The Fanatic (11 page)

‘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 leave 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, Crowley, 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.

Carlin felt the polis’s handmark burning through his shirt. He took the guy’s books and distributed them back to their correct places.

Alison passed him with her coat on, heading for the exit. ‘Hope ye’re proud o yersel,’ she said. He didn’t answer.

He headed round to the pub. A pint and a dram. A pint and a dram. A pint and a dram. As they went down the words were swirling in the tilt of the glasses.
Proud o yersel. Proud o yersel. Proud o yersel.

When he stumbled back to the flat, hours later, and looked at himself, haggard, bubbly, wretched, the mirror was silent.

In the morning, he walked to the nearest phone-box and called the infirmary. He wanted to check on somebody admitted last night, he said. He gave the details: picked up by ambulance, about ten, the address. No, he wasn’t a relative, he didn’t know the man’s name. He worked in the bookshop. He was just concerned.

‘Hold on a minute,’ the receptionist said.

He held the receiver under his chin and closed his eyes. He heard the breathing he made below the hiss in his lug. He felt himself slump against the news he knew was coming.

‘Hello,’ said the woman.

‘Hello.’

‘Did you say you were a relative?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I was workin in the shop where he was … where he was picked up. I was jist wonderin.’

‘We don’t know who he is yet,’ she said. ‘That’s why I asked.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Then …’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He didn’t make it. Sorry.’

Carlin sat in the pub. Nine years gone and only the posters for Fringe shows were different. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. How could it not have after that night? He’d brought an anonymous man to a small hot concrete cell and sat with him while he overdosed and died. He’d handed over the water to help the pills go down.

He still saw the guy. Sometimes he was lying in a shop entrance. Sometimes he was fucked out of his head in Princes Street Gardens, the Meadows, Calton Hill. Sometimes he was old, sometimes younger. He’d seen him just a week ago. This time he was a big fellow, tall and strong-looking, slumped against the railings of St John’s Church at the West End. Two polis, a man and a woman, were standing beside him. A polis van was pulling up alongside. The two officers were snapping on plastic gloves.