‘Of course,’ said Mrs Elm.
The books in the library began to move again, as though the shelves were conveyor belts. This time, though, instead of going as slow as a wedding march they moved faster and faster and faster, until they couldn’t really be seen as individual books at all. They just whirred by in streams of green.
Then, just as suddenly, they stopped.
Mrs Elm crouched down and took a book from the lowest shelf to her left. The book was one of the darker shades of green. She handed it to Nora. It was a lot lighter thanThe Book of Regrets, even though it was a similar size. Again, there was no title on the spine but a small one embossed on the front, precisely the same shade as the rest of the book.
It said:My Life.
‘But it’s not my life ...’
‘Oh Nora, they are all your lives.’
‘What do I do now?’
‘You open the book and turn to the first page.’
Nora did so.
‘O-kay,’ said Mrs Elm, with careful precision. ‘Now, read the first line.’
Nora stared down and read.
She walked out of the pub into the cool night air ...
And Nora had just enough time to think to herself, ‘Pub?’ After that, it was happening. The text began to swirl and soon became indecipherable, in fast motion, as she felt herself weaken. She never knowingly let go of the book, but there was a moment where she was no longer a person reading it, and a consequent moment where there was no book – or library – at all.
The Three Horseshoes
Nora was standing outside in crisp, clean air. But unlike in Bedford, it wasn’t raining here.
‘Where am I?’ she whispered to herself.
There was a small row of quaint stone terraced houses on the other side of the gently curving road. Quiet, old houses, with all their lights off, nestled at the edge of a village before fading into the stillness of the countryside. A clear sky, an expanse of dotted stars, a waning crescent moon. The smell of fields. The two-way twit-twoo of tawny owls. And then quiet again. A quiet that had a presence, that was a force in the air.
Weird.
She had been in Bedford. Then in that strange library. And now she was here, on a pretty village road. Without hardly even moving.
On this side of the road, golden light filtered out of a downstairs window. She looked up and saw an elegantly painted pub sign creaking softly in the wind. Overlapping horseshoes underneath carefully italicised words:The Three Horseshoes.
In front of her, there was a chalkboard standing on the pavement. She recognised her own handwriting, at its neatest.
THE THREE HORSESHOES
Tuesday Night – Quiz Night
8.30 p.m.
‘True knowledge exists in knowing that you know nothing.’
– Socrates (after losing our quiz!!!!)
This was a life where she put four exclamation marks in a row. That was probably what happier, less uptight people did.
A promising omen.
She looked down at what she was wearing. A denim shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms and jeans and wedge-heeled shoes, none of which she wore in her actual life. She had goose-bumps from the cold, and clearly wasn’t dressed to be outside for long.
