I set down the broadside.
“How many for all of them?” I ask the man.
There are at least forty stacked on the stand.
“Two pound,” the man says. “But all of them, sir?”
“Yes.”
The man shrugs. “If it pleases you, sir.”
I hand over the money and take the broadsides.
I can’t stop them from printing these things.
But I can destroy what is in front of me.
Without particularly thinking why, I take one of the broadsheets, fold it, and shove it into my waistcoat pocket.
For some reason I want a memento of this moment.
I want to remember my own idiocy. To keep this piece to remind me of it. As a form of punishment. And as a reminder to question the world around me.
Then, shoving the papers under my arm, I take out my matches and light one. I remove the broadsides and light them on fire.
“Sir!” cries the newspaper man, stepping out from behind his stall.
I fling the papers into the gutter.
“I bought them, did I not? You have your two pound.”
“But I—burn them, sir!”
Once the flames have consumed the paper, I stamp at the remaining flames with my boot.
When I am sure the fire is well and out, I turn and stride off down the street.
Despite the definitiveness of my action, I am not sure how I feel.
Annabelle warned me of course.
For that reason alone, I’m not surprised or shocked.
No, I feel numb.
The inside of the bookshop revives me, however.
Annabelle told me to ask for the back room and the attendant takes me to a small antechamber where a different type of book predominates.
I look over them, smiling, thinking of my wife.
I select a few of the most intriguing options.
And then I see it.
A familiar green cover.
It is another copy of my beloved green book.
