May Contain Traces of Magic Read Online Free PDF

recalled - and then someone had nearly barged into them and they’d been preoccupied with taking evasive action; and they’d walked out of the pub together, and he’d still been holding the carrier —
    Chris went into the kitchen and sat down. A square of spilt milk on the worktop told him that Karen was home - she had an unfortunate tendency to attack cardboard milk cartons with wild enthusiasm and knives, which meant milk went everywhere when she poured - but he couldn’t hear her crashing about and she hadn’t called out when he opened the door, so presumably she’d already gone to bed. He put the carrier bag down on the kitchen table and looked at it, torn apart by opposing forces of extraordinary power.
    On the one hand: anybody who took advantage of an honest mistake to go snooping about in other people’s private carrier bags was obviously lower than a basement, and even the thought of doing such a thing made Chris shudder. The honourable course of action would be to seal the top with parcel tape and quickly leave a message on her answerphone to say he’d got it. On the other hand—
    As the debate raged inside him, Chris examined the outside of the bag. It was dark navy blue, with Shotwell & Hogue written on it in curly gold italics. He knew them, of course. They were on his patch; good customers, in fact they’d taken a dozen BB27Ks purely on his unsupported recommendation. Somehow, that tipped the balance (he had absolutely no idea why). Feeling like someone robbing his child’s piggy bank to get money for drugs, he gently opened the bag and peered inside.
    Something of an anticlimax. Inside the bag Chris saw a paperback book (something by Alan Titchmarsh entirely unrelated to gardening), a packet of plain digestive biscuits, a baseball cap with the letters DS on the front and a pair of black patent shoes. He frowned, feeling let down and betrayed as well as guilty. It was a bit much, he felt, to have sold his soul and forfeited his honour for this collection of old tat.
    The phone rang. Chris let go of the bag and lunged back into the hall, to shut the stupid thing up before it woke Karen.
    â€˜Chris?’ It was Jill.
    He scowled. ‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Your blasted bag. And before you ask,’ he added, ‘no, I haven’t looked inside it. It must’ve been when you were putting on your coat, I suppose I—’
    â€˜That’s OK,’ Jill said; and it wasn’t just his imagination, she did sound relieved. ‘I was just worried I’d left it in the pub, that’s all. Look, is there any chance you can drop it round at my place on your way tomorrow morning? Only—’
    â€˜Sorry,’ Chris said, ‘not really. I’ve got to pick up that bloody trainee at six-fifteen, remember. Which reminds me,’ he added. ‘Must remember to set the alarm.’
    â€˜You could leave it in the porch,’ Jill said. ‘Or ring the bell and I’ll pop down.’
    Chris felt his eyebrow hitch. ‘At half past five in the morning? ’
    â€˜I’ll be up, I expect,’ she replied, in a voice he couldn’t immediately analyse. A pause; then, ‘It’s just that strictly speaking we’re not supposed to take confidential stuff out of the office, and the new manager gets quite stressy about that sort of thing. I don’t want to give him an excuse to have a go at me.’
    â€˜Fine, no problem,’ Chris replied, as he thought: Confidential stuff? Would that be the top secret paperback or the For-Your-Feet-Only slingbacks? ‘I’ll drop it off, then.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Again, the relief. ‘Just ring the bell, don’t wait for me. Sorry to have bothered you.’
    As Chris returned to the kitchen to pick up the bag and put it in the hall where he wouldn’t forget it, the criminal urge came back. After all, Jill wouldn’t know if he took