"Only a few moments. I only wanted to know where I could find local history."
"You're talking to a piece of it. You were seeing it in the making." Jack escorted the small nervous woman, who cleared her throat several times in the thirty or so seconds it took him, to the secluded alcove where books about Merseyside were shelved, and then he spoke. "I was just phoning in search of some overdue books."
"I thought that was what it might be."
Another reader asked Jack to help her discover the law on trading from her house, which took an armful of massive books and over half an hour. Jack had never realised the law was so convoluted; he was glad it didn't touch him. By the time the reader was satisfied, the librarian was back from lunch. "Ready for the road?" he asked Jack.
"Whenever you give me the licence."
"You'll be dealing with an odd customer."
"I'm used to handling people."
"Lives by Bromborough Library. They know him there, so he came here." As Jack set off the librarian added "The scenic route is via Eastham."
That sounded to Jack like an invitation to take his time, though he didn't intend to take any more than he needed. He drove out of Ellesmere Port, between brick blocks of 'thirties flats and then clumps of increasingly newer and similar houses, and onto a road which paralleled the motorway and which made him feel rather as though he was excused from participating in a race. Sunlight fluttered through a rank of poplars before the road climbed over the motorway and wound through fields. A long rodent darted out of a hedge and into the hedge opposite. An oil refinery blocked off the fields to Jack's right, then the road was claimed by Eastham, a village of white cottages built around a churchyard. A dual carriage way divided it from Bromborough, the next village. This radiated from an old stone cross, but most of the buildings around the cross had been occupied by modern shop-fronts, one of which said Bail's Signs. Several hundred yards around the corner, closer than Jack had anticipated, was the library, and he found himself a space in its car park.
The borrower of the overdue books lived in a small house squeezed between two larger ones overlooking a green in front of the library. As Jack crossed the thirsty grass, he glimpsed a net curtain falling into place at a window not much larger than a car windscreen above the front door. He reached gingerly for the bell push which was dangling from a single screw and exposing its wires, and pressed the grubby plastic button. When even leaning on it provoked no response, he managed to raise the brass knocker and slam it against the tarnished plate on the knurled black door. The knock was answered by a screech of rage, and the door was flung open. "Mr. Samson?" Jack said.
The door had been opened by a tall thin stoop-shouldered man with very red prominent ears. His trousers were bright blue except for the faded knees; his old tweed jacket, like his skin, seemed at least a size too large for him. "Eh?" he shouted, glowering and shoving one ear forwards with a cupped hand.
"Mr. David Samson?"
"What do you want?" he demanded, adding "Eh?" before Jack could open his mouth.
"Those books on the stairs, Mr. Samson. I'm from the library."
Behind Samson, at the end of a short dim hall whose carpet was dusty with fallen plaster, Jack could see a pile of large books halfway up the stairs, which also bore some tins of food and an indeterminate crumpled item of clothing. Among the titles on the spines were the names of all the artists who were the subjects of the books Jack had been sent to reclaim. That much he saw before Samson moved to block his view, shouting "You're not from the library' and pointing across the road.
"Not this one. Ellesmere Port."
"Ellesmere Port? Half the time you can't get a bus to it. They say one's coming and it never does. If you ask me they want to keep us in our houses so we won't be able to use our bus passes," Samson yelled, and glared accusingly at Jack.
"I'm not from the bus company," Jack said, aware that an interested audience was gathering outside the library. "I just want the books."
"Eh?" Samson shouted, pushing both ears forward.
"The books, Mr. Samson," Jack said, lowering his voice.
"You want to take away the only pleasure I've got left, do you? Those books belong to everyone. We pay for them out of our poll tax, them and your wages."
"It's because they belong to everyone that the library would like them back."
"Eh?"
"I don't think you're as deaf as that, Mr. Samson," Jack said in an ordinary voice.
"You don't, eh?" Samson shouted, and his face crumpled with fury. He rose to his full height, towering unsteadily over Jack, and shook a finger at him while haranguing the dozen or so people outside the library. "Look, here's the latest thing. Here's how we can expect to be treated in future. Better not borrow any books, because if you're too ill to return them the authorities will send a thug to break into your house."
"I haven't touched you or your house," Jack said for only him to hear. "But I won't leave without the books."
"Come and look at him. He's enjoying himself." When nobody made a move Samson peered at Jack's face and shuddered. "You're mad. You're dangerous."
"Only when I have to be."
Samson ducked into the cottage. "Don't you take one step closer," he said, no longer shouting. "Here, have your books if they'll get rid of you. God help the world if there are many like you in it." He stalked rapidly along the hall, his feet crunching fallen plaster, and grabbed the top book from the pile. "El Greaso, he's yours, isn't he? He sounds like he paints," he said, and shied the book along the carpet. "Who else are you after? Piss Arrow? Pick Arso?"
"If you throw the books I'll have to come in to stop you," Jack said.
Samson clutched the entire pile of books to his chest and staggered towards Jack. "Nobody comes in, not even to read these," he shouted, nodding sideways at the gas and electric meters just inside the cottage. "When they come to carry me out in a box, then it'll be open house. Here, take the lot if it'll make you happy, if it'll wipe the grin off your face," he said, his voice beginning to falter, and dumping the books at Jack's feet, slammed the door so hard that the dangling bell push danced against the wall.
They were all library books. Jack loaded them against his chest and made for the car park. Most of the audience had gone inside the library, but an old couple with a wheeled basket and a Yorkshire terrier walked along with him. "You did better than the gas man," the woman said.
"We could use a few like you to chase our tenants," her husband told Jack. "And we never even saw you lay a finger on him."
"I didn't."
"Of course not. All it requires is not taking no for an answer."
"More power to you," the woman said. "You're an asset to the community."
By the time Jack unlocked the van they were out of sight. He piled the books on the passenger seat and strolled towards the shops. Those which faced Dail's Signs were closed for the afternoon, and the view of the shop from near the stone cross was obscured by a bus shelter. As Jack left the car park a small queue of people with their backs to him climbed on a bus for Ellesmere Port. The bus swung round the crossroads, and then the street was deserted.
Both Dail's shop window and the glass panel of the door were opaque with signs: KEEP OUT, BEWARE OF THE DOG, NO TRESPASSING, NO CREDIT, NO SMOKING... Jack squatted in front of the door, his briefcase nudging his calves, and prised open the letter' slot which was only a couple of feet from the ground. The floorboards in the gloom were bare, and directly in front of him a gap between two of them, as wide as a gap drawn with a felt-tipped pen, led to a counter encrusted with plastic signs. "The line of fire," he murmured, and applying his lighter to the nozzle of the blow lamp poked the flame through the metal slot.
He remembered the gong-note of the old blow lamp as it had struck Arrod's skull: bonggg-gg-g...g... But the new tool was far more efficient. It was virtually inaudible from outside the shop, yet in a few seconds flames began to feel their way along the gap between the floorboards. When he saw the lowest sig
ns on the front of the counter start to curl up and sputter, he turned off the blow lamp and returned it to the briefcase before rising to his feet. "I hope you're insured," he told the shop. "A little expenditure can save a lot of heartache."
He walked invisibly to the van and drove back to the cross. A woman surrounded by several carrier bags was standing by the bus shelter now, and beginning to sniff the air. Any moment she would notice the smoke oozing from beneath the door behind her. If she ran to the nearest phone, the fire brigade should be in time to save the adjoining shops. Jack winked at the clown. "Never thought we'd be glad of early closing day, did you?" he said.
THIRTY-FOUR
The librarian was delighted with Jack's haul, which included books borrowed years ago under names other than Samson from libraries in Birkenhead and Chester. "We may send you out again soon," he said, and Jack mentally crossed another name off his list, though he didn't yet know which.
When he arrived home Laura was asleep in bed. Though he didn't like to leave the situation unresolved it felt like a flaw in their life he couldn't very well wake her up. In the morning he was waiting for her at the breakfast table. She ran downstairs late as usual, ready to linger over toast and Marmite and run to brush her teeth before hurrying to school. He had the newspaper open at the paragraph about her. "Laura, do you know anything about this?"
"Can't it wait until she comes home?" Julia said.
"Won't we all feel better once it's out of the way?" When neither of them spoke he said "So what do you know about it, Laura?"
"One of my friends' mums is a reporter."
"And?"
"She asked me about the money while me and Stephanie were walking home."
"She interviewed you, you mean."
"I didn't know she was until she'd finished and she said it might be in the paper."
"I'll be having a few words with her."
"Dad, please don't. Stephanie's my friend. Her mum didn't write anything bad about us."
Jack gave in, though he wasn't entirely happy. "I suppose we'll just have to get used to being news for a while."
It seemed to him that there was more to it, but he wasn't sure what until the post came, consisting of a letter from the bank. "Please contact me at your earliest convenience to arrange an appointment," he read aloud to Julia. "Sounds as if Hardy's after our money."
"Unless he wants to give us some."
"I wonder if I could make that happen," Jack mused, and phoned the bank.
Mr. Hardy wasted no time once Jack was put through to him. "When would be convenient for you to come in to discuss your financial situation?"
"How about now?"
"My diary is full until lunchtime. This afternoon, perhaps?"
'I'll be at work."
"And your wife?"
Ignoring that, Jack said "Tomorrow as soon as you open? That's if it won't take long."
"I don't foresee much discussion."
'I'll look forward to it," Jack said, baring his teeth at the phone. "I get the impression he's read the paper," he told Julia.
"Does he want us both again?"
"It doesn't matter what he wants, only what you want."
Then I'll come."
Jack might have been able to take a harder line on his own, but Julia's presence needn't enfeeble him. He was trying to think of an excuse to leave early for work and finish making his phone calls when she commandeered him to help tidy the house. With just the two of them in it, it didn't seem so cramped; it wasn't for lack of space that they kept touching each other. They hadn't finished cleaning their bedroom when they started to undress each other, and they weren't even half naked when Julia pulled him down on the bed and clasped his waist with her legs. He felt huge and hot inside her. As she cried out and dug her nails into his shoulders he thought it was the loudest cry he'd ever heard.
They lay embraced until it was time for him to leave for work. Perhaps he would have a chance to use the phone this afternoon, he thought as he drove to the library. He arrived a few minutes early, and manned the reference desk while his colleagues headed for the staff-room. He was making for the phone directory when he caught sight of the headline on the front page of one of the newspapers. CANAL MURDER "MAY BE WORK OF MERSEY BURNER', it said.
Jack went quickly to the table, reminding himself that there was no need for stealth. The newspaper report said that the police believed Walter Foster had jumped into the canal to avoid being burned alive. They had also found similarities between his death and those of Jeremy Alston and Stephen Arrod. It wasn't clear to Jack whether the police had invented the nickname in the headline. He was scrutinising the report, having scanned it, when the librarian approached him. "Jack?"
"Just glancing at the paper," Jack said, and turned his back on it. "I'll be at the desk."
Something about the librarian's expression halted him. "Or do you want me somewhere else?"
"I don't, no." The librarian was trying to make it into a joke, stretching his mouth in a clown's grimace. "Your fan club is downstairs. The police."
THIRTY-FIVE
Jack's first thought was that he had been too slow. Instead of making the phone calls and perhaps even visiting one of his list he had dallied with Julia and allowed bad luck to catch up with them. It wasn't just bad luck, it was the worst, because it entailed his abandoning her and Laura to it. He felt unworthy of them. He'd had the chance to assure them a good life and failed. He turned away from the librarian, embarrassed by the prospect of being seen to be found out, and made for the stairs.
The rubbery treads seemed to adhere to the soles of his shoes. The sensation was unpleasantly reminiscent of a dream, but in dreams one was never aware of the future, whereas now he was imagining Julia and Laura learning what he'd done on their behalf. Shouldn't he at least phone Julia and tell her before she learned from someone else? He couldn't think how to begin: he couldn't think of a single joke.
Reaching the foot of the stairs put an end to his thoughts. He was hesitating between the two sections of the library when Stella came out of the video section. "What have you been up to, Jack?"
She was treating it as a joke too. Of course, he thought, the police hadn't told his colleagues why they wanted him. "Where are they?" he said.
She jerked her head back, jingling the bells which dangled from her ears. "Waiting for you."
Over her shoulder he saw a police car parked outside the revolving doors. A uniformed policeman was standing beside the car, his back to the library. He must know that was the only exit Jack could use which wouldn't set off the alarm, unless someone else was posted beyond the other door. It occurred to Jack that he would be able to phone Julia from the police station; he was entitled to one phone call. He trudged towards the doors, his inability to think what he could say to her slowing him down until it seemed as though he might never reach them.
He was pressing his hand against the metal plate on the foremost door, the coolness of the plate fading as he did so, when the policeman with his back to him raised both hands to his face. Jack heard a match scrape, and smoke began to puff out of the policeman's face. If Jack could lure him to the van and reach the blow lamp—It wouldn't be fair; the man was only doing his job. Jack squared his shoulders and marched through the barrel of doors into the sunlight and a sweetish aroma of pipe-smoke. "I believe you're looking for me," he said.
The policeman emitted a couple of puffs before turning to him. Perhaps the pipe was meant to counteract the school-boyishness of his face. He appraised Jack for several seconds before admitting "That's right."
"Well, you've got me."
The policeman gave him a stern look which impressed Jack as restrained under the circumstances. "Remind me what I should call you, if you will."
"Call me—Not the Mersey Burner, but the Count of Eleven would require too much explaining. "How about sir?"
"As you wish, sir."
There was no point in antagonising him. "The name's Jack Orchard."
&n
bsp; "Mr. Orchard. This shouldn't take long," the policeman said, relighting his pipe. The match flared before his face, and Jack felt as if the man was playing with him, trying to taunt him into a confession. A couple of readers with whom he had discussed books stared at him and the policeman before entering the library. "Can we do this in the car?" Jack said.
The policeman took the stem out of his mouth and used it to point at his colleague in the driver's seat, who was studying a street map. "He doesn't appreciate the pipe."
"Then put it away, and your matches before I show you what to do with them." Whichever of Jack's selves would have said that, it was headed off by a fear that the librarian might be calling Julia. "What did you say to my boss?" Jack demanded.
The policeman gave him an expertly blank look. "What should I have told him?"
"Why you wanted to see me."
"Just that, of course."
The policeman seemed about to go on, but Jack interrupted him. "Do you mind if I make my phone call now?"
"We're quite busy, Mr. Orchard. Is it anything that can't wait a few minutes?"
Surely that couldn't be another taunt; perhaps the man didn't realise "I'm married," Jack told him.
"Congratulations," the policeman said with what sounded like irony. "Still getting used to the idea?"
Perhaps after all he knew what he was doing to Jack. He opened the matchbox, and Jack felt his fingers stiffen. "Been married long?" the policeman said, watching him over the flame.
"Nearly thirteen years."
"Lucky for some. Children?"
"A daughter."
"One can be enough, I keep telling my wife." The policeman waved smoke away from Jack's face. "Is your daughter the problem?"
"This conversation is."
"I see, sir." The policeman's face could hardly have turned redder if Jack had trained a flame on it. With a briskness which all but convicted Jack of having wasted police time he said "We'd better establish the facts of the case."
The Count of Eleven Page 26