The Boy Dressed in Brown

Chapter One

'Rise of the unloved'. The book stares longingly at me as I slide it back into the shelf, skimming my hand over the rest, hoping to find one that draws me in. I seek for a story I can live in, one of adventure and recklessness with just a tinge of sorrow. One that holds me captive in its words until the very last flip of a page.

My hand stills upon a rather large book, a smooth cover splashed with navy blue and gold. I pry it out of the shelf, turning it over in my hands to examine the back. £6.50. I have three pound coins weighing down the left pocket of my trousers. Not enough.

I slide the book between the jacket and shirt I am wearing and zip it up so it won't slip out, then turn my attention to the gap in the shelf, spacing the other books out to make it seem as if nothing was ever there.

I stride for the door a few feet away on my right, keeping my head up so nothing looks out of place. As I reach for the door, swinging it open, I step out onto the pavement, not even a meter away from the small bookshop when I collide into a tough wall of brown.

The book slips from my jacket and slides out from the bottom, thudding onto the concrete. As I look down at the fallen book, I see an unfamiliar pair of shoes opposite from mine. I bring my gaze up. A boy, I realize, is who I bumped into. And he has realized what I have done. He has put it together and I can see the amusement glittering in his eyes.

I wonder if he is a teller, someone who spoils the fun for everyone else or whether he is a player, someone who plays along and only steps in when it affects them. They are the survivors, for no one with an honest heart will ever win the game of life.

A teller would be an easy fix, a few punches to their jaws and they are on their knees apologizing and promising to keep whatever secret was on the line, but they are tiresome and so very annoying to deal with.

A player would be a worthy companion. Everyone knows two is better than one.

I scramble for the book as he mumbles a small, "Sorry". He opens his mouth a second time and says. "Stealing is bad you know." A teller? But then what was the amusement in his eyes just a few seconds ago and the small smirk now spread across his face.

I'll let him go, I decide, and if he turns to go into the shop I was just in, I'll pull him back before he can and deal with him.

But as I make my way past him, it is him that grabs my arm, pulling me back until his mouth is just centimeters away from my ear. His breath is warm and tickles my ear as he whispers.

"Don't worry, I won't tell."

I have never had such an encounter with a stranger. Where the blood rushes to my cheeks as it is doing now and my breath hitches with unease, the type that sends your stomach churning and you want it to happen again and again so you can relish the split second of thrill it gives you.