The Book Nook
Between ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone’ and a battered copy of ‘The Hobbit’ sits a diaroma, a book nook scene. Tall as a standard hardback and as wide as the weightiest tomes, it reveals a miniature street, the path winding backward between Victorian era shops until it disappears left beyond the eye’s reach. It started life as a plain, flat packed kit. With time, patience, an array of paints and tiny, precise brushes, it has been fashioned into a magical alleyway complete with bow fronted shops, cobblestones and a black cat. The inclusion of string lights – the new ‘must have’ in popular interior design – completes the scene, adding surprisingly authentic streetlight, not unlike the gas lamps of old. It is my pride and joy. I love it. Every night I perform my lamp lighting duties - these days with a simple click of a switch - then settle on the sofa to read, Chloe pouncing gracefully, finding my lap within seconds.
This morning, my brain snags on a variance. Moments pass before I identify the source. Though dark and unlit, I see a hole poked through the laminate that forms one of the windowpanes – the Book Shop bow window, to be exact. Lying on the cobblestones, I spot the smallest chip of gravel. Frowning, attempting to make sense of the vandalism, a shiver ascends my spine. I look towards my own glass frontage, scanning for movement. The garden is supremely, unnaturally still. Not a twitch or tremor. I should be calmed but the lifelessness unsettles me.
I turn back to the alleyway, determined to repair the damage and return my treasure to its enchanted state. Air rasps inwards as my eyes process the warm glow of the streetlights. I poke a finger along the shelf, locate the battery box and slide the button sideways. The scene returns to darkness, as it had been only minutes before. I blink, my mouth dry, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
The shriek and smash of glass assault my senses. I freeze as a large stone, slowed by the impact rolls gently towards my feet. I am surrounded by lethal shards of glass, tinkling, glittering. I hear moans, presume they are mine and check myself for injuries. I feel nothing, yet I have cuts to my arms and legs. Rooted to the spot, I am incapable of taking the two steps towards the mirror to check my face. I raise trembling hands, feeling for blood, registering tears. I am crying, gulping air.
The moaning continues. I turn back to the book nook. The streetlights are on. I buckle, landing hard, aware of danger but unable to remain upright. My view from the floor reveals a black, jerking paw. I lever forward, swipe the stone out of my way, and crawl forward, pain slicing my palms and knees. Chloe, wide eyed, lies in a pool of blood.
Her needs galvanise me. With startling clarity, I attend to the business of saving us both. My cuts are superficial, hers are not. I converse with the vet, phone wedged between ear and shoulder as I wobble on a stool, tugging her travel box from the top of the fridge. I rip off the lid. She can only, and needs only to lie still as I drive whilst keeping pressure on the wound. As I walk towards the door, my eyes slip to the bookshelf.
The miniature black cat has gone.