Darkmans. Nicola Barker
affection for the child and suckled it for an entire year. Because of this feeding the child became as hairy as a wild beast and ate raw meat: Valentin et Orson.’
For some arcane reason Kane felt strangely comforted by this caption (something – however weird – translated from Latin. That was him, that was Beede: obscure, marginal, bookish, inaccessible…).
He sneered (feeling the comforting re-emergence of all his former prejudices), and turned back a few pages, his eye randomly settling on a small sub-heading entitled, ‘The Frantic Search for the Father’. He started, slapped the book shut, and threw it down.
Paranoia
He closed his eyes (pushing back a sudden panic –
Push
Push)
– swallowed hard and tried to focus his mind again –
Tramadol
Yes
He imagined a small blister-pack in his pocket, rested an illusory hand upon it, heard the neat click and the tiny rattle –
Ahhh
It worked just like magic.
Righty-ho…
Next up: three neat paperbacks, all by the same author: a Dutchman called Johan Huizinga. These had been exceptionally well-thumbed (even by Beede’s standards – and he was nothing if not thorough). The first was entitled The Waning of the Middle Ages (a historical classic, it claimed on the back). Numerous pages had been turned over at their corners (approaching a third of the total), and there was still one of Beede’s red pencils jammed rudely inside it (Beede liked to underline relevant words and sentences as he read – a strange quality in someone usually so circumspect – showing very little respect, Kane always felt, for the integrity – and binding – of a book).
He opened the text to its pencil marker and read (underlined with great zeal): ‘So violent and motley was life that it bore the mixed smell of blood and roses.’ ‘Smell’ had been circled and then asterisked. Underneath that: ‘After the close of the Middle Ages the mortal sins of pride, anger and covetousness have never again shown the unabashed insolence with which they manifested themselves in the life of preceding centuries.’
Next to this, in the margin, in block capitals, Beede had written: ‘UNTIL NOW!’
Kane shut the book with a snort. His search became more impatient.
Another Huizinga book: Men and Ideas: History, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, was tossed on to the floor, followed by – uh – Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture –
Eh?!
– with its lovely cover (red and black, the kind of graphics favoured by the best casinos in 1950s Vegas). Sample quote: ‘The human mind can only disengage itself from the magic circle of play by turning towards the ultimate.’
Wha?!
He sniffed. This was getting him nowhere, but that was okay, because it was pretty much where he wanted to be…
Right
A.R. Myers, England in the Late Middle Ages; Mary Clive, This Sun of York: A Biography of Edward IV; Joseph and Frances Gies, Life in a Medieval Castle –
Hmmn…
Was there some kind of theme emerging here? Kane frowned. It was a little strange, perhaps – this intense level of focus on such a particular time-frame – but –
Aw heck!
– the history he could take. It was bone-dry, like Beede. The history made sense to him. It was old and silly and wonderfully unthreatening. It didn’t shock or unsettle or confound. It was dead. It was done. It was after.
Phew
Next up –
Ay ay –
Shakespeare: The Complete Plays (markers in all of the Henries and Richard III), followed – hard-upon – by another ridiculously hefty volume: John Ayto’s Dictionary of Word Origins. Kane lugged it aside, with a small grunt, boredly. Under that, Robert Burchfield’s far more svelte and shapely The English Language. He flipped it over and ran his eye across a brief spiel on the back about how the mother tongue was so ‘resilient’ and so ‘flexible’…
‘The English Language is like a fleet of juggernaut trucks,’ he read, somewhat perplexedly, ‘that goes on regardless.’
Really?!
Well, uh…Okay…
Under that –
C’mon, c’mon…
– a hardback: Art of the Late Middle Ages (purchased from Abebooks.com – the invoice shoved inside – from its original source of Multnomah County Library – at £29.50 – with shipping) –
Huh?!
Beede buying books on the internet?! Kane gently yuck-yucked – Is this an end to the world as we know it?
In this particular instance the front flap had been employed as a marker within the belly of the text. Kane opened the book to this place, casually. He inhaled sharply as his eyes alighted upon the stark, photographic reproduction of a sculpture entitled Death Disguised as a Monk. The sculpture consisted of an eerily animated skeleton – in wood, exquisitely carved – the bony skull and arms of which peeked out, ominously, from the sumptuous folds of a monk’s cowl. Its expression was at once delirious – the gaping smile, the hollow eyes, the pointing finger – and…and poignant, somehow.
As he held the book several more pages flipped over, revealing a small, black and white illustration of a woodcut (1493) in which a group of skeletons performed a macabre jig over an open grave. Next to this image, in Beede’s characteristic red pencil (that creepy, teacher-y, bloody pencil), he had written:
‘DEATH –
He said it was a dance.’
Burning
Kane sniffed, then frowned, then shook his head –
Don’t be ridiculous
He put the book down. He was at the bottom of the pile, now, with only one volume remaining:
The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology by Russell Hope Robbins.
Kane picked it up. It was a heavy tome (old, hardback, the fine cover preserved in plastic). He looked for a book-mark and found one (of sorts), pulling it out as he turned to the spot. It was a business card for a company called Petaborough Restorations (no address, just a number). On the back of thecard, in very shaky writing, Kane read: ‘Peter’s exactly what you need (Did an absolutely superb job on Longport for the Weald and Downland Museum). J.P.’
Kane gazed at this card for a minute, half-frowning, then casually pocketed it.