The Last Thirty Pages

The amputation was not done with a knife. If it had been a knife, the wound would be clean, precise, smooth.

And it was not made by hand. Then the trauma would be feathery, messy, erratic.

No. This jagged, irregular, sawtooth edge looks like the work of blunt scissors. Someone in a hurry, a little reckless, seizing whatever tool was close.

Such a shame!

This would have been a nice little book… if only someone had not excised the last thirty pages

The Growl Manger, by Edmund Fen.

Of course, I’m not an expert on Edmund Fen. Or the early modern horror writers like him. I once skimmed a little Dennis Wheatley, but only to establish rapport with a collector who had a lead on a signed first edition of The Stand with the T39 imprint on page 823. No matter how experienced you are in the rare book trade, you can’t know about every writer, folio, misprint. So I can’t speak with authority on the scarcity of the volume I hold in my hand. But I know that just as Raymond Chandler captivates the lover of crime fiction, or Clifford Irving amuses the aficionado of the fictional memoir, Fen has a certain… cachet with the proud horrorphant. In fact, I already have a buyer in mind.

Even with an interested buyer, the missing pages cripple the asking price. The dust jacket, however, is in excellent condition. Not pristine, but slick for a novel published in the 1930s. I should be able to find a cheap uncovered edition on eBay or AbeBooks, slip on this jacket, and sell the hybrid for a respectable profit.

All dealers do it on the sly.

But the book is not yet mine. I toss it back into the cardboard box, onto the other books.

“My, your husband was quite a bibliophile, wasn’t he? Did he really get through all those books? Six whole boxes! What a reader! One for Guinness.”

“Couldn’t keep his nose out of a book, even at dinner. Always had a book wedged between his plate and the water jug… Dear old thing he was.”

“You spend the day hunched over the stove, and when it’s time to eat, his attention is on a book, not your food? My word. Some people just don’t see their own good fortune. Now, I hope there aren't too many splashes of your special marinara sauce inside these books…”

“Oh, no, of course not. These were his particular books. His library. He took good care of them, I promise. Actually, I’m rather hoping they’re worth something. I know it’s not likely, but…”

“Oh… yes! Well, I’m happy to say they are. Worth something. More than something. Take these Reader’s Digest Condensed Books… Ah, Reader’s Digest, that’s a name to conjure with. Just run your hand over the cover. Go on. Feel the texture. That’s quality. And five books to each volume, that’s a quintuple value right there. Now, to the right collector… Oh, but I shouldn’t say too much. I don’t want to overpromise. You lock these up somewhere safe. Hide them behind dishes or under folded winter clothes. Meanwhile, I’ll make a few enquiries among trusted colleagues, see if we can find you an offer… commensurate with their worth. I don’t like to overpromise, as I said. But I think… oh, four zeros is possible. More than possible.”

“Really? These old things? You really think they’re worth ten thousand? More? I’m surprised these are the ones that might be valuable…”

“My dear, I assume you are also a viewer of Antiques Roadshow… You are? Then you have 

seen for yourself, the amazing prices that seemingly ordinary everyday knickacks can command… Often, it is the humble, unassuming geegaw that fetches a premium from collectors. So it is with books. But enough of that for now. I’ll do a little liaison on your behalf, and be in touch in a few weeks. If we’re lucky, we might spark a bidding war. As to the others… well, take this Harry Potter. Honesty requires that I recommend you keep a tight grip on that as well. It’s not a first edition, or the first in the series - those are the most valuable. But you know how devoted the fans of the boy wizard are, you might be able to get a few hundred for it if you sell now. Or you may prefer to sit on it and let the price ripen. The rest… not worth much at all, I’m sorry to say. Will likely end up at Vinnie’s, fail to find a buyer, and be pulped to make notebooks.”

“Oh dear. Kenneth would have been so disappointed. He loved his books.”

“Well… I have to say, I dislike seeing that happen to a collection like this, so carefully assembled. Years of patient effort undone. He was a very kind man, Kenneth, I can feel that, just from the care he lavished on his books. True, you need to slim down, simplify. But you don’t want to just chuck these in the bin, even if nobody wants them. Such a waste. I suppose… Oh, but I have so much driving to do in the next few weeks, it would be difficult… But I suppose… Yes. Why not? Let’s say… I take all these boxes right now. Load them in my car, and drive off with them. But I insist you hold onto the Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. All of them. No, I couldn’t take a single one. And don’t forget the Harry Potter. Then I’ll track down buyers on your behalf, no commission. Just my good deed for the day.”

“That would be very generous of you. More than ten thousand? That’s extraordinary. But.. perhaps I should wait for my daughter to finish work before we do anything… Talk to her… Just to be sure I’m doing the right thing…”

“Would that I could stay longer, but I’m due in another town, and I don’t know when I’ll be back this way. You would not believe my schedule. I’m a martyr to the preservation of books. Ah, well, sometimes it’s not to be. At least I got to set my eyes on those beautiful Reader’s Digest Condensed Editions. Tell you what… I must be mad, but… let’s see what I have… that’s one, two, three hundred. Everything I have on me. Let’s say three hundred for the lot, except the Reader’s Digests and the Harry Potter. You hold onto those, and I’ll call you about them later. And when your daughter finishes work, you can report back not only that the job is done, but that you’ve made a profit. Cleaned me out, even. Made life easier for both of you. She’ll be so proud of her good old mum.”

Of course, completing the sale is only half the job. I need to load the boxes into my car! So much for the indolent life of the litterateur. Books are heavier than people realise, especially in bulk, and I’m not as young as I once was. Worse, these boxes have not even been taped, just folded. I have to plant my palms under the squirming base of each box and squeeze it with my arms so it won’t disintegrate on the trip to the back seat of the car. The boxes will also be a nuisance to drive with. One sharp turn and the books are liable to spill everywhere. To say nothing of extra petrol from the excessive weight.

I leave with fervent promises to be in touch in a few weeks. I’m not one for these awkward farewells, my heart is too tender. When I’m around the corner, I take out my phone, and deactivate the phone number I used to answer her newspaper ad. Marvelous what technology can do. I’m old enough to remember making sensitive business calls from a phone booth. These days, a press of a button on your phone can give you a temporary number, and delete it just as easy. Gets a busy professional such as myself out of awkward questions and second thoughts.

After half an hour of travel, I slide into a McDonalds carpark next to a gas station. Leaving coffee and apple pie on top of my car so it can cool, I sort the books. A lot of it is junk. Only good for kindling. Others are maybes. No one collector knows everything. That innocuous cowboy paperback might be a famous writer slumming it for drink money. And then there are the treasures. The Growl Manger by Edmund Fen is one. Another is a hardcover of The Story of O. Kenneth, you naughty boy. First British edition - funny how those always found their way out to the colonies. Not the most valuable edition in the catalogue, but more than enough to cover this week’s costs.

I pack the sorted books into different boxes. One box for the treasures and maybes, including my purchases at other stops. Five boxes of junk. I drive a little further on, for a witness might scribble down my license plate, and I don’t want to open a letter at home and find a fine for littering.

I leave the boxes of junk books by the side of the highway. I’m sure someone will stop and pick them up. Call it an extempore public library. And if not, the rain will take care of them. Eventually, the books will turn back into trees. Circle of life.

A good day’s work, all considered!

I’ve been on the road long enough, and it’s time to head home. This region will need a few years to replenish before my next harvest.

I’ve read that fur trappers follow a trapline, a route of traps they check in sequence as they bash their way through the wilds. In the same way, I have an itinerary of country towns, far from the frenzied book markets of the big cities, where nosy competitors can steal your prize or poison your deal. I meander along my trapline, sample the pastries in country cafes, scour the bookstores and curiosity shops, and check the newspapers for collections on sale.

Pastries and profit, it’s almost a holiday.

But when the journey is done I repair to my Melbourne apartment - my Otranto, my Ghormenghast, my 221B Baker Street. Be it ever so humble... And climate controlled at a precise 19 degrees, day and night. A necessity for any serious dealer in rare books.

After weeks braving the judgemental outback sun, it’s so nice to open the door to my den again, and be swaddled in that cool, preserving air.

I debate whether to carry the books upstairs now or later. It is tempting to throw off my ratty work clothes, heat some milk on the stove, sit and sip, and let myself dissolve. Then I remember that I won’t have any good milk in the fridge, and will need to go on a trek to buy some. The definition of Scylla and Charybdis. I decide to forgo milk and bring the books upstairs now. Savouring my finds is a nice way to celebrate the completion of my journey.

The shopping caddy I take to book fairs makes it easy to steer the box from the underground carpark, up the lift, and into my living room.

The living room is also my professional library and workshop, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves installed on every wall. In the middle of the room, I have a large crafting table. I have a laptop on the table, and a tall ottoman for a seat. Scattered on the table are some of the tools of my trade, such as my cotton gloves and magnifying glass. I push them aside to make space for the new box.

I’m no hoarder. If you opt to make your living through book dealing, it doesn’t pay to get attached to the supply. Most of this trip’s haul will go straight out the door, with only a few items held in reserve on my shelves to mature in anticipation of a satisfying offer. Of course, some of my books are not for sale. I could not part with my golliwog books. The hysteria against that character is unfair to Florence Kate Upton’s charming stories. First, they came for the golliwog, then they came for Peter Rabbit… Let the world rage, I will always stand up for quality. At least social umbrage lets me snap up cheap first editions.

I start to unpack the box. I do not intend to process all the books for sale tonight… but one or two won’t hurt.

As a first step, I use my laptop to check the free book databases and the popular online bookstores. There are special subscription databases for collectors available, but they’re expensive, and I get by fine with just the public information. All I really need is an idea of price. If an item looks valuable, I delve deeper into the minutia… proof copies, errata, signatures… Anything that could pump up the price. Then I judge the book’s condition, to see how much I can get away with asking.

If I still need to know more, I strike up a conversation on a message board or social media group, adopting the persona of a gormless ingenue. People are so helpful to strangers, I’ve even known a few samaritans who will scan rare catalogues for the curious neophyte. Purely out of love for their hobby. Or because many of my online profiles use the names and photos of striking young ladies.

I have entered my grade and provisional price for a couple of books into a spreadsheet when I come to this trip’s enfant terrible.

The Growl Manger, by Edmund Fen.

It really is in good condition for its age. No foxing, that’s always lucky in the Australian climate. And the binding is nice and firm. Shame about those missing pages... I doubt I will get much for it. Looks like I’m stuck with the original plan of swapping the dust jacket onto a better copy.

I search for the book’s title in a database. No results. Nothing unusual about that. Many books are better known under a different title. I’ve lost track of how many titles have been used for And Then There Were None… And until I know what I’m looking for, there’s no point doing an author search.

I try wikipedia.

Edmund Fen - early life, writing career, belief and thought, controversy, politics… Here we are, works. Ah, yes, The Delectable Tabernacle, that’s the one he’s famous for. Odd, nothing on The Growl Manger. But that’s just wikipedia. It doesn’t always list every published work. I do an internet search. I can’t find any results for the book, so I open an Edmund Fen fansite with lots of bright yellow links on a black screen. No, it’s not listed there either.

I don’t like to do this before I have a good idea of price, but I decide to feel out my potential buyer.

Alexandria Deacon, a retired lawyer from old money, and a ravenous collector of Edmund Fen, willing to pay generous rates. I’ve viewed their collection, display cabinets in glass and steel, scribbled pages from original manuscripts, even a lock of hair purported to belong to the author.

I dash off an email:

AD, hope you’re well. I remember how much you love Edmund Fen. It so happens I have a book of his in my mitts, don’t ask me how I got it, ha ha - first edition of The Growl Manger! Yes, exciting, I know! Thought of you first - keen? As you know this is an extremely rare find! I wouldn’t dally on this one.

I’ll see how they respond, and after that choose my tactics.

With nothing else to go on, I flick through the pages to get a sense of the story. It’s about a miser - your standard Scrooge type, squeezing rent from slums on page 13, lending money at high interest on page 67. Cold of heart, feared and envied. Lots of fervid conversations in drawing rooms, no werewolves or car chases. Nice prose style, though, breathless but lucid. Ah, here we go, our miser develops a late-life infatuation with the pubescent daughter of an indebted customer. I wonder if our Mr Fen lifted that from The Old Curiosity Shop. Ah, the iceman catches fire. Now he’s dabbling in criminality, violence, all the mucky things... It’s not P. L. Travers or Dodie Smith! Oh, now our miser is resorting to the occult… Just like The Monk, or The Devil Rides Out…

And that’s it all there is, the end of the story cut out by some earlier reader, perhaps a censorious critic taking sudden umbrage at the macabre direction of the tale.They even removed the endpaper. I’ve always maintained that disrespect for the endpaper is the mark of a philistine temperament.

I run my finger down the serrated paper teeth that run from the top to the bottom of the book… 

…and the book bites me.

Bad luck, a paper cut. At least I’ve never heard of anyone getting tetanus from one. Nature’s way of telling me I’ve had enough excitement for one night.

I set the book aside, slip into my pajama set, don my eyemask, and pass a peaceful night. Not even any bad dreams - ah, well, so much for Edmund Fen, for all his fearsome reputation, he couldn’t get my heart to flutter.

An email is waiting for me in the morning:

Cecil, thank you as always for your consideration. Yes, I’m still on the lookout for good Edmund Fen, especially juvenalia, or letters, etc. Or a copy of Rondo of Snapdragons, the 1932 one, with the different character names. For the other book, I don’t believe you have a copy!! Suspect this is a mean-spirited prank. Consider matter closed. Cheers.

Well! I was expecting more enthusiasm, after all my hard work. I wonder… are they trying to knock me down on price? I’ll let Ms Deacon sit on my offer, I think, before I go back to them. I can be patient.

But if they’re really not interested, I don’t know what to do with this book… I paid for this, I’m not going to just throw it out. It must be worth something, to someone… Or at least the dusk jacket should be.

I should put it aside, and price the other books. But now I’m annoyed that this one book is eating up so much of my time and attention. I take a photo of the book, and post it on a horror collectors online forum. I use an account which has cultivated a persona of blundering enthusiasm. I even misspell the name of the author, just to increase the chance of getting a reply. Surely that will goad someone into berating me with useful information. Then I place the book on a high shelf, where it cannot annoy me.

For the next few hours, I process the other books. No bad behaviour from them, thank goodness.

I have almost forgotten the book by the afternoon, when I check my form post for replies.

The account has been banned. No further explanation.

The banning itself isn’t a problem, I have plenty of other accounts. It’s the buzzing annoyance of this ridiculous situation. This is just popular fiction, long out of print. I shouldn’t be bumping into so many walls.

I could talk to other book dealers, but… this is a competitive business, and nobody thinks fondly of you when you snatch away a prize. Perhaps I have used over-assertive tactics in the past, but that’s the nature of the game. I can’t ask them for advice, they’ll die laughing.

But there is one person I can talk to. I can ask Bill tomorrow. He’s my buyer in the city, has a shop there. I have no idea how he affords the rent, let alone acquisitions. I don’t think the stock in his windows has changed in twenty years. But he pays in cash, so I don’t ask questions.

I take the book back off the high shelf. I suppose the story has some charm, a certain clinging mood, a wet drabness that crawls inside you. And the miser has spirit, determined to obtain this woman, hatching elaborate stratagems to lock her up like a gemstone or a contested will. If you listen, you can almost hear his boots rapping on cobblestones, abroad at night on frenzied errands…

Listen to me! Almost getting involved. Tut tut, Cecil.

The next morning at sunrise I walk my shopping caddy to Bill’s shop on Collins, the caddy balking at the bumpy and downward slanting footpath. The city is definitely dirtier than it used to be, but by daybreak any errant hooligans have nodded off, and there is something like peace. If midnight is the witching hour, 6am is the hour of book collectors, who must be first to every market, lest the worm go to an earlier bird. 

Bill is expecting me. Last night over the phone I listed my finds, and we agreed on a reasonable price for the lot. He’ll mark everything up, of course, but I don’t begrudge him. I get money now, and for some of the books he’ll wait for years to get the right buyer. In this business, finding books is secondary, the real problem is finding the buyers. I dream of making the acquaintance of a pop star with zest for Max Beerbohm.

Tea is ready for us in the backroom, some experiment in rosehip, but not even rosehip can mask the omnipresent vanilla of decaying books. After money and product change hands, it’s time for shoptalk. I think there’s some genuine friendship between us, but I’m aware that he segregates his regular dealers, to avoid the diplomatic scandals that arise from competition and grievance. All part of the game.

“Cecil, interesting finds as always. Lucky to get that copy of The Story of O, not as rare as some editions, but there’s always a buyer for anything with a whiff of Venus in Furs. I might throw in a 50 Shades paperback with purchase, it might be my only way of moving them at this point.”

“I have a lead on a storage locker bursting with The DaVinci Code, if that helps! The Tom Hanks cover, sure in future years to be regarded as a collector’s item…”

“Please, no, I have enough packed into the walls, I don’t need any more insulation!”

“Ahahaha… Dear me. Oh, Bill, before I go. I was meaning to ask you. You know books…”

“I dabble…”

“Are you up on your Edmund Fen?”

“The Delectable Tabernacle? Ahead of its time.”

“Yes, that’s the one everyone knows. I haven’t read it, myself.”

“You should, it has lost some impact for the modern reader, but only because its innovations became the norm. I have never understood why it was left off Queen’s Quorum, it easily beats anything by C Daly King.”

“That’s the one everyone knows, but it’s not the one I’m interested in.”

“Not A Bequest of Worms? Now, if you can find a first edition of that for me…”

“No, no, not that one either. But I have stumbled across one of his books. It’s an old-fashioned thing, about a miser…”

“Well, Cecil, I haven’t read them all, but I could always search for you in Rare Book Hub…”

“This one is called The Growl Manger.”

“Oh. You have… No. I can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

“There doesn't seem to be much information on it.”

“I’m sure. Well, I won’t keep you. Excellent finds as always Cecil. You have a sharp eye.”

“Could you run that search in Rare Book Hub for me?”

“Well, I don’t like to bring this up, but I think it’s time for you to get your own subscription, Cecil, rather than borrowing mine. I think you forget we’re both in this for business. Or you pretend to forget, anyway.”

“What if I were to bring it in? Would you look at it?”

“Cecil, you know the kind of things I look for. I’m not interested in… malicious rumours.”

“You won’t even see it?”

“Cecil, this is ridiculous, don’t waste my time with… nonsense!”

“But I have it here with me.”

I wrapped it in cloth for travel. I pull the bundle out of the bottom of the caddy, and start to unwrap it.

Bill darts up from the table, porcelain splintering on the floor. He seizes a broom, and begins to jab me with it, ordering me out of his shop. His face is red and twisted with rage, and I barely snatch the bundle and caddy as I am poked and prodded out of the shop. I nearly topple a display of vintage picture books on my way out.

I find myself on the curb. The sign in the window of the shopdoor flips from open to closed.

Booksellers are known for eccentricity, but I’ve never had such shabby treatment from one before.

It’s just a damn book!

I didn’t even want it. I just wanted the dust jacket.

I get home, and realise I have another Scylla and Charybdis.

My first option is to try and sell this book. This book that doesn't seem to exist, beyond the copy in my hand. That the literati know about, but won’t discuss. If I’m to sell it, I’ll need more information. I’ll have to order some Edmund Fen biographies, search for clues. Beg up an index for books published by horror writers of the period, hope it’s included there. I may even have to resort to academic literature, in case it’s mentioned in a footnote somewhere. Many days of dreary toil, when I could be out looking for more books to sell.

I can’t even go back to the place I found it, unless I have a good story and an exorbitant offer for some worthless Readers Digest books. Hoist by my own petard.

The other option is to walk away. That hurts, but I made enough off the other books I found to cover the trip.

Either way, it’s just the dust jacket I want. The book can go. It doesn’t even have the ending! It’s no use to me.

I carefully remove the dust jacket, and slip it onto a shelf between other books, hidden away until it’s useful.

Then I rip the cover off the book, and pull the pages to pieces. Into the paper bin with it. I throw junk mail on top to bury it.

If I find a complete copy for the dust jacket, fine. If not, I’m done.

I slip on my pajamas, and only then realise that in all this nonsense over the book, I forgot to buy milk. I’m denied even my little treat tonight. Serves me right for getting flustered over such a little thing.

In bed, I can’t help thinking about the book’s story, and how it was supposed to end. Was the miser going to summon some kind of ghastly hobgoblin? Would he kill the girl? Would his obsession lead to his death? Damn you, Fen, I can see why people get hooked on your silly little Grand Guignols. It’s Edwin Drood all over again.

A few hours later, I get up to go to the bathroom, and I’m shocked to see… ants?

In the bleary moonlight, I see hundreds of ants crawling over my living room, neat rows marching between the bookshelves and the paper bin, flowing crop circles of black dots on the floor.

I’m aghast. I’m so careful with food in the apartment, it’s inconceivable that I could have left a crumb, let alone enough to invite so many ants inside. There has been some wet weather, though, so it might not be my fault. This could be some kind of bizarre fluke where their migration just happens to take them through my apartment.

But there’s not much I can do now. All I can do now is hope they go, and pen a sharply worded email to the super tomorrow. At least it’s not a silverfish, then I would scream and stamp on them. For now, I have had enough of the weirdness of the world, and go back to bed.

In the morning, the apartment is pristine, with no trace of invading insects. Perhaps I dreamed it. That’s what happens when you miss out on hot milk before bed, you get an ruffled mind.

Clad in my dressing gown, I take the garbage bag from the paper bin downstairs, and just manage to just catch the garbage truck.

It’s gone! Farewell, The Growl Manger, you will not be missed.

After so much excitement, I decide I have earned a quiet day in. I dig around for some of my favourite books from my personal collection, and stack them next to the recliner in my bedroom. It’s time to be nourished by quality children’s literature, relics of when life was peaceful and easy.

I open my copy of The Golliwogg’s Fox-hunt, and start to read…

The illustrations are still there. And most of the words. But on every page, letters are missing.

I rifle through the other books I have stacked next to me, and it’s the same for all of them. Missing consonants, vowels, punctuation. Pages gaping at me like toothless grins.

In a panic, I find myself ripping books off shelves. Everywhere, pages are missing letters, like the book was shaken too hard and some fell out. Stock worth hundreds of thousands, rendered  worthless.

I remember the ants from last night, and I check the ground around the bin. I see a tiny black smudge, and press it onto my finger. I hold it up to my eye.

It’s the letter e.

Garamond font.

I hurt the book, but did not destroy it. Then I gave it paper, junk mail, to replace what it had lost. Enough paper for thirty pages? After that, all it needed were letters, and my bookshelves were a candy store stuffed with delicacies.

My part in the book’s story is done. But I’m certain it’s out there, intact. Someone will find it, they will learn how it ends, and God help them when they do. Edmund Fen put something in those final pages, something humans were never meant to see.

If anyone asks, I’ve never heard of this book. It’s gone, out of my life. I don’t need to know how this story ends. Lesson learnt.

Yes, it ruined my collection, but perhaps I can claim they are exotic misprints… Recoup some of my loss...

Then my heart drops.

It’s not over.

I still have the dust jacket, and the book will want it back.