He sat at the desk and the short queue of book borrowers shuffled slowly forward. Between them, they brought back twelve books and went off round the shelves to pick more. Lee Russon stamped and wrote down names and put the books on the trolley to re-shelve at the end of the session.
He liked books. Well, some books. He also liked this room because it was quiet and orderly and there was something about the atmosphere, as if, for the time being, and only in here, thoughts of anger and violence and revenge and drugs and drink and desperation faded a bit. It wasn’t true that nothing and nobody could get to you in here but it felt true. It was chapel for those who didn’t do God.
A couple of men were sitting down to look through books, a third was standing reading. Two came in. The blind bloke who came for his Braille books that had to be specially ordered and reserved. And Gerry.
Anyone thought twice and then again about getting across the prison officer called Gerry Moon. He was six foot seven, worked out in the gym two hours a day, had never been known to crack a smile. His reputation went ahead of him.
He changed with one of the others, Normanton, another misery. But there were always rumours about Normanton, involved in whatever drugs were being passed round, and SIM cards.
Gerry Moon was down hard on drugs. He had a nose for them, a sixth sense, and when he found them, the prisoner’s feet didn’t touch the ground, Moon would have him by the scruff of the neck straight to the governor. The governor loved Moon.
Normanton went out. Moon looked round the room. Everybody was suddenly deep in a book, head down. Moon folded his arms and stood by the door. Lee put a couple more books on the trolley. Nodded in Moon’s direction.
‘Checkout, please.’
‘Taking these?’
‘Thanks, and I think I’ll have that back, the one I brought in, there … think I’ll read it again.’
Lee took the Dick Francis off the trolley and handed it over. ‘Got another four or five of his though.’
‘Read them all.’
‘Tried Lee Child?’
‘He write about racing?’
‘No. But they’re great reads.’
‘I’ll just have this for now.’
One by one, they checked out and left, books under their arms. Two more came in. Gave Moon a look.
‘Just checking these in, don’t want any more thanks.’
‘You? You never stop reading, what’s up?’
‘Being transferred Friday. Silverdale Open.’
Moon had stepped forward. He was listening.
‘Good on you, mate. See you then. Best of luck.’
Two were left, one head down to a book laid flat on a table. He had barely looked up since he had been there. The other was running a finger along the spines of the History shelf, not seeming to read any of the titles, just running to and fro.
‘Ten minutes,’ Moon said.
‘Yes, boss. I’ll just get these out.’
Russon took the trolley and began to put books back in their places, slowly. The finger-runner went on doing it. The reader at the desk turned a page. Lee put back a copy of The Name of the Rose in the Crime section. Hesitated. Moved it to Historical Fiction. Hesitated again. Waited. Moved on.
Andy McNab, ever popular. He reached Fantasy Fiction. Terry Pratchett. Some couldn’t read him, some couldn’t get enough.
‘Guards! Guards!’ He read the title out loud with a short laugh. Paused. Then without glancing round, swift and sure with practice, he took out an envelope from his pocket and slipped it between the pages of the book. Set it back on the shelf. Moved on to the last two books, re-shelved them and returned the trolley to its place behind the checking-in table.
Moon was still standing there, arms folded.
‘TIME.’
The two readers scuttled out. Russon signed out of the staffing rota with the date and time, and followed without glancing at the prison officer.
Moon waited until the room was empty, before going over to the book containing the envelope, and extracting it. He folded it, put it into his pocket, switched out the lights, left and locked the library door.
He only lived a couple of miles from the prison and he always cycled. That night, as he did every so often, he posted Lee Russon’s envelope in a letter box, on his way home. His remuneration would come sometime later and would not be traceable.