The Girl In The Library

She always comes in on a Wednesday. I work alternate Wednesdays, which means I don’t see her every week, but Alice told me she is there, every Wednesday, 9.30. And always with a friend. Sometimes it’s her friend with the big black boots and the sweat patches under her arms. Not pleasant to look at, but perhaps she has hidden depths. Or it could be the tall whip-thin older woman with the red glasses and khaki trousers. She seems nice enough. She holds her by the elbow, helps her choose her books, looks after her.

She is obviously frail. She seems delicate. Thin, pale, willowy; like she might break in a storm, or perhaps get swept up by a gust of wind. Go sailing off like the nannies in Mary Poppins. But I have only seen her in the library, and the fact that she comes back every week, rain or shine, calm or breezy, means she must survive the elements during the days in between.
She has yellow hair. Like a rich olive oil. Corn on a summer day. Sunshine. And it’s natural. Her eyebrows are yellow too, and her eyelashes. I have been close enough to notice.
I don't know her age, but I don't think she can be much older than me.
She has very pale skin, as if she doesn’t go out much. Maybe she’s ill, she looks ill sometimes, like she can’t bear to stand. She leans against her friend, or sits suddenly on the lounge chairs in the biography section. And once I saw her put her head between her knees, as if she thought she might faint, or be sick.

Her eyes are green. Not hazel, or a muddy green but a sort of south of France, swimming among the coral, sea green. Amazingly pretty. But sad. She seems sad, just by her posture you can tell, but when you look in her eyes, you really notice it. Incredibly sad.

She doesn’t smile often. In fact I don’t think I have ever seen her smile. Her lips are pale, no lipstick, no gloss. I guess maybe she uses Chap Stick in the cold weather, as they never really look sore or anything and I know if you don’t wear some sort of lubricant on your lips in the cold dry winter, you would definitely notice. I have to, and Alice is always nipping to the pharmacy to replenish hers.

It’s Wednesday today. 9.25. I’m stacking the shelves in fiction. I swapped with Mark. He’s now over by the childrens books, helping a woman with 5 year old twin boys. They don’t seem interested in reading, but are greatly entertained by taking books off the shelves and flinging them on the floor. I feel a moment of sympathy for Mark, but then I hear the door open, and there she is. She’s with Red Glasses today. They come in via the desk, and drop off the books from last week. Red Glasses smiles at Alice who is on duty at the desk. They exchange pleasantries. Nice day, warm out, summer on its way. While Alice is talking to her friend, the girl stands very still. She doesn’t look around, doesn’t take part in the conversation. Her head is bent slightly forward, so I can’t see her face. She is wearing a long dark blue skirt which almost touches her ankles. It’s full, lots of excess material that swirls and swishes as she walks. She has on brown leather sandals, sketchers, I think. Practical but not frumpy. And a long sleeved t-shirt, also blue, but a softer shade, faded. Really flimsy material, so I can see through it. She is so thin she doesn’t really have breasts. I don’t think she wears a bra. Her hair is up in a pony tail. Not a high one, but a loose one at the nape of her neck, so tendrils of fine hair have escaped and wisp against her face. As I watch she slowly puts up a hand to brush the stray hairs away. She has very long fingers. Fine boned. No rings. No jewelry. Not ever. Not even earrings. I find that odd.

Red glasses by her side, they come towards me. I turn to face them, a smile ready. Maybe I’ll get to say hello. She sees me, stops, hesitates, then changes direction, heads towards Natural History and Science. I stand smiling stupidly at their departing backs. But then she falters slightly, turns her head, looks at me over her shoulder. It’s a fleeting look, no eye contact, but it’s enough. I swoon. This girl, with her thin bones and her yellow hair has that affect on me. Blood rushes in my head. I feel dizzy, I can hear my heart thumping and I sway and lean against the A-L section. My forehead rests against a hard back copy of Ian Banks The Wasp Factory, and I think inanely that I ought to re-read it. I close my eyes briefly, take some deep breaths, and gradually things return to normal. My heart slows. My hands stop trembling, and I continue placing returned books on the shelves. Surely Natural History won’t keep her for long. She always gets at least 2 novels a week. I must just stay here and be patient. Be unobtrusive, blend into the books, be as inconspicuous as possible.

My height is an obvious drawback to the whole blending in thing. Last time I checked (which admittedly was a while ago now) I was just over 6.5. I’m not big though. Alice calls me lanky. I prefer the term rangy. Sounds manlier. Lanky suggests a teenager, all arms legs and no coordination. Rangy makes me sound like a cowboy.
Apart from my height I am ordinary. Blue eyes. Brown hair. I don’t think I am particularly good looking. Girls don’t flock around me, but that might be because I am an introvert. I know plenty of guys who aren’t as attractive as me who have girlfriends all the time. They must have an aura. I have no aura. I am shy and quiet. I prefer a good book to the pub. I haven’t even had a girlfriend. Alice thinks this is terribly funny. I don’t, but what am I supposed to do about it? She tried fixing me up on a blind date once, a few months ago. The girl, someone Alice knew at school, was boring and hadn’t read a book since 6th form. The only thing we had in common was Alice, so conversation dried up after a couple of minutes. The whole thing lasted the time it took for her to drink two bottles of beer and go to the toilet 3 times. I was relieved to get back to my flat and my bookshelves.

Somehow I manage to concentrate enough to get all the books on the cart onto the shelves. Still no sign of her. But then I hear her, She is whispering to Red Glasses, they are heading back to fiction. My heart starts to hammer again, and I want to run away, but I stand still, waiting, breathing quietly but deeply. I hear the swish of her skirt before I see them. They turn into the aisle and I pretend to check the L-S’s, concentrating, as though I am searching for something. I don’t want to look at her. It might frighten her again.
They stop talking, and I am being very good at not peeking. I haven’t got a clue what books I am touching. I am focusing so hard on not paying attention that I almost jump out of my skin when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look down. It’s her. I glance over her shoulder, but Red Glasses isn’t there.
“Can I be of assistance?” My calm and pleasant library voice has gone and I squeak like I’ve been swigging helium. I cough and try again. Slightly better. By this time, I know my face has gone red. A curse which accompanies my pale skin. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“I need help”
“What are you looking for?”
She looks puzzled, then her face clears. She shakes her head
“No, I don’t want a book. I need your help.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I am spell bound. She breaks my gaze to look behind her, a move so exaggerated, so Agatha Christie that I look too. The isles are empty, It’s just her and me. She is standing mere inches away, the top of her head reaching the middle of my chest. She looks up at me beseechingly. I cannot imagine what she wants from me, this fragile vulnerable girl, but at that moment I am willing to give her anything.
“That woman I came in with?” She whispers.
She turns her head, glances up and down the shelves of books. Again I am reminded of a desperate heroine in a black and white film noir.
I nod. “Your friend?”
“She’s not my friend!” She hisses with such vehemence that I take a step back, startled.
At once she moves nearer, puts her right hand on my chest. I almost go through the roof. She clutches a handful of t-shirt, then reaches down and grabs my wrist with her other hand. I admit I have dreams about this girl, about her touching me. But this is definitely strange.
“They keep me locked up” she whispers fiercely, her green eyes sparking. “They kidnapped me! They don’t let me eat, they took me away from my family!”

She isn’t fragile now. She’s animated, strong, possessed, and I find myself caught up in the melodrama, I don’t think of questioning her.
“Please, help me escape. Hurry, we need to get out now! She’ll be looking for me.”
She moves towards the “Staff Only” exit, at the end of the fiction isle, dragging me with her. As we crash through the door I hear someone shout behind us, but we don’t stop.
“How do we get out?” she is looking about her wildly, and we keep running, me leading the way now, round the corner, opening the fire door, clattering down the steps, out into the staff car park. Frantically I bundle her into the passenger side of my little Peugeot, thankful I always keep my keys on me, and race round to the driver side. As we speed away, I look in the rear view mirror. Alice is jumping up and down, waving frantically at me, Red glasses is on her mobile phone. The library steps are filling up with people trying to see what’s happening. I don’t think the library has ever seen such drama on a Wednesday morning.

The girl beside me breathes out a sigh and leans against the seat, head lolling back, eyes closed.
“The police?” I ask?
“Just give me a minute. I need to rest.” She swivels her head and looks at me with those ocean green eyes. She smiles,
“Thank you”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Josephine”
I like it. It suits her.
After a few minutes I say again.
“Can I take you to the police?”
She shakes her head.
“Take me home. We’ll call them from there.”

She directs me through the traffic, down unfamiliar streets out into the countryside, and to a lane, which leads eventually to some farm buildings. A farm house stands forlorn, neglected, and for the first time, I begin to feel uneasy. I stop the car, and she gets out first, stretching, a smile on her face, looking about her. The whole place feels abandoned.
“They must be out” she says lightly. I wish, fleetingly, the library didn’t have such a strict policy regarding mobile phones. Mine is sitting uselessly in the staffroom locker.
“Come in and wait. I need to get changed, freshen up. It’ll be nice to wear some of my clothes again!”

Overturning an empty terracotta plant pot on the front step, she retrieves a solitary brass key.
She puts me in the front room, which smells musty and forgotten, and I hear her run up the stairs. The curtains are half drawn, the shadowed windows dirty. A thin film of dust covers the mantel piece above the fire place, and though it is a warm day outside, the room is chilly. There are paintings on the walls, mostly prints, but an original oil hangs above the fireplace. I move to get a better look. It’s a portrait. A family gathering. An older couple and three teenagers, a girl and two boys. The girl is obviously Josephine; the boys must be her brothers. Something about the picture is familiar.

There is a small television set in the corner of the room, and I switch it on, wanting noise, needing to rid myself of a sudden unease.
It‘s an old fashioned set, but it comes to life almost immediately. I change the channels, and find the midday news. I turn back to the window, the background drone of the newsreader calming frazzled nerves. This hasn’t been a run of the mill Wednesday for me so far.
I hear movements from upstairs, footsteps, and the sound of running water. Walking out into the hallway I look about for a phone, thinking maybe I should call the police now. An old fashioned BT monstrosity sits gathering dust on a little table. I put the receiver to my ear, but it’s dead.

The newsreader is announcing a breaking news story and I drift back to the lounge.
Glancing at the screen, I stop dead. A photograph of Josephine fills the screen, and a disembodied voice is talking.

“…last seen in the company of Stephen Winters, a 21 year old library employee. Josephine Hall is serving a life sentence at Hillsborough Mental Institution for the manslaughter of her parents and two brothers 3 years ago. For the past year she has been allowed to visit the library once a week, but today she evaded her guard and escaped. The police are urging members of the public not to approach Ms Hall, who is extremely unstable and is known to be violent. Anyone with information …”

Letting out a startled squeak I sit down heavily on the nearest chair, my head in my hands, dizzy and more scared than I have been in my life. The TV drones in the background, but I am aware of the stillness, the utter quietness of the house. The imminent danger lurking in the shape of a psychopathic killer. There is no longer any sound from upstairs. I am filled with panic, which gives me a burst of sudden energy. Lunging out of the chair and into the hall, I have my hand on the door when I hear a click. I freeze in horror. I have never heard a gun being cocked before, but know immediately that is what it is.

“Please don’t leave just yet.” She sounds so pleasant and ordinary that I turn.
She has changed out of her skirt, and into a pair of blue jeans and a black t-shirt. Her long hair is gone, and it now spikes up on her head, a yellow halo, sticking out at odd angles. As I stare at her, she pulls a black baseball cap from the back pocket of her jeans with one hand, and covers the new hair style. The other hand is busy wielding a small gun, which is pointed at me. I am utterly terrified, and certain that this mad woman is going to shoot me.

“Don’t look so worried! God! You look like you’re about to piss yourself!” She laughs, and I want to weep.
“Please don’t kill me” I whimper, a man no longer, defenseless, reduced and pleading. She walks towards me, silent in off-white trainers. I shrink back against the door, closing my eyes, tasting salt, mortified that she has made me cry.
I feel fingers on my face, and her hand strokes away the tears. She is standing so close her body touches mine. Cupping the back of my head she gently pulls me down, her lips against my ear. I shiver, tense with terror and suddenly conscious that I am physically excited, and confused because how can I have an erection when I could die at any second?
“I’m not going to kill you” she murmurs and rubs against me. “How could I kill someone who has been my friend? I just want to say thank you.”
She moves her mouth and then she is kissing me. And maybe it’s the fear, the sense of my imminent death, the fact that this could be the first and last kiss I ever experience; whatever it is, it’s truly amazing. I never want it to stop. I feel her heart beating and realize that I have my arms around her and have pulled her tight.
Kisses have to end, and when she eventually breaks away, I let her go, and breathless, lean back against the door. At once she is business like, and I remember that she holds my life in her hands. Now she has said thank you, is she going to kill me?

“Come on, lover boy!” She points the gun at me and nods towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you sorted.”
Ten minutes later, I am tied to a chair, my hands bound uncomfortably behind my back. As she tightens the ropes, and begins to secure my legs, she chatters away, her practiced fingers every now and then making pleasurable diversions.
“Sorry I can’t take you with me,” she strokes my hair, trails her hand down my chest “you really are rather adorable.” She seems genuine, but who can tell with mass murderers? I have no experience with girls, even less with girls who have slaughtered their parents. I somehow doubt there are any books in the library advising what to do if you become involved with one. When I get out of here, maybe I should write one.

When she is finished, she bends down and kisses me gently.
“I really am sorry for this. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to take your car. Of course, I’ll ditch it as soon as I can. They’ll be here to find you soon enough.” She pats my head, fondles my ears, and grabbing the gun, walks out of the house. I am left, alone, but alive.

I don’t know how long I wait, but it grows dark, and house gets colder. The TV is still on in the lounge, a strange comfort even though I’m too far away to make out what anyone is saying. I sleep, but not well, and wake suddenly, my arms aching intolerably. My feet are numb, and I know I will have the most terrible pins and needles when I am at last free.

After a long time, though I couldn’t have told you how long, I hear a car approaching. Then another. Doors slam, many footsteps running, voices calling. I am thankful that she didn’t think to gag me, or maybe she left my mouth free deliberately. I am able to call out to my rescuers, my voice weak. Two uniformed policemen burst in through the kitchen door, and one heads straight to me
“Alright Sir. Let’s get you out of this mess. Did she hurt you?”
I shake my head, relief making me dumb.
I was right. The pins and needles are agonizing, and the pain is a good excuse for the tears which come as I stand, and stagger, supported by the policemen and soon the paramedics who help me onto a stretcher and carry me to a waiting ambulance.

I learn later that she was shot by a police marksman when she tried to steal a car in a pub car park that night. Someone had noticed a woman acting suspiciously, had recognized her description, even with the shorn hair, and had called the police. She had drawn her gun, shot and wounded an officer. That was all it had taken. She was shot in the head.
She hadn’t died straight away, but in surgery as they tried to save her life. Maybe the surgeon didn’t want to try too hard.

I had two weeks compassionate leave from the library. Alice visited me every day, and last night she asked me out. She no longer things I’m a skinny lanky idiot, but a brave and handsome hero. She loves the mystery and intrigue of the whole thing. Apparently knowing someone who was kidnapped by a mentally ill murderess is a giant turn on. Who would have known?

Tomorrow I return to work. It’s a Wednesday. Exactly two weeks to the day that I tried to help the woman in the library. I think I’ll stick to stacking the shelves, and leave the customers to Mark and Alice. I have decided I’m not really into adventure.