“Not Greek,” said Harold, handing over a ten pound note for the two and waving away the change. “Meroitic hieroglyphs, though I don’t know of anyone who could translate them.” He passed the book to Julie, “Any clue?”
Julie paused and, stopping the pushchair from falling backwards with her foot, flicked through the text. “No clue,” she said, though someone had to understand it to publish the book.”
“It wasn’t published.” Harold looked at the inside cover. “It’s a notebook from 1958,” he said. “though it doesn’t say whose.”
“I’m sure you could find out,” said Julie, taking the book back and flicking through the pages back to front.
“This isn’t ink. It’s blood.”