Ratbags and Scallywags [bxb]

Chapter 20

"Don't mind if I do-hoo," I said in sing-song response, doing a shoulder dance while I did exactly as he instructed. He pulled out his aid and set it on his bedside table before taking off his shirt and tossing it on the bathroom floor. Seconds later, he closed the door, blocking me off from any further enjoyment.

What a sight.

I downed another shot, then another.

The water started running as I recapped the bottle. I imagined spilling the entire lot of whiskey down my body, leaving me no choice but to join him in the shower. I chuckled, grinning at the thought. How hard would I get slapped if I pulled a stunt like that? Still, this alcohol made me feel like I could do just about anything.

A couple of minutes passed idly by.

Drumming my fingers on the floor, I decided that giving myself a little tour of Aubrey's room might be a fun way to pass the time. I stood up and stretched, letting out a satisfied groan when my lower back clicked. Other than products being rummaged in the shower, or caps clicking open or shut, there wasn't a lot of activity coming from the bathroom.

I traipsed around the room, running my fingers along everything in sight. His high set wooden drawers, I lifted my fingers to find traces of dust. I flicked it off and kept going. His touch lamp, the bathroom door handle... still entertaining the idea of risking that slap. I moved on, chuckling again. His wardrobe door handle. His bed; pretending I was smoothing out his bed covers.

Whistling, I glanced around the room, deciding to head for his bookshelf.

His bed was such a predominant feature that I didn't notice much else. But now I saw it; small and inconspicuously tucked away in the corner. It was a deep chestnut colored timber with four shelves that housed old tattered books. I strummed my fingers down the bindings, seeing some familiar works by classic poets.

Selecting one with a rustic deep green cover with faded gold writing, I flipped to the front and saw something barely legible scribbled from the top left corner.

Dear Aubrey,

Here is an ageless poet I thought you'd enjoy on your 12th birthday. Celebrate well and we'll make this year another good one.

Best wishes,

Robert

I closed the book and looked at the cover, reading the words John Keats Poems inscribed across Victorian gilt. I flicked through some chapters, finding Bright Star, La Belle Dame sans Merci, On Seeing the Elgin Marble, and a heap of others. It looked like an authentic classic print. Or at least a decent copy of one.

I started putting it back when a piece of paper flitted out from inside it. I halted, crouching down to pick it up. It was a polaroid photograph with Aubrey and the old man I remembered from the poetry museum. So, this was Old Man Robert, and Aubrey must've been the quiet little blonde kid who only spoke to agree with his grandad.

Out from the right corner of my eye, tucked just within view between the angular bookshelf and wall, I saw a box protruding into view. A big little box. One that could either be filled with sex toys or illicit drugs and blood money. Or something precious. Something worth storing away and hiding.

Going by my current opinion of Aubrey Keats, I decided that the latter suited him most. Placing the book back on the shelf, I pulled the box out, rotated the turnkey, and lifted the trunk. Inside it were some small diaries, letters, poems, and photographs buried inside it. My guess was right; something precious.

There were several photographs inside, some of Aubrey and Robert, and some with Mr. Hardy as well. That bit took me by surprise. Were they related or something? I had no idea. I looked through some of the titles, reading things like Dear Devil or Pinnacle Finding. They were written in a kid's messy writing, making me guess they must've been Aubrey's work.