Nook & Crank Pin

A single tungsten bulb hanging from a bare wire below a sagging ceiling swings in oblong circles, flickering as a heavy locomotive speeds by on nearby tracks and rattles the weak walls. Dust shook loose from the rafters like fresh snowfall onto the overstuffed bookshelves and timeworn reading chair which sat in solitude behind stacks of anthologies, encyclopedias, and collections of essays.

Colin Beverly watched the shadows of their silhouettes, morphing along the rustic wood panels, and took note of the faux brown leather flaking off above the chair’s claw-footed legs. The seat cushion was flat and uninviting. He paused, struggling to remember how it had looked when he first started visiting. Sinking down in it, he threw his legs over the arm of the chair so it fit snug under his knees. Letting the weight of his head fall into the cranny between the wing and the back, he groped blindly behind his head for a book, any book, and settled on a wide one that stuck out past the others. He didn’t inspect it, just cracked it open one fourth of the way through and wistfully flipped through the pages looking for something to catch his attention.

Just as he’d decided to read the chapter on 18th century Irish naval codes the bell at the front of the shop sounded. Black soot swirled in through the threshold, carried by a brisk January wind. Dress shoe heels clacked on the warped wood floor and the cadence of the footfalls indicated to Colin they belonged to the man he had come to wait for. Polished brown wingtip oxford brogues approached, growing louder and more bold with each step. Colin’s gaze rose to meet a tall, dapperly dressed man with tightly trimmed auburn curls and an assertively full beard and mustache — one Mr. Eoghan Murray — peering down at him.