The Fanatic Page 10

  ‘So let him get on wi it. If that’s the wey ye’re feelin.’

  ‘Thing is, it’s niver gaun tae stop if I dinna stop it. He’ll jist keep comin in, I’ll keep on re-orderin stock for him tae nick, it’s pointless. It isna daein either o us a favour at the end o the day. He’s beginnin tae bug me. I feel like I’m an accomplice.’

  ‘Ye are. Ye ken aboot it but ye’re daein nuthin.’

  ‘Plus it’s a pain in the arse. I canna keep the right stock in because o him. And I think he kens I ken, tae. It’s like he’s got me workin for him. It’s like I’m his supplier.’

  ‘And that’s it, is it? Bleedin hert versus self-interest? Ye think that’s a fuckin dilemma? Christ. How d’ye think ye’d cope in a real crisis? If this guy’s a junkie, the fact that he’s shopliftin isna even on his agenda. He’s probably cleaned oot his granny’s life savings and pawned his faither’s gold watch by noo.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’ve nae illusions that I’m tryin tae get him aff his habit or somethin.’

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord in his infinite mercy for that. I’ll tell ye whit ye have got illusions aboot though – reality. Same as the junkie, only he’s got an excuse. Ye jist canna haunle it, can ye? Ye want tae get through life withoot engagin wi it. Ye’re away wi the fairies, man. Don’t come tae me wi this kinna crap. Bring me real issues, bring me the real world. Otherwise, forget it. I’m no interestit.’

  Carlin turned his back and made a mock pout. That was him tellt.

  Finally he realised who he had to speak to. Not the manager, not the store detective. He had to speak to the guy. The junkie. If he was a junkie. He found him in his usual place one evening when the rest of the shop was quiet.

  ‘Got the time, mate?’

  Carlin noticed the rucksack sitting beside his chair, its straps undone. He couldn’t see inside it.

  ‘Look,’ said Carlin, ‘I ken whit ye’re up tae.’

  The guy looked at him. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m jist warnin ye. Ye should quit while ye’re ahead. Before ye get caught.’

  ‘Whit ye talkin aboot?’

  Carlin felt the skin on his shoulders coming out like hen’s flesh. Surely the guy wasn’t going to deny it.

  ‘You know whit I mean,’ he said.

  ‘Na,’ the guy said. ‘I dinna. I’m jist sittin here mindin ma ain business – am I no allowed tae sit here or somethin?’

  Carlin shook his head. ‘Look,’ he tried again, ‘ye can sit there if ye want, but

  ‘Aye?’

  Carlin’s head was filling with all the stuff they got told in training: you can’t accuse somebody till they leave the shop with goods, you must be certain they’ve taken something and not paid for it, you must get another member of staff to witness you stopping the thief. If in doubt, leave it. What on earth had he been thinking of, to get into this? And how was he going to get out of it now he was being stonewalled?

  The guy helped him out. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Ye think I’m stealin the books, is that it? Is that whit this is?’

  ‘I’m jist sayin, I ken whit ye’re daein.’

  ‘There’s a lot o that in here, is there? The shopliftin?’

  They stared at each other. The guy’s eyes were a greyish blue. There was no depth to them, Carlin thought. It was like staring at an overcast sky reflected in two dubs in the road. He’d had a vague hope that if he could make some contact there the guy would have hung his head in shame, or something like it, and left.

  ‘Well, is that it?’ He was raising his voice now, trying to embarrass Carlin, trying to make him back down. ‘Cause ye’ve got tae prove it before ye make that kinna accusation, pal, that’s whit ye’ve got tae dae. So are ye accusin me of shopliftin?’

  ‘I think you should leave,’ said Carlin. ‘That’s aw I’m sayin.’

  ‘Got tae have a reason,’ said the guy. ‘All I’m askin ye for’s a reason. Is that so wrang?’

  ‘I don’t need tae give a reason,’ said Carlin. He was cursing himself, wishing he could turn time back a few minutes.

  ‘I don’t think ye’re being very nice,’ said the guy. He stood up, and Carlin saw for the first time what a puny, insignificant, shilpit wee nyaff he really was. He was desperately thin and his hair looked like it would snap off in strands.

  ‘I’m no gaun tae make trouble,’ said the guy. ‘But this isna right. I mean, are ye barrin me or whit?’

  They began to walk towards the door together. Neither of them instigated this move, it just seemed to happen between them. They could have been two friends about to go for a pint. Carlin was thankful that the shop was almost deserted.

  ‘Ye want tae check ma bag?’ said the guy, shouldering it. It looked solid with whatever was inside it. ‘Ye want tae see if I’ve got fuckin books in it?’

  Carlin shook his head. They were almost at the door, he wasn’t going to start another round.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I dinna. I dinna want tae check it.’

  ‘So how d’ye ken I’m stealin? If ye’re no gaun tae check it?’ But he made no effort to present the bag to Carlin. Carlin made no effort to look into it.

  ‘I think ye’re jist prejudiced,’ said the guy, standing in the doorway. ‘That’s disappointin, a shop like this. I mean a fuckin bookshop. I thought anybody could come in here and read a book. But ye’ve got tae look the part, is that it? That’s fuckin disappointin, pal, so it is.’

  He held Carlin with his cloudy, shallow stare, then sniffed and hawked and landed a huge gob on the pavement in front of him. He got a few yards down the street, turned and shouted back, ‘That’s ma fuckin life, that!’ He was slapping the rucksack with the palm of his hand, producing a heavy papery drumbeat. ‘Ye’ve nae idea, have ye? Fuckin fascist bastart. This is ma fuckin life!’

  Carlin waited till he was out of sight. He felt sick. He went back inside. The manager was approaching. ‘Trouble?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘No,’ said Carlin. ‘It’s under control.’ But he was shaking. And it wasn’t.

  For a week or so he thought he had made his life easier. The guy didn’t come in the shop. The gaps stopped appearing on the shelves. The daily contest between Carlin and the rest of the public re-established itself. But then the space where the guy had been began to be as disturbing as his presence. Carlin was disconcerted by the empty chair beside the Science Fiction section. Nobody else seemed to sit in it now that he had gone. But that was absurd: the other customers didn’t know about him; it wasn’t his chair. And yet every time he came round the corner Carlin expected to see the hunched figure sitting there, with the rucksack on the floor and a pile of paperbacks beside it. The blank space constantly surprised him. Eventually he shifted the chair a few feet away, to break the pattern.

  Then one evening the guy reappeared. Carlin was looking for a book for someone further up the shop, and his side-vision picked out the figure, bent over, reading on the chair, which was back in its customary position. Carlin shook his head and handed the book to the waiting customer, then looked again.

  The guy hadn’t seen Carlin, who slid back out of view so that he could watch him. It was late, just over an hour before the shop closed. As he watched, the guy checked up and down the aisle, flicked open his rucksack, lifted what appeared to be about half a dozen books off the floor and dumped them inside. Then he closed the rucksack and carried on reading.

  Carlin was fired up, felt cheated. A flush of anger went through him. Right you bastard, he was thinking, try humiliating me on your way out the door this time. Try making me feel guilty on this one.

  He had to get help. The deputy manager was on duty, but he was nowhere to be seen, had probably slipped out for a fly pint or something. There was a part-timer, a student called Alison, working at the back of the shop, in the children’s department. Carlin had hardly spoken to her in the few weeks she’d been working. He went back there, watching the guy as far as he could.

  ‘I need you for a witness,’ he said. ‘There’s a guy aboot tae leav
e wi a bag full o books. Come on.’

  She looked at him as if he were insane. ‘What d’ye mean?’

  ‘He hasna paid for them,’ he explained. ‘A shoplifter. He’s been gettin away wi it for weeks, but I’ve clocked him this time.’ Her eyes were wide with terror. ‘It’s awright, ye don’t need tae do anything. Jist watch me. Jist be a witness.’

  She followed him down the shop. Halfway there, Carlin realised he didn’t want a witness. This was between him and the guy. He was about to tell her not to bother when he saw the guy hoisting his rucksack on one shoulder and standing up to leave.

  Carlin caught up with him outside the door. He said, ‘Right, pal, d’ye want tae come back in the shop till I see whit’s in yer bag?’

  He hadn’t thought what he would do if the guy made a run for it, or lashed out at him. But he needn’t have worried. The guy didn’t look like he had the energy to do either. The rucksack slipped off his shoulder and Carlin caught it as it fell. He gestured to the door and the guy scuffed his way back in. Alison was right there. She pressed herself against the glass to let them by.

  They went back to the store-room. Carlin indicated to the guy to sit down on one of the two plastic chairs. He opened the rucksack.

  There were no Science Fiction or Horror books in it at all. Carlin felt sick, then, digging past a crumpled carrier bag, relieved. There were books. He pulled them out. Philosophy, religion, poetry, occult. All new. He must have gathered them from different parts of the shop. Thank God he was guilty. It didn’t matter that the books were so different from the ones he’d expected.

  ‘See this?’ he said to Alison. She nodded, his witness. ‘This is whit he’s no paid for. Is that right?’ he asked the guy, who looked on as if what was happening in the room had nothing to do with him.

  ‘There’s a phone number on the wall above the desk in the office for the polis station,’ Carlin told Alison. ‘Would ye gie them a call and ask them tae come doon for him?’

  She nodded. Then she said, ‘Can we no jist take the books off him and let him go?’

  ‘No this guy,’ said Carlin.

  ‘Look at him.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Sorry. This guy’s been pissin me aboot.’

  ‘It’s nearly nine,’ she said. ‘Will they not take ages?’

  ‘I’ll wait wi him,’ said Carlin. They’ll no be long.’

  They were ages. Alison was needed on the shop-floor. The guy stared into space. Carlin pulled the other chair over and sat on it, reading the backs of the books.

  The guy sniffed. Carlin glanced at him, anxious for a moment, but it was all right. His eyes were too dead-looking for tears to come from them.

  ‘Gaunae let us go, pal?’ the guy said. ‘Otherwise, tell ye, I’m fucked, I’m finished. This is ma fuckin life.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Carlin. ‘The polis are on their way.’

  ‘That’s me then. Finished.’

  ‘Should hae thought aboot that before,’ said Carlin. ‘I warned you the other day, mind?’

  The guy gave a sort of laugh. As if he could mind the other minute. Sniffed again. The sniffs were very loud in the store-room: they slapped around the breeze-blocks of its walls. It was hot in there too.

  ‘Can I get a drink? Some water?’

  Carlin needed a drink himself. He went to the door, called to Alison. ‘Could ye get us some water?’

  He held the door open till she returned from the staff-room with two paper cups of warmish tapwater. ‘No sign o them yet?’ he asked, taking the cups from her.

  ‘No.’ She wouldn’t make eye-contact. Carlin knew she was offended by what he was doing.

  He closed the door and handed one of the cups to the guy. Then he sat down and read the blurbs again, one after the other. Single copies of books that would have no resell value. No football, no Stephen King, no Terry Pratchett. Were the books for himself then?

  The guy had knocked back half the contents of the paper cup. Now he put it on the floor and pulled a small packet from his pocket. Carlin saw foil. The guy began to tear at the foil, breaking out wee white tablets.

  ‘Whit’s that?’ said Carlin.

  ‘Mind yer ain fucking business,’ the guy told him. He shoved a few of the tablets in his mouth, and carried on breaking more out.

  ‘Whit are ye daein?’ said Carlin.

  ‘Whit d’ye fuckin think, ya wanker.’ It wasn’t a question. He stuffed another handful of the pills in.

  ‘Christ, whit are they?’ Carlin demanded. ‘That’s no a guid idea, pal.’

  ‘Na it’s no, is it? Should hae fuckin thought aboot that before though, eh?’ There was a thick slimy froth on his lips now. Carlin minded when he was a kid, lying submerged in the bath and speaking through the water. The guy’s voice sounded like that.

  The guy gulped down the rest of the water. ‘Can I get some mair?’ he said, holding the cup out.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Carlin. ‘I dinna think … ye shouldna be takin these, man.’

  ‘Jist get us some fuckin water,’ the guy shouted. Carlin jumped up. What was he supposed to do? Make the guy throw up? Phone an ambulance? Maybe the pills were nothing, it was just another con. To blackmail him into letting him go.

  The guy said ‘water’ again. His mouth hung open. Carlin thought of when you take your breeks out of the wash and find you’ve left a wad of tissues in the pocket. He went for the water.

  When he came back a minute later the guy was slipping down on the chair. He was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. Carlin wondered, whatever he’s swallowed, can it take effect that quickly? He didn’t have a clue. And then he thought, what else has he got in his system already? He touched his shoulder. No response. He shook him. ‘Here’s yer water, mate.’ The guy rolled towards him, came awake. He took the cup in his hands and drank from it. ‘Thanks, pal,’ he said.

  Long minutes passed. Carlin watched the guy falling, sitting up, falling. ‘Come on for Christ’s sake,’ Carlin said. ‘Come on.’

  The door opened. It was Alison. Behind her stood two uniformed policemen. They walked in past her. One of them curled his lip at Carlin, then realised he wasn’t the shoplifter.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, covering himself with a curt nod. ‘This him then, is it?’ He pointed at the guy, who was almost on the floor.

  ‘Aye,’ said Carlin. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘he’s taken something. He asked for water and then he stuffed aw these pills in his mooth.’

  ‘How long ago?’ the polis asked.

  ‘Five minutes, mebbe ten,’ said Carlin. He reached over and took a strip of foil from the guy’s fist. There was writing on it but it was hard to read. It was covered with stringy white slavers.

  ‘Here, you want tae watch yersel,’ said the polis. ‘Dinna get that on yer fingers. These bastarts can be carryin every bloody disease.’

  ‘Canna be too careful these days,’ his mate said. ‘Whit’s his name?’

  Carlin shrugged. ‘Dinna ken. Never got that far.’

  But he’d had time. There’d been time to ask questions, and all he’d done was read the backs of the books. Hadn’t thought about a name for the guy.

  The second polis got down on his hunkers and shook the slumped figure. ‘Right, then,’ he said loudly. ‘Wake up, son. Can you hear us, John?’

  There was a groan. That was about it.

  The polis stood up, turned and got out his radio. ‘Think this boy’s gaun for a hurl,’ he said. ‘Get himsel pumped oot.’ He spoke into the radio, requesting an ambulance.

  The first polis shook his head at Carlin. ‘Shouldna have let him take thae pills,’ he said.

  ‘Whit was I supposed tae dae?’ Carlin said. ‘Fight them affae him?’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said the second one. ‘It’s no your job is it?’ He tried to rouse the guy again. ‘Hih, John, gaun tae come oot o that?’ But by now there was no response at all.

  The first polis flicked through the wee pile of books. Nietzsche, Ouspensky, Cr
owley, Huxley, James Thomson. ‘Is that whit he nicked?’ he asked, looking contemptuously at Carlin.

  Carlin knelt beside the figure on the chair. ‘Come on,’ he said. Don’t die on us.’ He picked up the guy’s stick-like wrist, tried to find a pulse. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘D’ye think he’s still there?’

  ‘Dinna ken,’ said the second polis. ‘Hard tae tell.’ They both began to pinch and shake the figure. ‘Come on, John. Wake up, John. Come on.’ Carlin felt something swirling and draining away in the pit of himself. They weren’t going to reach him. How would you pay attention if it wasn’t your name being called? He rocked back on his heels. He said, ‘If he’d jist be sick or somethin. Can we make him sick?’

  The paramedics arrived. They checked him out, went back for a stretcher. ‘Ye still wantin us tae charge him?’ the first polis asked Carlin. ‘I mean, we’re gaun tae have tae go wi him tae the hospital, see if we can find oot who he is.’ He touched the pile of books. ‘We’ll need tae take these as evidence, write oot a list tae say we’ve taken them, get a statement fae you and the lassie …’

  One of the paramedics said sharply, ‘Well, we’re getting oot o here now, whitiver you decide, or he’ll no be appearin in any court, gaun tae the jyle or gaun hame tae his mither.’

  Carlin said to the policemen, ‘Forget it. Leave the books. It’s no worth it.’ To the paramedic he said, ‘Where are ye takin him?’

  ‘The Royal. How, ye gaunae send him flooers?’

  They carried him out. The polis took Carlin’s name, then put away their notebooks and radios and picked up their hats. ‘End of story, then,’ said the first one.

  The other one clapped Carlin on the shoulder as they left. ‘Happens aw the time,’ he said. ‘But whit can ye dae, eh? We see it every day. Every day.’

  The shop was empty, except for the few staff who were cashing up, locking the doors, tidying away bags of rubbish. The deputy manager walked in from the street, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘All right, folks?’ he said cheerily.