The Magnus Archives: The lost tapes
Chapter one
Everybody knows
Statement of James Reed, regarding the disappearance of his colleague, William Strom. Original statement given March 18, 2003. Audio recording by Jonathon Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins…
…What? You want me to write it out for you? Surely you've got one of the notebooks back there, just read it for yourself. Then again, I ain't never told my side of the story, so fair play. Here I go.
I got into the business young – I think fifteen. All the best ones do. My parents had got into a fight over bills, so I climbed out the window of my flat and went for a walk, like I usually would. It was a warm night, I remember that, clear skies. By then, I'd learned which streets in my neighborhood were safe to walk down at night, and I knew a route that'd take long enough for my folks to give it a rest. So there I was, dead of night, walking down the road in my ratty old trainers, when I hear someone call out to me. It's a short, middle-aged man, sitting on the porch of a nice looking house. He asks if I'd like to make a bit of money fast.
'Course, this is where they tell you to walk away and call the police. I knew that, even back then. But they ain't never told me what I'm supposed to do if your folks are three weeks late on rent. I stopped where I was, told him to keep talking. Man said his name was Ron, said he needed a letter delivered, and that there was five hundred pounds in it for me. As you can guess, a kid hears a number like that, he can't help but pay attention, so I said I was interested.
Ron handed me a manila envelope, thick in the middle, and told me to drop it in the mailbox of a house that, wouldn't you know it, was on the way back to my place. The money, he said, was in a flowerpot right next to said mailbox. Few more instructions – keep the "letter" in your pocket, don't show it to nobody, don't tell your parents, all that jazz. Then he waved me off.
I ain't stupid, of course. Even at the time, I knew it was drugs or worse. But I told myself it wouldn't be so bad. My folks really needed the money, and I wouldn't have to tell them how I got it. Better yet, I could just slip it in the old piggy bank and let them find it. Out of season Christmas miracle, or some bollocks like that.
So I went to the house, dropped off the letter, and sure enough, there was my five hundred pounds in the pot next to it. I took my pay and went off, happy as Larry. Then I got home, slipped the money into my dad's wallet, and went straight to bed.
…All right, I'll admit it. I kept one of the bills. Couldn't help myself. I really needed new shoes, you see, and four hundred would still be plenty for the rent. 'Sides, I had earned it.
Shouldn't have been surprised when Ron found me a couple weeks later. I was nervous to see him, but he smiled, said I was looking well. He even complimented me on my new shoes, which I picked up the meaning of well enough. Told me he was right pleased with my work, and asked me if I wanted to deliver some more mail. I thought of saying no, I really did, but I'd just seen this new Walkman in the store the other day…yeah, you can see where this was going.
I kept on doing it for years after. Every week or so, I'd run into Ron, always in a different spot, and I'd take something from point A to B. Small envelopes, large boxes, and everything in between. Told my folks I had a new job at a 99p store down the way, and they were pleased enough. Mum passed six years later, from kidney failure, and Dad wasn't far behind. Thank Christ, they never found out what I was doing, what I used their car for when I borrowed it…
Years passed, and Ron started trusting me enough to give me bigger jobs. Not just better paying, though that was true enough, but bigger in size. So big, you'd need two blokes to carry it. Over the years, I ended up working with plenty different partners, mostly the unpleasant sort you're picturing, but then one day, I met Bill.
Now Bill was a nice bloke, the kind who'd hold a conversation while you drive instead of just sitting there all quiet like. In that business, that alone was enough to stand out, but he also had a decent sense of humor. Of all the folks I'd worked with, he was the only bloke you'd want to get a pint with after. So I started doing just that. Before long, I could count him as a real friend. For the first time since my folks died, I felt like things were looking up. Then came that night, and that job.
It weren't nothing unusual, nothing we hadn't done a hundred times before. Middle of the night, dropping off a package at the docks. A bit heavier than usual, maybe, but that was it. I'd parked plenty far away, and we were carrying it to the dropoff. We were quiet, two shadows in the night, and you couldn't have seen us if you'd been looking right at us. Everything was going perfect – textbook, you might say. Then we heard the sirens on the bridge above us.
Turned out they weren't even for us. There was a five-alarm fire in Bromley, and it was a damn ambulance heading there, not even the fuzz. Didn't matter. For the first time in two decades of work, I panicked. I panicked, and I dropped the damn package. Bill froze too, but it weren't his hands that let go first. We both couldn't do naught but watch as the box slipped out of our arms and slid into the river.
We jumped in right after it, of course, but it was pitch black, freezing cold water. Still, we stayed at the water's edge for hours, taking turns diving in to try and find it. Even turned our torches on, stealth be damned. I was froze half to death when Bill pulled me out for the last time. He told me to forget it, it'd be out to the channel by now. Still, he had to damn near drag me back to the car. Something told me that package weren't one you could just lose and have everything shake out fine.
We staggered back to my car, teeth chattering. I was petrified, but Bill at least had a plan. He said to lie low for a few weeks, and came up with a yarn about getting mugged, having our package stolen. Had happened a few times to some other blokes, so it weren't out of the question. I didn't say nothing, just nodded along. Then, as I dropped him off, he turned and looked at me. "This'll be one for the books if we're both standing by the end of it," he said. Then he walked away.
I kept my head down a couple weeks, of course. Weren't worth nothing. Soon as I popped my head back up, who should I see but Ron. He kept it simple, like always. Spent a minute letting me know just how important of a package we'd let slip. Then he asked me straight out, who it had been, me or Bill.
I ain't a brave man, tell you that for free. I don't have nobody to protect, nobody who'd be sad to see the last of me except Bill himself. But the moment Ron stopped talking, I blurted out that it was Bill's fault. Even looked him in the eyes when I said it. God, how could I…
Lucky me, Ron had his doubts about Bill already. Didn't think he was cut out for the work. Me, on the other hand, I'd been his man for decades, and I hadn't lost one package before now. Still, even with all his reassurances, I didn't let my guard down until a week later, when they fished Bill out of the Thames.
The obituary used a picture from his high school yearbook. Said his mum was still alive, and he'd been taking care of her. Even had a little brother. I threw out the paper before I could read any more.
That should be the end of the story, shouldn't it? Bad man gets to walk away while the good man gets put in the ground for him. And I figured it would, 'till about a month later.
I had almost convinced myself it was behind me. Ron had given me a couple more jobs, and I delivered them without a hitch. So there I am, sitting in my flat watching the telly, when something slides through the mail slot. Not a package, but a yellow notebook – three holes, ruled paper, like you'd buy for school. Haven't a scooby what it's about, but I open it anyways.
…Well? You know what it said, how could you not? Sitting there, glaring at me over those glasses, I bet you know it cover to cover. And here you are, making me write it all out for you. Fine, guess it's no more than I deserve.
First page is an eyewitness report of what happened. Us with the package, the sirens blaring, me dropping it, every step of the process, down to me stubbing my toe as I chased after it. Second page is a letter from the client, asking why their delivery is now sitting at the bottom of the Thames. Third page is the shipping label from the box, letters running together from the water. Fourth page is Bill's obituary, still crumpled up. On and on it goes, each page another piece of damning evidence. I thumb through them all, heart going a mile a minute, eyes like dinner plates. Then I reach…that page. You know, the dog-eared one. That's the one where my blood runs cold.
On the left sheet is a photograph of me, the very second I drop the package. You can see the look of panic on my face, see my hands in the air while Bill's still holding onto the it. Whoever took it, they couldn't have been standing more than five feet away to get it. There wasn't nobody else there, swear on my mum's grave. It's not possible – it's just not fucking possible. And then the right page…it's a handwritten confession. My handwritten confession. Look at my handwriting right here – see, it's exactly the same. Even signed by me.
I ain't got the first idea what to do. Who sent me this? Can't have been Ron, else why would he tell me about it instead of just offing me? Only person who could know half this stuff is Bill, and he's dead. I went to his funeral, you hear me? I saw them put him in the damn ground!
I stand there for half an hour, like a knob, no idea what to do. I hear a car drive by outside, and…and I drop the book. Ain't that funny? You're gonna laugh your head off when you read that part. Anyways, I pick it up again, and I put it in my wastepaper basket. I take it out behind my flat, and I burn it. I stand there and watch it turn to ash, then I bury the ash.
I go back in my flat, and I don't come back out for a damn week. But of course, I was low on food already from laying low, so I have to go to the corner store before long. I pick up what I need, and I head to the cashier. I get in line, and then I do a double take. In the basket of the bloke in front of me, I see a bright yellow notebook. It's the very same one – I even see the dog ear on the same page. This store don't even sell notebooks.
I think of confronting this fellow, making a scene, but I'm too scared at this point. I just grab the notebook from his basket when he ain't looking, pay for my goods and go on my way. I find a paper shredder, and I shred each individual page twice. I go to bed, dreaming of that damn book.
Two days later, I pass by a newspaper stand. Tucked five papers back, I see the notebook. I rip out the pages, crumple them up, and throw them in a lake.
Three days after that, I'm in the library, picking out some books about lowering my stress levels. I see the notebook in the Fiction section, on the Crime Drama shelf. I tear the thing to pieces with my bare hands.
Next day, I'm at the gas station. The clerk's reading a porn magazine, with the notebook hidden behind it. I grab it from him and eat the pages, one by one.
I gave up after that – they're just fucking everywhere now. Park benches, bus ads, old ladies' book clubs. I was watching the damn local news, and they was holding them. I've seen three copies of it inside this institute for it. You've got one right now, under that clipboard you're holding. But I expected that one, at least. Must've been a big mystery for you lot, wasn't it? Yellow notebooks showing up all over town, all about some bloke getting his mate killed. You're welcome for solving that one for you.
Well, that's all I have to say. Got it all out, and I don't feel any better. All that's left is to wonder, who gets me first? The fuzz, or Ron? Or neither…
Statement ends.
I hope I don't need to spell this out, but of course, there was no flood of yellow notebooks sweeping across the nation, at the time of Mr. Reed's statement or any other time. We even went to the trouble of bothering the police about this one, who treated it with the derision it deserves. A case file which writes and distributes itself would certainly make their jobs easier, as they pointed out. All evidence points to this statement being little more than the confessions of a guilty soul, and Mr. Reed's actions following the delivery of his statement further bolsters this interpretation. After turning down the institute's offer of therapy, he returned to his apartment and promptly hung himself. A letter of confession was found upon his person, leading both the police and coroner to declare the case thoroughly closed. And while I would happily do so as well, one final detail bears noting here. I have the police report, coroner's report, and Mr. Reed's statement assembled before me, and while they all bear their respective official notation and titles, they each appear to have been printed, for reasons I was unable to ascertain, on sheets of ruled, three hole paper.
End recording.
