Fear and excitement rioted in my mind, my whole body. I had to do something. Now that I was in possession of certain knowledge, calling the police did not seem such an absurd proposition. I didn’t want to go into the whole story on the phone, so I said only that I wanted to report a stalker, that I knew who it was, that I had evidence. The woman I spoke to said she would send an officer to interview me as soon as possible.
Willing the computer to work faster, I moved from one section of Kathryn Hammond’s website to another. She had published no books since ‘The Octopus Nest’, but her newsletter said she was working on her next novel, the story of fifty years in the life of a ventriloquist’s dummy, passed from one owner to another. Another Timothy book, I thought. The newsletter also informed fans (it seemed to take for granted that everyone who visited the site would be a fan) that Kathryn and her sister – the frizzy-haired woman, I assumed – were going on holiday to Sicily early next year.
For a second, I felt as if my blood had stopped moving around my body. We were going to Sicily too. In February. Kathryn Hammond and her sister were staying at the Hotel Bernabei. I had a horrible suspicion we were too. My terror returned, twice as strong as before. This was as real, as inexplicable, as ever.
I rummaged through the drawers of the desk, thinking I might find a letter from Timothy’s travel agent or a booking confirmation. There was nothing. I flew round the house like a trapped fly, opening drawers and pulling books off shelves. I couldn’t understand it; there had to be some paperwork somewhere relating to our holiday.
I was crying, about to give up, when it occurred to me that Timothy kept a filing cabinet in the garage. ‘Why not?’ he’d said. ‘The thing’s hideous and the house is too cluttered.’ I rarely went into the garage. It was dusty and messy, and smelled of damp, turpentine and cigarettes; since Alex was born, Timothy hadn’t smoked in the house.
I had no choice but to go in there now. If the police arrived before Timothy got back, I wanted to be able to show them our holiday details and Kathryn Hammond’s website. What more proof could they ask for? Even as I thought this, I was aware that it was not illegal for a novelist to go on holiday to Sicily. Terror gripped me as it occurred to me for the first time that perhaps we would never be able to stop her following us, never force her to admit to her behaviour or explain it. I didn’t think I’d be able to stand that.
The cabinet wasn’t locked. I pulled open the first drawer. A strangled moan escaped from my mouth as I stared, stunned, at what was inside. Books. Dozens of them. I saw the title The Octopus Nest. Then, underneath it, Le Nid du poulpe. The same title, but in French. Numb with dread, I pulled the books out one by one, dropping them on the floor. I saw Hebrew letters, Japanese characters, a picture of a purple octopus, a green one, a raised black one that looked as if it might spin off the cover and hit me in the chest.
Kathryn Hammond’s novel had been translated into many languages. I pulled open the next drawer down. More copies of The Octopus Nest – hardbacks, paperbacks, hardback-sized paperbacks, book club editions.
‘Fifty-two in total.’
I screamed, nearly lost my balance. Timothy stood in the doorway of the garage. ‘Timothy, what… ?’
He stared blankly at me for several seconds, saying nothing. I backed away from him until I was against the wall. I felt its rough texture through my blouse, scratching my skin.
‘I was telling the truth,’ he said. ‘I’ve never spoken to her. I don’t know her at all. She doesn’t even know I exist.’
The doorbell rang. The police. I’d said only that I wanted to report a stalker, that I knew who it was, that I had evidence.
Friendly Amid the Haters
‘I KNOW IT’S A MISTAKE. I TOLD YOU IT WAS A MISTAKE.’
She is entitled to be angry. All morning she has been considering other people’s feelings, looking at things from points of view that oppose her own, breathing deeply, counting to ten, counting her blessings, thinking about the grand scheme of things rather than the tiny speck of time dust that is insignificant today. She has guarded her irritation to make sure no part of it escapes, like a parent minding a defiant, grounded teenager.
She said nothing when the men from Bonners brought the wrong colour carpet. She agreed that marble was ‘as near as dammit’ to shell. She nodded when the fitter, Keith Halliday, told her that the bottoms of her doors were too low for the thick new carpet, that it was not his job to take off the doors, plane them down and reattach them. She smoked a cigarette to calm herself, then phoned Sol Barber, a joiner she had used before, who agreed to come straight away.
She knows nothing about the process of removing a door, but oil must be involved, because Sol Barber managed to spill some on her new marble-coloured carpet. There were two smears of black in the hall, outside the downstairs bathroom. Sol summoned her from her study to inspect them. ‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Don’t know how it happened. But all you need to do is tell the company that sold you the carpet that it was like that when it arrived. Then they’ll have to replace it free of charge.’ He grinned, and she noticed again his chipped front tooth.
The plan had a certain appeal. She could insist on shell instead of marble. She should have insisted first time round, but the men from Bonners knew more about carpets than she did; who was she to argue if they told her, sternly, that it didn’t matter? But now there was a way for her to get the carpet she wanted, had ordered and was entitled to. On the other hand, she could see that it wouldn’t be fair to do to Bonners what Sol was proposing.
‘I can’t afford to replace your carpet, so it’s your only option,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Or, if you don’t want to do that, I’ll have a scrub at the stains, see if I can get them out for you.’
This is why she has come to the library: not only because she needs a book for her work, but to get away from Sol and give herself time to think about what to do. She sat on the bus with her arms folded and her legs crossed, her whole body a tight knot of resentment. I’ve got a stained carpet that’s the wrong colour, she said to herself, and now I either have to defraud the company I bought it from, fall out with my joiner by turning down his kind offer of a criminal conspiracy and insisting he pay for the damage himself, or just lump it.
She has always liked Sol. Not that she knows him very well. His name isn’t really Sol, but that has been his nickname for years. It is what everybody calls him. Sol is his favourite beer. The main thing she likes about him is that he is always instantly available for work, whenever she needs him. She doesn’t know if this is because he is efficient or unsuccessful. His hair is fine and black, and his skin pale, alabaster. He often smells of vinegar. She knows very little about him, only that he is married to a woman named Tina and has two children, Wilfred and Agnes. Also, she remembered on the bus on the way to the library, she knows that his star sign is Capricorn. He fitted a new kitchen for her last year. The manufacturers kept sending units that were the wrong size, which made his job almost impossible and wasted a lot of his time, but Sol never seemed to mind. He remained tolerant and amused throughout. When she said she didn’t know how he managed it, he said, ‘It’s my Capricorn temperament,’ and winked at her.
She has left Sol in her house. He is there now, planing and rehanging the doors while she is out. She is nervous about telling him that she cannot lie to Bonners. This trip to the library is supposed to be a calm interlude in an otherwise fraught day. Which is why, when the young bearded man behind the inter-library loans desk tells her that the wrong book has arrived, she reacts as she does. Because she is entitled to be angry.
‘You ordered Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes,’ says the man, waving a small blue slip of paper in the air as if it is proof that he has never in his life done anything wrong. ‘And that’s what’s arrived. Does it really matter who wrote the introduction?’
‘Yes. If it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have said anything about the introduction when I ordered the book, would I? I’d just have ordered a copy of
Leviathan. What else does it say on that bit of paper? What have I written under “Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes”?’ She is beginning to enjoy her anger. Giving vent to it is satisfying, like picking a scab at the perfect moment, when it has hardened enough but not too much, and the degree of resistance is exactly right. ‘I’ve written “must be the edition with Michael Oakeshott’s introduction”. I believe I’ve even underlined the word “must”.’
‘Isn’t this better than nothing? How different can this introduction be from the other one? Both are introducing the same book.’ He is saying all the wrong things.
She loses her temper. Or, rather, she decides to allow herself to behave as if she has lost it. After the morning she has had, she has earned the right. And she will enjoy putting this nerd in his place. And perhaps if she asserts herself more often, people will treat her better. ‘What the hell do you know about it? I’ve got a copy of Hobbes’ Leviathan on my shelf at home. This edition.’ She shoves the book back across the counter at the bearded man. ‘It’s specificially Michael Oakeshott’s introduction that I need for my work, as I keep explaining to you, and as I clearly wrote on that slip of paper.’ People nearby are turning to watch; many are giggling. She doesn’t care. She continues to shout. It is the first time she has shouted in her adult life, and she doesn’t want it to be over too quickly. ‘Do you know what my work is? Do you know the title of the paper I’m writing at the moment?’
‘Of course not…’
‘No! Then don’t dare to tell me that I don’t need Oakeshott’s introduction when I keep telling you that I do need it!’
‘All right, I’m sorry. My mistake. I’ll order you the edition with the introduction by Michael Oakeshott…’
‘That’s not good enough! I need it now! I need it today! Forget it, just forget it. You’re useless. I don’t know how you manage to hold down a job of any sort, let alone in a library!’ She plunges towards the exit, which is also the entrance: a revolving door. She is so flustered by what has taken place that she walks round twice, two complete circles inside her glass compartment, before tumbling out on to the street.
She feels worse but pretends to herself that she feels better. What she told the bearded man is true: she cannot proceed with her work without the book she ordered, the correct edition. She will have to see if she can buy a copy online. She catches the bus home, rehearsing what she will say to Sol Barber. There is no need to imply that his suggestion was out of order. A simple refusal will be sufficient: ‘No, I can’t pretend it was the carpet company’s fault when it wasn’t.’ Option number three, then: lumping it. But maybe not, not if she also says, solemnly, ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could try to get rid of the marks with stain remover.’ No. Why should she appreciate it? Sol Barber owes her a new hall carpet. ‘I’ve decided I’d like you to tackle it with stain remover.’ That’s better, more authoritative.
She arrives home to find Sol sitting on her couch, drinking a cup of tea. He has unplugged her television and plugged in his paint-spattered ghetto blaster instead. He is listening to what she would call a folk song. She pauses in the doorway. A deep, male, American voice is singing about finding happiness in quiet things: a pair of geese in flight, the sunset’s quiet light.
‘Hiya,’ says Sol cheerfully when he sees her.
‘Hi. That was quick.’
‘What was?’
‘The doors.’
‘I haven’t finished them. Haven’t even started. I need a mole grip. Have you got one?’
‘No. You... So what...?’
‘Been anywhere nice?’
‘Er, just to the library. So...’
‘I wish I had your job! Still in your pyjamas at nine o’clock, shuffle a few papers around, then swan off to the library at midday for a nice leisurely browse through today’s papers. At five this morning I was up the top of a ladder pushing a flat-pack bed through a window.’
Well, that’s an absurd position to be in and it’s entirely your own fault if you were in it, she feels like saying. She is used to the pyjamas joke (Sol once arrived to start work before she was dressed) and the paper-shuffling joke. Both are regulars, and normally she takes them in good humour. She knows that she cannot expect a person like Sol to think that the sort of work she does is anything other than an indulgence. People need kitchens and doors that open and close more than they need articles about Thomas Hobbes’ political philosophy; she accepts this.
But Sol is not working now. He is sitting on her sofa, listening to a song about escaping from the rat race in order to lead a tranquil life. This is what he has been doing since she left. ‘What about the oil stains?’ she asks. ‘Have you had a go at them with stain remover?’
‘Oh.’ He looks surprised. ‘No. I thought I’d wait and see what you wanted to do. I thought if you wanted Bonners to replace the carpet, it’d be better to leave it as it is, so they can see the damage.’
‘Right,’ she says tightly. Tell him. ‘I’ve decided I’m not going to do that,’ she says. She is pleased. For a moment she thought she might not be able to bring herself to say it.
‘What?’ Sol wrinkles his face. ‘You’re crazy! You’ve got to.’
‘I can’t lie.’
He shrugs. ‘Fine. Well, I’ll see what I can do to get rid of them, but I still think you’re crazy.’
She is livid. Has he forgotten that he made the marks, that it is his fault?
‘Are you sure you haven’t got a mole grip?’ he says. ‘Everyone’s got one.’
‘A mould grip?’ She pretends to give it some thought.
‘No, mole. M-O-L-E.’
‘I definitely haven’t got one. Can you get one from somewhere else?’
He smiles. ‘Look, point me in the direction of your toolbox. You’re bound to have one. I’ll find it.’
She doesn’t have a tool box, but she is too embarrassed to admit it. ‘I haven’t.’
He is about to say something, but bites his lip. She stares at the pink flesh crushed by the chipped white tooth. He shakes his head slightly and stretches, elbows up. She can see that he is impatient. It upsets her. ‘I’ll... why don’t you start on the oil spots? I’ll see if one of my neighbours can lend me... a mole grip.’
‘Good idea,’ he says, smiling again. He stands up, slurps the remains of his tea, then takes his empty mug through to the kitchen.
She stares after him. Now that he is jolly again, indignation begins to swell inside her. Why should she have a mole grip? More to the point, why doesn’t he have one? As a joiner, he ought to have a toolbox containing all the necessary tools. It’s his job, not mine, to have a mole grip, she thinks.
She is still standing where he left her, outside the lounge, when he returns from the kitchen empty-handed. ‘Chop chop,’ he says, and winks.
‘I’ll go now. I was just...’
‘What?’
‘I was wondering: you don’t by any chance have a copy of Michael Oakeshott’s introduction to Hobbes’ Leviathan, do you?’
Sol stares at her in silence for a few seconds. She is surprised. She expected him to say ‘You what?’ or something similar. Well, he asked for it, she thinks to herself. Chop chop. Who does he think he is?
‘No,’ he says eventually.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ He stares at her. His face is unreadable.
His reaction strikes her as strange, but she carries on. Maybe she has succeeded in making him think. ‘Damn!’ She feigns disappointed irritation. ‘You’re quite sure? I really need one, you see. I can’t get on with the article I’m writing until I’ve read Oakeshott’s introduction. You couldn’t just... check your toolbox, could you, in case you’ve got a copy in there that you’ve forgotten about?’
‘I haven’t,’ he says. He appears to be frozen in place. She stares at his thick arms, which are like perfectly still parentheses around his stocky body. Something is not quite right. She must get out of this situation somehow.
‘Oh well,�
� she says breezily. ‘Never mind.’ She decides against adding, ‘Perhaps you could ask your neighbours if they’ve got one, when you get home later.’
She does not wait for his reaction. Instead, she runs upstairs. Her heart beats as if it is trying to batter down the walls of her chest. She stands on the landing outside her bedroom, listening for his movements. There is silence for a long time, five minutes. In this context, five minutes is a very long time. Then she hears an abrasive rubbing noise. She decides that this can only be the sound of Sol fixing the carpet, treating the oil stains with a magic substance, the name of which she wouldn’t recognise.
She exhales and her body sags. She got away with it. And quite right too. He was out of order. Now she has shown him that she doesn’t plan to take any more of his cheek, his unfair demands or his unjustified impatience. Things have changed between us, she thinks, and he knows it.
She hears the beginning of another folk song downstairs, this time about Billy the Kid not having been shot, but, instead, having got away and spent the rest of his life engaging in various activities of a peace-promoting nature. Shooting Hitler is one of these. She wonders about the chronological accuracy.
She smiles. What next? To the neighbours for a mole grip, as promised. She will be magnanimous in her victory. But she is still too triumphant about her successful burst of assertiveness to risk letting him see her face, so she potters around the bedroom for a while. She takes off her black V-necked sweater and pulls on a green cashmere polo-neck. She straightens the duvet. She takes her new lipstick, ‘Marmalade-on-Toast’, out of its shiny navy-blue box, and removes the lid. It is only the afternoon, but why shouldn’t she look nice? Some women wear make-up all the time, every day, even if they’re just staying in.
The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Page 2
