Part 14 (1/2)

”We leafleted everywhere we could think of,” Connie a.s.sures him.

A murmur pa.s.ses through the audience, making Wilf nervous for her sake in case anyone mentions the misprint. Perhaps it sounds to Oates as though the audience is supporting her. ”Don't I rate a chair?” he growls at Wilf.

As Wilf picks up the solitary unoccupied seat from the front row, Slater comments ”You wouldn't expect him to know how to deal with a writer.”

Wilf plants the chair behind the table and retreats to hide as much of his embarra.s.sment on the back row as he 177 can while Connie stands next to Oates. When she describes him as the author of one of the year's most talked-about novels he gives her a dissatisfied scowl and himself a second cupful of wine that earns a scowl too. ”Are we p.i.s.sed enough for this yet? Dunno if I am,” he says once she has finished, and empties the last of the bottle into his cup. ”I hear some of you didn't get my ending.”

”Make that all,” the rainbow woman says from the front row.

”Well,” Connie just about protests at her back, but Oates ignores both of them. He opens a copy of Dressing Up, Dressing Down Dressing Up, Dressing Down and then another, and props the latter up in front of him. ”Let's test if you've room in your wee heads for this.” and then another, and props the latter up in front of him. ”Let's test if you've room in your wee heads for this.”

Wilf ought to be able to relax while being read to. No doubt Woody is addressing the rest of the afternoon s.h.i.+ft, even if that should be Nigel's job. Surely Woody isn't spying on the sales floor from his office, and so Wilf has no reason to feel observed while hearing how a Victorian detective takes his clothes off to reveal he's a jewel thief who removes hers and proves to be an army sergeant, except that beneath her uniform she's a chanteuse who is really a detective or rather, once stripped, simply a naked man at a computer in a room overlooking Edinburgh. He lifts his gaze to his audience--he does, and so does Oates, if there's any difference--and indicates the various costumes. ”Your turn now,” he says. ”Your choice. Try it on.” He feeds himself more wine before Wilf can judge from his expression whether the last phrase is intended as a joke and if so on whom. When the writers start to mutter, Wilf takes them to be sharing his suspicion until the rainbow woman gives them more of a voice. ”That's not what it says in the book.” ”It is in this one.”

She elevates her eyebrows until they resemble quotation marks framing a silent question. As Oates busies himself with uncorking another bottle of red wine, she asks almost 178 loud enough to be heard upstairs ”Are you telling us there's more than one ending?”

”Different final pages, aye. The rest of the book won't show you which you've got. It's my belief you shouldn't know where you're bound till you arrive, any more than I did. I expect you agree, being writers.”

”Sounds more like you want to make people buy two copies.”

”Wouldn't you?”

She's gazing at him as though she doesn't care for either meaning of his query when Slater peers over his shoulder at Wilf. ”Which one have you got?”

”I couldn't tell you offhand.”

”I'd be interested to hear,” Oates says, draining his cup to make room for a refill. ”Which is it?”

Wilf feels as though the author is siding with Slater against him. He glances at the last page of the damaged copy and shuts the book. ”The one you just read to us.”

”I've never seen you read that fast or anything like,” Slater objects. ”Are you sure you did?”

”Of course he did,” says Connie, and turns a puzzled smile to Wilf. ”What's this about?”

”Go on, Lowell, you show us. Show us all how you read.”

What's making him behave this way? Wilf wouldn't have believed he could at his age. He has a suffocating impression that by reverting Slater is forcing him to return to childhood too. He wills Connie to confront his tormentor, but she only looks bemused. ”n.o.body's come to hear me,” Wilf succeeds in protesting. ”I'm not the author.”

”Maybe the author would like to hear one of his readers do it,” Slater says.

”Now you mention it, I might,” says Oates, raising his half-empty cup to encourage Wilf. ”Go on, do me the favour. Let's hear what it means to you.”

Some of the writers, not to mention the denimed 179 woman and the oilskinned man, are staring at Wilf by now, the rainbow woman hardest of all. It feels exactly like being forced to stand up in cla.s.s, though he's crouching over the book as though it's a pain in his knotted guts. Are they the source of the unpleasant stagnant taste? As he lowers his eyes to the novel he finds himself praying that it will somehow offer him a refuge. He glares at the last page and tries to free himself from the sight of it by speaking. ”I told you,” he says, and as clearly as he's able ”Your turn now. Your choice. Try it on.”

”That isn't the whole page, is it?” When Oates shakes his head so vigorously his jowls have trouble catching up, Slater says ”You could have memorised that, Lowell. Give us the rest.”

It's only because Wilf can't face the spectators that his gaze is dragged down to the page. The prospect is worse than ever. The paper is strewn with black marks, bunches of symbols that he tells himself are letters without being capable of naming even one. Isn't e the commonest? Perhaps if he spots which mark occurs most often, that will unlock his recognition of the others, the way cryptographers break codes--but he's still counting frantically under his breath when Connie says ”I really think I need to know what's going on.”

”Let's see,” says Slater, and sits next to Wilf before he can think of shutting the book. ”Thought as much. Will you tell her, Lowell, or shall I?”

His mouth sags wide as if this is his best joke, and Wilf can think of only one response. ”I'm buying this,” he informs whoever ought to know as he rips a handful of pages out of the novel and stuffs them in Slater's mouth.

He wishes he'd thought of such a retort years ago, but it's worth having waited to see his enemy's eyes bulge with shock. Either that or Wilf's vehemence sends Slater over backwards. As he and the chair thump the floor Wilf follows him down and kneels on his chest. ”Want the 180 rest?” Wilf enquires with a smile he thinks Woody might be proud of. ”My pleasure. Swallow this.”

He's surrounded by noises--gasps from women, Connie repeating his name increasingly loud and sharp, the men in the armchairs grunting with laughter or approval-- but he's mostly aware of a choked sodden mumble, Slater's stopped-up words. He has even less to say for himself now than Wilf used to have in cla.s.s, which is so satisfying that Wilf doesn't immediately relent when Woody's voice rushes out of the staffroom exit. ”Stop that,” he shouts more than once on the way to stooping close enough to confront Wilf with saliva glistening within his smile. ”Enough,” Woody urges. ”Enough.”

Wilf thinks there might be room for another chapter in Slater's mouth, but there's no doubt he has made his point. He leaves the remains of the novel spread-eagled on Slater's chest and levers himself to his feet by propping his fists on his enemy's shoulders. As Slater lurches off the floor less gracefully than a drunk and flounders about in search of somewhere to eject the contents of his mouth, Woody gives Wilf another close view of his teeth. ”Wait in my office.”

All at once Wilf's legs feel flabby and unstable, as though whatever drove him has drained away through them, leaving his skull hollow above a stale taste. He reminds himself that Slater's mouth will be flavoured with paper and ink, a notion that helps him walk almost steadily to the exit to the staffroom. As it decides his badge is valid he sees Connie pa.s.s Slater the Frugo bag that contained the wine. Some of the women emit maternal noises while he spits extravagantly into the bag, and some cast Wilf out with their eyes until the door shuts behind him.

He supports himself on the banister all the way to the staffroom. Without its chairs the table puts him in mind of an abandoned altar. Books are clattering on racks in the stockroom while Ray frowns at his computer screen 181 in the office. Even if Ray didn't look preoccupied Wilf wouldn't feel able to discuss his sick leave. He retreats into Woody's office, where the monitor shows Woody presenting Slater with a gift voucher and a smile of supplication. In the opposite quadrant the audience has settled down for Oates to answer a question about his book or Wilf. As Wilf leans against the clammy concrete wall and watches Woody usher Slater out of the shop, he's tempted to take the single chair until Woody darts across the sales floor as if he's aware of Wilf's presumption. Before Wilf is even close to prepared for the onslaught, Woody's in the room.

He spins his chair away from the monitor and plants himself on it to face Wilf. ”Well, that cost the store.”

It's Woody's unrelenting smile that encourages, if that's the word, Wilf to ask ”How much?” ”A whole lot more than you're going to be able to afford.” ”I'm sorry.” Wilf doesn't know what to add except ”I shouldn't have done that here.”

”Hey, where else are you going to do it?” This sounds like an endors.e.m.e.nt or at least a parody of one until Woody says ”Who else don't you want to hear the truth about you?”

A surge of renewed fury makes Wilf blurt ”What did he say about me?”

”How you fooled the store. I'm going to need to make sure you're the only one that's lying low here, aren't I, G.o.d d.a.m.n it? The only guy that can't read.”

”That isn't true. It's nowhere near.”

”Hey, is that a fact? Okay then, show me.” Woody smiles savagely at the lack of books in the room and pulls out the drawers of his desk until he finds a pile of official forms, one of which he thrusts at Wilf. ”Go ahead, let me hear you read this.”

At first the reason Wilf can't concentrate on the task is that he's thrown by what he thinks he glimpsed. When 182 Woody opened the right-hand bottom drawer a crack, was it really full of socks and underwear? Every second Wilf spends wondering makes him appear more illiterate, and so he peers at the form. He recognises it as an application to work at Texts, but that isn't the same as putting the swarm of marks on the page into words. When he strains to force some meaning out of them his body starts to quiver, inwardly to begin with. ”I can't just now,” he says and feels even stupider for trying to explain. ”It's Slater's fault. He used to get me like this when we were at school.”

”I haven't time for this,” Woody says, s.n.a.t.c.hing the form and returning it to the drawer. ”I'm only glad we found out about you before New York got here. Let's have your badge.”

This sounds so reminiscent of a Western or a crime film that Wilf almost thinks Woody and his smile are jesting. ”You can't believe I was never able to read,” Wilf says. ”How did I manage to shelve all my books?”

”I checked your section,” Woody tells him and demonstrates the look he must have given it. ”Thank G.o.d we'll have time to fix it before tomorrow. I don't have your badge yet.”

Wilf takes it off and drops it on the desk. He feels as if there's nothing left of him worth having--as if whatever was worthwhile has been draining out of him unnoticed since he started work at Texts. He's turning to bear his dull empty shame away when Woody demands ”Did you fill out your sick form?”

A last feeble uprush of pride incites Wilf to admit ”I don't need to. I've never had a migraine.”

”Fooled us there as well, huh?”

”You made me rush the ending of that book so I could talk to the writers and I couldn't finish it. That's what all this has been about, not being able to finish a book.”

”I should be taking some of the blame, should I?” Woody says with a smile that seems to bleed into his eyes. ”I believed you when you said you were a reader. It never occurred to me to check.” 183 ”I can read. It's what I like most. I've just kept not being able to read here.”

”Well, here's your chance to do it someplace else,” Woody says as if Wilf has insulted him or the shop or both. ”Did you card yourself out?” ”I didn't think.”

”Hey, let me do it for you.” He springs out of his chair and heads for the door so fast Wilf barely has time to dodge out of his way. He grabs Wilf's card out of the rack and skims it under the clock, then snaps it in two and plants the halves on Ray's desk. ”All yours, Ray. Mr Lowell is quitting as of right now.”

”Good Lord.” Ray gives him and Wilf an unhappy puzzled blink each. ”Why on earth is that?”