Literary Remains

by R. B. Russell

  ‘You might as well. And if you see any books, take them out. The deal is that I’ve paid for his library, so any books are now legally and morally mine.’

  The first cupboard was well-stocked with bottles of spirits, but the second contained files of what looked like utilities bills and bank statements. However, there were a couple of proof-copies of his novel and I passed these over to Julian. Despite the growing heat in the room I had just about forgotten that I was looking for keys to the window-locks, and taking off my jacket and putting it over the back of a chair I set to looking through a bureau with my mind more on books. Here I made a discovery that was to keep us busy for quite some time. Two big box files appeared to contain the typescripts of his published stories, each neatly paper-clipped and annotated. The bureau also held a few piles of other miscellaneous manuscript papers, some very old photograph albums that didn’t appear to be his own family’s, and a heavy pile of fragile 78-records.

  I eventually left Julian poring over the manuscripts and went into the study. Here, in a series of cupboards, I found piles of paperbacks, and though they had little value in themselves, they all contained their owner’s signature and would thus be of interest to collectors. They had been hidden away, out of view, I decided, because their tatty, gaudy spines would have upset the look of the room.

  ‘When I came to value the collection,’ Julian admitted, standing in the doorway after I had called him through, ‘I didn’t think to look in the cupboards. If they’re all signed then they’re worth at least twenty pounds each, if I don’t flood the market with them…and as long as interest in Robertson continues. Well, it looks like I got myself a bit of a bargain, and we’ll need more boxes. And I’m going to have even more of a space problem at the shop. And is it me, or is it getting hotter in here? I don’t suppose you’ve found those keys to the window locks yet?’

  I hadn’t, and had all but given up looking for them. I spent the next quarter of an hour filling several boxes with the paperbacks, sealing them with tape and writing ‘Robertson: paperbacks, misc, signed’, on them. When I walked back through to the living room to get more boxes Julian was in his shirtsleeves and was looking at the additional manuscript material I had found:

  ‘Now, do manuscripts constitute a part of his library?’ he asked me carefully.

  ‘I imagine that would be open to some debate,’ I said, raising my eyebrows at him.

  I took two more boxes and went back to the dining room. I put the books in carefully, pleased that they fitted neatly and without too many voids. When I had finished I realised that Julian was behind me.

  ‘There is always the chance,’ he said, slowly, ‘that if I don’t take those manuscripts then somebody from the family, who doesn’t know what they are doing, will just throw them away?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ I admitted, standing up and looking over my shoulder at him. ‘But,’ I turned back to the boxes, ‘it’s got to be your conscience that decides… And if you sell them, you might need to prove that they are one hundred percent yours to sell…’

  ‘I know,’ he replied, closer to me now. ‘It’s got to be my decision.’

  And then he was directly behind me, his hands very gently on both of my arms.

  I froze. In all the time we had known each other, and I had flirted with him, there had never once been any physical contact between us. I could see how it frustrated him, but I had told myself time and again that I did not want a relationship. But, as I stood there, unmoving, I considered that Pete was no longer an issue, and perhaps I did rather like Julian… But I had taken time to consider my response and he had pulled away.

  ‘I, I’ll, um, go and get some more boxes,’ he said nervously, backing away. ‘I wasn’t expecting to find these other books. And, I’ll, ah, have to consider the ethics of taking those manuscripts, while I’m gone. I’ll bring us back something to eat and drink. Are you okay here on your own for a while?’

  Without turning, or moving at all, I said that I was, and he promised to be back within a half-hour. I decided that I did not want to think about what had just happened. I hadn’t previously felt thirsty, but his mention of something to drink sent me to the kitchen where I found a glass and, having run the tap for a while to make sure that it was fresh, I gulped down a glass of water. There was something slightly unpleasant about drinking from the thick old glass, but I decided it was just the thought of it having previously been used by a slightly smelly old man.

  I looked, without much curiosity, through the kitchen cupboards, and eventually went back to the dining room where it now felt even hotter than before. I undid the cuffs of my shirt and rolled up my sleeves. I was glad that I was wearing a skirt rather than trousers, but my tights now felt uncomfortable against my legs and I was glad that Julian had gone out so that I could remove my shoes and take them off then and there. I took them into the sitting room, stuffed them into the pocket of my jacket and felt a little better.

  Still trying, consciously, not to think of what had just happened between the two of us, I wandered about the flat. I was considering going out for some fresh air myself, but on walking out into the hallway I distracted myself with the thought that there was a nice marquetry cupboard in the bedroom, and that it might, too, contain more books. Being smaller than the two main reception rooms it seemed another few degrees hotter in there, and because the window was not as large as any of the others it seemed more close and oppressive. I knelt down by the bed and opened the doors of the cupboard to find, predictably enough, more books. I pulled some out; Dennis Wheatley at first, then a whole pile of Eleanor Brent-Dyer’s ‘Chalet School’ books, which struck me as somewhat odd. A number of Olympia Press books then came to hand, and I put them up on the bed, knowing that Julian would be able to sell those at something of a premium. A couple of ‘Emmanuelle’ books then revealed themselves, followed by other seventies paperback erotica. For the first time it seemed a little odd, sitting in the bedroom of a dead man that I had not really known, looking through his books. And here was his soft porn collection.

  I am not a prude, but I had never really come across much pornography before. I had led a pretty sheltered life really, and I had only read, and been excited by, odd excerpts from my mother’s Jackie Collins novels. It was something about the suggestive titles of Mr Robertson’s collection that made them more erotic than if I had simply come across a pile of old Playboy magazines. I opened up a paperback called Chains of Silk, but couldn’t immediately find anything of interest, and then another titled They Called it Sin. It was an American paperback, but with a British price overprinting the original which had been in cents. The cover showed a rather prim young lady who, nevertheless, was revealing more of her legs than she had necessarily intended. I started to read the first page, as she expressed her shame about some incident that she promised to reveal shortly, when suddenly I sensed Julian was standing behind me once again.

  I whirled round in surprise and lost my balance. Putting my hand out to stop myself from falling, my weight went on one of the paperbacks which immediately slid out from under me. I fell, hit my head, not hard, on the cupboard, but recovered myself from a very undignified position in an instant. But Julian Tovey was not there.

  I stood up, brushed down my skirt, and was annoyed that I had sprained my wrist. I felt a fool and strode out to the hall where I decided that Julian must have retreated in order to spare my blushes (although I thought it rather rude of him not to make sure that I was alright), but he was not there. When I checked, he wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen, and I even looked into the bathroom, despite knowing instinctively that there was nobody else in the flat, and probably there never had been. It was only when I returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed that a feeling of uncertainty crept over me. I was sure that I had seen somebody behind me, and if it was not Julian, then who or what could it have been? Of course, I had read enough ghost stories by this time that I immediately thought of Mr Robertson, but even in my slightly frigh
tened state that didn’t seem an idea worthy of any attention. I knelt back down by the cupboard, resuming the position in which I had previously been reading, and immediately had the same feeling of somebody standing behind me. This time, though, I was not so scared, and despite my heart suddenly lurching in my chest I had the presence of mind to realise that there were some clothes hanging on the back of the door which must have caused the illusion. When I investigated I found a long silk dressing-gown hanging over the top of two jackets which had given it some bulk.

  I would have finally left the flat for the cooler, cleaner air outside, except that I now felt very tired. Despite the fact that it seemed to be the main source of the musty, old man’s smell, I lay down on the bed. I didn’t want to move for a while and my wrist was hurting. Not long afterwards I faintly heard someone in the building down below, but they must have either been leaving, or perhaps entered another flat, because no other sounds came through to the bedroom. Anticipating Julian’s return I was ready to get up off the bed, but once I realised that it was not him I allowed myself to relax.

  I know that I must have fallen asleep, because I started dreaming about my ex-boyfriend, Pete. I assumed that I had only just started to doze, because when I awoke I was simply a little confused as to where I was. For a moment I thought that I was actually on Pete’s bed in his house in Brighton. Then I remembered that I was alone in Mr Robertson’s flat.

  Oddly, it was dark. It appeared that the curtains had been drawn again. I sat up, trying to regain my composure, and was surprised to feel a trickle of sweat run down from between my breasts over my stomach. I suppose that this in itself was nothing odd, for it was oppressively hot in the room, but at some point I seemed to have taken off my shirt and I was only wearing my bra on my top half. I got off the bed and pulled down my skirt, which appeared to have ridden up, and was about to leave the room when I heard somebody walking across the hallway, presumably (if my bearings were correct), between the kitchen and living room.

  My first feeling was anger. I must have slept for longer than I had thought and Julian had returned and must have come into the bedroom to pull the curtains across the window. But what else had happened? At the very least he must have seen me half-dressed, but had he removed my shirt? I couldn’t understand it, because it did not appear to be in the room.

  I was too annoyed to care about modesty. He must have seen me like this already, so I decided that I would simply confront him. I walked determinedly down the hall and into the living room where, inexplicably, once again the curtains had been closed. As I entered I thought I saw something move behind the curtains themselves, and without thinking that it could be anyone other than Julian I strode across the room and pulled them back.

  There was nobody there. The bright sunlight was blinding, and down on the street a couple of young men looked up at me, probably attracted by the movement of the curtains. It took a second before I remembered that I was only wearing my bra and skirt. I jumped back from the window, now really angry with Julian.

  I turned back to the undoubtedly empty room and heard the sound of movement once again. This time I judged it to have come from the dining room.

  ‘Julian, you bastard!’ I called out, almost running across the room and into the hallway from where, again, I certainly heard the sound of something heavy move. I strode into the room and found nobody there. Only now did I think that perhaps the sounds were actually coming from the flat above.

  The thought calmed me. I opened the curtains in the dining room, carefully this time so as not to expose myself to anyone outside, and leaned on one of the bookcases. I told myself that I was in a stupid state. The sounds upstairs were probably from whomever had let themselves into the building earlier. Despite the heat of the flat, and the reassurance that I had given myself, I shivered. Looking down I saw that I was bathed in sweat, and I saw that there was a mucky smear on my arm from where I had leant on the dusty furniture. I needed to find my shirt, or, failing that, my jacket from the sitting room. I’d then go and have a wash in the bathroom.

  I was now quite calm, walking from room to room. My shirt was still missing, but my jacket was where I had left it, and going into the bathroom I really felt quite at ease. It was only as I was shutting the door that I realised that the curtains had been drawn again when I had collected my jacket from the living room.

  I re-opened the bathroom door gingerly and looked out. It was undoubtedly dark back in the sitting room, but perhaps I really had closed them when I realised that the two young men could see me from the street. It was possible that I had misremembered, but from further down the hall there should have been more light coming through from the dining room door. I knew for a fact that I had opened those curtains.

  There was nothing to be heard, inside or outside the flat. I do not know what made me walk into the hall and press myself up against the wall. Something compelled me to inch along it towards the door of the dining room. Nothing, however, could make me look around the doorframe. Moments passed, perhaps minutes, I do not know, but I soon felt that there was definitely somebody, or something in there. How they had moved between rooms without me seeing them I did not know, but perhaps there were interconnecting doors I hadn’t noticed? I was grasping at impossibilities, and my mind reeled. Only now that I was so close to it did I feel the need to move away. I tried to tell myself that there had been nothing in the room earlier, and that my fear had actually conjured whatever it was out of the ether, but that did not help me. I sensed the presence of a man in there, a big man. Involuntarily, as I breathed in, I gulped and made a sound like a sob. Perhaps he was just around the door jamb, his body up against the other side of the wall to where my own was pressed. I held my breath, expecting to hear his breathing, but I had the notion that whoever was in there was mirroring my own actions on the other side of the wall.

  I tried to picture him, and with some sense that I could not name I knew that he was bigger than me. Perhaps much bigger. I hardly dared breathe, and I cursed the hammering of my heart. I realised that my chest was pressed hard against the wall; I was scared that the noise of my heart would use the partition as a sounding-board, magnifying it so that he could hear it!

  I moved slowly and only ever so slightly away from the wall and I heard a corresponding movement inside, and it could not possibly have been something as small as a man that moved!

  I turned and ran across to the main bedroom in blind panic fear, slamming the door behind me. Without thinking, and with a strength I did not realise that I possessed, I lifted the chest of drawers by one corner, high enough to allow it to pivot on one of its back feet, and swung the whole thing around and across the door.

  I took two steps away as I heard another movement outside in the hall; it was a sound that seemed to be from something that took up the entire space behind the door.

  A third step back and I fell onto the bed, and I believe that the surprise made me scream. It was a stupid, stupid sound; unreal as it rang in my own ears. I wanted to be safe inside the room with the barred door, but that was not safe enough. I swept the floor clear of books in front of the cupboard and climbed inside that, pulling the doors shut behind me so that I was now in complete darkness. My knees were up against my chest and I was sitting uncomfortably on books but I had no thought for that. A whole pile of paperbacks had fallen against me and their shiny covers felt cold against my wet skin. I listened, and listened, knowing that as yet nothing had tried getting in through the bedroom door. As before, when I had been standing outside the dining room (and I was appalled that I could have been standing there at all, out in the open, so exposed, so close to whatever it was), I could not discern moments from minutes. Perhaps I could not differentiate minutes from hours, because I seemed to be in there, in the dark, for so long. I could hardly breathe. Perhaps I was running out of oxygen, because my head began to swim.

  And then I heard another noise. It was not the chest of drawers moving as it would have had to do if the was door
opened. It was that horrific, indefinable something that I had heard before in the dining room. Whatever it was had somehow found its way into the bedroom without moving the obstruction I had put in the way. Perhaps it was the realisation that I had nowhere else to hide that made me finally lose consciousness.

  I felt as though I awoke almost immediately, but I kept absolutely still. I had no idea of where I was, or if anyone was there with me. It was dark, and perhaps I could not move, even if I had wanted to. I had been unconscious, I knew, because until that moment my body had been relaxed. My heart was starting to race once again and I fought to regulate my breathing, hoping that if anyone was there they would think me still asleep. I opened my eyes only a fraction and could see nothing at all. I sensed something, material perhaps, pressed up against my face, and a horrid smell was almost suffocating. With infinite care I moved a little and felt that I might be tied up, but no, the position of my limbs was wrong. I tried to shift my weight and could not turn, but my left arm was free and moved over something soft, like sheets. I was able to pull whatever it was from off my head and I saw that I was in the bedroom, but now on the bed, and tangled in the bedclothes. I felt certain that I was alone, and with great difficulty turned the other way and pulled my other arm clear. I then used both arms to slide myself out of the knotted sheath of bedclothes. The curtains were closed, but I could see that the chest of drawers was back again in its right place, and the door was slightly ajar.

  I felt no fear now. Whatever had been in the flat with me before seemed to no longer be there. The curtains were open, and when I looked around the room again I saw that my shirt was on the floor in the far corner.

  In pulling myself clear of the sheets my skirt had come down to my knees and I pulled it back up. With the greatest care not to make any noise I went over, picked up and smoothed down my crumpled shirt, which I then put on. When dressed I walked gingerly out into the hall and noticed that all the rooms seemed to be light. The curtains were obviously now open, but I didn’t go into any of the rooms to look around. I quietly walked down to the door and let myself out of the flat.