The Last Revelation Of Gla'aki (2 page)

He was a small man capped with glossy black hair. He wore a lounge suit and a white shirt stretched so tight over his prominent stomach that dark hairs peeked between more than one pair of buttons. His bow tie was as black as his neat moustache, which appeared to be sharing its gloss with his round face. His handshake was somewhat prolonged for Fairman's taste, since it was damp and pliable. "Step in," he urged. "Will you have a drink to celebrate?"

"I'd better not when I'm driving. Being here is enough of a celebration for me."

"Not for you alone, sir." Lunt lowered himself into a venerable leather chair behind his broad squat desk while Fairman sat on a pudgy stool. "It's good to meet someone who knows all about our book," Lunt said.

"I wouldn't say quite all. Only what you read." When the manager looked politely unconvinced Fairman added "Do you mind if I ask how you came by the book?"

"Father gave it me."

That was brusque enough to be a warning, especially since it didn't sound like the man's style. Perhaps Fairman had touched on a family secret, in which case he shouldn't pry. "I don't doubt he was right to trust you," he said.

"I'll say as much for you."

Fairman supposed he should feel vindicated, but he said "Would you like to see some identification?"

"No need." Lunt might even have been offended. "Nobody's doubting who you are."

"Well then, may I see what you've been looking after?"

"My privilege." Lunt stood up as if he were stretching after a rest, but gestured Fairman to stay seated. "It's here for you," he said.

Fairman had expected to be taken somewhere else. The safe to which Lunt turned behind his desk seemed hardly large enough to hold nine books, though Fairman had learned from a nineteenth-century auction catalogue that the volumes were small quartos. Having typed on the keypad, the manager pressed a final key so hard that his thumb appeared to swell and flatten, and then he stood back as the door swung ajar.

The safe was full of papers and, as far as Fairman could make out, nothing else. He had to restrain himself from craning for a better view as Lunt hauled the door wide and reached in. For a few moments that felt longer than a breath Fairman had the odd impression that the man was extending his arm quite a distance. He let out the breath as Lunt produced a small black volume from the safe. "All yours now, Mr Fairman," he said.

Fairman must look as if he were bowing in obeisance as he rose in a crouch to take the book that Lunt passed him with both hands. It was bound in soft black leather, with a colophon embossed on the front cover. At first Fairman took the image for a spider clutching a ball of its eggs, and then he saw that it showed the world held aloft by a claw with many digits, unless those were meant for the limbs of some creature lurking on the far side of the globe. He was cataloguing the volume in his mind—it was indeed a small quarto, measuring about seven inches by a little over three—but despite his attempt to stay professional, his pulse was quickening. The spine was devoid of any title, and as he turned the cover towards him again the colophon appeared to rise out of its own blackness. "Thank you, Mr Lunt," he said. "You can't know how much this means to me."

"Just so it's in the right hands, Mr Fairman. That's all we need."

As Fairman opened the book a musty odour reminiscent of stagnant water rose to greet him. In a breath it dissipated, giving way to the familiar aroma of old paper, though the pages had hardly yellowed. He seemed to taste both smells on the long breath he took as he read the title page.

Of the World as Lair
Tome III of the Revelations of Glaaki
edited, organised, and corrected by Percy Smallbeam

His hands grew a little clammy, and the covers felt as if they had, while he turned to the first page.

How many secrets hath the world! Some are hid by water, and so Glaaki may be known to few men but in the dreams He sends ...

It occurred to Fairman that scarcely anyone alive might have read these words. He could imagine himself reading to the end without looking up, but he mustn't presume on Lunt's hospitality. He regained some professionalism by noting that while the subscribers weren't named or numbered, this volume belonged to the sixty-first set. He shut the book and saw Lunt closing the safe. "May I have the rest now?" he said.

"A rest," Lunt said and gazed at him.

"All the rest." Fairman added a laugh to take responsibility for the mistake. "The others," he said. "The other books."

"There's what I told you I had, Mr Fairman."

For a moment Fairman was as bewildered as the fellow seemed to be, and then he was able to laugh afresh. "I don't mean different ones. Forgive me, I'm talking about the rest of this set."

"We know that."

"You mean," Fairman said more sharply than he was able to control, "this is all?"

"I hope you don't think you'd have been brought here if it wasn't worthwhile."

"Please don't think I'm ungrateful," Fairman resigned himself to saying. "It's a more than welcome acquisition. I'll see that you're named as the donor."

"No need to single me out, Mr Fairman."

"Whatever you're comfortable with, Mr Lunt." When this brought no response Fairman said "I suppose we'll never know what happened to the rest, then."

"You will."

Fairman had to take a breath before he asked "How shall I?"

"Go to Dr Stoddart. He's got something for you just like me.

"You don't mean the rest."

As Lunt gave him a slow grin Fairman felt as if he'd been made the butt of a ponderous joke. Perhaps it was a local brand of humour if not simply Lunt's, and Fairman couldn't really call it malicious. A number of questions came to mind, but he only said "Would you know his number?"

"It'll be the surgery, but he's shut for the night."

"I'd like to try calling to be sure."

"It's your time." Lunt intoned the number and said "Tell him you're at Frank's."

A receptionist answered, though only on a tape that hissed like waves. Once she'd recited the surgery hours she provided an emergency number. Fairman didn't feel justified in using this, especially when it mightn't connect him with the person he was after. "Dr Stoddart, I'm Leonard Fairman of the Brichester University archive," he said. "Mr Lunt has just presented me with his valuable addition and says you'll be able to complete it. Let me leave my number and I'd appreciate your giving me a call."

He looked up just too late to interpret Lunt's vanishing expression. He would have felt presumptuous to call him Frank after so brief an acquaintance. "Thank you once again for your generous bequest," he said and stood up.

"We've another present for you," Lunt said and handed him a slip of paper that had been lying on the desk.

It was a ticket for the Gulshaw Players on Thursday night. "That's very kind of you, Mr Lunt," Fairman said, "but I don't imagine I'll be here by then."

"You mustn't run away from us, Leonard. There's so much more to see."

Fairman didn't know which peeved him more—the lurch into familiarity or the mangling of the slogan. He thanked Lunt once more as the manager held the door open for him. In the foyer the young woman did, and gave Fairman's prize a look not far short of reverential. Presumably Lunt had told his staff about the book. Outside the theatre Fairman might have fancied that everyone trudging uphill towards him was aware of it. Of course he was simply mindful of how vulnerable it was out here in the open, and he hurried to unlock the car.

He'd brought nine stout cartons filled with excelsior. As he made space in one for the book and covered it up, quite a few passers-by stared at him. At least one man slowed down to watch, humming some old melody under his breath. Was Fairman betraying how valuable the book was? He made haste to stow the carton in the boot and lock the car before driving back to the hotel.

Janine Berry glanced over the reception counter at the solitary item in his hands. "I hope you don't think Gulshaw's let you down, Mr Fairman."

"Don't worry." He'd told her he was here for more than one book, of course. "I've more to look forward to before I go home," he said.

In his room he opened the safe that was hidden in the left-hand wardrobe. While there was nowhere near enough space for nine cartons, of course he wouldn't need it; he would be driving back to Brichester as soon as he took charge of the rest of the books. He laid the carton in the safe and typed his birthday—5475—on the keypad. Once he'd made certain the safe was secure he went out for dinner.

He didn't want much. He was eager to spend time with the book. He walked along the promenade, overtaking the occasional stroller. The sun had gone down, though he couldn't judge exactly where, given the grey haze that merged the horizon with the sea. Beyond the hotels he was met by the clamour of the amusement arcades: the electronic jingles of fruit machines, the repetitive ditties of toddlers' rides, the robot voices of video games. Between two of the arcades a giant fish stood on its tail in a pool of mossy light from the green tube in the window of Fishing For You. As Fairman let himself into the fish and chip shop the proprietor, an unexpectedly scrawny woman in a white uniform not unlike a nurse's, said "The word's out, then."

"Sorry, I'm not with you."

She gave that a look he could have thought was skeptical. "The word about the best fish dinners," she said. "You've come a distance."

Presumably Fairman's accent had betrayed him again. "Everybody's favourite," she said as she perched a battered fish on top of a heap of chips on a sheet of greaseproof paper. "See if you aren't back for more."

He didn't bother saying that he wouldn't be in Gulshaw long enough. She wrapped the package in a page of the
Gulshaw Gannet
and wiped her glistening hands on a towel before she gave Fairman his change. He took the hot package across the road to a bench overlooking the beach. Could people really still be swimming in the sea? He had to squint into the gathering dusk to be sure that the restless shapes were large jellyfish. As he unwrapped his dinner a wind fluttered the newspaper; in the dimness it looked as if the fish was struggling to demonstrate some kind of life. The batter was crisp, and though he might have called the fish a little rubbery, it tasted as he remembered cod tasting in his childhood. He ate most of it and nearly all the chips, and stuffed the remains into a concrete bin that appeared not to have been emptied for some time. He was turning back towards the Wyleave when an old phone began to trill.

Although he wouldn't have been surprised to see a vintage phone box on the promenade, the sound was in his pocket. He was hoping Dr Stoddart had returned his call, but the phone display showed him Sandra's name. "Sorry," he said. "I ought to have called you by now."

"You're there, I take it."

He heard affection underlying that, but he didn't know if anybody else would have. "I have been for a little while," he said. "It feels longer, somehow."

"That's a bit imprecise for you, Leonard."

"I'm sure it's because I'm away from you." He imagined her making the face she kept for compliments—almost too deprecatory to betray appreciation—but when he heard no response he said "It reminds me of the kind of holiday I never had as a child."

"I didn't realise you preferred that kind."

"I don't. I'm looking forward to ours. Art galleries and churches are fine as far as I'm concerned."

"So have you acquired your prize?"

"I've made a start."

"You either have it or you haven't, Leonard."

"I thought the chap who emailed me had all nine volumes. You saw yourself what he said." When she gave him a silence to interpret, Fairman told her "It turns out he just had one."

"So you'll be on your way after breakfast, I suppose."

"Not quite so soon. I'm waiting to hear from the fellow who has the rest of the set."

"Why on earth would they split it up?"

"To tell you the truth, I didn't enquire. I don't think the chap I saw was anxious to discuss its history. We can't expect everyone to care about books as much as we do, can we? I'm just happy it still exists."

"Don't let them take advantage of you, Leonard."

"How is anybody going to do that? It's not as though I'm being asked for payment. We ought to appreciate how generous that is."

"Unless they're glad to see the last of it. Perhaps the man who gave you the book didn't want too much of that kind of thing in his house, and that's why he had only one volume."

"It wasn't in his house, it was in his office safe."

"There you are, then."

She could be imprecise when it suited her, Fairman thought as he retorted "It doesn't matter what he thinks of it, does it? It's our job as archivists to preserve books like those."

"That doesn't mean we have to promote what they represent."

"Nobody's promoting anything. I've hardly even started reading it."

"Do you really need to, Leonard?"

"I wouldn't be much of a librarian if I didn't know my stock."

"In that case I'd better leave you to get on with your job."

"I'll give you a call when I'm about to start back if you like." When she let him assume her response he said "Have a good night."

"I expect I shall." As he began to think the call was over she said "I hope you do as well."

He'd learned to find fondness in her voice, since she hadn't much time for nicknames or other expressions of intimacy. The conversation had brought him to the shelter opposite the Wyleave. In the open cabin four benches formed a cross. On the bench that faced the sea the names MELANIE and SETH were united by a heart so inexpertly rendered that it looked malformed. Another seat bore misshapen figures merged by the enthusiasm of the cartoonist, while the bench facing the hotel was covered with initials bunched closely enough to resemble words, especially since they could have been scrawled in a single hand. Fairman found himself attempting to pronounce the gibberish in his head, if only to prove the graffiti weren't words, as he crossed the promenade to the hotel.

Mrs Berry was rising from behind her desk when he stepped into the lobby. He might have thought she'd been waiting up for him. His key gave a hollow rattle as she retrieved it from its pigeonhole. "Ready for bed, Mr Fairman?"