chapter three

a tight spot

So much for context. Whether I’ve clarified or muddled things further for you I don’t know. Let’s return to the fateful events of the other morning.

You’ll recall that I departed from my routine to rush to the Mitchell in a state of some consternation. At the library I scurried to the general reference section and yanked two thick phone books from a packed shelf, one listing the numbers of residents with surnames ranging from the letters L to Z located south of the Clyde, the second, of residents with corresponding surnames located north. My freshly licked fingers, trembling with trepidation, turned the pages of the first volume then traced down a row of names.

When they failed to find the particular name they were searching for, this volume was discarded and they grabbed the second volume. However, again unable to locate the name they were seeking, my by-now inky fingertips were soon expressing their perplexity by drumming on the desktop, a habit which halted when I realised that the page where the particular surname I sought (and dreaded finding) would have been listed was missing.

I returned to the office as quickly as I could to consult a copy of the same volume (why hadn’t I saved myself the trip to the library and consulted the office volume earlier? Two reasons. Firstly, I didn’t know which phone directory would list the name I was seeking and the selection of directories at the library was far more extensive than those at the office. Secondly, I sought to conceal my consternation from my colleagues) and confirm my worst fears.

On my way back to the office I had an uneasy feeling that I was being watched, a feeling which, though I was unable to verify it, lingered until it solidified into a conviction. It occurred to me that I’d managed to entangle myself in something of a tight spot.

Back at my desk, my worst fears were confirmed when I located the name I’d been seeking. This solved the puzzle of the letter and put me in a very tight spot indeed. Cursing my recklessness, I reread the letter for the umpteenth time that morning — the familiarity of the calligraphy continued to niggle me — then scribbled down the number and address from the phone book and glanced at my watch. There was hardly any time to think. What could I do? I tried the number. It rang out. I rang a taxi to take me to the address. As I left my desk, my letter opener — the skean dhu — caught my eye. I grabbed it, slipped it into my raincoat pocket and dashed for the lift.

It occurs to me that I’ve neglected to tell you the name in the phone book, haven’t I? It was Ian Thome.