by Lynne Truss
Subject: Blimey
If you would just read the files, Wiggy. Please.
Alec
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Friday, January 16, 6:34 PM
Subject: All right
All right, sorry that took me a while. I’ve read them, and I have a question.
Email from Alec to Wiggy
Sent: Friday, January 16, 6:36 PM
Subject: All right
Go ahead. Anything.
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Friday, January 16, 6:39 PM
Subject: All right
Can your dog really talk, or did you make that up?
Email from Alec to Wiggy
Sent: Friday, January 16, 6:52 PM
Subject: Thank you
Dear Wiggy,
Thank you very much for reading the files. It means a lot to me. In answer to your question, no, I didn’t make anything up. However, it might be significant that Watson hasn’t uttered another word since we left the house on Monday night. Perhaps it was some sort of hallucination brought on by terror. If Watson did have a plan, he hasn’t shared it with me. I’ve had to do all the thinking for both of us – and quite a strain it’s been, I can tell you. It was just the way he said, “Pack enough chicken treats for a fortnight.” If that wasn’t Watson, it certainly sounded like the sort of thing he’d say.
I do so hope you decide to help, Wiggy. It took me the best part of two days to write the file entitled HOME, and it was only when I’d finished that I realised how alone I was with this story; how it wasn’t a story, really, unless it had someone to read it. Tomorrow night Dr Winterton and I will attempt to purloin the Seeward pamphlet after the library closes. I am sure it contains the answer – otherwise why would the Captain go to such lengths to recover (or destroy) it?
Which reminds me: did Roger ever mention Seeward to you? Or anything about a “Cat Master”? What did Winterton mean when he mentioned the “big stuff” after the war? Why did Roger and the Captain fall out? It occurs to me that although the life-story tapes in the folder took him only up to his wartime experiences in the British Museum, he might have told you more – only off the record, as it were.
By the way, you never answered my question about whether you’re willing to act as repository for the rest of this story.
Yours, Alec
Email from Alec to Wiggy
Sent: Saturday, January 17, 4:30 PM
Subject: Operation Seeward
Dear Wiggy,
Well, it’s Saturday and I haven’t heard from you. I am just setting off for the library. If anything should happen to me, Watson will be at the Sandringham B & B in Milton Road, not far from Cambridge station. I’m sorry if this is “too much information” – but it’s very important for me to tell someone what’s going on. Have you had any thoughts at all?
Alec
P.S. Sorry. I just meant have you had a chance to think about what I’ve asked you. I didn’t mean, “have you had any thoughts at all?”
Email from Alec to Wiggy
Sent: Saturday, January 17, 11:45 PM
Subject: Operation Seeward
Attachments: PDF Plan of Library
Dear Wiggy,
Still not having heard from you, I’m afraid I’ve decided to use you as my confidante anyway. Winterton has been injured, Wiggy. Quite badly. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I should tell the story properly or not at all. This is for the record, isn’t it? But oh God, the blood. And the wounds!
This evening I entered the library at 5 p.m., using my temporary membership. As you will see from the attached plan of the library, the space immediately above the great reading room – accessible by the spiral staircase behind the desk – contains the music stacks, which are not accessible (to readers, anyway) from anywhere else. I had worked out a rather good plan, I thought. The main thing was to distract the dreamy Tawny away from the desk, then sneak up the spiral staircase to the music library, search for the book, and hide there until the library closed at 5:30. Then, using the spare set of master keys that Mary and Tawny have always (rather irresponsibly, in my opinion) left in the top drawer of the inquiries desk, I would let myself out of the reading room, and make my way down Staircase A to the emergency exit next to the cycle racks. Opening the door would set off an alarm, but the idea was that I would quickly hand the book – and the incriminating set of library keys – to Winterton who would be positioned outside. I would then go back inside and face the music with the security man (usually Mike on a Saturday), claiming to have fallen asleep on the floor of the history library before closing time and apologising for causing so much trouble. Winterton and I would then rendezvous at the nearby Kall-Kwik (just before it closed at 6:30), where we would copy and scan the pamphlet, and I could send the scan straight to you for safe keeping. I brought my laptop along for just that purpose.
I am writing this in A & E. It is 9:45, and I am trying to keep a lid on things! My main concern is for Winterton, of course, but I am also very distracted by the thought that Watson is at the B & B all by himself, and has been on his own since about 4:30 p.m. What if I’m here all night? But on the other hand, there’s no way I can leave. Winterton was delirious by the time we got here. He’d lost so much blood. Pray God he doesn’t spill the beans to anyone about exactly how – and why – he got those terrible cuts and gashes. I keep thinking of the bit in Jane Eyre when the brother from the West Indies (is it Mason?) is violently attacked in the night, and Rochester forbids him to speak a word of explanation to Jane, as she sits with this unknown bleeding man in the dark, and all the while she can hear the animal-like stirrings of the violent madwoman behind the locked door. This will mean nothing to you if you haven’t read the book in question, Wiggy, so I apologise for rambling. It was just that I kept saying pointedly to Winterton in the ambulance, “Best if you don’t speak, Winterton, old chap; don’t speak at all.” And then – just now – I remembered why the situation seemed so familiar, when nothing in my own previous experience has been anything like it.
You will be pleased to hear that the first bit of my plan worked quite well! That’s not much consolation to me right now, but I might as well tell the story properly, as I’m probably going to be here for quite some time. Improvising, I used a cat’s miaow to draw Tawny’s attention. It’s the only animal noise I’ve ever been able to make; also it seemed appropriate in the circumstances. Anyway, it worked. “Miaow” I said. “Miaaaoooow.” “Hello?” Tawny said, and left the desk to investigate. As you will see on the plan, there are two sets of swing doors to the reading room (at the same end) so it was quite easy to do the miaow from one side, and then nip round to the other doors and dodge up the spiral staircase while Tawny had gone the other way.
There was no one else up there, thank goodness, but there was one obvious problem to be solved: I had no idea where Mary had shelved the book! Here were six long walkways of tall stacks, all packed with (mostly) tall, thin musical scores. The Seeward pamphlet, in its protective slipcase, would hardly be conspicuous up here, and I had only twenty minutes to find it before all the lights shut off automatically at 5:30. But I did the right thing. I didn’t panic, and I thought about Mary. What would she have done? Where would she hide something in a music library? What did she know about music? Well, not very much. I thought of us watching University Challenge together, and Mary cluelessly shouting out the same answer every week – and that was enough. Haydn! She would have hidden it under Haydn!
And so she had. I found the pamphlet tucked behind a score of the Surprise Symphony just before the room was plunged into darkness. It didn’t look anything special, I must say, this little book. It had no aura. When I touched it, there was no responding gust of evil wind, accompanied by the sound of impish whispers from the darker corners of the stack. No, it was just like picking up any book. However, the sheer darkness of the music library after lights out was disconcerting, and I admit I was keen to get out. Luckily, Tawny waste
d no time at all in closing up: at 5:31, she could be heard switching off all the desk lamps, humming tunelessly. Then she collected her bag and coat, switched off the main lights, and set the bolt and turned the key to one set of swing doors; then she set the bolt to the second set, and turned the key from the outside. Only then did I start to creep carefully down the spiral staircase. In the great reading room, the high windows allowed a certain amount of grey light into the room, but it was a while before my eyes grew accustomed to the murk. I coughed, and the sound rang out. I clutched the book in its slipcase to my chest and groped in the drawer for the keys. They weren’t there. Why hadn’t I brought a torch? I moderated my breathing (I’d started to pant), and continued to feel inside the drawer. And at last I found them. The relief was enormous. But then I heard something – faint and muffled but unmistakable – that made my blood run cold. A human scream. I now believe that what I heard was Winterton.
Wiggy, I’ll have to break off here. They have just told me they are going to keep him in; they’ve commanded me to go home. They’ve already given him a transfusion; he is now under sedation; he is definitely on the mend. Well, what a relief! “Thank you,” I said. I told them I was a mere acquaintance of his, who happened to discover him in his assaulted state – but I also said I knew he had no relatives, so I felt I should wait to see how he was. Everyone has been very kind, although I could have done without them asking, “Ooh, what’s that you’re writing?” all the time, and peering at the screen.
It’s nearly midnight. It’s been a long day, and I’m glad to be leaving. I am desperate to get back to Watson. He is a resourceful little dog – but a little dog none the less.
I just hope Winterton didn’t blab much. If he did, they might have put it down to delirium anyway. When they first examined him, they came out and asked if he’d ever been in the navy. I said no, not to my knowledge – for a moment, I imagined they’d found some interesting tattoos. “It’s just that he’s been rambling about a captain,” they said. I shrugged. “Can’t explain that,” I said. I have to get back to the B & B. I’ll write again as soon as I can.
Alec
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Sunday, January 18, 9:41 AM
Subject: Operation Seeward
Dear Alec,
I have just read your email from late last night, and I don’t know what to think. Your stuff is safe with me, of course it is. Send as much as you like. But I feel I ought to tell you that since my breakdown (as everyone calls it) I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist who has been very helpful – especially with antidepressants and what not – and she warned me that something like this might happen – that I would “start thinking the Roger stuff was all real again”! Well, I am bloody confused now, I can tell you. You’ve sent me two bloody audio files of me talking to Roger! And oh my God, he really does sound like Vincent Price!
But all the rest of it – how do I know it’s even true? It’s like a story. You even keep describing it as a story, Alec, so it’s not surprising I’m confused. You could be in Malawi. Or Brighton. You could be tucked up in bed somewhere. You could even be one of the chaps from school. You’re not Upton, are you? Bloody Upton; if it is you, I’ll bloody kill you. But even if you’re really Alec the Quite Unlikely Hero Librarian, you could still be making all this up deliberately. Scheming to drive me mad. They think I didn’t lift a finger to find Jo – and in a way I didn’t. I noticed those keys to next door were missing; I just didn’t think what it meant. And why didn’t I? Because I got so absorbed in Roger’s story, I forgot I was in one myself.
To be fair, I looked up all the Seeward stuff on the internet, so I know you’re not making that up, at least. Actually, I found another bit on YouTube that you probably ought to see – it’s a kind of companion piece to the film you watched – I’ll send you the link. But I don’t want to get sucked in again, Alec. Please don’t draw me into this. I’m not strong, like you. In fact, I’m very fragile. This lady-shrink the other day – she brought a fluffy kitten to the consultation room. A kitten. She wanted me to be nice to it.
“Isn’t this a bit unorthodox?” I said, but she took no notice. She put the kitten on my lap. I said:
“I don’t have a phobia about cats, Alison.”
“I know,” she said.
“I’m not scared of them the way people are scared of spiders – or of their knees suddenly bending the wrong way, and that kind of thing. I just know how cats think.”
But she’d made her plan and she was going to stick to it.
“What would you like to say to this lovely little innocent kitten, Wiggy?”
And I looked into its huge eyes and it looked back at me.
“Go on,” she said.
“Go on what?”
“Give it a stroke, Wiggy!” she said.
So I did my best. I made a big effort to stroke its little furry head, but the moment I touched it, it turned round to hiss at me, so I shouted, “GET OFF MY LAP, YOU BLOODY MURDERING BASTARD, YOU KILLED MY SISTER!”
I’m sorry to hear about Winterton. I do believe you, but I bloody well don’t want to. I’d rather think you were Upton in Malawi. I know how lonely you must feel. I have to say your plan sounded very good for a chap who’s probably never organised any sort of heist before, and I take my hat off to you. I hope little Watson was well and safe on your return. Of course, I’ve never met little Watson myself, and here I am caring about his welfare! What a twerp I’ll feel if it turns out he doesn’t exist either.
Wiggy
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Monday, January 19, 12:32 PM
Subject: Hello?
Dear Alec,
You never got back to me yesterday. Could you let me know what’s been happening? It’s Monday lunchtime. How is Winterton? Wiggy x
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Monday, January 19, 5:14 PM
Subject: Hello, hello?
Dear Alec,
You’re scaring me now, Alec. I’ve been checking for emails for the last five hours. Just a line would be fine. I just need to know how you and Watson and Winterton are. Wigs x
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Monday, January 19, 8:15 PM
Subject: Hello
All right. It’s evening now, and I’ve been thinking about things, and perhaps it’s my fault you haven’t replied all day. Please ignore what I wrote yesterday – all that “don’t know what to think” stuff. All that “poor me, I’m not well” stuff. I’ve been reading it back and I can understand if you got cold feet about confiding in me.
I want to help you, Alec, but am I the best person to have on your side? Yes, I’ve had experience of a talking cat; but think how long I left Jo’s phone in the fridge instead of taking it to a phone shop! I was so stupid, Alec. I really thought Roger had taken the phone into the garden to “play with it”! I had no idea what was going on. I cut out the cryptic crossword for him every day, and then helped him fill it in. He would say, “One down is FAN VAULTING.” And I’d look at the clue, which was, “Jumpy enthusiast often seen in church (3,8)” and I’d say, “How on earth do you get that?” And he’d drawl, “It’s just a knack, Wiggy. An enthusiast is a fan; jumpy is vaulting. Fan vaulting is often seen in churches.” And I’d say, “Oh Roger, you’re such a brainbox.” And all the time he was demonstrating to me how bloody clever he was. He knew Jo was in the cellar next door, and that I could have saved her if I’d known.
So I’m not very clever, and – I have to tell you this, Alec – I’m not very brave. I would never have been as brave as you, creeping around in that library after dark. But it’s the Wiggy Brain problem I think you should be wary of most. I was so embarrassed reading my notes about how I imagined Jo and the dog had been taken by aliens. I really did search the area for signs of scorched grass!
Anyway, that’s all in the past. I need to know what’s happening now. Please let me know. This is torture.
Email from Wiggy to Alec
Sent: Monday, January 19, 10:36 PM
Subject: Alec, where are you?
Alec! For God’s sake, I’m going to pieces here. I don’t know what to think. Please let me know what has happened. I haven’t heard from you for two days. I’ve never met you but I am your friend. Wigs
Email from Alec to Wiggy
Sent: Tuesday, January 20, 6:03 AM
Subject: None
Attachment: PDF entitled Seeward
Dear Wiggy,
I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your emails. I’m sorry if I caused you any distress. The thing is, Winterton is dead. I know. I can’t believe it either, but it’s true, he’s dead. And I don’t want to be melodramatic, but I think this might be the last time you hear from me, so I want you to stop being weak about all this, because we don’t have the luxury. I know no one believes in this stuff, Wiggy. Of course they don’t. I wouldn’t believe in it either. And I know you’ve made errors of judgment that make you doubt yourself. But Winterton is dead and Jo is dead, and my own dear Mary is dead – and if I’m next, I have to know that you’re not going to delete all this material and take a pill to help you forget it!
Sorry to be harsh. I haven’t slept much in the last 72 hours. The only positive thing is that I do have the pamphlet, and I’ve attached a scan for you to see. Also the dog is safe, thank God. I’m touched that you care about him. But other news is not so good. I had a call on my mobile yesterday morning from someone who said he was Tony Bellingham – his name meant nothing to me but he explained he was that neighbour who called on me after Christmas at home, the one whose surname I’d never taken any interest in. He said there had been a breakin at my house and I needed to go there at once. It was a “bit of a mess,” he said. He was with the police. I said I couldn’t go; they demanded to know why not. I said I was with a friend at the hospital, who was in a critical condition. I said I would go later, but I shan’t. The last thing I want to do is go home. For one thing, he said it was a mess. And it was really neat when I left it, after all that sodding methodical unpacking.