Overdue Item

by Peter Menadue

  Julia perched on the edge of the couch as footage showed Bronwyn leaving the library, a rucksack over her shoulder. She noticed the cameraman and quickened her stride. However, the chubby reporter jumped in front of her, like a mugger, brandishing a microphone instead of a pistol. "Ms Baker, as Head Librarian, can we have your comment on the murder?"

  Bronwyn stopped and eyed the microphone with excitement and suspicion. "Umm, yes, it was a most unfortunate incident."

  "Unfortunate?"

  "Yes. I don't like people getting murdered in the library. I'm against it. But the man was not a library member. He didn't even have a card. We had nothing to do with him. You should speak to the police. Now, I must be going." On that note, she scurried off.

  Julia groaned inwardly. Instead of showing compassion, her boss babbled excuses. Thankfully, the newsreader reappeared on the screen and introduced another story, about milk prices.

  Julia's father said. "Your boss is an idiot."

  "I've told you that before."

  "I thought you were exaggerating. How on earth did she get her job?"

  "Because she can't - or won't - touch books."

  An odd stare. "You're kidding?"

  "No, she says they make her sick, so she has to work as a supervisor."

  "It sounds like a mad-house."

  "It is."

  Julia wondered why the news program didn't mention the tattoos on the dead guy's arm. Did the cops hold that back or did the program edit it out for some reason?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Sydney Morning Herald had recently announced that it would soon stop publishing a print edition. However, the next morning, while strolling to work, Julia stopped at a news agency and found a small pile of Heralds near the door. She bought one and stood on the pavement, flipping through it. The main headline on page five said: MYSTERY MAN MURDERED IN LIBRARY. Just below it were small photos of the library building and the morgue head-shot of the furry-faced deceased shown on the ABC Evening News.

  The short article said that when "a junior librarian" discovered the dead body of a homeless man, sitting in a chair, it was initially believed he died of natural causes. Only later did a post mortem examination establish he was strangled to death. Detective Sergeant Cochrane was quoted as saying the police had yet to identify the deceased and had no leads. "We want to hear from anyone who can help us with our inquiries."

  She tucked the newspaper under her arm and continued towards the library; she'd almost reached it when she noticed a tall, handsome man in a double-breasted suit with sun-glasses perched on top of pampered hair. Any doubts he was a television reporter were resolved by the microphone in his hand and the big camera on the shoulder of his stout, hairy-faced companion. He stared at her, wondering if she was heading for the library, ready to pounce.

  She was tempted to keep walking along the pavement and circle around to the rear entrance. But why should she? She had nothing to hide. She turned towards the library and quickened her stride.

  The reporter bounded towards her. She'd almost reached the door when he thrust the microphone under her nose.

  "Hi, I'm Dave Edwards from Action Nightly News. Do you work here? Are you a librarian?"

  Damn, why didn't she have her key ready? She thrust her hand into her bag and felt around. The camera was now right in her face. "Umm, ahh, yes."

  "Any comment on the murder here a few days ago?"

  Oxygen disappeared from her lungs. Where the hell was that key? "Umm, no - I'm just a librarian."

  "Can you tell me who discovered the body?"

  "No idea."

  Oh God, she'd just lied to hundreds of thousands of people. Her fingers encircled a bunch of keys. Great. She shakily pulled them out, found the right one and speared it into the lock.

  "You must know who found the body."

  She turned the key, ignoring the camera only a few feet away. "Can't help you, I'm afraid - got to work." She opened the door, slid inside and slammed it behind her, panting hard.

  His muffled voice carried through the door: "Hey wait."

  Piss off, you prat.

  "Julia, that you?" a reedy voice said.

  She glanced around. Nobody. Must be Bronwyn in her office. She strolled towards it, trying to compose herself, and opened the door.

  Bronwyn sat at her desk, the Herald story spread out in front of her. She gave Julia a frazzled stare. "Did he catch you outside?"

  "The TV reporter? Yes, he asked some questions; I said nothing."

  "Good. I saw him just in time and snuck around the back." Bronwyn absently fiddled with a corner of the newspaper. "Did you see me on TV last night?"

  Julia had hoped she wouldn't ask. "Ah, yes."

  A pleading look. "How did I go?"

  It was a bridge-down train-wreck. "OK. Good, actually. Yes, fine."

  A suspicious stare. "Really? I think I said some silly things. I mean, they point a camera at you and your mind goes to mush. I didn't expect that. I hope I didn't sound too, well, heartless."

  You definitely did. "No, you were fine."

  Bronwyn brightened a little. "Thanks. Now, while you're here, I should mention that our new librarian will arrive tomorrow, unless he takes fright. His name's Tom Birkett. I haven't met him yet. But the employment agency says he's got good references. I'll introduce him when he arrives. He's only a temp. But, if he works out, I'll probably offer him a full-time job."

  Which, if he had any brains, he'd refuse. "OK."

  Bronwyn glanced at her watch. "Anyway, I've got to see the Mayor and the General Manager in about half an hour to fill them in on developments. While I'm away, you're in charge."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "About an hour."

  "OK. What should I do if any reporters try to enter the library?"

  Bronwyn frowned. "Tell the little cockroaches to get out and, if they don't, call the police and get them to throw the bastards out. Surely, the bloody cops can at least do that."

  "Will do."

  "And tell the others to do the same."

  Julia wandered out into the circular reading room, just in time to see Gary come through the front entrance with Mr Cheshire just behind him. Their proximity was obviously a coincidence, because they hated each other.

  Gary looked excited. "Hi, did you see the TV reporter outside?"

  "Yes. Did he ask you any questions?"

  "Yep, but I said I've got no comment, at this stage."

  Typical smart-arse response. She glanced at Mr Cheshire, who shook his head. "I said nothing; I hate television."

  "Bronwyn says media people aren't allowed into the library, so if any of them try to come in here, tell them to get lost."

  They both nodded and strolled off towards the workroom.

  She opened the front doors at nine o'clock and nervously glanced around for the TV reporter and his cameraman, and couldn't see them. However, a few minutes later, as she stood behind the borrowing counter, the reporter sashayed into the library and approached her.

  His toothy grin proclaimed that his looks and charm would soon overwhelm the meagre defences of the lowly and impressionable librarian standing before him. "Hi, are you in charge?"

  She reminded herself that many of this guy's audience watched him in their underpants. "Nope."

  "Then who is?"

  "The Head Librarian."

  "Where's she?"

  "She's not talking to the press. In fact you're not allowed in here."

  "Why not?"

  "I've been told the news media aren't allowed in the library."

  "And you're just following orders?"

  "Yes."

  A wide-screen smirk. "I'm not here as a reporter."

  "Really?"

  "Yes." He scanned the bookshelves. "I just want to, umm, borrow a book."

  Now she was getting annoyed. "You mean, you can read?"

  He scowled. "Of course."

  She stared at the sunglasses on top of his head as if they were bi
rd crap. "If you want to borrow a book, you'll have to get a membership card. It costs $20."

  He reached up and nervously adjusted his sunglasses. "Thanks. But I'll have a poke around first, to see if there's something I want to borrow."

  "As long as that's all you do."

  "Of course. And, umm, I suppose my cameraman can come in and look for a book too?"

  A steel-ribbed smile. "As long as he leaves his camera outside."

  "It's expensive equipment. Surely, he can bring it in."

  "Not a hope in hell."

  He frowned. "Why can't we just do a bit of filming? We won't disturb anyone."

  "This is a library, not a TV studio."

  "We're just trying to keep the public informed."

  "Don't make me laugh. I learn more from watching the ads."

  Most people flung themselves at his microphone in a desperate attempt to get on the nightly news. He looked confused. "You're very direct."

  She shrugged. "You give me no choice."

  "We could wait outside and ambush you when you leave?"

  A contemptuous smile. "I bet you're too busy to do that."

  A shrug. "OK, but you could, at least, show me where the old guy died."

  "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "The chair's gone."

  "The police took it away?"

  She giggled inside and side-stepped the question. "That's a matter you'll have to raise with them."

  He sighed and shrugged. "OK, I surrender. We've probably got enough footage of the outside. Can I ask your name?"

  "No."

  "OK, ciao." He turned and strolled away.

  "You don't want to borrow a book?"

  A half-turn. "Another day."

  He disappeared and she slipped over to one of the large windows overlooking the front pavement. He spoke briefly to his cameraman, before they got into a small van and drove off.

  To her surprise, instead of scaring off patrons, the publicity about the murder had the reverse effect. Patrons, many of whom she hadn't seen for ages, swarmed into the library and kept appearing at the borrowing counter, ostensibly to borrow books or ask library-related questions. But it was soon clear most had murder on their minds. After expressing sympathy for the distress she must have suffered - as if the victim was a close relative - they pumped her for information about the murder. To get rid of them, she lied that she was off sick that day and wasn't sure where, exactly, the old guy died. They wandered off disappointed.

  She couldn't remember which patrons were in the library when the old guy died, but kept scanning faces in case one of them jogged her memory. No luck.

  Just before noon, Bronwyn returned from her meeting with the Mayor and General Manager, and showed her discombobulation by again approaching the borrowing counter. "Phew, I'm glad that's over."

  "What did they say?"

  "Obviously, neither gave a stuff that some old bastard got murdered. But they hate the bad publicity - hate it. The Mayor said he's got an election in about six months' time and hopes the police investigation doesn't drag on."

  "He actually said that?"

  "Yup, bold as brass. Anyway, I said they could have avoided the publicity if they followed my advice, and stopped homeless old men and other riff-raff coming in here."

  Julia bet that went down like a lead balloon. "You really said that?"

  A defiant look. "Of course. Why not? I'm not carrying the can for this - no way."

  It was obviously a meeting at which three highly experienced blame-shifters went head-to-head. Julia had to giggle.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Oh, nothing, I was thinking about something else."

  A suspicious stare. "OK."

  "So, are they going to do something about the homeless old men who come in here?"

  "Of course not. They said that, if they did, it would look like an admission of responsibility. Weasels. However, they've now decided that all library staff must have counselling."

  "What sort of counselling."

  "Trauma counselling, grief counselling - that sort of thing."

  "Why?"

  "They're obviously worried that, if they don't look after their staff, they'll get blamed down the track. This is an arse-covering exercise."

  "I don't need counselling."

  "Doesn't matter. You're gonna get it."

  "But ..."

  Bronwyn waved her finger. "Don't argue. Just play along: sit down with the shrink and tell him your problems - cry a bit if you can. You can still make a claim later. In fact, it'll look better if you saw the shrink. That's what I'm going to do."

  "You mean, you might sue the Council?"

  "Of course, if recent events have caused me psychological damage."

  "Have they?"

  A knowing look. "I won't know that until I speak to my lawyer."

  Julia locked her eyes to stop them rolling. Jesus. "When are we going to get this counselling?"

  "The counsellor will be here in an hour or so."

  "That's quick."

  "They want to nip any problems in the bud." A snigger. "They'll be lucky …"

  About an hour later, a defiantly grey woman in her late-thirties, with big liquid eyes and a small, unsympathetic mouth, arrived and asked to speak to Bronwyn. Julia directed her towards Bronwyn's office.

  The woman knocked and disappeared inside for almost an hour. Then Bronwyn called Julia into her office.

  Bronwyn's nose was red and there was an open box of tissues on the desk. "Julia, this Ruth Blake, the trauma counsellor I mentioned earlier. We've had a chat about the terrible, terrible event that occurred here, and she's been very helpful. Now, she wants to have a chat with you. I think you should go into the small room near the entrance."

  Julia wanted to refuse, but wasn't busy and didn't want to cause a scene. "OK."

  She escorted the counselor around to a small white-walled room with a white Formica table and a couple of chairs.

  The counselor sat behind the table, a big notepad in front of her, and Julia sat opposite.

  "I hope you don't find this inconvenient."

  Julia suppressed a big sigh. "Of course not."

  "Good. I'd like to start with some background. You're 23?"

  "Yes."

  "Live on your own?"

  "No, with my father."

  "Where's your mother?"

  Julia wanted to tell her it was none of her business, but also wanted to expedite their chat. "She died of cancer when I was 16."

  "Oh." The woman scribbled on the pad. "You still miss her?"

  "Of course."

  Another scribble. "Now, I understand that you found the body of the dead man, right?"

  "No, a little boy found it. He told me and I went and looked at it."

  "Could you describe what happened?"

  Julia told the woman everything she could remember.

  "OK, and how did you feel when you saw the body?"

  "Shocked, of course."

  "How do you feel about it now?"

  "I'm OK now. It's happened - I'm over it. I mean, I'm not having flashbacks or anything like that."

  A beady look. "You're not upset at all?"

  Julia's sole objective was to get this interview over and done with as soon as possible. "Well, of course I feel sorry - very sorry - for the old guy. Terrible way to die. But I didn't know him. I only talked to him twice, and both times he yelled at me."

  "Why did he yell?"

  "I told him to be quiet and leave other patrons alone."

  "And he disagreed."

  "Seemed to. He didn't make much sense."

  "So, you were angry with him, when he died?"

  "No, I wasn't angry, I wasn't anything - I didn't know him."

  More note-taking. "When you saw his body, did it remind you of anything?"

  "No, why would it?"

  "You mean, it didn't remind you of your mother?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "
He wasn't my mother - he was an old guy with a big beard."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Sure you're not pushing away your feelings?"

  "About what?"

  "First of all, the old man's death?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "You sure? Sometimes we bury emotions instead of dealing with them."

  "I'm not burying anything."

  "What about your mother? You burying your feelings about her?"

  "Of course not. Anyway, she's got nothing to do with the murder."

  More scribbling. "You don't want to talk about her?"

  "No."

  "OK, OK. How have you been sleeping?"

  "Fine."

  "Eating?"

  "Fine."

  The counsellor sat back and tapped her pen on her pad. "Mmm. You think you've recovered from this traumatic event. But your emotions are still a bit confused, probably because of your mother's death. We should have a few more sessions together to go over these issues."

  "I don't want to."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't have a problem and I don't have the time."

  "Don't worry, the Council will pay for the sessions."

  Julia had no intention of letting this woman dig around in her brain and waste her time to milk money from the Council. "I don't care; I'm OK and don't need any counseling."

  The counsellor leaned forward. "You're being very defensive."

  "Only because you're not listening."

  "I know you think you're alright. But sometimes - often - people push their feelings away, ignore them, and it creates a time bomb that goes off later."

  Julia wanted to grab her notepad and write, in huge letters: "I AM FINE". If she needed counselling, it would be to recover from this session.

  "I don't want any more sessions," she said, speaking slowly and spacing the words.

  A scowl and sigh. "Alright. But if you have any flashbacks or black thoughts, or nihilistic feelings, contact me. Here's my card." She fished a card out of her handbag and handed it over. "It's my job to help."

  "Thank you." Julia took the card, stood and left the room, heart pumping. At least, this woman still had to talk to Mr Cheshire and Gary. They would make Julia seem like the embodiment of sweet reason.