Creatures of the Pool

by Ramsey Campbell

  “Behold the Pool, where Neptune’s kin doth dream Of antic life in marsh and secret stream…” The trouble is that they’re followed by a couplet I’ve never seen before. I feel as if another trace of my father has been erased. When is the Frugone salesman going to contact me? I’m glancing surreptitiously at the counter, behind which the women are stooping to a computer, when I realise that the book has given me some help after all. It’s my excuse to go to the counter.

  There’s no need to attract attention if I don’t have to. I lift the chair before I inch it backwards, lowering it to the floor once I’ve room to move away from the table. I’ve paced more than halfway to the counter when the older librarian becomes aware of me. She frowns and turns back to the screen, and I almost sprint to the counter while she’s ignoring me. I’m there and starting to inch my hand across it when her colleague glances at me. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she promises, unless she’s resigning herself.

  I manage not to snatch my hand back. As a hint of moisture outlines it on the wood I say “Are you absolutely certain that’s your only copy of the book?”

  “We certainly are,” the older woman says. “It was never reprinted.”

  Both women seem bent on taking no more notice of me, unless they’re trying to distinguish the image on the monitor. Is the aerial view of Liverpool blurred by fog or rendered incomplete by bombing? I could imagine that the tops of the visible buildings are rising out of a drowned landscape. The women’s attitude is all I need—it has to be. If I stay here much longer one of them is bound to look. I take a breath, which is surely audible only to me, and reach over the counter.

  In a moment my groping fingers find the key. Before they can grasp it and the wooden tag, the key shifts on the ledge beneath the counter with a faint scrape amplified by all my nerves. The key ring rattles against the tag, and the younger librarian begins to turn towards me. No, she’s only leaning closer to the monitor, but my efforts to hold my breath are making my head swim—they’ve already squeezed every trace of moisture out of my throat. Then my fingers close around the key and the tag, and I lift the silenced handful across the counter.

  I’m sneaking away until it occurs to me that I don’t need to move stealthily—in fact, it looks suspicious. I glance back from the table where the Colquitt book lies beside a faint stain. The librarians are still crouching towards the monitor. I have to pass the other readers, and I’m making to hide the key in my hip pocket when I remember how sodden that is. I clench my fists, and the ring clicks against the tag like the sound of a sprung trap.

  I can’t look at the librarians, and I avoid glancing at my fellow readers as I stride past them. I have to seem entitled to do what I’m doing. I’ve reached the door to the stacks when there’s a muffled noise behind me. It isn’t pursuit, it’s an afterthought of the storm. I slip the key into the lock and twist it and push the door open, to be met by movement in the corridor beyond. Only my feeble shadow is there, and only tension captures me by the nape of the neck as I step into the corridor.

  I’m closing the door when the reader nearest to me looks up from a book of maps. Her eyes meet mine, and I press my lips wide in an expression that isn’t quite a smile but implies it has no reason not to be one. I don’t let my breath out with a gasp until the door is shut. Is that the scrape of a chair? Is she on her way to ask the librarians whether anyone who looks the way I do just now is authorised to enter the stacks? I have to use whatever time I’ve stolen, and I hurry along the short corridor.

  It leads to a room that, to judge by the section visible through a glass door, must be huge. The nearest shelves are full of bound newspapers, yellowing fragments of which are scattered like ancient leaves in the narrow passages between the shelves. How far will I have to search? I’m scarcely conscious of raising the wooden tag like a wand to ward off hindrances or to aid me in my quest as I leave the corridor. I could fancy that it helped, because to my left, occupying most of a lobby outside the main storeroom, are several smaller bookcases. By the look of it they hold the rarest books and manuscripts.

  A request slip is protruding from a gap between two books about the local slave trade, Ebony Cargo and Chained in a Cellar. The key rattles against the tag as my shadow dodges down the twilit alley between the wall and the musty shelves to the occult section, but there isn’t one; it seems to have been crushed to nothing by a mass of religious tomes that don’t even tolerate a gap. Something like a pointed fingernail is trapped under the weightiest, however. I shove the key and tag into a sodden pocket so as to use both hands to extract the leathery volume, which is wedged between its portly neighbours. As it tips off the shelf, dragging my hands down, it dislodges the item it wasn’t quite able to hide, which flutters to the floor. It’s a request slip, of which I saw a corner. I manhandle the book into place again and stoop to pick up the crumpled form. I’ve only begun to smooth it out when I recognise the handwriting. The slip is my father’s request for the unpublished papers of John Strong.

  Chapter Forty-two

  THE SLIP

  I don’t stride to throw open the door and brandish the form and shout for an explanation. I don’t even march to the counter for one. Should I show Lucinda first or confront the pair of women with the evidence? Suppose they call security to take it off me? I mustn’t risk losing it, and I fold it to fit in my breast pocket. If I loiter much longer I may still be here when a librarian enters the stacks.

  I stop at the end of the corridor, because the trolley is rumbling across the library. I’m about to do my best to hide among the bookcases when I realise the sound is receding. It isn’t even a trolley—it’s the retreat of the storm. I have to overcome my anger at the mistake before I can ease the door inwards.

  The two readers at the tables raise their heads like animals scenting an intruder. Beyond them the younger librarian is examining the Colquitt book. She’s beside the table I vacated, and her colleague is out of sight. I’m about to close the door, at least enough to hide me, when she shuts the book and turns away with it. I steady the door as it wavers indecisively, but I’m too late. She sees me at once.

  Her lips part, and her eyes widen so much that they send a fleshy ripple up her forehead. She holds the expression while I step forward and pull the door shut. I’m wondering how long she means to keep her challenge silent—whether she may be too shocked to speak until I’m past the exit barrier—when she says “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her voice is so muted that it might be reminding me where I am. I don’t speak until I’m abreast of her, by which time I’ve thought of some kind of an answer. I take the key out of my sodden pocket and lay it on the table, just out of her reach. “Returning this,” I inform her.

  The table amplifies the rattle as she grabs the key, and her workmate rears up from crouching behind the counter. “Is anything the matter?”

  “I’d say so,” I declare, but her colleague speaks over me. “He was in the stacks.”

  “I’ll call security.”

  The older woman is heading for the phone when my elongated strides bring me to the counter. “And tell them what?”

  “That area is clearly signed staff only.”

  “So people can’t find out what you’re hiding, is it?” As she turns to the phone I protest “I haven’t stolen anything. I care as much for the past as anybody here.”

  Her colleague holds up the Colquitt book as if it’s an exhibit for the prosecution but says “Then why were you in there?”

  The readers have turned around on their chairs and are awaiting my answer as well. “I tried to show you,” I say. “You didn’t believe me, so I had to find some proof.”

  The older woman is reaching for the phone. “Don’t you want to see what I’ve got?” I rather more than ask.

  I grope inside my jacket, only to discover that a fold of the paper has snagged on the mobile. I mustn’t damage the solitary item of evidence. I pull out the request slip and the mobile, which catches on th
e edge of the pocket and flies out of my hand. It hits the floor with a decisive thud that earns a gasp from a member of the audience. Have I harmed it? Suppose I can’t receive the Frugone salesman’s call? The impact hasn’t activated the display. I shove the paper into my pocket and jab a key at random, which brings up the wallpaper image—a close-up of my own sleeping face. Lucinda must have added it, and I haven’t time to wonder when. “It’s all right,” I announce.

  “Is it indeed,” says the older librarian. “May I ask whom that belongs to?”

  “He’s pinched a phone,” someone whispers at my back.

  “Of course I haven’t. It’s mine, look.”

  The librarians peer at the somnolent image until I begin to wonder what they’re seeing or even what I saw. I’m about to examine it afresh when the older woman says “Are you expecting us to believe you found that in the stacks?”

  “I’m not, no.” I unfold the request slip beside the mobile on the counter. “That’s what I found,” I say in a desperate kind of triumph.

  As she reaches for it I pin it down with all my fingertips. I’m not letting it out of my possession. She draws back as if she’s recoiling from the sight of my extended fingers and says “Perhaps you would care to explain.”

  “It’s John Strong after you said he never existed. You said this didn’t, anyway. You said his papers didn’t, and this was on the shelf where you got them for my father.”

  “I most certainly did nothing of the kind. Did you?”

  Her colleague leans forward as if she’s wary of venturing too close to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t put it there.”

  “Then who did?”

  As she gives me a look that may contain some element of distress, the older woman intervenes. “I think that’s best left to the imagination.”

  “It won’t be staying there, believe me.” Was she suggesting I’d imagined some if not all of the situation? I needn’t grow angry when I’m able to say “I hope you can see why I was in there at least. I’m sorry if I broke the rules, but I don’t think it was too serious, do you? Maybe I’ve shown you how easy it is. I’ve helped you take more care of your security in future.”

  I shouldn’t have mentioned security. I hope I haven’t said too much about it or in general. As I pick up the form and start towards the barrier the older woman says “Will you give me your word you’ve done nothing else?”

  “Absolutely. It’s yours. Go and check if you like.”

  “Then considering your relationship with Lucinda I’m prepared to overlook the incident, but I would ask you to remember that your behaviour reflects on her.”

  “I’ll do that.” I give the barrier a push and then a harder one, but it continues to confront my groin. “This isn’t working,” I protest.

  “Just as soon as you’ve returned the slip.”

  I fold it and hide it in my pocket before saying “I’m afraid I have to take it. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “We can’t allow that. It’s council property.”

  “I’m certain the council won’t miss it, but I would. It’s something my father left. I need to keep everything I have of his.”

  I’m ashamed of using him this way, but surely it’s justified. The younger librarian widens her eyes, and my appeal seems to have worked until her colleague says “While I appreciate your situation—”

  There’s no point in waiting to hear why she still can’t let me go. I plant my hands on the uprights flanking the barrier and vault over it. I feel as if I’m dreaming of agility, but it’s real enough; someone gasps behind me like a circus spectator. I dash into the fourth-floor lobby and am heading for the lift until I dodge to the stairs. If a security man is called, I’m betting he will use the lift. As I run down two and three stairs at a time I feel lithe as water.

  Indeed, my legs are growing wetter. My drenched trousers are to blame. On the ground floor the mechanical doors defer to me barely in time. I slow to a walk as I come in sight of the security desk at the exit. Behind it a guard is putting a phone down, and stands up as I stroll closer. “Excuse me—”

  “I’ll do that,” I tell him and sprint for the exit, so fast that I nearly collide with the unhurried automatic door. As soon as it slides out of enough of the way I dash through the gap and squeeze through the one the outer door sets about offering. Has the rain only just stopped? The flagged path looks molten with sunlight and water, and a solitary figure in the entrance to St John’s Gardens across the road is holding up an umbrella. She’s wearing spectacles that remind me of John Lennon until I notice that the large round lenses are opaque with rain. Either she’s blind or they’re some kind of disguise or camouflage. I can barely see for the brightness after the storm; I’m struggling to keep my watery eyes open. Just in time I realise where I can take refuge from any pursuers. I veer left, away from the figure in the shadow of the umbrella, and spring up the steps to the Walker.

  I try to act like an average visitor to the art gallery as I push the door open, but the charade seems not to work. Behind the information desk in the middle of the extensive marble lobby, a young woman glances up and then stares wide-eyed at me. I mustn’t let her drive me out. I’m striding past the desk when she says “Sorry, I was rude.”

  I risk glancing back, but there’s no sign of the guard from the library. If he had to wait for someone to take over his post he won’t have seen me come in here. “I know I’m as wet as it gets,” I say and catch sight of the badge she’s wearing. “That’s what you call water awareness.”

  “It’s a joke, isn’t it? They say we still need to be careful about using water.” She gives her head a quick shake as though to free drops from her shoulder-length hair and says “I wasn’t looking at that. I thought for a moment you were, well, it doesn’t matter.”

  At once I’m sure it does. “I was what?”

  “Someone who used to work here. It was only because the sun was in my eyes.”

  “It still is. I’m the son.”

  “You are, aren’t you? That’s the sort of thing Deryck would say. He was always kidding.” She gives her lip a pretty nibble and murmurs “Is he all right? We heard the police were looking for him.”

  “Because he’s missing. I’m waiting to hear.”

  “I hope you do and everything’s as it should be.” Even lower she says “I hope it’s not that he doesn’t want people to see him.”

  For some reason my mouth grows parched. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “If he’s ashamed, I meant. I think he was when this place got rid of him.”

  “I think you’re right. Do you know why he was fired?”

  She looks around to ensure we aren’t being overheard and then leans on the counter. “He kept telling people the city was trying to cover things up.”

  “Which things?”

  “I heard a big argument he had with his boss. I should think everyone did. It was one of the reasons they asked him to leave.”

  I wait, but then I have to prompt “What kind of argument?”

  “I expect most people wouldn’t think it was worth making such a fuss about. He was saying one of the portraits we have in storage, it’s a painting of Joseph Williamson, the man who—”

  “I know all about him.” Even if this is an exaggeration, I’m anxious to learn “What was my father saying?”

  “That it wasn’t real.”

  “Not real how?”

  “The painter was a tenant of Williamson’s, and Deryck said he was trying to make him look more ordinary. Not ordinary, human, that’s the word he used. There’s supposed to be a photograph of Williamson, except most people think it isn’t, but Deryck said it’s the photograph that’s real.”

  “I’ve seen it. I don’t know how he would know.”

  “I shouldn’t think you’d understand what else he said either.”

  “I might.” All the same, I feel irrationally reluctant to ask “What was it?”

  “It was when he lost his temper. He was shouting, and I
don’t know if he really knew what he was saying.” She shakes her head again as if to dislodge the memory and murmurs “He said he was sure it was a real photograph because it was like looking in a mirror.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  WILLIAMSON’S WAY

  I remember the supposed photograph of Williamson, apparently found under the floor of the house where he died—the coarse wide-mouthed almost circular face with its eyes slitted to show only the black pupils, so that you could imagine the pupils were elongated and horizontal. “It’s nothing like him,” I protest.

  “That’s what I said. Nothing like Deryck, I mean.”

  “So what would have made him think it was?”

  “Maybe he dreamed it.” While she plainly intends to be comforting, she fails even before she adds “You’d think he’d know the difference.”

  “Sometimes you don’t, I can tell you.”

  She waits as if I’ve led her to expect a tale and then says “Maybe it runs in the family, then.”

  I’m not sure how this makes me feel, but peace of mind isn’t involved. “I hope you find him very soon,” she says, “and I promise I’m not the only one here.”

  “Thanks,” I say before she can trouble me further, and move away from the desk.

  Talking or nervousness has left my mouth as dry as the drought that her badge predicts. The café beyond the desk sells bottled water, but I need to be frugal just now. As I climb the expansive marble stairs, a wave of humidity that smells of weak tea follows me from the café. Since when have the stairs been dominated by an enormous painting of a storm at sea? The billows that look set to drag a sailing ship into the depths resemble a giant hand with spume for fingernails, unless that’s yet another dream I’m having while awake.

  I push open the imposing Victorian door to the Gents and cross the white marble room to the nearest sink. A handful of water just about moistens my arid throat, and half a dozen more do away with my thirst for the moment. As I straighten up with a gasp from gulping so much liquid, a shape rears up in the mirror above the sink. It’s at my back.