Mr void and the shiny red door
Jeff Pietersen unwound his Portable-Digital-Music-Station from around his wrist and increased the volume for the Zoom Trembles. Proper cups and saucers skittle-freckled acid for the frosty months right down into his cool lobes, smashing the cobwebs away. His fingers felt icy on the already cold backs of bus seats as he grabbed the handrail to make a dart for the front. A quick 'ta mate' for the portly, stubbly driver connected him to the roots of the suburbs. Jeff thoroughly enjoyed prancing around the sharp end of the city when the air was Baltic and fresh and cut into the skin on his face as though it were paper and the atmosphere was daggers of steam.
Other people seemed unreal when it was harshly chilly yet also a bit more powerful; bloated red cheeks, hearty naked voices, giant puffs of warm air from well-fed mouths. Dilapidated buildings gained a shade of importance and beauty under the bright spotlights placed around. He thought certain buildings were made to be covered in pristine snow, the kind of solidified water unblemished by mud, soggy condoms and rusty Coke cans. But that didn't happen too often and he usually had to settle for the generic bored-grey onslaught of inertiatic cloud.
'Jff', as his best friends called him (without the time-consuming 'e'), clung neatly to his smart, gentlemanly Next coat and his lifeworn hoodie, bought back when they were essential items and not garish accessories. The double-jacket scenario buoyed Jff in the freezing winds, made him armoured and strong. He sprang naturally on a path towards the library: the communal singe-basket for drop-outs, doleites, students (and ex-students), scally kids and important people on their dinner breaks. A massive Victorian knowledge temple that, while still sparingly used to loan out 'novels', as they are commonly called, acted as a halfway house for the lonely and lost.
Our protagonist loved its labyrinthine staircases, rows of ageless Penguins and stale stench almost as much as he adored the cold. The library was a world and mini-climate of its own; intense colourless strip-lighting, poorly executed air conditioning, people in lines perusing their laptops, manuals being placed painstakingly back on shelves by their catalogue numbers and, of course, the highly dependable Police of this place, its staff, all hideous light-purple overalls, miniscule badges, sun-starved frowns and book-weary stares. But Jff was enamoured by their stoic accuracy and devout meticulous stacking. They were the extended family of the library building and, on one level, an extended family to him.
He sped his way through the double doors (unpolished/geriatric wood/scratched), glancing lazily at the main issue desk. His heart rate raced as he closed in on his preferred destination of the IT and business suite a hub for some serious email behaviour. It was a room where Jff could pretend to scour Wikipedia for articles on the history of Jesus or the Israel-Palestine conflict but really spy on pretty Russian women in Britain either legally or (his favourite) illegally. Yet after a while of fake-surfing and eyeflirt tomfoolery, he usually grew restless and needed to explore the lesser-trampled spots of the greatly odoured building. The places untouched by teeming Patricia Cornwell acolytes, the hushed enclaves where huge green or maroon or puke-brown hardbacks peered down from lofty resting places. Silent strips with only the intermittent snuffle from an unassuming library-goer maybe on another floor (it was difficult to pinpoint their exact location). Here he could finally slink away from the glare of the CCTV spheres dangling from the ceiling at bizarre intersections.
But a lap shuffling through most of the hidden zones proved relatively fruitless. Jff had been after some obscure French literature for a while, and after taking a brief peek at the translation pea-hole, gave up and headed for the strategically placed search computers. What if I typed in something totally implausible for a laugh, he considered? Like 'Iain Banks's face'? Or 'Half a Shakespeare nostril'? Will they kick me out? 'Probably.' He resisted the urge and instead keyed in a suitable Gallic title then hit return. Surprisingly a barrage of matches came up all containing the foreign ref. numbers beginning with UPLOFT. UPLOFT? 'Never fucking heard of that,' Jff mumbled under his breath.
Reluctantly, he swept back over to one of the upper-floor issue-desks and reeled off the most essential references that he'd hastily scribbled down. 'I know most of the library but Ive not seen this before,' he nervously pelted at the assistant as he pointed at the ref. A hard-to-fathom guy, the helper, burnt into Jff's face as he questioningly studied the puzzled customer. Jff sensed an unusual intensity extruding from this man, a deeper philosophy than the one he found resting on the surface. He also noticed his name badge just plain white where his identity should have rested. 'Yeah mate, it's a bit out of the way to be honest 'cos not that many people wanna get that kind of stuff out,' the reply came, after a silly pause. 'Oh right,' Jff matched it, that long pause. 'Give us a sec' and I'll show you where it is,' no-name finished the exchange.
The bloke moved a few files around the desk pretty pointless, thought Jff next made sure nobody else was waiting, then grabbed a set of clunky keys. Without saying anything, he walked onwards, and Jff followed, worried, but keen to eventually find his book about French mad-realities. Quickly the duo paced about the library's milky carpets, firstly where large groups of biography terriers were growling and then into the more sparse areas that Jff knew too well. Then, seemingly all-of-a-sudden, Jff was alarmed to find more and more spaces behind the perimeter of what was familiar to him, rows of books that he didn't recognise, now bathed in a variant of the plastic white light he enjoyed further down into the library. And with each stride he could see that there were no longer any windows close to these bookshelves, and even more disconcerting, the lack of any other humans (apart from this eerie Mr Void, as hed named him).
These surreal shelves had an unusual scent, like limey mildew. Books with an ambiguous spiritual blend. Jff stopped abruptly. 'Er, where are we heading?' he tried. 'Nearly there, just keep following. It's a bigger building than you think,' was the emphatic escape-door-shutting return. As our hero began breathing heavily and thinking what he would make for tea once he returned home later, tired lasagne? Fish pie? Egg and chips? Jam butty? the library wanderers approached a door.
Again this outlandish portal didn't really fit with the interior around it, it was a glorious polished red, far too pristine for the ramshackle radiance of the rest of the great public heartland. Really new coating as well, Jff weighed up, not a single scratch or graffiti scribble on the sheet of paintwork.
Jff could just about squint and see a fuzzy reflection of himself in the shiny door, and was going to chance a juvenile scrunch-face smile when he was interrupted. No-name was glaring unflinchingly at the lost city-goer with the untrackable essence of worry or craziness. Blue eyes, but a bastard, thought Jff. This Negative Identity Chap grabbed at the iron set of keys he'd been carrying around his waist and the second one he tried worked in the lock. An easy swing open, but Jff couldn't quite see clearly into the unearthed bibliotheque. 'Through there,' Mr Void suggested, with a hint of anticipation. He (our main cheese) was ushered aggressively beyond his safety net, leaving the moneyed-red entry point to violently bang shut behind him. 'But... ,' Jff's words echoed off his brand new view. He realised he was deep in bad cake.
No bookcases here, just endless human-sized booths in straight lines. And the other side of the wall, in the room hed just come into, was a dampish beige the door a foggy steel, only tiny remnants of a reddish past. Lights occasionally spluttering like echoes across the gritty non-dimensions. He looked closer at the odd cubicles, constructed from a type of archaic material, maybe bat-skin or warcoal or quarry stone. The poor visibility made it difficult to get into focus. At first, silence. But a growing bombast was morphing towards Jff in slight fragments. The dude homed in on the kafuffle, using the vague noise as though it were the aroma of cheesy-bean pasties fogging over a busy Christmas street from Greggs. This volume was steadily amplified in portions the odd murmur, contaminated wail, broken-jigsaw biscuit of conversation, until Jff could witness a little movement, its source not far ahead: a couple of those many-reality, false-enamel booths.
Here the electricity appeared stronger, because the silhouettes were rendered luminous from a bulging optic. His whole body was aching. Will these people, although they appear barbaric, have any French literature among them, he considered? 'Halt,' an authoritative voice demanded. He shook, and terrified, turned to face the eyeline of his latest companion. She it was a female, he clarified at last was powerful but seemed tired under radiant cabled lighting. She wasn't much older than Jff and had an air of liberal defenceless. 'We saw you come in,' entered his ears as he was still taking in her more obvious features. Her 'we' alerted him to a few others, dotted, some standing upright in their booths, others sitting upright. Some men here (or unshaven women), the others women (or very effeminate men). 'Then why didn't you come to me? And what is this?' Jff fancied a barrage of questions but just the two jumped from his mouth.
'First,' she said, 'we've tried before but the air pressure hurts our limbs if we go towards the Door some of us have even come back with broken arms and legs, I can't explain it. Second, before I go on, will you believe me if I say it?' Jff was really into role-play and loved an elaborate windup. 'Aye, I'm very open-minded.' She straightened her face so it looked like a newly made bed-sheet of flesh. 'OK. This is like a library. The one on the other side, all the ones you've ever seen, but it's an alternate version of those. It's similar in some ways to the one you've just left but you can't take out any books, only humans.' Jff went to giggle. 'That's what these pods are for, they are where we sit in the order that's been designated to us. My name's Sandra REF UPLOFT NEW385 over there's Simon UPLOFT NEW872, Selina UPLOFT NEW701, Stephan UPLOFT NEW397.' 'Stop messing about, you work here don't you?' Jeff went on, his hope slowly being snuffed out.
'Deffo, no, if we worked here we'd be in the canteen or messing about on the internet, wouldn't we? No joke mate you're a catalogue number now ... the only way you can leave this dust-embalmed skeleton-orgy is if someone takes you out.'
'Fucking brilliant,' Jff famously said. 'And why have they put all of US here? Is it because we all tried to get out some French ambient smooth-vowel short stories? WHERE'S THE BLOODY HARM IN THAT?, I KNOW IT'S A BIT ABSTRACT BUT IT'S INTERESTING.' Jff realised he'd raised his quivering voice and retreated back into his mind. 'Shh,' Sandra challenged. 'Many of us did; some went for Scandinavian blizzard poems, some went for Czech drone narratives and some attempted to hunt down Polish anti-protagonist, anti-paragraph lost classics. Whatever, the crux of it is that we reckon the powers are trying to limit intelligence in the city. So if any rebellious sods join the club attempt anything other than the norm, we get thrown in the library of people. They don't want to alter the Dan Brown slash Katie Price slash Paul O'Grady slash Jamie Oliver phase. It's reached equilibrium.'
Jff was stunned but could understand why the upper echelons of the hierarchy would want to suppress the gathering of knowledge by citizens. But he still thought it was a bit harsh. 'Has anyone ever left?' he let out, softly. 'A few, but the trouble is no-one knows we're here.' Wow. 'Jeremy REF UPLOFT NEW036 and Katie REF UPLOFT NEW084 got lent out and, of course, are now massively overdue but we're not too bothered about the fines!' Jff started laughing as though he was watching a populist noughties sitcom on Channel 4 (Friday nights, 10 o'clock) although his mirth was trimmed following a look at Sandra's cold face. 'Where do you get food?'
'There's this vending machine down in one of the vestibules, always mysteriously replenished when someone returns. And because it's a library, some of us have started to take on the qualities of books no food needed, they just want someone to occasionally read them.' Various people close by literally lit up at the mention of this. 'Great metaphors,' Jff analysed. 'Yet you must we must have families ... don't they come looking for you? It's not every day you go to the library and end up becoming part of the stock.'
'Of course. Everyone in here's presumably been reported missing, although we've left no traces. The ones who got out were lucky. I think there's an antidote code to those that we entered, those which sealed our fate. Maybe it works when a relative of the missing opts for an Alesha Dixon, Robbie Williams or Westlife biography. But its hard to be sure.'
Tired, queasy and annoyed, Jff finished listening and, then it was time, and broke he out into a run. He darted past Sandra and her literary companions, who contemptuously watched his hopeless sprint. They'd seen this reaction before. It'd never worked so they didn't attempt to follow Jff or even shout to him that he was wasting his time. The hero's torso rippled with madness, he simply had to find the helpdesk if there was one. 'See you,' Sandra's voice sounded as though it came from another planet behind his head. A grotesque blockage in his throat now, Jff fought off the swear words about to spew out, he fought off the paralysing pain numbing his skin. As he glided, acres of empty booths lined his way, eerie seats that might soon be arse-filled with library-goers interested in Eastern European electro-manuals.
Pews that almost seemed inviting, pulling Jff in with an otherworldly calm. The thing that became most prominent was the reverb from the tiniest touch of his foot on the floor and the echoing swoosh when he cleared his throat or scratched his nose. This place seems eternal, Jff reasoned.
Thinking it he saw that in the huge rectangular space around him there were slightly raised passages running up either side, and then some weird convex balconies. Scrambling up, he attempted to work out if there were any symbols of the outside world, any traces of things that could signal a secret escape passageway, clandestine codes or clues. Nothing.
Yet what caught his eye was a sort of trellised iron layer in the wall, a covered-up window (maybe a ventilation shaft). 'Sound!' Jff admired as muffled, far-off whistles and shivers bubbled slowly into his dizzy temple. The noises drifting from a metropolis still alive and with no clue of this morose place.
He went to look for an opening in the framework and any screw that could be unscrewed. He began banging on the well-built structure, but realised that from inside it was wasted work. Jff just sat there then, listening to the distinguished rattles and brake-bangs of buses through the thinnish metal tapestry.
Full list of books likely to result in exclusion, if requested
© Copyright 2020 John Maher