I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 45: the voices tell me that I started the cycle

        I stare at Jonah, convinced for a second that it's a joke, but the pronounced creases around his raised eyebrows throw the hope away with one sweep. 'Two hundred?' I repeat. 'That's barely a quid each.'

Johan picks up one of the books I've heaved onto the counter in front of him, From a Land Where Other People Live, and fans through it. 'These have all been written in.' He drops it back onto the heap. 'And even if they weren't, nobody here is going to buy these kinds of books.'

These kinds of books...

I ignore the add on and latch to the first. 'If anythin, that should increase the price cause now you get my thoughts too and I'm bare a comedian.'

He's unamused. Maybe he still holds a grudge from the time I worked here, though it'd make more sense the opposite way considering he's the one who sacked me.

'Nobody pays for the thoughts of some kid scribbled in the margins. Two hundred, take it or leave it.'

So I step out of Kingston Book Nook with empty Ikea bags rustling in my backpack and two hundred notes folded in my pocket. At least I managed to talk Ronny up from 170 to 173 and twenty pence for my bike. Meaning I still need a clean two thousand until I can pay Iya and Baba. The only issue is I have no way of making that money unless I sell my organs.

And I think I've already gone too far.

Only a few metres home-bound, I spin around and rush to Dal's instead. An apology is ready on my tongue as I race up the stairs, but I suffocate it as soon as I'm on the landing. Dal leans on his doorframe, holding a flip phone to his ear, and presses a finger to his lips.

I wouldn't be able to make a sound either way, the sight of him so feeble terrifies me mute.

Like a young oak that once grew so bulbous only to be whisked into a stick figure by wintry tempests, he withers in plain sight at whatever the person on the other end says. 'I ain't gon do that. No.'

Grabbing my shoulder, he ushers me inside, then eases the door shut so gently it doesn't click. The flat is cast greyscale in the diffuse light radiating behind the blinds. No lamps are on and his face is shrouded by darkness as it is by panic.

'Don't bring Libaan into this.' For the first time in my presence, his voice gets away from him, brandishing his anger and fear without consent. Dal screws his eyes shut. 'No. I'll figure it out, innit. I'll meet the index. But I ain't doin that.'

After another tense moment, he snaps the cell shut and shoves it into his back pocket. It's not the phone he uses to contact me.

'What was that about?' I ask.

Dal doesn't answer.

'I sold your books. I'm so sorry.' The words choke from my compressed chest and I sway, ready to drop to my knees and plead for forgiveness. 'I need the money, but I shouldn't've... I wasn't thinkin. I'm so sorry.'

His brow furrows, for a moment, uncertain whether this is a joke. 'You expect me to be cross with you for that? They're books.'

'Yeah, but you gave them to me.'

'So you'd read em, not so you'd buried with em. Wallahi.' With a sigh, not of exasperation with me but with himself for forgetting my sentimentality, he squeezes my arm. He steps past me to get out of the narrow entrance and into the flat. 'Blud, it's calm.'

I stare at the peephole on the door for a moment, then wedge off my shoes to follow him. Dal thrusts a glass of pineapple juice into my hand as I step over a pair of dumbbells to sink onto his sofa.