Amy had enjoyed her lunch with Emma and Tash. She’d never been sure what they thought of her at book group. Although she’d been at Berecombe Primary with Tash for a few years, her father had got his dream job in Singapore just before she’d been due to go to the Comp. She and Katrina had gone with him and Amy had been enrolled in an international school. It had meant that, although she’d always felt local, she’d also felt displaced on her return to Berecombe after university, and slightly apart. The tension between her and Tash had evaporated, and Emma was always easy to get on with, but Amy was aware that three was never an ideal number for a friendship group. However, it hadn’t seemed to bother anyone yesterday and she’d returned to the shop in high spirits to find Patrick had sold more books in her absence than she’d managed all morning. She’d gone home, feeling as close to happy as she dared; she’d almost forgotten how.
All this vanished the instant she saw the red words daubed all over one of the front windows of the bookshop as she arrived to open up the following morning.
She stood shocked, her head going muzzy with disbelief.
BOOKS ARE CRAP!!! it said. A childish message, it had been sprayed on with liberal carelessness, the red paint dripping down onto the lovely deep windowsills of the converted seaman’s chapel.
Amy was stunned. She clutched her bag to her and, for a second, stood frozen with indecision. Nothing had happened since the vandalised pumpkins. That was, if you didn’t count the feeling she often had, but had dismissed, of being watched. She thought she heard a giggle and whirled round. The low sunlight, shining brilliantly from the eastern end of the promenade, blinded her for a second. There might have been a scuffling of feet on the sandy concrete but then all was silent. A gull cackled overhead making her jump. Perhaps that was what she’d heard?
Mustering all the swear words she knew, she muttered them under her breath and concentrated on opening the front door. Carefully locking it behind her again, she headed for the phone. Smashed pumpkins were one thing but this was outright vandalism. Feeling sick, she punched in the number for Berecombe’s sole police presence. As she waited for Paul to pick up, she felt her knees tremble and she collapsed onto the stool behind the counter. Had someone got it in for her? But why? And who?
She was trying to scrub the paint off when Patrick arrived. ‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary, what the feck is this all about?’
Amy turned and faced him. She was feeling a little calmer now. Still angry but, after her conversation with Paul, more reassured that it had been nothing personal. She’d had to leave a message and he’d got back to her only ten minutes ago. ‘I had some visitors overnight and they left me a little message.’ She smiled thinly. ‘At least it was spelled correctly, even if they do think books are crap.’
‘Ah feck Amy, that’s awful.’
‘Kids apparently, according to Paul. They had a spree all over town last night. We got off lucky. They had a real go at the town hall. They’re going round calling themselves The EX Gang.’
‘The what?’
‘After the first bit of the postcode, I assume.’
Patrick gave a short laugh. ‘Not very imaginative then.’
‘Or all that bright. If I get hold of them, I’d like to tell them exactly why books aren’t crap and how they might benefit from reading a few.’ She put the cloth down and shoved a frustrated hand through her hair. She gave Patrick a trembling look. ‘I’m feeling a bit better about all of this now. This morning I was convinced someone had a vendetta against me. Paul reassured me the gang hit quite a few places, including the boarded-up old Blue Elephant Café, and the theatre. The poor theatre. It’s hard enough for them to scrape along at the best of times, without all the expense of cleaning graffiti off.’ She shrugged. ‘None of the targets have anything in common except they’re all in Berecombe.’
‘Just kids then, I guess.’
‘It’s a shame they can’t see how hard it is to scrub off.’ Amy’s voice quivered.
‘Oh, darlin’ girl.’ Patrick enveloped her in a bear hug. He had on a thick Guernsey sweater and Amy clung to him. He smelled of cold air, coffee and reassurance. The roughness of the wool scored her cheek but she didn’t care. She just needed to hold onto someone.
‘I wouldn’t mind quite so much,’ she said, reluctantly disentangling herself from his embrace after a few moments, ‘but I still haven’t put up the decorations for the storytelling session this afternoon. I haven’t got time to scrub this lot off and do that too. Ooh, it’s infuriating.’ Amy just about stopped herself from stamping her foot.
Patrick kept his hands on her shoulders and looked at her, concerned. ‘Have they paid Millie’s a visit too?’
Amy shook her head. ‘The Old Harbour and the Lifeboat Station escaped too. Millie said she thought she heard something about nine, and Jed came out, but couldn’t see anything. It must have scared them off before they had chance to wreak any more havoc.’
‘Well, that’s one thing. Give me a sec and I’ll come and help you scrub.’ He moved away and began to push up the sleeves of his sweater. Strong forearms were revealed, covered in black hair. Amy tried not to stare.
She turned back to the graffiti. It was amateurish in the extreme but had a certain bloody appeal as it was painted in red. ‘Hang on, Patrick,’ she began, as an idea came to her. ‘I think we might be able to rescue this without having to scrub it all off today. I don’t think I’ve got time for that anyway.’ She turned back to him and grinned weakly. ‘Let’s not give into the little buggers, let’s make it part of the Hallowe’en decorations.’
‘How?’ Patrick looked intrigued. He shoved his hands into his jeans pocket to beat the chill.
‘Last night I made some paper ghosts with a few choice book covers on. I was going to display them inside the shop.’ She glanced up at the clear blue sky. ‘But it looks as if it’ll stay dry today. If we change the wording and hang the ghosts, it might do for today.’ She stared back at the message, thinking. ‘What about, oh I don’t know, Books Are Scary? It’s on the lame side but it would mean the least we have to change. Do you think you can find me some red paint? We’ll do a bit of vandalism ourselves!’
Patrick gave a broad grin. He tugged his forelock. ‘I’m right on it.’