The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [24]
Payne's was a haven of light in a dark world. Stepping inside, he was nearly overwhelmed with the feeling of home. The familiar, conflicting smells of the books vied for his attention. The musty tang of old volumes, the polished smell of new leather bindings, the crisp clear scent of freshly printed books, all rose to greet him, like a horde of somewhat-dysfunctional relatives at a family event.
Lit candles were scattered haphazardly around the room, perched precariously on piles of books and on the long counter. They cast spheres of light interlinked by shadows that fluttered like painted eyelids. He made his way into the back room and found his bed unaltered and waiting for him, a worn, comfortable companion.
On the small table rested a sputtering candle and beside it were two glasses and Jack's bottle of Old Bushmills.
It's like I hadn't left, Orphan thought. It's as if the last few days never happened, as if I only just came back from meeting Lucy. He felt a sense of unreality steal over him, but the sense of loss he felt was real enough, and would not let him sink into comforting dreams. Instead he lay down on the bed. Behind closed eyelids the candle flickered, lulling him into sleep. He felt exhausted, still weak from his injuries, and cold.
"Orphan."
When he opened his eyes the candle had burned down to a stub. One of the glasses on the table was missing and the bottle had been moved. A shadowcowled figure watched him from the doorway and for a moment he felt panic, ascribing to the unseen face the hideous countenance of a nightmare: he had fallen asleep, he realised, and he dreamed… he dreamed of the Bookman, a monstrous being made of the yellowing pages of thousands of books, with a face like bleached vellum and gilt-edged eyes, who stalked him through a maze of bookshelves where no light penetrated.
The figure in the doorway moved and it was only Jack, holding a glass half-full with amber liquid. His face was drawn and tired, with shadows around his eyes.
"Jack."
He sat up, feeling groggy. His foot hit a shelf and sent books flying to the floor. He shook his head, trying to dispel the cobwebs that stretched inside it, and with them the last images of his dream. Jack came forward and sat down in the chair opposite. He poured drink into the remaining glass and offered it to Orphan. "I'm sorry."
Orphan nodded and accepted the drink, and they sat in silence. Orphan contemplated the glass in his hands and could think of nothing to say. It was Jack, therefore, who finally broke the silence. "What will you do now?" he said, and he looked at Orphan with his head cocked to one side, a strangely sorrowful expression on his face.
But Orphan didn't know. He felt disorientated, unsure of the time, unsure even if it was still night, or whether day had crept over the city while he was sleeping. So he said, "What's the time?" and watched Jack nod, as if Orphan's question had confirmed something he had previously only suspected. "Four, four-thirty." He must have seen the confusion in Orphan's eyes. "In the morning." He stood up suddenly, depositing an empty glass on the table. "Come with me."
"What is it, Jack?"
His friend shook his head. "I want to show you something. Come."
With a groan, Orphan rose from the bed. He felt curiously light-headed, as if this was all but part of a bad dream, and he was still asleep. He left his untouched drink on the table besides Jack's glass and followed him out of the room.
The door banged behind them as they stepped outside the shop. Though the fog had abated the air was cold and damp, and a strong stench, as of an open sewer, filled the air. It had rained while Orphan slept, but it had done nothing to cleanse the city. Black velvety night pressed oppressively over Cecil Court, unhindered by the feeble gas lights that stood on St Martin's Lane.
He followed Jack without speaking. They crossed St Martin's and