The tiny gold carriage clock on the counter sang out a single high pitched ring to welcome the hour. Six am, three hours before opening time, the first of many for “Turning Pages“, hoped Lachlan McClain. He was sorting through and pricing the last of the books.

Books that he and his beautiful wife had collected on a two year tour of the world. They were all now nestled neatly on their carefully labelled bookshelves. All that is, except the remaining pile of older books, first editions and those of special interest, deserving of extra attention. These would find their way into the two glass cases in a prominent place in the shop.

The aromas emanating from the small kitchen at the rear of the premises reminded the young Scot of the day, twenty four months earlier, that he’d shared a coffee with the old Egyptian artist Masuda. It was in that very same kitchen, where his wife was currently preparing the brew, that the whole story began.

When his wife brought the tray into the shopfront, Lachlan looked up at the painting on the chimney breast then over to her. The same sensation always rippled through his brain as he switched between the old man’s interpretation and the real thing. It was like simultaneously looking at a lioness in a zoo compound and then in her natural habitat. He could appreciate both for what they were. However, she would never be captive; always free, just as she was now. He never tired of looking at her face, ever since first occasion he’d laid eyes on the wild feline in that Dubai departure lounge.

As her deep brown eyes had drawn him in, he’d resisted the temptation to look away. Torn between the pain her beauty was inflicting on him, and the fear that if he did avert his gaze, she would be gone, as in his dream.

She had the kind of face that was painfully exquisite. Akin to staring directly at the sun; you know it’s wrong but you do it; you know it will hurt but you do it; you know it will damage you but you do it. You can’t look away, then you do and it is all of those things, burned onto your retina like a brand on a steer.

The work of Pablo Picasso always came to mind when he immersed himself in her beauty. He found himself inside the head of the late genius, where places were reversed. The image was already there in front of him. He didn’t have to create it, nor could he. Her charm was not solely of the aesthetic kind, as Emma Watson or Keira Knightley. They were mere daisies in comparison to his wife’s deep red, velvet petalled, thorny stemmed, glossy leafed rose. Her looks were severe, surreal, unreal, enough to bring the strongest of hearts to a standstill.

Yomna placed the tray on the counter with neither subservience or superiority, just mutual devotion. She poured the black velvet liquid and Lachlan popped a plump date into his mouth. As he savoured the naturally sugary pulp of the fruit, he studied his wife’s mannerisms. In two years, he had become intimately aware of every movement and gesture, like learning another language. They communicated on many levels other than speech. It was through this that he had discovered her special gift, a kind of sixth sense referred to by Masuda two years previously.

He took the long pointed date pit from between his lips and placed it in the empty bowl on the tray. Sipping the hot smoky liquid, he picked out an example of the woman’s gift from their travels like choosing a treat from an exclusive box of chocolates.

***

On this particular occasion, they were on Japan’s north island sitting in a bar. He was drinking Sapporo beer, named after Hokkaido’s capital. Just as the karaoke competition had reached a frenzy of seventies hits, his wife jumped up, surprising Lachlan and all of the puppy dog eyes that had been fixed on her since their entrance, an hour earlier.

“Let’s go to Samoa next!” She cried in her unique and mesmerising accent. She always made the decision on their next location, although this was the most “spur of the moment” example of her wanderlust. During the two week stay on the island of Mauritius, where they had become husband and wife; in the capital’s elegant colonial Government House, some decisions had been made.

Lachlan had been handed an envelope by the old sailor during their silent flight to Dubai. “Not to be opened until 4th August 2020” The only writing on the large white letter. The date, two days hence and unbeknown to him at the time, the day after their wedding.

In the package were two A4 sheets of white paper. The first a letter and the other a long list of numbers, addresses and what looked like passwords. The letter explained what was to happen in the proceeding two years and that the itinerary would be decided entirely by the young woman. The second page, it turned out, had the names and addresses of fifteen banks around the world. These were accompanied by account numbers, IBAN numbers and passwords. In each bank there was a balance of £50,000 in local currency.

Returning to the Sapporo bar, the couple began to discuss their plans on how to get to the tiny Pacific island and what books they would find there. After all, that was the purpose of their story, or so they thought. It was strange that, although his wife was not party to the locations of the financial institutions in the letter, by the time they had finished their trip, she had chosen twelve countries that were on the list and three that were not. Unsurprisingly, the tiny National Bank of Samoa was on the list with a deposit of 167,000 Tālā, the currency of the small country.

***

Back to the present and in keeping with her mysterious gift, the young woman leaned over to the pile of old books near Lachlan and pulled out the very publication they had unearthed on the island of Samoa. In her hands, still tanned a deep brown from their travels, she clutched a small leather bound publication approximately A5 in size. On the spine, embossed in gold, were the following words.

The Strange Case of Dr Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

R. L. Stevenson

Lachlan swallowed his coffee with an audible gulp.