The Library of the Dead Page 2

  ‘That would be a mighty pity,’ the cop holding the leash says.

  ‘Nothing we can do. Law’s the law,’ PC Johnson replies.

  ‘Guys, officers, sir, I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘Is she threatening a police officer, Johnson?’

  ‘I believe she is.’

  ‘I’m fearing for my life right now,’ says the cop, his free hand resting on his holster.

  They don’t even bother to play good cop, bad cop these days, ’cause there’s only one type of cop left.

  The light’s hurting my eyes. I raise my hands in front of me, then slowly reach into my pocket. I take out the money in there and hold it in the open palm of my hand. That’s everything on me. Not hiding any. You don’t wanna look like you’re holding out on these guys, because if they find out, you’re entering a world of pain.

  PC Johnson comes over. There’s static from his radio, and an inaudible voice talks for a bit before quietening down again. ‘That’s too much for a waif like you to be carrying around this time of night,’ he says, scooping up my cash. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after it for you.’ I don’t make eye contact, stare at his black boots, not his face.

  He drops two mini-pennies back in my palm.

  ‘The weak are meat . . . Get your arse home, kid. It’s past your bedtime.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I mumble and back away. The dog’s pacing, straining against its leash. I turn and walk away. Just my luck this had to happen on the one day I actually make good money. Damn it to hell, I should have gone the other way.

  III

  They say fools and their money are soon parted, but goddamn. I really should have gone the other way. Round the B-road, through Wester Hailes and back out again. Dumb move. But I’m not psychic – I couldn’t have known this would happen today of all days. It’s like that song from the olden days about the old guy who won the lottery and died the next day. Flies in your bubbly and all that. I pinch my nose and frown.

  At least I didn’t get my arse kicked by the bobbies too, but I am so, so screwed.

  I guess I’m a bit shook, been a while since Johnny Law’s hit me with a shakedown. Nearly home now. Tar’s cracked into a jigsaw puzzle on the bypass. Weeds have invaded it and grow proud in the fault lines. Been told by old fellas that this ring road used to have traffic jams miles long. Maybe that’s true, but it’s dead now.

  Bits of metal poke up from where they had the middle barricade. Most of it was stripped for scrap ages ago. Yep, I used to be in that racket too a few years back. Now it’s done, the hustle’s moved on.

  A light grey figure appears in front of me, so fragile, a hint of mist against the grim night.

  Normally I wouldn’t do business out on the street like this. But it’s dark and deserted, my brain’s scrambled, and I’m chasing the cash I’ve just lost, so I stop and take out my mbira from my backpack. This one’s a new ghost. Probably far from its cemetery. It flickers like an old light bulb, trying to hold itself in this realm. Each micro-moment it gets sucked back to the land of the dead and comes back, it reappears in a slightly different position. Can’t be long dead if it hasn’t mastered how to anchor in this plane.

  ‘Hang on, I’ve got you,’ I say, warming up my instrument.

  ‘Booga-wooga-wooga,’ it replies.

  Give me strength. I can’t understand ghosts without the right music to unscramble their voices into words. All I get is gibberish until I fix on the right tune. But before we start, I have to give it the kauderwelsch: the terms and conditions. It’s a legal requirement.

  ‘Okay, I can deliver a message from you to anyone you want within the city limits, although at the moment I’m not doing the town centre, sorry. Terms and conditions – there’s a three-tier charge for this service, banded in a low flat fee, a middle flat fee, and a high flat fee, plus twenty per cent VAT. The band you fall into depends on the length, complexity and content of the message. If you cannot pay the bill, the fee will be reverse-charged to the recipient with a small surcharge. Please note: this service does not transmit vulgar, obscene, criminal or otherwise objectionable messages, but a fee may still be incurred if we decide to pass on a redacted version of the message. Do you understand?’

  ‘Booga.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  I thumb a few notes on the mbira, trying to figure out the right frequency for this particular spectre. She has a proto-face, something puffy for cheeks and two dim zones where the eyes should be. New deados go through phases. The hazy cloud thing first, then they work out to a humanoid figure. After quite a bit of practice they can even appear clothed or take on other forms. The guys who are dressed have usually been around for a while. Don’t often get messages from them because they’re less likely to have living relatives you can bill.

  Me personally, I find the whole haunting business a bit pathetic. Like, if I died, when I die, I ain’t never coming back to this shitshow. That’ll be me done. Finito. I’d rather do other things with my afterlife. No way I’m coming back from the everyThere like some loser. It’s your first stop when you die – a grim, grey place. Call it Hades Hotel, a sort of budget underworld linked to our own. But there’s so much more beyond the everyThere . . . planes of light and music, mystical shit waiting to be discovered. However, once a ghost moves on from the everyThere, it loses its connection to our world forever – so I guess it must be tough.

  I pick out the riff from Chiwoniso Maraire’s song ‘Mai’. She was one of my favourite mbira players ever and this particular tune is a vigorous jig infused with power enough to touch the spirit world. I can feel Chiwoniso in my thumbs as they dance from key to key, callus striking the hard iron underneath. Ka-ra-ka-kata, ka-ra-ka-kata, ka-ra-kata. In ancient times, the mbira was used by the Shona to commune with their ancestors during ceremonies and stuff. Mine’s made of a wooden board from the mubvamaropa tree with rusty iron keys laced against it. Pretty weighty.

  She comes into clearer focus. I’ve managed to anchor her now.

  ‘Tell me your name,’ I say. It’s important when managing visitors from the other side that you stamp your Authority immediately. That’s why this is a command, not a question.

  ‘Nicola Stuart.’

  ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Baberton, but I grew up in Murrayburn.’

  Great, she’s local. I’ll take the commission, make a few shillings and that will be that.

  ‘Can you pay, or do you want to reverse charge the fee to the recipient of the message?’

  She swirls, her face turning from one side to the other. Then she flickers. I’m losing her, so I switch tempo to keep her earthed.

  ‘My son, Ollie, Oliver, he’s missing. He was missing before I . . .’ Something catches in her throat. New ghosts tend to avoid talk of their passing if they can help it. Must be some PTSD type thing. ‘He disappeared one day with his mate, Mark. Mark came back, but he couldn’t tell us what happened. Can you—’

  ‘Can Mark pay?’

  ‘No, he’s seven.’

  ‘Your partner?’ She shakes her head. ‘You have anyone else at all who can pay?’

  ‘My parents live in Sighthill, but they’re hard up against it. We can’t afford to.’

  ‘Nicola, Nikki, Nik, stop right there. Let me level with you. I can send a message to anyone you choose, so long as they are willing and able to pay for it. That’s how this thing works.’

  ‘Please, you’re the only one who can help me find my son.’

  Zzz. What a waste of time. I’m past doing special services and certainly not for nothing. She must think I’m walking around with a big sign saying ‘mug’ or something.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t work for free. Everyone knows the score.’ Nicola dims and two foggy arms come towards me in supplication, but she can’t hold that form, dissolving back into mist. ‘Let me make myself crystal clear, alright? I’m saying, I need to earn a living. That’s what being alive’s about, in case you’ve forgotten. My advice, call the police
or find a clairvoyant. This ain’t my hustle. RIP.’

  I stop jamming. It’s late and I’m knackered. I need to get a bit of shut-eye before I start work in the morning. Nicola’s booga-wooga-ring, but I ain’t listening no more. Night’s giving way to day and the everyThere’s gonna be tugging harder at her without me playing. I bail and let her fade to black.

  IV

  Smoke rising, the vague flicker of open fires. The scent of burnt charcoal and wood wafts through the air as I make my way up the road. Voices humming in alleyways, laughter echoing round corners. Sheep bleating and chickens clucking. This place has its own pulse, its own rhythm that sets it apart from the rest of the city. I jump over a drainage ditch and go past the statics on the periphery. They look like mini-bungalows elevated on stilts. Further on is the higgledy-piggledy mass of tents, prefabs, sheet metal dwellings, woodsheds and hasty constructions along the narrow lanes in what used to be a field.

  The university up the way says we’re an eyesore, that we shouldn’t be here. Screw ’em. I step in a puddle and the water seeps into my socks. Just my luck. My steel toecaps stopped being watertight ages ago. At a glance, in this dim light, they look like a proper pair of Docs.

  I make it to our caravan and a yelp greets me from the darkness underneath. I kneel and click my fingers and whistle. There’s some panting in the burrow, but my girl River doesn’t come to me. Her shining eyes watch from within. Total vixen. I should have put her in the pot ages ago, I think, getting up. It’s too cold to be fooling around anyway. Even the doorknob’s freezing when I turn it.

  Warm air greets me inside. I quickly check the windows are slightly open. The brazier on the countertop’s burning lumps of coal. If you don’t open the window, you go to sleep and never wake up. I suppose that’s one way to go.

  ‘Hey, Gran, how’s your day been?’ I say.

  ‘Is that you, Ropa?’ Like, who else?

  ‘Yeah, I’m back.’

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘It’s been ultra-great, thanks. Cast out a poltergeist.’ I don’t tell Gran about my encounter with Johnny Law. Her heart’s not that great, she’s on all sorts of medication, and she’s not supposed to get stressed out lest it goes kaboom. I wouldn’t know what to do without her, so I have to look after her.

  ‘I hope you were kind. The lost especially deserve an ounce of kindness – sometimes it helps show them the way,’ she says. Her voice is worn and crackles the way dry leaves crunch underfoot in autumn. Gran pats the seat beside her and I chuck my bag on the counter and plonk myself there. I rest my head against her shoulder. It’s kinda squishy and comfy. She’s knitting something and her elbow gently rubs against me. Looks like a little cardigan. Too small for us, must be for one of the neighbours’ kids or something. I like the rainbow colours she’s working into that. Gran don’t see too good nowadays, but she can still knit. The patterns are all there in her head.

  ‘Izwi?’ I ask, after a few minutes.

  ‘Under that duvet, fast asleep,’ she replies.

  ‘She make you tea tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Done her homework?’

  ‘That too and all the chores you set for her. Why don’t you rest, child? Have something to eat and tell me all about your day.’

  I’ve already had tea and scones at the McGregors, so that’ll save us some grub tonight. Means Gran can have lunch tomorrow, three meals instead of two. I relax and tell her about my visits, leaving all the bad stuff out. I don’t wanna kill the vibe in our home. Gran umms and ahs to prod me along. When she listens to you like that, it’s like the whole universe goes quiet just for her. Your voice is the only thing worth listening to, and only you matter.

  V

  I’m at the hob making oatmeal porridge. The electric tends to be erratic these days. We’re not supposed to be on the grid, but for a king’s ransom there’s a guy on the estate who can sort it. Tethers you into the giant pylons running into town. It’s fairly safe; only one trailer’s blown up because of it so far.

  Still a wee bit grim outside. The sun’s hidden behind thick grey clouds blanketing the sky. Someone bangs on the door, brutal like. I look through the porthole window and see the troll, as we like to call him, outside.

  ‘Alright, alright. Don’t break the blooming door down,’ I grumble.

  I turn down the heat and go into the cupboard where I keep my jar and count the cash I keep in there. Not much, but it’ll do for now.

  ‘I’m coming already, shish,’ I yell, ’cause the knocking resumes with even more vigour.

  ‘Who is it?’ Gran asks from her berth.

  ‘It’s no one, Gran. Go back to sleep.’

  Some people. He already knows I’m coming out but he’s still making a racket. If I ever raise enough dosh, we’re outta here. Hasta la vista, morons, smell you later. No forwarding address.

  I open the door. The morning air’s a bit hazy and fresh. Birdsong and breeze. The troll’s greasy green tractor’s parked up front. I hand over my jar and stand with both hands on the doorframe, blocking the troll so he can’t come in. He’s our landlord in the purest sense of the word. He doesn’t own our caravan, but he owns the land beneath it. I’m pretty sure this means we owe him ground rent. That means, technically and informally-illegally, we have a leasehold, which is more an English thing, really. Farmer McAlister figured out one day that he was sitting on prime real estate, after the first squatters moved in Hermiston way. Whereas a less savvy man might have called the law, he saw an opportunity – to leech money off us. It’s easier than getting up mornings and tending the fields, which is what real farmers ought to do. The long and the short of it is that this is how His Majesty’s Slum at Hermiston was born.

  We call Farmer McAlister the troll not because he skims money off us, but because he actually looks like one. He has a big, bulbous red nose, pitted, with hairs spiking out of it. His ears are the bushiest this side of the equator, and his face is marked by deep lines. He’s short and squat, spindly legs on a broad torso. I’m pretty certain he’s the missing link.

  ‘That’s only half,’ he says with a snort.

  ‘The rest’s coming,’ I reply.

  Would have had all that and then some, if it weren’t for the fuzz last night.

  He pretends to look around and scratches his temple.

  ‘From where? I dinnae see it,’ he says. ‘I’m not a charity. Could be growing wheat and barley on these here fields. You want you and your nan to go on living here? Get it sorted.’

  ‘You’ll get your money,’ I say.

  ‘Aye, you’re right about that, lassie. You’d be out on the streets if it weren’t for me and dinnae forget it.’

  The troll empties the cash into a little sack and tosses the jar back my way. He goes to his green John Deere, a yellow stripe running down the middle of its belly, and hops in. He’s agile as a young man. He turns the engine on, cranks the gears and is off, the diesel engine roaring as he goes.

  I’ve lost my appetite, but I still have to make brekkie for Izwi before she goes to school. Gran can’t take her tablets, either, before she’s had some of the hot stuff down her belly. I return to the hob and stir. I add peanut butter to the oats. Best way to make ’em.

  ‘Have they found the boy yet?’ Gran asks. ‘Willie Matthews – they came around here yesterday looking for him. Been missing weeks now.’

  ‘He’s probably off sozzled somewhere,’ Izwi replies.

  ‘And what do you know of it?’ I say. ‘Hurry up and finish your porridge.’

  I know Willie, nice kid, not a bad bone in him. The Matthews live in a trailer on the opposite side of the canal. Used to go to school with him back in the day. It’s not like him to go off like that. But, hey, not my problem. My problem right now is getting my little sister to school on time. I tell her to take her satchel and kiss Gran goodbye before we set off.

  Our cara’s small outside and in. It’s an ’89 Rallyman from the days when they built things to las
t. It’s a really small caravan, but still dope. Painted daisies and sunflowers on the sides that give it a cheery look. The tyres are flat and the grass around them’s grown tall. The rims are rusted to hell. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. I place a bowl of leftover vegetables with a dollop of peanut butter next to one of the wheels for River and hope I don’t get my arm chewed off. I hear her sniffing the air from her burrow.

  A few folks are wandering about. The day starts later when you’ve got no job and no school to go to. Most people are probably inside snoring or watching telly. Eddie, Izwi’s friend, says morning. He’s been waiting on us with an oversized rucksack which is his schoolbag. The thing goes all the way down to the back of his knees. Him and Izwi are both in Year 6; some days his maw takes them both, but today it’s my turn.

  Power lines reach down over our heads from the pylons above, like a giant way up in the sky’s fishing down in our little houses. When it’s windy the lines sway, and if they touch they spark and zap.

  We make a steady pace to the roundabout and cross into the Calders.

  Something moves in the trees ahead.

  ‘Shush,’ I say to the kids.

  The birches are shorn of their leaves, but it’s hard to make out what’s in there. Then I see the squirrel clinging to the narrow trunk of one of the trees. Its grey coat blends in with the silver bark. I reach into my back pocket and take out my katty. Made it myself using dogwood. Used a nice Y-shaped branch, thick as a grown man’s thumb. The wood’s pale like bleached bone with lines running down it. I have two even lengths of rubber tubing attached, with a leather pouch at the back. The thing’s top of the line. A real zinger.

  I take a rock from my pocket and load it.

  ‘You guys should look away,’ I whisper to the kids. They don’t ’cause that’s how curiosity gets the cat every bloody time.

  I still myself, breath slow and quiet. My arm’s light as a feather. I draw the sling, adding tension as far back as the rubber will allow. My left hand’s steady on the stem of the Y-wood. Doesn’t even feel like I’m here. I’m not even thinking when I let fly the stone. It’s like the katty picks the moment herself. The rubber goes srrrrup.