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He looked at the trolleys full of old books. “The Sisterhood is opening its Salisbury collection for initial appraisal this afternoon,” he added. “Do you want to come along?”
I stared at him. By the Sisterhood he meant the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster, one of the most numerous, long-lived and secretive of Wessex’s religious orders. A lot of time and effort had been expended in defending the library against would-be thieves, eager to get their hands on a collection that was rumored to have treasures of a
lmost incalculable value.
“What a question,” I replied. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll pick you up at your house at three,” he said. “And bring identification. The Sisters can be a bit trigger-happy with anyone they don’t know. I arrived unannounced last week and had to dodge a rocket-propelled grenade.”
“Employing mercenaries, are they?”
“No. The Lobsterhood has often been described as pious but rarely seen as restrained.”
13.
Tuesday: Next Thursday
The dismantling of S0-27 had some peculiar and unforeseen consequences, not least the legalizing of lethal force within libraries, “for the maintenance of the collections and public order.” Originally intended as a deterrent to thieves, the legislation quickly became known as the “Shush Law,” when overenthusiastic librarians invoked a “violent intervention” for loud talking. Libraries have never been quieter, and theft and vandalism dropped by 72 percent.
Mobie Drake, Librarians: Heroes of the New Generation
I was searched before leaving the library—no one was exempt. The stealing and selling of rare antiquarian books was still big business, and the library weren’t taking any chances. Recently a thief who’d attempted to steal a first edition of Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems had been shot dead. Luckily for the librarian who fired the shot, the potential thief had fallen within the library boundary, allowing the killing to be categorized as “Justifiable Lethal Force by a State-Registered Librarian in the Course of His or Her Duties,” a misdemeanor that required only a few forms to be filled in. As it says on the T-shirts, I DON’T SCARE EASILY— I’M A LIBRARIAN, which was the polite version of the original: DON’T GIVE ME ANY OF YOUR SHIT— I’M A LIBRARIAN.
I took the longer way back toward the Brunel Centre and was just passing the Swindon branch of Booktastic when I remembered I had walked that way specifically to drop in to the tattooist’s, and had forgotten again. It was a half mile back, and I could drop in when I drove past later. It was probably the Dizuperadol making me forgetful.
On a whim I walked into Booktastic to check on whether my books were still core stock. I took the lift to the third floor and was relieved to find they were. Relieved not for personal me but for written me inside the books, to whom I owed a huge debt of gratitude—a debt I hoped to repay by keeping her well read. I had changed my tune over the fictionalized account of my life, now being broadly in favor rather than wishing that it was quietly remaindered or, better still, pulped. I placed the books covers out at eye level, noted that there was another in the series, told a browsing couple that the books were probably “worth a look if you’ve nothing better to do,” then heard the cathedral clock begin to chime midday.
Soon after I trotted down from the third floor at Booktastic and made my way toward Shabitat, where Landen was hoping to buy one of their huge trademark Flipdate clocks. I found him in the glassware section. The trouble about having a huge house was that it was easier to double or triple up on things than carry them from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, which meant we needed three of everything.
“You can get an entire set of glassware for only fifty quid,” said Landen, looking at me for a moment before digging out his cell phone.
“It’s ugly,” I said.
“Ah, yes,” replied Landen, dialing a number. “But before it was expensive and ugly, and now it’s cheap and ugly. So everything’s changed.”
“Has it?”
“Sure. What was your new office like?”
“Pretty cool.”
“Describe it to me.”
“Windows . . . a door, a phone. A large red one. A hotline.” I narrowed my eyes as I tried to remember what else I had seen. “I bumped into Jim Finisterre. Who are you calling?”
“Stig.”
“What do you want to talk to him about?”
“Just a job we have to do. All three of us.”
“Can I know?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I like surprises.”
“Stig?” said Landen. “It’s Landen. We need you.” He paused for a moment and looked at me. “We’re in Shabitat, glassware section. . . . Yes, I know they’re ugly. See you soon.”
