Jim lumbered around the maze; books falling from the shelves wherever he went. And from where they fell, Helen knew his approximate location. Hearing him struggling to pick them up, she closed her eyes, clenched her fists and wished she could thump him one. Not once, or twice, but until he no longer existed. She could see the morning’s tabloids screaming the nature of her hideous crime: BOOK MAZE KILLER.
He was at the Self-help section, presumably searching for the cure to his financial woes and broken heart. But he was incapable of reading the print, let alone finding guidance.
Helen waited nervously for him; the time had come to ask him to leave and not return and she was fearful of his reaction.
He came out of the maze empty-handed. ‘Couldn’t find a thing,’ he garbled. ‘You need more books, Helen. More books. That’s your problem. Couldn’t find a thing in there.’ He pointed towards the maze, slurring his words so badly Helen barely understood him. He stumbled towards her. Reaching the counter, he held on to it for support.
‘My wife used to tell me I was insane.’ He rotated his eyes to signify a demented state.
Helen took a step back: the stench of alcohol was overpowering. ‘I’m sure she was just joking.’
‘My wife hasn’t joked since 1980.’
‘That’s a long time. It must have made things a bit serious around your home.’
‘Quiet!’ he yelled. ‘It made things quiet. Good for reading. She thought I’d gone round the bend. And I’m beginning to think she’s right. Wives, well ex-wives now, they’re always right, aren’t they? That’s their job. My wife hates me … lost everything. This bookshop … house.’
Helen tried to summon up the words to tell Jim to scram, disappear, skedaddle and don’t come back. But nothing came out. Her courage was gone, replaced by remorse and guilt. She ended up searching for words to soothe this wreck of a man. She had knowingly exploited him, and now she was paying the price.
Jim swayed, and staggered back a few steps before gravity decided which way he would fall, which was forward, hitting his head hard on the edge of the counter. His forehead split open. Helen, hearing the cracking sound, screwed up her eyes, not wanting to see.
He lay sprawled on the floor, with the thin line of blood flowing from his forehead widening with every second. Soon bright red blood surrounded his head and shoulders and his suit began to soak up some of the thick warm syrup.
Helen looked up to see the frog woman and her horde of kids had entered the shop. Great, she thought, that’s all I need.