‘I was actually in Cornwall,’ he explained, ‘in the middle of nowhere, out walking, when this sheep coughed from behind a nearby hedge. I almost jumped out of my skin. I thought it was a person –the cough was so… so human. It was creepy. But once I realised… well, an absolute revelation…’
While Wesley was speaking, the library’s swing doors swung wide behind him. He felt a gust of cold air but did not turn to face it, merely watched all the action gradually unfolding inside the high-polished reflection of Eileen’s two, wide lenses.
Doc… The girl (the new girl –Miss Whisky-Eyes, Miss Sticky-Finger)… Patty… Shoes… then Hooch, five seconds later… Another person; a woman with a baby (in a pushchair); Hooch held the door open for her. Wesley automatically counted her among them (he’d had mothers and babies Following before, but only very briefly. It wasn’t especially workable, or healthy, for that matter).
The woman paused as the door slammed behind her, then peeled off to the right, splitting from the others –Good. That was better.
The rest slowly filtered past him, one by one, glancing nervously around them, nobody speaking, feet shuffling, weatherproof jackets squeaking, noses streaming…
Then he heard the girl. ‘Fiction,’ she whispered. ‘Over there, I reckon.’
Shortly after, Hooch (a muffled boom –like heavy-artillery practice at a firing range, five-plus miles away) murmured, ‘I told you so,’ then sniggered obnoxiously.
The girl led the rest of them into the far left-hand corner (she’s been here before, Wesley surmised, slotting this fact away for later). They all followed her, except for Patty, who slid the flat of his grubby hand along the counter-top –savouring the high-polished gloss and the squeak of his palm on it –then stopped and waited.
Wesley’s lips tightened. He found the boy irritating. Children never understood the way of things. Following especially. The rules. The protocol. Didn’t have the subtlety.
Eileen was still talking –
Bugger
– he tuned in again, but too tardily to catch the gist of it.
‘… unless it’s a two way thing, ’ she finished, ringingly, her bright eyes engaging his, demanding a quick response from him.
Bollocks
Wesley immediately threw all his eggs into one, small basket.
‘Cat person,’ he exclaimed trenchantly, pointing the middle and index fingers on his good hand at her (like he was aiming a friendly gun –the kind that fired out a flag emblazoned with the word Bang or Gotcha). He acted as if the need to recognise this simple truth –this unifying attribute, this cat-fact –surpassed virtually everything.
Eileen frowned, thrown slightly off kilter, ‘Uh… no. No. I’m allergic, actually.’ She shrugged. She was not impressed. But she was briefly distracted.
‘Ah.’
(Fuck. That was clumsy.)
Wesley glanced down. Dennis was sitting on his right foot. ‘Hello there Dennis.’
Wesley smiled at him. Dennis yawned. Eileen stood on tiptoe and peeked over the counter. Dog
‘We actually have a No Dog policy in the library,’ she explained.
Dennis stared up at her, impassively. His stumpy tail ticked. Left, right, left, left, left.
‘Dennis here,’ Wesley explained, ignoring the policy (he was no fan of policies), ‘has diabetes.’
No palpable reaction.
‘And he cannot bark. He is dumb, which is rare for a terrier. But he barks in his dreams. Dennis is a dream barker.’
Eileen stopped frowning. Her eyebrows (hard plucked as a good turkey dinner) rose a full half-centimetre. He barks in his dreams
She let this beguiling thought slowly penetrate her. Oh. That was just so… so right, so pretty… so… just so darling.
He barks in his dreams
Wesley had selected his ammunition masterfully. Because Eileen –as it so happened –was an absolute glutton for dreamers. She was a pushover, a mug, a fool for dreaming. She was a cinch, a patsy, a stooge, a greenhorn… Forget librarian –chief librarian, even –because in the real world, in the harsh –too harsh –light of daytime, day dreaming was her actual –her bona-fide – profession.
She was a dreamer by instinct, by nature, by inclination; a de facto dreamer. Always had been. Dreamed so much sometimes she hardly noticed the day’s closing or the season’s passing (wore light summer dresses in winter, until the cold made her shiver). Forgot birthdays, mealtimes, hair appointments, anniversaries, all in a miasma of other-worldly hankering.
Lived in the eternal summer of dreams. A long, slow, blue-skied, green-grassed, yellow-hued, daisy-kissed, wheat-smelling, poppy-bleeding, bee-buzzing, stonechat-smacking pastureland of dreaming.
Hardly knew what she was doing –point of fact –hour by hour. Did a whole week’s shopping without even noticing, made the bed, brushed her teeth, put on her face every morning, all in a deep, sweet, haze of not-thinking. Saw real life through a mirror, covered in condensation. Blurred at its edges. Wore a cobweb coat to dinner. Sipped on nectar. Broke the worldwide record for dandelion blowing. Flew on little wings. Shared the mossy bed of the badger. Fought with the weasel. Darned and seamed her daytimes with fine-stitched patchworks of light and downy, feather-bellied imaginings.
Nothing too spectacular. Nothing wrong or weird or dirty or anything. Just all things familiar and rosy and comforting. Her dreams were as soft and clean as she was. There was nothing in them to be ashamed of. I mean there was no law against the yearn, the keen, the wish, was there? Was there?
Wesley made a sharp mental note of Eileen’s reaction. Dreamer (almost lost her back there with that cat person clap-trap. But now she was hooked. Now he could play her).
A mere four feet away, the small boy, Patty, was still carefully inspecting the constellation of spit and snot he’d just recently downloaded onto the counter-top. He was too short to lean on the counter properly. Instead he stretched himself up and over. Stood on tippy-toes, fingers grappling, coat riding up, trousers slipping down to reveal the top half of the lean cheeks of his flat-boy-buttocks. Tummy, hips, belly-button, all perkily protruding.
He was thin. Pale skinned. Unhealthy looking. He hawked expertly then swallowed noisily. He was a boy with a minor sinus problem.
Eileen peered over at him, then back at Wesley again. There was a piece of paper –just to the left of their elbows –lying on the counter: Wesley’s Library Membership Application Form. It was only partially filled in. Eileen reached out her hand for it. ‘We’ll be needing your current address,’ she said, ‘and your date of birth, obviously.’
Wesley grabbed the form and the pen he’d been using previously.
‘Do you like music?’ he asked, scribbling away diligently.
‘Music? Hmmn. Yes, I suppose I do,’ Eileen answered, idly watching the small group in the corner: the man with no shoes whom she’d seen in there earlier, and the girl, the girl with short hair.
‘I play the banjo. You should come and listen. I use the Clawhammer technique, due to my, uh…’
He lifted his right hand. Eileen’s eyes widened.
‘I’ll be playing later, about three-ish, once I’ve hiked around the Island’s perimeter. On the private fishing pier near the Gas Storage Terminal…’
He