Surface Tension - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It’s late. It seems to have been dark since midday. I’m alone in the library grateful to escape the collective tinnitus of the outside world. It’s as if the books themselves absorb what noise there is; they soak it up, a literary rain forest sucking in carbon dioxide, purifying the air.

            I’m surrounded by brochures and magazines. To my left is a small vanilla envelop. Inside, taped to a piece of card is the key. Bill didn't ask for it back, she’s entrusted it to my keeping. 

            By the time she left to go back to the library yesterday afternoon we had the bones of a plan. I’d hoped she’d come back after work, reasoning that she wouldn't want to return to an empty house with Jonah gone. By eight I knew she wasn’t coming. I hid my disappointment with very large Islay malt, kidding myself that it was purely for medicinal purposes.  At 10 she phoned. It was a distant, hardly there voice. It wasn't so much a conversation as a series of silences interspersed with words. She closed with a plaintive thank you. Putting the receiver down a wave guilt crashed over me. The second large whiskey took the edge off that.

            I shift in the chair. I've pins and needles in my left leg.  I survey the detritus of the evenings work, a range of brochures and magazines all advertising some form of gym or spa facility. It's an impressive pile. I’d no idea there were some many ‘leisure facilities’ in our town. When I’d started I could only think of the municipal swimming pool.

            Bill said she’d found the key the day Jonah had been on some legal conference in the next town. I reckon that gave us a 10 to 20 mile radius to look for potential places. The game plan was simply to check a few places out, make some enquires. If none of the places claimed the key Bill said she’d forget about it and believe Jonah, if it worked the other way, well, we’d cross that bridge when we got there. I’d volunteered to come up with a list of places and we’d have the weekend to check it out. And Saturday was tomorrow, that made me smile.

            By now I had a list of 20 or so possibles. They included the extremely unlikely; a farmer who had converted a barn into a beauty parlour using some weird European grant, (who could guess what might go into the mud packs.) Then there were the maybes, commercial set ups which had a ring to them. There was a boxing gym, not really Jonah’s thing, but it made the bottom of the list. The most likely were the  various out of town places which had grown up along with the shopping centres on disused industrial sites. Finally, there were a couple of hotels that boasted ‘excellent recreational and spa facilities’, (I wasn't convinced by the puff. One looked as if the photograph had been shot from underneath a chair with a very wide angle lens to give the impression of space. It was a very poor impression) but they had that kind of lawyerly exclusiveness where clients could relax or talk business.

            I glance at my watch, nearly 10, time for the library to close. I take the scrap of paper with the possibles ranked in the order of the most promising, fold it and place it in my trouser pocket.  I clear the table making the assembled publications into a tall pile. I’ve a choice, we keep our local publications by the front desk; I can do this in one trip or easily in two. I can’t be bothered, so pick up the tower using my chin to keep the stack from sliding. It's a delicate operation.  The glossy brochures slip and slide as I make my way across the room. I weave across the room regretting that I’d chosen a spot at the back of the first floor, such a long way from the front desk. I get to the stairs, a challenge with my arms full, hesitantly I start down.

            “Excuse me. I am looking for Mrs Roberts? You know where she is?”

            I stop teetering on the steps and peer out from behind the pile. I’ve been focusing on the steps so I didn't see the young Chinese man. He's standing three steps below me, looking up, doleful brown eyes peering from beneath a mop of black hair. He looks pale almost translucent, as if he’s trying to be absorbed into whatever is around him. He asks again. It takes me a moment to register who Mrs Roberts is, we seldom use surnames and to hear them used is alien.  Mrs Roberts is Liz.

            “Sorry, yes I am sure she's round her somewhere.” I look over the banister and quickly scan the ground floor. “She should be over there.” I flick my left hand to indicate the area where the returns are kept but I he can’t see the gesture, he's on the wrong side. I wave more vigorously. The pile begins to slip. I jerk my left hand back and in doing so knock it the other way. The stack quivers.

            I would've held it but for the intervention of my staircase companion. He sees what's happening and lunges forward to catch them, meeting me as I try and keep the pile balanced. We collide.  The pile explodes. Half the pile falls, fledgling birds trying to master flight, momentarily soaring then gravity takes over. Some elegantly wheel to the floor, others simply surrender and plummet. The remainder slide from my grasp, slithering down the stairs, flip-flapping down each step. My companion stares disconsolately after them offering a hesitant apology. I manage a sardonic ‘great’ and harrumph down the stairs. He doesn't scuttle away but sticks with me, collecting the fallen leaflets stooping rhythmically as if he is harvesting. He presents his pile to me, bowing his head in contrition, catching my gaze to make sure I’m happy.

            “Mrs Roberts?”

            “Liz, Liz,” I call, laying the piles on a nearby table turning towards him, “Can I help? Mrs Roberts doesn’t seem to be about.  It is closing time, maybe come back tomorrow?”

            “Thank you but no. I wish to speak to Mrs Roberts.” His English has a polite formality. The pronunciation is considered and careful, implying that he has only recently arrived in the country. He's thin, about my height but what my mother would've called scrawny. He's wearing black trousers that reach below his ankles. His shirt, which pokes through a worn olive green fleece, is a cheap nylon. Slung over his shoulder is a bulging black duffel bag. It's heavy, as it cuts into his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by this. I decide he must be one of the post grad students here on the exchange programme. He doesn't look rich enough to be here under his own steam, nor flash enough to be under the wings of some multi-national, so it must be a scholarship.

            “You sure I can’t help?” He shuffles nervously,            “Liz, Liz!” I try a bit of added emphasis this time. Finally Liz appears.

            “Tony, what's all the fuss?” she's exasperated, “What’s this mess,” seeing the piles of brochures, “I’ve been sorting something for Prof...Oh,” her demeanour changes when she sees my Chinese companion. “Zhu? Are you alright?” She brushes past me towards the young man. She takes him by the arms gently, like a mother, peering up at his face. Her demeanour moves from annoyance to concern.

            “Liz?”

            “It’s all right Tony I can deal with this.”

            I hover. Liz gives no indication of that she requires me. She guides Zhu by the elbow away from the stairs, turning behind some bookcases so they are out of site. I watch her waiting to see if I’m called but nothing happens,  so I bundle up the brochures and head to the main desk.

            The clock by the door says it is 10:15. The steady stream of students and late night library users has turned to a trickle. I dismiss the girl on the main desk, Wendy one of the myriad of part time student staff we use. I place the brochures in the relevant boxes and then perch on the counter waiting for Liz. Finally she comes into view, carrying several books. She gives me one of her disapproving looks and disappears behind the counter placing the books in the reserved section.

            “Everything OK?”

            “Yes, why shouldn’t it be Tony?” Even though it’s muffled it is curt.

            “OK!” I’m a bit alarmed at how touchy she is. “No reason, he just seemed really keen to see you. He looked stressed and I didn’t recognise him and I know most of the post-grads, if only by sight.”

            “Oh, he’s been in and out,” responds Liz glibly now standing. “I’ve helped him dig out a few things. He’s doing engineering and I know that's not your interest.”  She’s looking around, “Where are the... ah, here they are.” She digs out a couple of telephone directories. “Why can’t people put them back where they belong.”

            “Are you trying to imply that I offer a differential service?

            “What? Yes!” She misses the fact I am teasing her as she’s now thumbing through the books. “Don’t get me wrong, dear, I know what you're best at, that’s all. As you say we’re a team and a team always plays to the strengths of its individuals.” She places a hand on my right arm gives it a gentle pat. “Besides,” with a twinkle, “who looks as if they are in charge here?”

            Liz's is her usual smart self; more suited to the office than the library.   Compared to me it's quite clear who anyone would think is boss. In my jeans and shirt, with my best sloppy jumper, they’d assume it was Liz every time. Add to this that those schooled abroad, no doubt, would be taught about manners, English reserve and elegance, it isn't hard to guess why Zhu might seek out Liz rather than me.

            “Shall I lock up dear?” She pauses her search, “I’m concerned you weren’t well yesterday and Bill said you looked awful when she called in. You know you needn’t have come in today, we could have taken care of things.”

            “Yes, I know but if I hadn't come in today I would've had to come in tomorrow and its Saturday.”

            “Anything planned?”

            “Oh no, just an easy day,” I lie, “A chance to recuperate.” The best way I can think of too, with Bill.

            “That’s good, so you go now and I’ll take things from here. I told Brian I’d be late, as I would be needed to finish up here.” She’s stopped flicking through the directory and is now writing out a telephone number.

            “OK, if you are happy to do that, I’ll go. Hang on though I haven’t seen the student you were with, (Zhu, that his name?) leave yet.”

            “Yes he has,” she says adamantly, folding up the piece of paper and placing it carefully in her handbag.

            “You sure? I’m pretty convinced he’s not come past me since I’ve been here.”

            “Of course he has Tony, you’re going blind.”

            “Hey, it's not unknown to be so worried about getting a piece of work in on time that a student will try and pull an all-nighter. And he looked pretty stressed. Trouble is, with the place all alarmed, all they do is cause hassle and I end up having to come in.”

            “No, he’s gone Tony. I saw him leave.” Little pink circles of indignation appear on Liz’s cheeks. “What do you think Tony, we’re running a bed breakfast service from the basement and he’s snuck down there?”

            “That's a bit of leap Liz.  I'm just worried about locking a student in and the alarms going off.”

            Liz's walks round the counter, picking up her handbag indicating that she's on the way to the exit.

            “He's gone Tony.” For emphasis she taps me on the knee, “Gone.”

            I slide off the counter, “No Liz, that’s OK. I just don’t want to find we’ve locked someone in and I get called out of my bed at two in the morning to help security, or worse the police, decide if we’ve got a burglar or an overzealous student.”

            “Well go and check then, if you must.” She’s moved to the door, her hand resting on the handle ready to leave, she’s staring at me, eyebrows raised, body stiff. I don’t understand why this is making her so angry.

            I swallow hard and decide discretion is the better option. I raise my hands in mock surrender, “I’m sorry Liz, I’m sure he must have slipped by and I didn’t catch him.” I know this can't be the case, but I don’t think it’s worth the argument.  She visibly subsides and the maternal comes to the fore. She trots back until she is standing beside me. In a gesture of friendship she rests her hand on my arm again.

            “Don’t worry Tony, I’ll check. I’m sorry I got a bit anxious. It’s Zhu, he's a long way from home and he’s been having trouble with his landlord and I’ve been helping him. It makes me angry when I see people treated that way. Young people like Zhu come here with this perception of us as kind and courteous and then all they get is rudeness and abuse. Oh, it riles me Tony, riles me, it does.”

            “I didn’t realise you were so involved.”

            “Oh, I do what I can do,” she sighs, “Though it is never enough. Brian is very patient.”

            “Can I help in anyway?”

            Liz pauses and reflects, she squeezes my arm tight. “You already are Tony, you already are. Now get on home.”