This Book Belongs To

By Daley James Francis and J. P. HattSmith

A NINE-YEAR-OLD GIRL. A MAGICAL SKETCHBOOK. A HUGE IMAGINATION. A LOT OF TROUBLE.

Amy Carr is old enough to know that the men in hard hats have not come to the house to drink tea and chat to her Dad about football. The penny drops when a bulldozer arrives and a medicine ball reduces her home to rubble!

Amy finds an old sketchbook in the ruins, and soon discovers that whatever she draws in it comes to life. This opens up a world of imagination, before becoming a national emergency when Amy moves from drawing small playful bugs to giant spiders and dragons!

That’s when the serious-looking men wearing black suits and shades arrive in the town, with one mission in mind: To retrieve the book and put an end to the chaos.

THIS BOOK BELONGS TO is a warm, fast and funny tale of adventure, family and the joys of creativity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483548753

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Prologue:

A Book That Could Win a War

My mother once told me that a good book had the power to change the world. I thought she had gone mad. How could the world be changed by a story? Over the course of these pages, I will reveal the one case in which I know it to be true.

The book first came to my attention in September 1942. I was a reluctant Private in the German army, with no intentions on being promoted in such a deplorable outfit. I was happy with my sideline in retrieving objects of historical and cultural importance, and it was this endeavour that led me to be ordered to Berlin, where I was greeted by General Bernard Von Hart, a fearsome bear of a man who was as tall as he was wide, with eyes that could see into your soul. As he gave me my mission, I looked down at the floor rather than face the imposing beast standing before me.

The Führer recognises your talent and wishes for you to conduct a special mission in France, he growled.

I love France, so my first reaction was to picture myself sipping wine in a café filled with beautiful people. Of course, France was nothing like this picture now, as my people were busy tearing it apart, and many of the cafés I daydreamed about had now been destroyed by bombs. Anxiety filled my bones.

Your equivalent in England, an officer named James Carter, is rumoured to be in possession of a book that could shift the balance of the war in favour of the enemy. We want you to find it and bring it back to us, by whatever means necessary.

James Carter was a familiar name. Truth be told, I was in awe of him. He had beaten me to targets before the war, and was renowned for putting his life on the line to achieve his missions, making him a legend in our field. Sadly, the war had made idolising an English officer a firing squad-worthy offence, so I kept my magazines and newspaper cuttings in a secret place, to appreciate after the war. We adventurers have a great deal of respect for one another, and a mutual understanding that if we are searching for the same artefact, a bit of aggressive competition is to be expected. But like all sport, there is a line that we do not cross. This time, I feared that I would have to cross that line.

The General handed me a rolled up map and a M1879 Reichsrevolver.

Your contact in Paris will be Boris. He will inform you of Carter’s whereabouts.

We saluted each other, and Von Hart added a chilling parting order.

Do not fail us.

I took two short flights and a boat in order to reach Paris without drawing attention to myself. My imagination had run wild with romantic visions of the city, but this was not the land of my dreams. Homes and businesses were in ruins, and thick smoke filled the air from the many fires that had broken out during the occupation. A black cloud came over me, but I had to put my feelings aside. I had a job to do.

The boatman told me where I could meet Boris, the man who would lead me to Officer Carter, and as I made my way to the rendezvous point, I felt agitated by the vagueness of the meeting with Von Hart. As an adventurer, my missions were born out of passion, not duty, and being kept in the dark was frustrating to say the least. If I was going to kill a respected peer in order to retrieve this book, I at least deserved to know why the Führer had such a vested interest in it. Of course, I would never voice this opinion to anyone but myself.

The Café Blonde was a small, intimate haunt. The room was lit by candlelight, and the tables were covered with hardened wax. It smelled like a cellar, musty and damp from spilled beer and poor upkeep. It was probably a popular place before the war, but not now.

Jorgen, my boat contact, had informed me that Boris would be wearing a black leather jacket and would be holding a copy of The Flying Classroom by Erich Kästner. I scanned the café and found a small, hunched man sitting in the corner of the room, holding a copy of Kästner’s book in front of his face.

Boris? I said as I approached his table.

The book came down, revealing a face that resembled a scrunched up paper bag. He was smoking a cigarette, and he frowned as he looked me up and down.

Who’s asking? he asked, suspiciously.

Huber. My name brought a smile to his craggy face.

Good to meet you, Huber. Take a seat.

Boris stubbed out his cigarette, gulped down an espresso and motioned to the waitress to bring two more to the table. I pondered how many fights a man would have to win or lose to have a face like Boris. His hands were huge for such a short man, but they were as tough as old boots. He could definitely handle himself in a fist fight.

The waitress came over with two coffees and I gave her my politest smile. She smiled back, the dimples in her cheeks reminding me of the wife I had left behind in Hamburg. If I had been wearing my German uniform, she might not have been so warm and accommodating.

The Brit can be found at this hotel, Boris said, sliding me a business card.

How can you be sure he still has the book? I asked.

A huge grin formed on Boris’ face.

You haven’t been told the origins of the book?

I know nothing except that the Führer wants it at all costs. I don’t suppose you want to fill me in? I asked.

I have never seen the book. My friend Noonan, however, got his hands on it, once upon a time. The pages were blank, except for a dozen or so, which had crude sketches on them.

It’s a sketchbook? Why is it so sought after? Is the Führer making a return to art?

Boris laughed, and continued his story about Noonan, who had got hold of the book when it had been in the possession of a collector named Vincent.

Noonan told me that he came across a very strange drawing. He described it as a cross between a monkey, a wolf and a Man…

I managed to swallow the laugh I wanted to let out, so as not to offend Boris, who was deadly serious in his retelling of the story.

"That kind of image stays with you for