked across the street to her building. She let him in without asking who it was. As he climbed the stairs, Frankie realised it was probably bad manners to arrive empty-handed, but there was no going back. Her balcony looked closer to the ground despite the fact that her apartment was on the fourth floor.
"Franklin, you came. You must have heard all my telepathic cries for help. I haven't had a decent thing to read in days."
Her hair was covered in a patterned bandanna and her skin looked grey and clammy.
"What are you standing in the door for? Come in. I've just made a tree bark infusion. Can I interest you in some?"
"N-no. Thank you."
He watched her flop onto the couch and wrap herself in a large quilt.
"Please, sit. And tell me how things are at the shop."
Frankie rambled about his new window display and how the first-years from the university came in and asked if he had copies of that pornographic bestseller that became a film trilogy.
Her laughter twisted her face into a grimace. She closed her eyes and leaned into the couch cushions. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "I know you're wondering why I look so grim, but you're too polite to ask." She opened her eyes, which suddenly seemed too large for her face. "I don't have much time, Franklin. I chose to stop my treatment and live here with my books."
"It's not a bad way to go," he said before he could stop himself.
She smiled. "I knew you would understand." She coughed, and the sound rattled in her ribcage. "Tell me a story, Franklin."
There was only one story he could think of that would be worth telling. "I've been writing a book," he said. "Every night I carry the manuscript home in my crate, and every morning I bring it back. That way I know it's safe."
She raised her head a little. "Is the story any good?"
"I like to think it's the greatest story ever told."
"Franklin, I don't want to play the death card, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to if you don't tell me this story."
"All right," he said. "On one condition."
"Name it."
"You have to stick around to find out how it ends."
"You're kidding, right?" She sighed. "Fine. I will stick around for the end, even if it kills me."
"Then I suggest you top up your mug and make yourself comfortable."
"I'm all ears."
"Once upon a time..."
"Franklin, don't be a dweeb."
"Do you want to hear the story or not?"
It was morning when he finally finished. Her breath came in short gasps.
"That was beautiful. Thank you, Franklin." She closed her eyes and sighed.
A tear trickled down his cheek. He reached for her, but she was gone.
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