Page 31 of Charlie Sunshine
A plump man who’s sitting near to Charlie looks over at the redhead. “Did you say a librarian? Here? With us?” His face is red and sweaty, and his chins wobble in amazement, as though he’s stunned that someone at this table might actually have a job that requires a brain rather than a parent who owns the company.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, staring at Charlie, who has stiffened. “This is so epic.”
He winks at me before we turn back to the conversation.
“Charlie is a librarian,” Jamie says. “I introduced him to you when we sat down, Nigel.”
Nigel stares at Charlie. “Don’t think I’ve ever met a librarian before.”
Charlie, being Charlie, smiles kindly at him. “We’re not dodos.”
“Might as well be,” Nigel says and laughs loudly. “The way they’re closing the libraries. Good thing too.”
“Wondrous,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “What do you mean it’s a good thing?”
Nigel shrugs and drains his wine. “All those big buildings sitting on prime real estate. And what for? So dole bludgers can go in and get advice on how to bleed the system. The library near my father’s house closed last year. We’d had our eye on it for years. Right in the middle of Primrose Hill. My pops bought it, knocked it down, and built executive housing on it.”
Everyone nearby smiles as if his father is Willy Wonka and giving out free chocolate. Everyone apart from Charlie.
“Didn’t he feel guilty for depriving the area of a much-needed resource?” he says coolly.
Harry stirs. “Leave it, for Christ’s sake, Charlie. It’s just a library.”
Charlie looks at Harry. “And you’re just a banker. I sincerely hope you never become endangered.”
I don’t do enough to suppress my laugh.
Nigel stares at Charlie in perplexed astonishment. “Why on earth would my father feel guilty? I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt, but libraries are yesterday’s news. They’re no use anymore. People who read do it on their devices now. Machines have taken over, and books are old hat. Everything is on the internet. So what use is a bloody big building full of books that no one reads and librarians walking around saying shush every five seconds? Better to have productive members of society using the land. People who contribute to keeping this bloody country running.”
“Libraries are about a tad more than books.” Charlie’s voice is so dry that it probably needs its own drink. “Some people have never used a computer in their lives, and some older women have never even used the phone because their husbands always did it for them. So a machine won’t exactly help with any of that. It also won’t provide a cup of tea and a kind word for a library user who can’t afford to heat their home because their pension doesn’t stretch to silly fripperies like heat. They’re usually even more grateful for the kind word because, you see, some old people, unlike socialites, don’t see a soul all day.” His tone becomes biting, and his face cold. “Libraries are about much more than just computers and books and shushing. If we spent ourtime shushing people, we’d be showering them in spit for twelve hours a day what with all the noisy things that go on in a library. Like the memory group for people with dementia, the knit and natter groups, the computer education classes for people just out of prison, the story times for children. All of that accompanied by the thundering sound of the photocopier which is probably older than the building itself given the council’s propensity for cutting corners on library budgets. But hey, you don’t need to worry about that because you’re rich. I understand that. But I hope you never lose your job or your daddy’s company goes bust because you might need a library then. Jobcentres are very fond of telling people to come to libraries for services that they should already be providing, and it’s a librarian who’ll have to help you. That’s if you haven’t torn down the library to make houses forprofessionals.”
There’s a long stunned silence which I break by clapping. “That was like a lion taking down a hamster,” I say cheerfully, and Charlie’s stern face breaks into a smile.
“Shall we go to the club?” one of the posh girls asks frigidly. I can’t remember her name—Hetty or Vexed or Catastrophically Boring. There’s an instant murmur of agreement, and everyone stands up and starts to leave the room, eager to get away from the stroppy librarian.
What occurs next happens very quickly. Charlie gets halfway across the floor to the door and then stops dead with a fixed expression on his face.
“Shit,” I mutter and push my way through the group. I’m not there in time to catch him before he falls, but I am in time to see him fall towards Harry, who quite deliberately steps back. Charlie crashes to the floor, and I skid to a stop next to him. Rage burns in me, but I push it down so I can help Charlie.
“Get back, please,” I order the group as they all crouch over him, staring at him like he’s on the Paris catwalk. “Give him some space.”
“What’s the matter with him?” the redhead says. “Is he pissed?” She shakes her head. “That would explain a lot.”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” I snap, and she recoils. “He has epilepsy. He’s having a seizure.”
I pull off my jacket to cover Charlie and then look around to checkthat there’s nothing he can bang his head on. I’m just pushing a chair away when Jamie crouches down next to me.
“Shit,” he says, patting Charlie’s hand gently. “Is he in pain? He’s making a noise.”
That noise is a low keening sound. It always sends the hairs up on the back of my neck, but I have to tell myself that he’s fine. “He’s okay,” I say. “He won’t remember anything afterwards. It’s just a noise that a lot of people make during a seizure.” I check my watch and note the time.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Timing the seizure.”
“Why?”
