Thrumps wandered over, mug in hand, feeling decisively underdressed for such a lavish setting. The Emporium had dressed him suitably, as it always did but his attire paled in comparison to the gentleman seated behind the desk. The fine quality of his dark grey frock coat, the hand embroidered silk waistcoat and the high stiff collared shirt with exquisite attention obviously paid to every detail alluded to an opulence now rarely seen.
“Good evening,” he said without looking up from the embossed leather-bound notebook he was writing in. “Please sit.”
Thrumps sat himself down in the chair opposite and waited. Eventually the platinum fountain pen was capped and then crossing his arms he languidly leaned back making the chair creak and he smiled.
“Have you come for a binding …” he drawled, “or a chat?”
Thrumps matched his smile with as much confidence as he could muster.
“Information,” he said.
“Fire away.”
“I wish to know the nature of this evening’s event.” Thrumps had no idea why he needed to know, he didn’t usually have a clue as to what was happening until it unravelled around him, but something told him this was different, that this time he needed to be on his guard.
“I am Doctor Bell,” he announced watching Thrumps intensely. “My discipline is the study of the mind, behaviour and experiences.”
“A psychologist?” Thrumps asked.
“In a way,” he said. “There have been many philosophical discussions greatly revolved around the belief that the mind and the body are two distinct entities, but I believe that it goes much further than that.” Thrumps was intrigued and nodded for him to go on.
“Many years ago I learnt, albeit by accident that memories were distinct parts of the human psyche and as such the suffering that they caused could easily be contained, the big question was how to do it.” He nodded as if Thrumps should understand. He didn’t but opted to say nothing so Bell continued.
“Storybooks,” he announced.
“Storybooks …?” Thrumps repeated cautiously.
Bell laughed and swept a hand towards the shelves of journals behind him. Each spine was embossed with a name, date and title.
“These are memories,” he said. “Everyone has something someone needed to give some relief to.” He sighed. “I know it’s difficult to comprehend, so let me show you.” Thrumps settled himself on the couch to watch.
As the grandfather clock struck the last chimes of midnight the front door opened and a lady of advancing years strode through and plonked herself on the chair Thrumps had just vacated. Bell smiled, opened a small notebook and took up his pen.
Without any introductions the lady blurted out her story. Bell scribbled furiously never once asking a question or ascertaining the validity of the tale. Once she was done, she slumped down with a huge sigh and handed over an envelope. In turn Bell wrote her name on the spine, which incidentally she had never volunteered, plus the date and year the event had taken place, slipped the envelope between the pages and filed it on the shelf behind. She thanked him and left.
“That’s all there is to it,” he told Thrumps.
“So you simply write it down and they forget it?”
“No, no, no, my dear fellow. They never forget, what I do is take the sting from it. As the saying goes, time heals, well this is just a bit quicker. It is as if the unwelcome memory is contained and therefore easier to deal with.”
“So all these books are unpleasant memories.” Bell nodded.
“The most recent ones anyway.”
“And the envelope?” Thrumps asked.
Bill smiled. “That is contact information. Once they die the books automatically materialise within their possessions for their next of kin.”
Person after person came and talked and left obviously more at peace. Bell was clearly a man of high rank as justified by his superiority and quiet command, but he was gracious and courteous and well-mannered and regardless of the status of the person before him he automatically knew what approach was appropriate. People were instantly at ease with him, but he still somehow unnerved Thrumps.
When the last person left Bell leaned back and poured himself a brandy and tipped the decanter toward Thrumps, but he declined.
“You want to know if any of these journals are yours,” he said.
Thrumps nodded but it was a long time before Bell said anything else. The silence was unsettling.
Once he’d drained his glass Bell rose and scrutinised the spines, carefully reading each.
“Here,” he said holding one out.
Thrumps didn’t move.
“Be warned though,” he said. “If you read it, all the memories in there will be fresh, and I will not be able to relieve you of them again.”
Thrumps shook his head.
“There must have been a good reason they are bound, let’s leave them there shall we.”
Bell inclined his head in acknowledgment and slid the book back into place on the shelf.
“Maybe, one day,” he said and laughed.