Page 78 of The Society of Unknowable Objects
Will and Frank
At around the same time that Magda and her friends were meeting a strange man in Alabama, Will Pinn was banging on the door to Frank’s apartment, above Bell Street Books. Will had keys to the shop—all members of the Society did, so they could access the Society meeting room whenever they needed—but he didn’t have keys to Frank’s apartment. So he thumped repeatedly on the door, waiting for it to be answered.
Will knew Frank was inside. He had already checked with the hospital and been told that the old man had been discharged earlier that day. But it was after midnight, and Frank was probably asleep or exhausted.
Will thought about coming back the next morning, when Frank would be awake, but he couldn’t contemplate letting the matter lie for longer.
He banged again, the knuckles of his hand aching.
“I need to talk to you, Frank,” he called. “It’s important.”
When Frank finally answered, Will was sitting against the wall opposite the door, arms around his legs. He watched as Frank peered out at him. The man still had a bandage around his skull and his eyes were dark and sunken. He was wearing an old dressing gown and pyjamasand his hair was uncombed, sticking up in different directions around the bandage.
“Will?” he asked. His face scrunched up in confusion. “What time is it? I was in bed.”
Will pulled himself up and used the excuse of encouraging Frank back to bed to push his way into the apartment.
He helped Frank back along the short corridor and into his bedroom. Frank lay back down on the bed he had clearly just vacated, pulling the covers back over himself. He was propped up by pillows, halfway between lying flat and sitting up, and he laced his fingers together across his chest as his eyes closed. A single bedside lamp with a bright white bulb illuminated the room, the bookshelves and large wardrobe in the corner, but it cast Frank’s face half in shadows, making him look cadaverous. The only noise in the room was a gentle ticking from the clock on the bedside table, and there was a smell of potpourri in the air, a strangely feminine scent for the bedroom of an old man, Will thought.
He pulled a chair over from the corner of the room and sat next to Frank.
“What are you doing here, Will?” Frank asked, peering at him through barely opened eyes. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I need to talk to you, Frank. It couldn’t wait.”
Frank sighed and closed his eyes again. He looked exhausted, and Will felt bad about bothering him. But the situation was of Frank’s making—it wasn’t Will’s fault. This midnight meeting, Will having to get dressed and cross town while the city slept, was just another manifestation of how magic corrupted good order and common sense.
“I feel very weak, Will,” Frank said, and Will didn’t know if the old man was trying to avoid the difficult conversation. Frank raised one hand and held it fluttering above his chest for a moment. “Like my heart is running out of steam. Batteries going flat, you know?”
Will stared, saying nothing, wanting to get to the point but dreading the confrontation that would come.
“Where is Magda?” Frank asked, eyes opening suddenly. “Is this about her? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Will said. “As far as I know. She and Henrietta and that other man have gone in search of the man who attacked you.”
Frank was quiet for a moment and Will got the feeling that something he had just said didn’t make sense to the old man.
“Frank.” Will leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Look at me, Frank.”
The old man opened his eyes.
“I want... No, I need to ask you a question,” he said. “Magda left something with me for safekeeping.”
Frank stared, unblinking, waiting.
“It’s a book,” Will continued. “A notebook wrapped in brown paper. She said it was yours. She said she found it.”
Frank closed his eyes again and then exhaled heavily. He waved a hand, frowning, turning his head away. “I don’t want to talk about any of that.”
“I don’t want to talk about it either, Frank,” Will replied, surprised by the strength of his own voice. “And yet we must. Because I don’t know how many more opportunities you and I will have to talk. And... I need to know.”
Frank opened his eyes and stared at Will. “You left the Society,” he snapped, his voice a dry growl. “Remember that, Will? You didn’t even come to see me. You just sent me a message. What gives you the right to demand answers from me?”
Will felt himself stumble, knocked off course by the old man, but he refused to succumb. He pressed on.
“There were pages cut out of the book, Frank,” he said. “Did you cut them out? Did you remove them?”
Frank just shook his head, closing his eyes, denying Will, denying the question.
