Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

as though she is engaged in dialogue rather than a monologue. It has always struck Annabeth as deliciously ironic that such a chatterbox could ever excel at a job so inextricably linked with the word ‘shush’. She doesn’t look much like a stereotypical librarian. In the picture books that Annabeth read when she was young, the librarians were stern, austere characters; bony yet limp; all cardigans and spectacles; a name badge pinned to a twinset. Karen is the opposite. Big and bubbly, curvy to the point of roundness, she could pass for a sketch on a saucy postcard if she showed any flesh whatsoever. Instead she wears a loud, floral-print dress and a huge fisherman’s jersey, baseball shoes and tights thick as fur. There are cat hairs on her shins. Biscuit crumbs upon her chest. Round, jolly face made owlish by large circular glasses. She’s useless, but pleasant with it.

They are sitting in the office at the rear of the prison library: a cramped space full of books and files; three boxy old computers whirring on cluttered desks and posters taking up every inch of wall space, advertising different government initiatives or bookish promotions, competitions or suggested revenue streams. Karen Morrow is head librarian, which means she has one junior member of staff. She’s been in the job for years and doesn’t appear to have lost any enthusiasm for the job. She’s a fizzy, ebullient soul and today, anxiously looking up at the clock and pulling endless panicky faces, she is vibrating as if plugged in to the mains.

Annabeth, sitting on one of the dusty swivel chairs and leafing through a self-help book, looks up when she realizes that the rapid-fire talk has briefly halted. She becomes aware of other sounds. The rain on the roof; the heavy footfall of staff in the administration offices upstairs; the distant clatter of cooks and helpers beginning the process of preparing lunch for eight hundred inmates and staff. She looks up. Cocks her head.

‘He really is cutting it fine, Annabeth,’ she says, playing nervously with one of the gaudy strings of beads that hang at her neck. ‘Maybe we should call him? Should we call him? We should. Definitely. Yes, we should call him.’

Annabeth glances at the clock. It’s a little past nine thirty a.m. He’s late, but not by much. The attendees haven’t even begun arriving yet.

‘He’ll be at reception,’ she says, placating. She spins a little on the chair, swiveling left then right. ‘He’s a creative sort, isn’t he? You know artists and writers and such. They’re as bad as professors when it comes to getting their shit together. Head in the clouds.’

‘Head up his backside, more like,’ says Karen, making herself laugh. ‘My book group gave up on his last one, did I tell you? Just pretentious drivel. I swear, I won’t be caught like this again. Any book that has the word “ambitious” on the cover is unfit for human consumption.’

Annabeth smiles, politely. She’d like to tell her that she’s wrong – that RedGreen is, in fact, a masterpiece. She’d like to tell her that the only reason she didn’t enjoy it is because she isn’t clever enough to understand what he was trying to say. She could say this, and so much more. Has a pre-prepared speech for just such an occasion. She isn’t sure how or when she would get the opportunity to deliver it to the critics who universally panned Orton’s magnus opus, but she finds it pays to be prepared.

‘It’s a challenging book, definitely. Maybe not my favourite. But it blew me away in places.’

Karen wrinkles her nose. ‘I always try and read the full longlist but I couldn’t get through it. No story, was there? Just a lot of lyrical meandering. If you ask me, he’s gone off the boil, though I won’t be saying that when he shows up.’ She looks again at the clock. ‘If he shows up.’

They sit quietly for a moment, experiencing the silence in different ways. Then there is the sound of chains and keys and the turning of the big iron lock in the double doors beyond the office walls. Lights flicker on, illuminating the half dozen stacks filled up with crime novels, thrillers, science fiction and biography. It’s a warm, ambient sort of space. Colourful pictures on the wall and soft chairs around circular tables. People tend to respect the libraries in prisons, in Annabeth’s experience. It is a sacrosanct space, like church or the gardens. They provide some semblance of peace in an environment where such a commodity is in short supply.

‘Oh thank goodness …’

Quiet voices, growing louder. Mr Hale, a tall, thick-set, old-school warden. Fifties now, but still the military bearing. Grey moustache and bristly crew-cut. Seen it all, done it all, wouldn’t been seen dead in a T-shirt.

‘I should imagine they’ll be skulking in the office,’ says Mr Hale, passing the glass partition that affords the library staff a view of the main body of the book repository. ‘Ah yes, here they are.’

‘You, my friend, are an absolute superstar.’

Behind him, Rufus Orton. Tall. Rumpled. Elegantly shambolic. Thick dark hair sticking up at the front, as if somebody has run their fingers through it. Blue pullover, hanging poorly: a hole at the elbow and one collar of his polo shirt sticking up through the zip-up neck.

‘And here we are, Mr Orton,’ says Hale, as Annabeth gets to her feet and Karen wobbles herself down from the desk. ‘Thought I would save you ladies from having to come all the way over. Gave me a chance to pick his brains, a little.’ He turns to Annabeth, shaking his head in admiration. ‘Done well here, Harris. Best of luck with it all. If Suggs gets up to mischief I won’t be far away.’

‘We meet at last,’ says Orton, and squeezes past Hale’s bulk. Karen reaches him first, grinning and gushing and talking so quickly that it’s not so much a sentence as a sneeze. He looks past