1. A Curious Man
SAM (SHORT FOR "SAMUEL") CLARK, born 1988, was the only child of William and Rebecca Clark. Like most murderers, he was unexceptional. There were richer men, more intelligent men, men with more appealing faces, men who could tell a joke or funny story better (the same was true for women). He definitely was not one of Comely Bank's relics; no one thought him a "character." But to get to know the more interesting residents of Comely Bank, we must begin with him.
In 2016 Sam was twenty-eight and single. He worked in a secondhand bookshop whose profits went to the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. This charity was founded in 1884, sixty years after the founding of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. It is not just the order in which these charities were founded that is revealing. That both needed to exist had led some to suggest that hurting defenceless creatures was a part of British culture.
There was certainly no shortage of people who wanted to support Sam's charity by working in the shop for free. Without wishing to diminish the kindness and generosity of these volunteers, it must be said that most of them were deeply troubled. They were alcoholics, misfits, former criminals, or just very lonely, boring people who lived through their pets.
When these people told Sam their problems he listened closely and did not interrupt. He was flattered to be trusted with their secrets; it made him feel as if they shared a special bond. But he was mistaken. Their pain was so deep and abiding they would have told anyone.
It was from them that he learned about the jealousy, sadness, betrayal and longing that seethed beneath the visible life of the street. When Sam looked at the queue in the post office he did not just see strangers waiting. He saw a pulsing pink line of affection that jumped from the head of "Spooky" standing at the back; it leapfrogged the heads in front to reach the head of Indira, who never once turned round or gave any intimation that she felt herself being adored.
Sam's volunteers were not his only source of information about the residents of Comely Bank. Every day people brought him bags and boxes of books they no longer wanted. From these he could deduce the person's job, where they had been on holiday, their political views, what kind of food they liked, what their hobbies were, if they knew languages besides English (which was more the exception than the rule, English being a lingua franca at that time), if they had been learning to draw and paint, if they had physical or psychological problems, if they were interested in war, if they believed in God or gods or spiritual forces that lacked names and personalities but were still all-powerful.
Even the condition of the books was revealing. Their owners always left a trace of themselves in the pages. It is hard for most people today to understand how books could be so personal. What difference did it make that the texts of the past were written on pages? When people then read the works of Tagore or Lu Xun, their eyes were consuming the same words as those we see on our screens. As for the books themselves, they were mass produced, identical.
This changed as soon as a person began reading. Then they folded page corners over, opened the book so wide its front and back covers touched, turned pages with food-smeared hands, underlined passages, scribbled comments in margins, wrote thoughts or a phone number on its blank pages, forced it into a coat pocket, tore strips from a page to write on, rested a cup or mug on its cover, left it lying in direct sunlight, spilt water on it, took it into the bath, sat or slept on it, highlighted significant passages with fluorescent pens, drew smiling faces next to parts they liked, drew frowning ones next to parts they hated, tore out pages they thought offensive, tore out pages they thought brilliant, sprayed perfume or cologne on its pages, substituted their name for one of the characters, unstitched the binding then reordered the pages, crossed out every word containing the letter T,crossed out every female name and wrote the bitch in their place.
Of course, a maltreated book was not proof of its owner's bad qualities. It was merely suggestive. Someone who bent a book's cover and pages till it was folded double might not have been a callous, thoughtless person. They could still have believed that every book contained the potential to instil wonder, joy, sparks of enlightenment.
But Sam's favourite aspect of the books was the ephemera they contained. He found airline tickets, bank statements, receipts, birthday cards-best of all, a postcard, photo, or letter. Sam put these in a battered tin chest the size of a bathtub that had belonged to his grandfather, who had spent thirty-five years in the merchant navy and appeared at Sam's house only once a year, usually without warning. Dinner would be a slow and gruelling event during which his parents struggled to pass the baton of conversation, usually by speaking of what had happened since his grandfather's last visit. Unfortunately this was an event in which the old man refused to compete. He sat quietly, listening with a slight smile, speaking only when directly addressed. His only burst of loquaciousness was telling Sam a bedtime story, or rather stories, because they jumped between places and people. They were tales of boats, typhoons, and beautiful women who could throw knives. Fortunes were found, friends betrayed; men were tied to masts. His grandfather often got characters' names confused, or used two different ones for the same person, but Sam didn't mind. It was part of the telling. Sometimes the stories were just memories of people his grandfather had known-those he had sailed with or met in a port-and these often had no end. These were the stories young Sam had liked best, the ones he could finish himself.
He had been almost eleven when his father came into his room early one morning. His father did not turn on the light, so Sam could barely see his face when he said, "I have some sad news." His father didn't sound sad. The funeral was well attended, mostly by old men with beards who ignored Sam and his parents. In the will Sam's grandfather left him two hundred pounds and the trunk.
In March 2016, the chest was almost full. By then Sam had been working in the shop for eight years, opening ten to fifteen bags a day, dealing with more than a thousand books a week. He didn't keep most of what he found, but it had still accumulated. The top layer was composed of the most recent additions, plus a few letters and diaries he often reread, hoping to find a phrase he had overlooked, some name or event that had meant nothing before, the way that every piece put into a jigsaw makes another possible. Amongst these favourites were sixteen letters from "George" to "Iris," all ending with the phrase Forgive me; a Christmas list scrawled in green crayon, with NOwritten by each item in an adult hand; and a black leather-bound notebook in which someone had recorded everything they bought, where they had bought it, and its price, between June 2008 and August 2009. The notebook was titled Book 29 and smelt strongly of smoke.
As for the rest of the chest's contents-perhaps five thousand items-they were mostly forgotten. Sam was more interested in finding out new things. During the rare moments when he was not in the shop, he wandered the streets of Comely Bank, glancing in windows, loitering in shops, sitting on benches, observing people and listening to conversations in which he took no part. He was like a ghost that everyone could see. If you had asked him why he did this, he would have shrugged, smiled, and said something about being interested in people. A few thought him a little strange. Nobody, including him, thought he could do harm.
Copyright © 2015 by Nicholas Richard Francis Holdstock
