The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Six

T he sensible thing would have been to approach Harry then and there, to at the very least arrange to meet up and discuss how it was going to work. But Sophie was flustered, her original plan sent into disarray, and Harry’s stare was colder than it was outside, so instead, she wove through the chairs, nodding and smiling as villagers gave her curious looks, and slipped her arm through Fiona’s.

‘Sophie!’ Fiona was jubilant. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before now – you’ll do a wonderful job.’

Sophie glanced over her shoulder, looking for a tall figure with brown hair. ‘Do you want to show me the old sweet shop?’

‘What, now ?’

‘Now is as good a time as any.’ She could have left; slipped out of the door and hot-footed it back to her flat, but she wanted reinforcements in case Harry sought her out, and if she convinced Fiona that she was excited about the possibility of moving into the sweet shop, then her friend wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of a late-night tour.

‘OK, then,’ Fiona said. ‘I’ll just tell Ermin. Wait here.’

Sophie tucked her chin into her collar, trying to look as unapproachable as possible.

‘Here we are.’ Fiona held up a large key ring, the keys jostling and clinking together.

When they stepped outside, the cold was like a physical force propelling them backwards, and a mist had rolled in off the sea, draping the green and streets around them in ghostly gossamer. The streetlights emitted a weak golden haze, and Sophie shivered and zipped her coat up to the neck.

She followed Fiona, Clifton quiet alongside her, and resisted the urge to look behind and see if Harry was following: if she’d made him even angrier by leaving without arranging to talk things through. They skirted the edge of the green, the leaves of the giant oak rustling in the wind, as if protesting at being left out of the festivities, and then, once on the pavement, their footsteps echoed in the evening air.

‘Give me two minutes,’ Sophie said, gesturing to her dog, and Fiona nodded.

Sophie didn’t know what the old shop was like inside, particularly the state of the floor, so she hurried back to her flat, only a minute away, settled Clifton inside and raced back to Fiona, who was standing outside Ye Olde Sweete Shoppe, The Book Ends next door to it.

Both shops looked unwelcoming, the interiors dark, the window displays dismantled, the large panes of glass streaked with dust. The sweet shop’s door frame and windowsills were still a bright, candy pink, though the paint obviously hadn’t been refreshed for a couple of years. The bookshop was more muted, though the glow from the streetlight picked out its cherry-red door.

Fiona tried different keys in the lock of the smaller shop, before she found one that made a satisfying clunk, the door pushing inwards with a groan. Sophie followed her inside. The scent of sugar still lingered in the air, and it made her smile as she turned on her phone torch and panned it across the spartan space. There were fitted shelves on opposite walls, and behind the small counter at the back of the shop. A door in the far wall presumably led to an office or tiny bathroom.

‘Delores had it fitted with all mod cons not long before she gave it up,’ Fiona said. ‘She paid May a fortune to install the latest tech: a snazzy payment system, lighting built into the shelves to show off her jars of sweets. The electricity will be switched off now, but if you decide to take it on, it should only take a bit of elbow grease, a few phone calls and new contracts, to bring it up to muster. Not that you can see much in the dark,’ she added pointedly. ‘We could come back tomorrow.’

Sophie turned in a circle, the floorboards creaking under her boots. Annoyingly, it was perfect for her. It would take more stock than she currently had, allowing her to be more creative, develop her designs and try new things, but it wasn’t so big that it was daunting. It was a cosy space and – while obviously dusty at the moment – elegantly kitted out. She imagined painting the walls teal or lilac, the shelves a glossy white to best display her cloth and leather notebooks with their delicate threads and gilded edges. Then she pushed those thoughts away.

‘It’s a good space.’ She tried to sound matter of fact. This tour was purely a distraction, and she wasn’t moving in here. After the New Year, she wouldn’t be here at all.

‘It’s ideal for you,’ Fiona said. ‘Just imagine – notebooks here, books next door.’

‘There are no books next door.’ Sophie tried not to roll her eyes at the worn conversation. ‘Everyone’s said that Harry isn’t going to resurrect the bookshop.’

‘Nobody knows that for certain. Did you expect him to agree to help out tonight? Maybe he’s changing his ways.’

‘I think was strong-armed is more accurate than agreed ,’ Sophie said, her words cut off when a loud bang reverberated through the shop.

‘Goodness!’ Fiona pressed a hand to her chest.

‘Maybe the only thing left in the bookshop is the ghost?’

‘You know the story, don’t you?’ Fiona ran her finger along a shelf, Sophie’s torch beam picking out the impressive dust bunny she collected.

‘Is it the ghost of the village bibliophiles’ unsatisfied needs?’ Sophie suggested.

Fiona chuckled. ‘ Apparently it’s the ghost of a customer who died in the Fifties, before Harry’s father took over the shop. He was heartbroken, had lost his love, you know the sort of thing, and he came into the shop and bought a copy of his favourite book, then—’

‘What was the book?’ Sophie asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Fiona said. ‘Let’s say … Great Expectations , because none of his were met. So, he bought his book, left the shop, turned right and walked down to the beach, straight into the icy water, not stopping until he was lost to the waves.’

Sophie frowned. ‘Why did he buy a book if he was about to do that?’

Fiona shrugged. ‘As some sort of message?’

‘It’s a bit far-fetched. I mean, what about—’ Another loud bang shook the shelves on the wall between the sweet shop and the bookshop.

Sophie sucked in a breath.

‘A bit far-fetched?’ Fiona repeated, looking nervously around the space.

‘The story .’ Sophie dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Not that there’s not a … I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts. But what is that?’

‘A pigeon? A bat? A badger ?’

‘Do you have the bookshop key on that ring?’ Sophie asked.

‘I do.’ Fiona swallowed. ‘You can’t possibly want to go and check in the dark?’

‘Don’t you think we should?’

‘You’re braver than you look, Sophie Stevens. Come on then, let’s go and see what horrors we can discover.’

Fiona locked the sweet shop and they stood in front of the bookshop’s red door. Further up the hill, the last few stragglers were filtering out of the village hall, saying their goodnights. Sophie had the sudden urge to run back there, into the light and the warm. She wouldn’t even mind if Harry was waiting for her.

Instead, she cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the bookshop window. She could see nothing but the vague outlines of empty shelves, the rest in darkness. The banging had stopped. All was still. It was her turn to swallow.

‘Are we going in?’ Fiona asked.

‘Yes,’ Sophie said, with more confidence than she felt. She imagined Harry standing beside them – a tall, imposing presence. From what little she knew of him, he seemed to have a no-nonsense attitude, something they could do with right now. For a second, she wished he was here.

‘You know,’ Fiona said, holding the bunch of keys up to the light, ‘he called the shop yesterday.’

‘Who did?’ She wondered, not for the first time, if Fiona could read her mind.

‘Harry Anderly,’ her friend clarified. ‘We were just talking about him changing his ways, and I forgot to mention that he phoned the shop. All he wanted to know was if you were working; if you were OK.’ She found the right key, then turned to Sophie. ‘Anything I should know about?’

Sophie stared at Fiona, bemused. And then she remembered: it was only two evenings ago that she’d met him on the cliff path, refused his curt offer of a lift home. He’d really been bothered enough by it to check up on her the following day?

‘No,’ she said, feeling even more uneasy. ‘There’s nothing you need to know about.’

‘OK then,’ Fiona replied. ‘You know I’ll find out anyway.’

‘Of course.’

‘Oh, now this isn’t a good sign.’

‘What isn’t?’

Fiona had put the key halfway in the lock, and the door had swung inward.

‘It’s broken?’ Sophie asked.

Fiona nodded. ‘Someone – or some thing – has broken it.’

‘Should we call the police?’ Her pulse started to race.

‘Let’s have a little look first,’ Fiona said, stepping inside.

‘Now who’s braver than they look?’ Sophie murmured.

It smelled mustier in here, but then it had been shut longer than the sweet shop, and books were musty, though usually in an appealing sort of way. Sophie closed the door and they stood there, listening. Everything was quiet. Everything was dark. There were no sounds from outside, where Mistingham was slowly getting ready for bed, and no sounds in the shop. But the lock was broken, so they hadn’t imagined the noises.

‘Maybe the lock’s been broken for ages?’ Sophie whispered.

Fiona hummed. ‘Maybe.’

There was another bang from deep inside the building, and they exchanged an anxious look.

‘Split up?’ Sophie suggested, even though her heart was pounding.

‘Good idea. I’ll go this way.’ Fiona pointed to her right, which was not where the sound had come from. Sophie wanted to argue, but she was the one who had insisted they investigate.

‘I’ll go this way.’ She pointlessly gestured in the opposite direction.

They both took cautious, quiet steps, and soon they were out of sight of each other, swallowed by the darkness, the hodgepodge rooms like a cave system leading to treasure, all the nooks now devoid of bookish delights.

Sophie couldn’t help wondering how well she’d know this place by now if it had stayed open. She probably would have set up a tab, told whoever owned it to keep her bank card hostage behind the till. She thought of Susan Hill’s ghost stories, The Woman in Black and The Small Hand , and Michelle Paver. She wasn’t climbing a mountain, like in Thin Air, but she felt as if things were scuttling on the floor, just out of reach of the torch beam, imagined she could feel whisper-soft touches on the back of her neck. She was holding her breath, her ears and eyes straining for anything unusual: a disjointed moan or chink of chains, a see-through, ghostly figure; a wisp of white in the gloom.

Stop it , she told herself. There is nothing here .

She stepped through a narrow doorway into another compact space, then walked through that, twisting to her left, aware that she was getting further from the front door and an easy escape. She moved into yet another room, and realized as she swept her phone around that this one was bigger. She had reached the last room: the one that shared its wall with the sweet shop.

She blinked into the light, tried to ignore the total darkness on either side of its beam, swallowing air that felt particularly thick. But there was something else amongst the mustiness, something that smelt like food: bread or cake, a hint of something tangy. Was this where an animal had made its den? She took another step on creaky boards. Was she about to find carcasses? Did they have big cats in north Norfolk? Big cats that make their homes in abandoned bookshops? She shook her head and walked forwards. Did they—

A loud squeal filled the space and Sophie froze, terror clawing up her throat as the darkness to her left seemed to change shape, followed by a flash of bright red, a wash of something pallid. She stepped backwards and her heel caught on an uneven board. She felt herself fall, put her hands out behind her to try and lessen the impact, her phone clattering onto the floor before her bum hit it. She cried out as a sharp pain sliced through her wrist and up her arm, but she kept her eyes glued on the shifting shapes until they settled.

Sophie groped for her phone, found that it was undamaged and that the torch was still on, and angled the beam ahead of her. She was staring up at a person: a person with a shock of bright red hair, wrapped in a rough, dark blue blanket, their pale, moon face gazing down at her.

It was a young woman.

‘Hello,’ Sophie said, trying to ignore the pain in her wrist. She could hear Fiona’s fast footsteps, running then stopping, trying to find her way through the night-time maze of the shop. ‘Who are you?’

The silence stretched between them, punctuated by shouts from Fiona that got louder as she got closer: ‘Are you OK, Sophie? What’s happened? Where are you?’

The girl stared down at her, and Sophie tried a smile. ‘I’m Sophie,’ she said, ‘in case you hadn’t guessed.’

Still the girl stared. She looked wary and intrigued, wrapped in her blanket cocoon.

‘I’m Jazz,’ she said eventually, in a voice that was more defiant than Sophie would have expected. ‘Do you need me to help you up?’

Fiona burst into the room and took in the sight, her mouth and eyes widening in surprise. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘What … what is this?’

‘I’m Jazz,’ the young woman repeated. She let the blanket fall and held her hand out to Sophie. Sophie reached for it, then changed her mind and, letting Fiona’s torch light the space, put her phone down and offered up her left hand instead. ‘I’m not a ghost,’ Jazz added. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you, but it’s hard to get comfortable and every sound echoes in here. I just came for some fish and chips.’

‘Excellent.’ Fiona sounded completely flustered. She peered at Jazz, then Sophie, her brows hooded with concern. ‘This is a somewhat unexpected turn of events,’ she said, which Sophie thought all three of them could probably agree on.