The Diary of Apatico White

The Diary of Apatico White

1

The noise of the little bell over the door startled Sam away from his daydream. It was unusual

to get a customer so early. It had only been about 6 months since Sam had started his first job at the small, dusty second-hand bookshop. Rarely did he see anyone before midday, even then, it was usually just elderly couples browsing. However, the customer standing in front of him now was worlds apart from the ageing people he was used to. He was tall and imposing. Sam judged him to be about his age, maybe late twenties, or early thirties, but that is where the similarities ended. Where Sam was wearing a worn hoody and jeans, the man in front of him was dressed in what looked to be an outdated tweed suit. He looked like he should have been drinking brandy and smoking a pipe in some Victorian mansion, not visiting a dimly lit bookstore on a Tuesday morning.

Before Sam could analyse this unusual character further, the man approached the counter with a box of old books and a smile that brightened the room. “I would like to make a donation”. Like his clothes his voice also seemed a mismatch for his face. It sounded like it belonged to a much older man. “thank you” muttered Sam. Although he was warming to the stranger the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. I just need you to fill out this contact form, so I have a record of your donation.

“If you must” sighed the stranger.

Sam turned to the back to get the forms but as soon as he did the bell above the door let out its soft chime. He spun on the spot and was not surprised to see the shop empty once more. He could see no sign of the stranger through the shop window. I am going to get It in the neck for this… he thought. The boss loved her procedures and he had just accepted a box, likely full of junk, with no contact details to account for it. He would be lying if he said this was the first time that this had happened. He reached for the box and stared at the contents.

2

As he expected the contents of the box were mostly junk. Some thrillers that were 20 years old, mixed with some magazines that had a coat of mould so thick he couldn’t see the image on the cover. Just as he was about to dispose of the whole box something caught his eye. A small black notebook. It had a smooth leather cover embossed with the title “The Truth”. Underneath was an embroidered logo. He didn’t recognise it; it was a vertical arrow pointing down encircled by a ring of words that read Memento Mori. Intrigued he opened the front cover and began to read.

“The Diary of Apatico White”

This book has been a long time in the making, a record of my misdemeanours, a confession of sorts, my final record of having existed in this god forsaken world. For who will remember me when I have gone? I have no family, no loved ones. In fact, when I die, this may be the be all that remains to mark my existence at all. Perhaps it is better this way. The legacy I must leave is, after all, not the happiest of tales. It is true that I have amassed a vast fortune. But it is rare for rich men to have clean hands and mine are as dirty as they come.

I am from a middle-class background. I was raised in the south of England. My family were not wealthy by any means but at the same time we didn’t want for much. That is to say, my family didn’t. They seemed content to pass through life without any real ambition. Myself on the other hand. Well, I was different. For as long as I can remember I have had a void inside me. constantly searching for something, anything.

In 1848 I was a little over 17. I remember it like it was yesterday. The recent gold rush in California had just taken off and the world was filled with the promise of wonder and riches. I spent days idly daydreaming about venturing west and staking my claim. Eventually at 17 without sense, or direction, I headed out into the world to find my fortune.

Those first few months were hard. I knew where I was going, but I didn’t know how to get there. My best bet for getting to the new world was by ship. Eventually I ended up at an old inn on the docks of Bristol. That was where I first met Beatrice. She was a whore of course, but to me she was the most beautiful creature in creation. Pale, unmarked skin and blue eyes which could see into your soul. I am ashamed to say that I had more than affection for her. I used to follow her around in the hopes of glimpsing her plying her trade. One evening I was returning from another unsuccessful attempt at securing passage to America, when saw Beatrice, and a wealthy, well-dressed man, move into the alleyway by the inn. The evening was not yet dark but between the two buildings there was shadow to hide my presence, so I followed them. I didn’t have to go far before I picked out the shape of Beatrice and the man locked in a tight embrace. Something was amiss though. It took a minute to realise this was not an embrace but a struggle. My heart beat faster in my chest as I continued to watch. I watched as the well-dressed man pulled a knife from his sleeve. Beatrice let out a soft whimper. Before I knew it my feet were moving toward the bodies locked in struggle. The well-dressed man spun at my approach. I really can’t tell you why, but I simply snatched the blade from his hand and ran it clean across his throat. I barley had time to process my actions before I felt the first warm spurt of blood touch my face. I turned to Beatrice expecting some sort of grateful embrace or look of gratitude. Instead, I was greeted with a look of abject horror. I sensed her gasp for breath, and I knew a scream would follow. A quick flick of my wrist and the blade darted out into her throat. Her scream muted before it began. I suppose at this point I should express my guilt for my actions. The truth, I felt nothing. I looked down at the creatures sprawled on the ground in front of me. Watching their life slowly pulse out, mixing with the mud and filth of the alley.

I almost walked away but something made me search the cooling bodies. To my surprise I found a considerable amount of paper money. The man was obviously wealthy and Beatrice, well Beatrice was clearly good at her job.

That encounter changed my life. Not only did have enough money for passage to the new world, but I had also found another way to fill the void inside me.

I never made it to the gold fields of California. A month after I left Bristol I arrived in New York. This was my home for the next 10 years. I spent the crossing considering my options. Why should I dig for gold when I could get it from the diggers themselves? During those years New York was filled with innocent young adventurers such as me. All looking to make their way west. It was almost too easy. I would repeat the success I had had with Beatrice and her well-dressed man. The prospectors arrived with cash to sustain them for years in the new world. Money for supplies, equipment, and lodging. I saw a different kind of goldmine.

During that decade I shared stories of gold. I watched their greedy little eyes light up. It was easy to lure them to a secluded spot or darkened alley. Then, a gunshot to the back, a knife to the chest, maybe even a piece of wire placed tightly around their windpipe. I never tired of finding exciting ways usher life from this world into the next. There so many faces, so many names. All with the same shocked expression etched onto their death mask. It was glorious.

As my tenth year in America was coming to an end, I met an Englishman named John. John was a miner from Cornwall. As so many before him he was coming to America to find his fortune. I was thinking about how easy it would be to bury a bottle in his head when he started talking about his home. It sounded idyllic. The rugged cliffs and empty beaches of the south coast. By this point I had made more money than I could spend in a lifetime. Quite truthfully the energy of the new world was losing its shine. It was time to find a new home. John incidentally never made it to California either. I left him in central park calling for his mother as he tried stem the flow of blood pumping out of the clean cut across his neck.

As I said dear reader, this is not a happy tale, but it is a simple one. There will be a reckoning for my life, my decisions, of that I am sure. This book serves as my reminder, that all things come to an end. Before I leave this world, I hope to do some good. To redeem myself in the eyes of the lord. I have left some of my wealth in hopes that it may be used for good. At the back of this book is a map. Find what I have left and use it well.

Pat White

3

Sam could not believe what he had just read. He flipped straight to the back of the book. Sure, enough there was a deeply stained piece of paper. The map showed a graveyard, a small scribble read “find the grave of Apatico white”. This couldn’t be real. The graveyard on the map was in his very own hometown.

As soon as Sam finished his shift he went straight to the church on the outskirts of the town. He searched the area. Near the very edge of the wall, under a large oak tree, Sam found a grave with a damaged headstone. As he edged closer, he could just see the faint outline of “Apatico” the surname had been completely eroded by the passage of time. He almost tripped over himself with excitement. He grabbed a shovel from the gardener’s hut tucked behind the rectory and began to dig. He only had to dig a few feet down before he hit something hard and metallic. He knelt and removed the dirt from around the edges. It was a cash box the kind you would see in old movies. It was getting darker now, but Sam leaned over the box and tried to remove the lid.

“you will need this” said a voice from behind. Sam spun around, his skin turning cold. He saw the stranger from the shop. “use this for good or Pat might come back from his grave for you” he flicked a small silver object that caught the last of the fading light. Sam fumbled the object and lost it into the whole from where he had unearthed the box. He looked down to see a key. He looked back to where the stranger had been but there was nobody there.

Confused he used the key to open the box. What was inside made his breath come out in bursts. Hundreds of gold sovereigns more wealth than he had ever seen. The stranger’s words echoed in his head “only for good”.