by Sam Taylor
I am a detective now, he thought. I am a private investigator. I am a detective and this is the scene of the crime.
The van was illegally parked, so James drove to campus and left it behind the library. The university car parks were empty, campus silent. He went to the student accommodation office, hoping to find a cheap room for the four weeks before the start of term, but it didn’t open until ten, so he killed time in a café on University Road.
He sat near the window and ordered black coffee. Someone had left a tabloid newspaper on the table. It was a local weekly. James flicked past news of unknown celebrities and vague bomb threats until he reached the games page. The crossword had already been filled. He read the cartoons, then glanced at the astrology column. This is what it said for his sign:
CANCER 21 June-22 July. Congratulations - you’ve made a clean break. But what now? What is going to happen to your life? Why are you here and what are you searching for? Under the influence of Mars, confusion reigns and your questions won’t be answered this week, but at least you are on the right track. Good news comes from the letter M and the number 21.
It was unbelievable: the astrologer had described his current position exactly. James was so surprised, he read the paragraph again, then looked around suspiciously, wondering if it might be some elaborate hoax. But the only other people in the café were the woman who was serving behind the counter and two policemen smoking and muttering at another table. None of them took any notice of James.
He looked at the astrology column again. ‘YOUR STARS for the week ahead,’ it said, ‘by Adam Golightly’. There was a small photograph next to the name: a bald or shaven-headed man with a small beard and penetrating eyes. It was impossible to guess his age.
James finished his coffee and thought about the astrologer’s predictions. It was all coincidence, of course, he reasoned; if you write five non-specific sentences, they are bound to seem relevant to some of your readers. But despite his scepticism, James took it as a good omen. Staring absentmindedly through the window, past the blue painted letters (TSAFKAERB YAD-LLA) at the busy road and, beyond it, the pale grey buildings and neatly mown lawns of campus, he felt a welling excitement. Even if it meant nothing, he felt sure the astrologer was right. He had made a clean break. He was on the right track.
At ten he went back to the student accommodation office. The woman who worked there was middle-aged, with a plump, friendly face. ‘Hello!’ she called cheerfully when James put his face round the door. She seemed so pleased to see him, he thought she must be someone from his past, but then she asked for his name and he guessed she was simply in a good mood. James took a seat. The nameplate on the woman’s desk informed him she was called Mrs Quigley. She asked if he was a student; James said he was a graduate.
‘Back here visiting?’
‘Yeah . . . well, I might live here for a while.’
‘Oh, so you’re not looking specifically for short-term accommodation? ’
Could that be a problem, he wondered? ‘I just thought it’d be good to have a base while I looked for somewhere more permanent. ’
There was a pause while the woman nodded, and looked at some papers on the desk. She glanced up at him and said, ‘You don’t happen to be any good at DIY, do you?’
The question caught him off guard. ‘I’m a builder,’ he said. ‘It’s my job.’
‘Really?’ The woman seemed so excited, James began to wonder if he was in the right office. ‘I might just have the perfect thing for you. I can’t give you the details myself, because it’s not registered here, but it sounds like an amazing deal.’
‘What does?’
She laughed. ‘Oh sorry . . . I’m not being very clear, am I? I’ve just heard about it, you see. Apparently it’s an ex-student house, needs lots of work, I can’t remember the address . . . but anyway, it’s owned by this famous person - an artist or a writer or a singer or something - and he’s offering free accommodation and all expenses paid for a year if someone will live there and renovate it. Plus you get half the profit when he sells the house afterwards.’
James laughed. ‘Sounds too good to be true.’
Mrs Quigley didn’t seem to notice the irony in his voice. ‘It does, doesn’t it? Especially for you, with your particular needs and . . . skills.’ She was writing something now, her face flushed. ‘Here you go . . . that’s the address of the office. You can tell them I sent you.’
James thanked her and stood up to leave.
‘You’re very welcome,’ she grinned. ‘And do let me know how it goes. Apparently he’s quite well known, the man who owns the house. That’s what I was told, anyway. I’d never heard of him myself.’
‘What’s his name?’ James asked.
The woman froze, her face blank for a second or two, and then relaxed. ‘Sorry, it’s gone. Oh, isn’t that ridiculous? I only heard it ten minutes ago. Now, come on, what was it? Does it begin with M or . . .?’ She looked like she was in pain. The phone started ringing. She ignored it. James began to feel anxious.
‘You should answer that,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about the name, I can ask at the other office.’
‘You could, but they won’t tell you.’ She smiled knowingly, her hand poised over the receiver.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s been withheld,’ she said. ‘All very mysterious. I only know about it because one of my friends has been temping there.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Hello? Student accommodation? ’
James waved goodbye to Mrs Quigley. She waved back, still listening to the phone.
Deciding he needed some exercise, James took his bicycle from the back of the van and rode into the city centre. It took him a while to locate the office. It was in a backstreet in the old town; a private-looking door with a small nameplate above the buzzer: HARRISON LETTINGS. He rang the bell and the door clicked open.
The office was on the third floor and James had the feeling that he’d been there before, though he couldn’t have said when or why. There were three desks in the room, which was windowless, overwarm and crowded with filing cabinets, but only one of them was occupied - by a young man in a suit and tie. He was on the phone, sounding polite but harrassed. He had shaving burns on one cheek. James could smell his sweat: it was nervous sweat, which always smells worse. The man’s eyes flicked up at James briefly when he entered, but there was no welcome or acknowledgment. He lowered his voice. James sat down in the chair opposite him. The man put one hand, visor-like, in front of his eyes, and stared down at some papers on his desk. James closed his eyes, feeling suddenly weary. The only sounds were the hum of computers and the incomprehensible murmurings of the young man.
‘Yes, sir.’ A voice, suddenly loud, woke James from a doze. The man was staring at him, alert and slightly aggressive.
‘I’ve been sent by the student accommodation office.’ The man looked at him blankly. ‘At the university.’
‘Yes?’
‘You have a house on your books that I’m interested in.’
‘A house to rent?’
‘Not exactly,’ said James. ‘It’s an unusual arrangement. Apparently it needs renovating, and the owner is -’
‘Oh, that house.’ The man stared, with an expression of utter misery, at the papers on his desk.
‘Has it gone?’
A ghost of a laugh. ‘Gone? No . . . no, it’s not gone.’
‘So what’s the matter?’
The man ran his hands through his hair. ‘You’re right, it is an unusual arrangement - and it sounds like a very attractive deal in theory. But, quite frankly, we’re beginning to wonder if the whole thing isn’t a ruse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘So far, we’ve forwarded at least a dozen perfectly good applications to the owner, and he’s said no to them all. He’s refused to even meet them. It’s all very odd - almost like he’s looking for someone in particular.’
This last sentence was spoken quietly, as if the man were talking to him
self. He seemed surprised when James said, brightly, ‘Perhaps I’m that someone?’
The man shrugged and reached behind him to the filing cabinet. ‘Fill in an application form. You should learn either way within a week or two.’
‘A week or two?’
‘Yes . . . the owner is not the easiest man to get hold of. On top of all the other difficulties.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘I’ve never even spoken to him on the phone.’
‘I heard he was famous. An artist or a singer . . .’
The man gave a hostile stare. ‘I have no idea, sir. The client requested absolute confidentiality, so naturally that’s what Harrison is providing.’
‘Of course,’ James said. ‘What’s the address, by the way?’
‘That is also confidential.’
James filled in the form, leaving a single blank space: daytime telephone number. ‘I haven’t got a phone,’ he explained.
‘Then you too are going to be rather hard to get hold of.’
‘Maybe I could buy a mobile?’
‘As you wish, sir.’ The desk telephone rang and the man answered. ‘Harrison Lettings, how may I help you?’
James crept, unregarded, out of the office.
He got the cheapest mobile phone deal he could find - incoming calls only - then went back to Harrison Lettings and wrote the number on the application form. The form was where he had left it on the man’s desk. The man was still on the phone. Again, he did not acknowledge James. The smell of sweat was, if anything, even worse.
James cycled out of the old town and back along Haight Road. On a whim, he stopped off at The Polar Bear. It was nearly midday. He locked the bike by the side of the building and entered the lounge. Remarkably, after all this time, it looked almost exactly as he remembered it: the same maroon-and-gold flock wallpaper, the same sticky brown carpet, the same fake-leather wall-benches in the corner.
It was a sunny day, but the lounge had only one source of natural light - a small, square, grimy window, located high up the back wall - so the electric lights were on, giving the room a sad, wintry feel. It was cold, too: the fireplace was empty and there was a strong smell of damp.
James ordered a pint of bitter. He watched, in silence, as the barman pulled the draught pump. Behind him the room grew suddenly dim. The barman looked up. ‘It’ll come back on in a minute.’
‘Does it do that often?’
The barman nodded wearily. ‘Needs rewiring.’
James sat down and drank his beer in the gloom. After a while the lights flickered, then came back on. The pub, he thought, was actually a little different to how he remembered it: harsher, drabber. In James’s memories of The Polar Bear, it was always warm and glowing. This could be a question of lighting and heating, or of general wear-and-tear, but James suspected it had more to do with the fact that he was sober.
He took out his wallet and counted his money. He had enough to last a week, perhaps two if he slept in the van, but either way he would soon need more cash. And, as alluring as the offer of the mystery house was, he had to consider the possibility that his application would be rejected. When he’d finished the pint, James went up to the bar again and wrote his name and mobile number on a piece of paper. ‘I’m an electrician, ’ he explained to the barman. ‘I could rewire this place if you wanted. Reasonable rates.’ The barman looked surprised, but said he would pass the message on to the landlord.
On the way back to campus, James stopped off at the little supermarket on the corner of Green Avenue and Hayes Street to buy some food. The name had been changed since James had moved away - from Ablett’s to the Happy Shoppa - and inside it was almost unrecognisably clean and bright. An Elton John ballad played tinnily from hidden speakers.
He rode back to the van, plastic bags hanging from the handlebars, and ate lunch alone in the empty car park. It was half-past two and the day was turning hot and overcast: the atmosphere heavy, the clouds nicotine yellow. James felt suddenly exhausted. He drank some water, then lay down on the futon mattress in the back of the van and fell asleep.
When he woke, it was night-time. He put on a jacket and went for a walk. He wandered all over campus: to the Union Bar, the gymnasium, the cafeteria, the library . . . Outside each of these buildings, he felt his heart speed up, his legs weaken. He was remembering, or his body was. The problem was that his mind would not supply the missing pictures. His memories, like these buildings, were locked and unlit: mere outlines, absences; ominous bulks in the darkness.
He had nothing to do, and needed to save money, but the thought of going back to the van alone was unbearable, so he headed towards the city centre. He bought a bag of chips on Lethe Avenue and ate them as he walked, ending up at a dark and familiar-looking pub called The Anchor.
Inside it was quiet and half-empty: a normal Tuesday evening. James sat at a table in the corner, ordered a pint of bitter, and attempted to read another story by Borges. This one was called ‘Funes El Memorioso’ and was about a man who could remember everything. Halfway down the first page, James became aware that someone was staring at him.
He looked up. The man at the next table, who was also alone, stood up and said, ‘Mind if I join you?’ He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with dark, thinning hair and thick-framed spectacles, and his face was oddly familiar, though it took James a while to place the memory. James would have preferred to read his book in peace but he didn’t want to seem rude, so he said, ‘Of course not.’ The man sat down. He smelled of tobacco, though he wasn’t smoking, and wore an old-fashioned suit - brownish, with a sort of check pattern - that made James feel depressed.
The man was quite drunk, but his voice was accentless and educated. James had no memory of what the man said to begin with - something about the government? - because he was busy racking his brain trying to work out where he had seen that sombre face before. Finally it came to him and he blurted out, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look like Philip Larkin?’
To James’s surprise, the man scowled and said, ‘That wanker.’
‘Did you know him?’ James asked.
‘Know him? That cunting bastard. I am him.’
‘Philip Larkin is dead,’ said James, though as soon as the words left his mouth he became unsure as to whether this was actually true. He was fairly certain it must be, but the horrific possibility that he had just told a living man that he was dead made him question the accuracy of his assertion.
For a moment the man looked as though he was going to get angry, then he said, ‘Of course he is. He died in 1985.’
‘Yes,’ James said, relieved. ‘That’s what I thought.’
There was a pause while the librarian sipped his beer. Then, staring into space, he announced, ‘First he went to hospital where they cut out his oesophagus. The surgeon said they’d found a great deal of unpleasant stagnant material; Larkin thought that sounded like a good description of his life. The surgeon also told him he would be a new man after the operation, but he wasn’t. He was still the same old miserable git he’d been before. Still 62, still going to die. Through the window he could see some trees, blue sky, sunlight on the leaves and grass - it was summer - but it seemed so far away, so alive, so alien, that it was almost like a tableau: The World You Are Going to Leave Behind. Or, worse, The Whole Point of Life (And You Missed It, Pal).’
‘Pardon?’ said James.
‘He knew time was running out, had known it since he was a young man, but still he wished it wouldn’t drag by so slowly. It was a private hospital so he was allowed to drink; that made the evenings easier. But then he got rat-arsed one night on whisky and swallowed his own vomit. Went into a coma. Not that he remembers all this: only waking up in a different hospital, grimmer, National Health, where booze was banned and he was surrounded by other people.’ The man’s face was sour. ‘He hated that.’
‘You seem to know a lot about Philip Larkin,’ James remarked.
‘I took over from him when he we
nt.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m the university librarian.’
‘Oh. You mean you took over his job.’
‘And the rest. Came with the post, they said.’
‘The rest?’
‘His old manuscript books. His diaries. His photographs. His memory.’
James was nodding blithely when suddenly he realised what the librarian had said. ‘His memory?’
‘To preserve his thoughts and his life for posterity.’
‘Er . . . how did that happen?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Right.’
There was a long pause. James drank some beer, and looked down at the book he wanted to read. Still the librarian was silent, staring into space somewhere to James’s left. James was about to reopen his book when the librarian said, in a weary voice, ‘It’s not like you’d imagine. I can’t remember every detail of his life. Only odd flashes. They often come to me when I’m falling asleep or waking up. Sometimes I have dreams that I know can’t be mine. Sometimes I just see unfamiliar places, or feel strange emotions, or find myself thinking of jazz records that I’ve never heard before.’
‘Jazz records?’
‘Yeah. I don’t even like jazz, but it’s in my head all the time now. Jazz and porn. Jazz music and jazz mags. Duke Ellington and spanked schoolgirls. And death, of course. I never thought about dying before I got Larkin’s memory. Now I can’t even look at my bedroom wall without feeling this horrible rush of panic in my chest. Oh, and hate. Plenty of hate. Every time I look at someone younger than me, or a woman, or a black person, or a left-winger, I feel it. When I noticed you earlier, for example, I was immediately filled with hatred towards you. Anyway, that’s pretty much all his memories consist of: hate, fear, jazz, porn and death.’ He paused for a moment, apparently in thought. ‘Yes, that’s about it.’
James was feeling uncomfortable now - what was this man’s problem? - but he was wary of upsetting the librarian, who was clearly deranged, by walking away or ignoring him, so he said, in a cheerful voice, ‘No poetry?’