Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (58 page)

They crossed the roundabout, negotiated the crumbling lips of ruts full of deceptively glazed pools collecting behind the bulldozer treads of a redevelopment scheme, and onward through the whirling white to a patch of waste ground where a lone fireplace drank the snow. Strutt’s guide scuttled into an alley and Strutt followed, intent on keeping close to the other as he knocked powdered snow from dustbin lids and
flinched from back-yard doors at which dogs clawed and snarled. The man dodged left, then right, between the close labyrinthine walls, among houses whose cruel edges of jagged window-panes and thrusting askew doors even the snow, kinder to buildings than to their occupants, could not soften. A last turning, and the man slithered onto a pavement beside the remnants of a store, its front gaping emptily to frame wine-bottles abandoned beneath a
HEIN
57
VARIET
poster. A dollop of snow fell from the awning’s skeleton to be swallowed by the drift below. The man shook, but as Strutt confronted him, pointed fearfully to the opposite pavement: “That’s it, I’ve brought you here.”

The tracks of slush splashed up Strutt’s trouser legs as he ran across, checking mentally that while the man had tried to disorient him he had deduced which main road lay some five hundred yards away, then read the inscription over the shop:
AMERICAN BOOKS BOUGHT AND SOLD
. He touched a railing which protected an opaque window below street level, wet rust gritting beneath his nails, and surveyed the display in the window facing him:
History of the Rod
—a book he had found monotonous—thrusting out it shoulders among science-fiction novels by Aldiss, Tubb, and Harrison, which hid shamefacedly behind lurid covers;
Le Sadisme au Cinéma
; Robbe-Grillet’s
Voyeur
looking lost;
The Naked Lunch
— nothing worth his journey there, Strutt thought. “All right, it’s about time we went in,” he urged the man inside, and with a glance up the eroded red brick at the first-floor window, the back of a dressing-table mirror shoved against it to replace one pane, entered also. The other had halted again, and for an unpleasant second Strutt’s fingers brushed the man’s musty overcoat. “Come on, where’s the books?” he demanded, shoving past into the shop.

The yellow daylight was made murkier by the window display and the pin-up magazines hanging on the inside of the glass-panelled door; dust hung lazily in the stray beams. Strutt stopped to read the covers of paperbacks stuffed into cardboard boxes on one table, but the boxes contained only Westerns, fantasies, and American erotica, selling at half price. Grimacing at the books which stretched wide their corners like flowering petals, Strutt bypassed the hardcovers and squinted behind the counter, slightly preoccupied; as he had closed the door beneath its tongueless bell, he had imagined he had heard a cry somewhere near, quickly cut off. No doubt round here you hear that sort of thing all the time, he thought, and turned on the other: “Well, I don’t see what I came for. Doesn’t anybody work in this place?”

Wide-eyed, the man gazed past Strutt’s shoulder; Strutt looked back and saw the frosted-glass panel of a door, one corner of the glass repaired with cardboard, black against a dim yellow light which filtered through the panel. The bookseller’s office, presumably—had he heard Strutt’s remark? Strutt confronted the door, ready to face impertinence.
Then the man pushed by him, searching distractedly behind the counter, fumbling open a glass-fronted bookcase full of volumes in brown paper jackets and finally extracting a parcel in grey paper from its hiding-place in one corner of a shelf. He thrust it at Strutt, muttering, “This is one, this is one,” and watched, the skin beneath his eyes twitching, as Strutt tore off the paper.

The Secret Life of Wackford Squeers
— “Ah, that’s fine,” Strutt approved, forgetting himself momentarily, and reached for his wallet; but greasy fingers clawed at his wrist. “Pay next time,” the man pleaded. Strutt hesitated; could he get away with the book without paying? At that moment, a shadow rippled across the frosted glass: a headless man dragging something heavy. Decapitated by the frosted glass and by his hunched position, Strutt decided, then realized that the shopkeeper must be in contact with Ultimate Press; he must not prejudice this contact by stealing a book. He knocked away the frantic fingers and counted out two pounds; but the other backed away, stretching out his fingers in stark fear, and crouched against the office door from whose pane the silhouette had disappeared, before flinching almost into Strutt’s arms. Strutt pushed him back and laid the notes in the space left on the shelf by
Wackford Squeers
, then turned on him: “Don’t you intend to wrap it up? No, on second thoughts I’ll do it myself.”

The roller on the counter rumbled forth a streamer of brown paper; Strutt sought an undiscolored stretch. As he parcelled the book, disentangling his feet from the rejected coil, something crashed to the floor. The other had retreated toward the street door until one dangling cuff-button had hooked the corner of a carton full of paperbacks; he froze above the scattered books, mouth and hands gaping wide, one foot atop an open novel like a broken moth, and around him motes floated into beams of light mottled by the sifting snow. Somewhere a lock clicked. Strutt breathed hard, taped the package, and circling the man in distaste, opened the door. The cold attacked his legs. He began to mount the steps and the other flurried in pursuit. The man’s foot was on the doorstep when a heavy tread approached across the boards. The man spun about, and below Strutt the door slammed. Strutt waited; then it occurred to him that he could hurry and shake off his guide. He reached the street and a powdered breeze pecked at his cheeks, cleaning away the stale dust of the shop. He turned away his face and, kicking the rind of snow from the headline of a sodden newspaper, made for the main road which he knew to pass close by.

Strutt woke shivering. The neon sign outside the window of his flat, a cliche but relentless as a toothache, was garishly defined against the night every five seconds, and by this and the shafts of cold Strutt knew
that it was early morning. He closed his eyes again, but though his lids were hot and heavy his mind would not be lulled. Beyond the limits of his memory lurked the dream which had awoken him; he moved uneasily. For some reason he thought of a passage from the previous evening’s reading: “As Adam reached the door he felt Evan’s hand grip his, twisting his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor—” His eyes opened and sought the bookcase as if for reassurance; yes, there was the book, secure within its covers, carefully aligned with its fellows. He recalled returning home one evening to find
Miss Whippe, Old-Style Governess
, thrust inside
Prefects and Fags
, straddled by
Prefects and Fags
; the landlady had explained that she must have replaced them wrongly after dusting, but Strutt knew that she had damaged them vindictively. He had bought a case that locked, and when she asked him for the key had replied: “Thanks, I think I can do them justice.” You couldn’t make friends nowadays. He closed his eyes again; the room and bookcase, created in five seconds by the neon and destroyed with equal regularity, filled him with their emptiness, reminding him that weeks lay ahead before the beginning of next term, when he would confront the first class of the morning and add “You know me by now” to his usual introduction “You play fair with me and I’ll play fair with you,” a warning which some boy would be sure to test, and Strutt would have him; he saw the expanse of white gymshort seat stretched tight down on which he would bring a gym-shoe with satisfying force—Strutt relaxed; soothed by an overwhelming echo of the pounding feet on the wooden gymnasium floor, the fevered shaking of the wall-bars as the boys swarmed ceilingward and he stared up from below, he slept.

Panting, he drove himself through his morning exercises, then tossed off the fruit juice which was always his first call on the tray brought up by the landlady’s daughter. Viciously he banged the glass back on the tray; the glass splintered (he’d say it was an accident; he paid enough rent to cover, he might as well get a little satisfaction for his money). “Bet you have a fab Christmas,” the girl had said, surveying the room. He’d made to grab her round the waist and curb her pert femininity—but she’d already gone, her skirt’s pleats whirling, leaving his stomach hotly knotted in anticipation.

Later he trudged to the supermarket. From several front gardens came the teeth-grinding scrape of spades clearing snow; these faded and were answered by the crushed squeak of snow engulfing boots. When he emerged from the supermarket clutching an armful of cans, a snowball whipped by his face to thud against the window, a translucent beard spreading down the pane like the fluid from the noses of those boys who felt Strutt’s wrath most often, for he was determined to beat this ugliness, this revoltingness, out of them. Strutt glared
about him for the marksman—a seven-year-old, boarding his tricycle for a quick retreat; Strutt moved involuntarily as if to pull the boy across his knee. But the street was not deserted; even now the child’s mother, in slacks and curlers peeking from beneath a headscarf, was slapping her son’s hand: “I’ve told you,
don’t
do that. —Sorry,” she called to Strutt. “Yes, I’m sure,” he snarled, and tramped back to his flat. His heart pumped uncontrollably. He wished fervently that he could talk to someone as he had talked to the bookseller on the edge of Goatswood who had shared his urges; when the man had died earlier that year Strutt had felt abandoned in a tacitly conspiring, hostile world. Perhaps the new shop’s owner might prove similarly sympathetic? Strutt hoped that the man who had conducted him there yesterday would not be in attendance, but if he was, surely he could be got rid of—a bookseller dealing with Ultimate Press must be a man after Strutt’s own heart, who would be as opposed as he to that other’s presence while they were talking frankly. As well as this discussion, Strutt needed books to read over Christmas, and
Squeers
would not last him long; the shop would scarcely be closed on Christmas Eve. Thus reassured, he unloaded the cans on the kitchen table and ran downstairs.

Strutt stepped from the bus in silence; the engine’s throb was quickly muffled among the laden houses. The piled snow waited for some sound. He splashed through the tracks of cars to the pavement, its dull coat depressed by countless overlapping footprints. The road twisted slyly; as soon as the main road was out of sight the side street revealed its real character. The snow laid over the house-fronts became threadbare; rusty protrusions poked through. One or two windows showed Christmas trees, their ageing needles falling out, their branches tipped with luridly sputtering lights. Strutt, however, had no eye for this but kept his gaze on the pavement, seeking to avoid stains circled by dogs’ pawmarks. Once he met the gaze of an old woman staring down at a point below her window which was perhaps the extent of her outside world. Momentarily chilled, he hurried on, pursued by a woman who, on the evidence within her pram, had given birth to a litter of newspapers, and halted before the shop.

Though the orange sky could scarcely have illuminated the interior, no electric gleam was visible through the magazines, and the torn notice hanging behind the grime might read
CLOSED
. Slowly Strutt descended the steps. The pram squealed by, the latest flakes spreading across the newspapers. Strutt stared at its inquisitive proprietor, turned and almost fell into sudden darkness. The door had opened and a figure blocked the doorway.

“You’re not shut, surely?” Strutt’s tongue tangled.

“Perhaps not. Can I help you?”

“I was here yesterday. Ultimate Press book,” Strutt replied to the face level with his own and uncomfortably close.

“Of course you were, yes, I recall.” The other swayed incessantly like an athlete limbering up, and his voice wavered constantly from bass to falsetto, dismaying Strutt. “Well, come in before the snow gets to you,” the other said and slammed the door behind them, evoking a note from the ghost of the bell’s tongue.

The bookseller—this was he, Strutt presumed—loomed behind him, a head taller; down in the half-light, among the vague vindictive corners of the tables, Strutt felt an obscure compulsion to assert himself somehow, and remarked: “I hope you found the money for the book. Your man didn’t seem to want me to pay. Some people would have taken him at his word.”

“He’s not with us today.” The bookseller switched on the light inside his office. As his lined pouched face was lit up it seemed to grow; the eyes were sunk in sagging stars of wrinkles; the cheeks and forehead bulged from furrows; the head floated like a half-inflated balloon above the stuffed tweed suit. Beneath the unshaded bulb the walls pressed close, surrounding a battered desk from which overflowed fingerprinted copies of
The Bookseller
thrust aside by a black typewriter clogged with dirt, beside which lay a stub of sealing-wax and an open box of matches. Two chairs faced each other across the desk, and behind it was a closed door. Strutt seated himself before the desk, brushing dust to the floor. The bookseller paced round him and suddenly, as if struck by the question, demanded: “Tell me, why d’you read these books?”

This was a question often aimed at Strutt by the English master in the staffroom until he had ceased to read his novels in the breaks. Its sudden reappearance caught him off guard, and he could only call on his old riposte: “How d’you mean, why? Why not?”

“I wasn’t being critical,” the other hurried on, moving restlessly around the desk. “I’m genuinely interested. I was going to make the point that don’t you want what you read about to happen, in a sense?”

“Well, maybe.” Strutt was suspicious of the trend of this discussion, and wished that he could dominate; his words seemed to plunge into the snow-cloaked silence inside the dusty walls to vanish immediately, leaving no impression.

“I mean this: when you read a book don’t you make it happen before you, in your mind? Particularly if you consciously attempt to visualize, but that’s not essential. You might cast the book away from you, of course. I knew a bookseller who worked on this theory; you don’t get much time to be yourself in this sort of area, but when he could he worked on it, though he never quite formulated— Wait a minute, I’ll show you something.”