The Bibliophile

Clarence disliked having to travel into the city. The old town was like a sketch of its former self. People stopped shopping there just as the advertising screens began popping up all over the place, just as the public decided, once and for all, that shopping online was, somehow, more convenient. Clarence assumed that they, like he, had little time for being treated like infants by con-men. The department stores lay empty, hollow. As he passed one he could see the dust on the empty shelves, a forlorn dummy staring at a wall. The only thing that seemed to be thriving were the coffee shops. The rows upon rows of empty restaurants made Clarence feel somewhat sad. The pubs had chased away their old regulars and put off tourists by offering all sorts of fun and games from quiz nights to bingo, Karaoke to Comedy. He guessed a lot of the pubs were struggling to stay open.

In the doorways of closed down newsagents, in the stairwells of empty shoe-shops, in the entrances to boarded up businesses were the homeless, the homeless, the homeless. Most of them looked so young, shockingly young in some cases. Filthy, shivering, they stared out across busy streets with tired and vacant eyes looking out at nothing.

And that was it. Gone were the brighter, more hope filled days of his earlier years, when everyone would go into the town of a Saturday, when the streets were so busy as to be intolerable at times. Now it was just a filthy place filled with emptiness of many varieties. Commuters passed through it on their way to work or lunch. The occasional shopper, like himself, still used it, but its time was over. People didn't want to go out in public any longer unless absolutely necessary. You never knew who was listening.

He was as guilty of this as everyone else. After all Clarence had moved out of the city, into a quieter neighbourhood. Up until five years previously he'd lived in the same block for quarter of a century, he'd been in and out of his neighbours houses and lives like, well if not exactly friends then good neighbours. He'd go to work, come home, have dinner, go down the pub where usually either Geoff, or Lenny or both would be sitting. Geoff was as old as Clarence, Lenny a young lad, not long starting out. Esther, her name was, Lenny's good woman, she often came down the pub with him. Lovely couple.

He remember when it all changed. Esther having a laugh in the pub does a silly impersonation. A whippet like woman complained that she was offended. Esther then gave her good reason to be offended. The girl swore like a trooper. She was drunk, but even then Clarence knew what was going to happen. They all knew.

His close became filled with people from the press who all tended, in one way or another, to remind him of scavenger animals, like hyena or jackals. They were there before the police came to charge her. He always refused to say anything but they had no problem just making up stuff anyway. Twenty-two year old Esther was vilified in the press even before her trial started. They called her all sorts of names befitting extremists. They condemned her as thoroughly as the judge. She was sentenced to three years for a public display of racial hatred.

After that the trust disappeared. Not just between him and his neighbours but across the city. It became a colder, unfriendlier place, filled with suspicious people, worrying about how suspicious everyone else was. He was happy where he was. He only came in once a month when the Library had a book-faire.

Even for a man of his years, Clarence was an oddity at the book-faire. On occasion he'd see a kid or two, meandering around bored out of their minds as their grandparents or great-grandparents dragged them around the place. Most of the customers had a good fifteen to twenty years on him. No one else really read books, not since the screens became the dominant force across which art, sport, information and entertainment were transmitted and received. Most houses were filled with screens and most people had at least one mobile screen with them at all times. Clarence was not among that most. For him, it was books. He didn't particularly care what, if it took his fancy he'd pick it up. He'd even bought shelves, lots of them. He was building up quite a library.

He smiled and opened his bag to examine his purchases once again. Inside were three paperback novels, Melville's “Moby Dick”, a collection of short stories by Raymond Carver entitled “Cathedral” and a novelization of the old movie classic “Jaws 2” by someone called Hank Searls. The book itself must have been over seventy years old, it's original binding had been long lost and replaced by tape. The paper cover still retained some of its plastic sheen, the image of the shark rising up from the deep directly behind a woman in a bikini on water-skies.

He realised such a cover would be simply unthinkable these days, if people still published actual books with actual paper and words and with a cover displaying some artistic image. They didn't. Books as actual, physical objects had become commercially unviable decades before, Clarence tried to recall when it was. Had there been a moment when it all just stopped or was it a gradual thing? He remembered being surprised when he saw books for the first time in years when he landed in Changi Airport. They were still being published and sold elsewhere, he'd never thought about that until that moment and that moment had been eight, going on nine years previously.

Books had been replaced with electronic readers, will full cast recordings, with video series, and “Story” eventually just became another type of content for the screen culture that dominated the metropolitan landscape, that haunted, grey landscape where people stayed behind doors or socialised in a rigid fearful way across their screens or in well-filmed self-congratulatory state organised events.

By the time he reached home he had already worked out his plans for the evening. Dinner came first, followed by him opening a bottle of Merlot and pouring a glass. He let it breathe as he chose a play-list of late twentieth century ambient music. When that was all under way he took the three books from his bag, placed one on the table and the other two on one of the many bookshelves that covered one wall of his lounge. The bookshelves were a set all made of heavy varnished oak. They would have been antiques when he was a kid, but he picked them up for almost nothing. No one really needed or had the space for book-shelves in the city. He was proud of his collection, over the last few years he'd picked up almost five hundred books and read them all, some several times.

Finally, and with much delight, he sat in his favourite chair and opened the cover of Jaws 2. Before setting his eyes on the page he stuck his nose in and sniffed. This had become a ritual, an odd one he would have freely admitted. He liked the aroma, each one was the same but different. It wasn't as if he was harming anyone. Most people just wanted the content, (well, truth be told, they didn't) they were not interested in the artefact itself, such a permanent thing had become inconvenient to them. To Clarence though, the artefact was everything. The book was something magical, ink lines thumped onto crushed, pulped and bleached wood that when gazed upon opened up new pathways in your mind, new thoughts and voices and characters. Pixels on a screen just did not have the same effect. He knew his attitude was somewhat elitist but did not care. To him, opening up the cover was like opening up a door into someone else's world.

Clarence took a sip of wine and looked once again at that cover and chuckled.

His door-bell rang, unexpectedly.

Clarence groaned with disappointment. The untimely interruption left him muttering to himself as he got up and marched to the front door. Through the spyhole he noticed two police officers. His stomach squirmed. The police never arrived at your doorstep with happy intentions. He raced though is memories to see if he could think of anything he may have done wrong. He didn't think so, which they were likely to have grim news. He opened the door, prepared for the worst.

“Good evening officers.” Clarence said pleasantly.

“Good evening sir. Are you the home-owner?” one of the police officers asked. A big, burly, rough-looking woman in her forties. She towered over both Clarence and her fellow officer, a young man, much thinner than his colleague. She had her blonde hair pulled so tight into a pony-tail that it looked like her eyes might pop out and made her manner look quite threatening.

“Err- Yes. Clarence Gatling.” He admitted as if being interrogated.

“Ah thanks. Good Evening Mr Gatling, I'm officer Stanley and this is Officer Thompson. We've in the area at the moment and asking the locals if they've seen any strange people lurking about the area over the last few days.” The officer replied as nicely as she could.

“Oh... Is this about the burglary at the Harrison's up the road? I'd heard they were broken into.”

“We can't really say anything about that I'm afraid.” The young man piped up.

“Of course. How silly of me. Please do come in.” He offered.

The police officers seemed pleased by that and entered his home with a thanks.

Clarence escorted them down the hall as he spoke. “You know it's funny because I said to Will Harrison that I'd seen two men last week on his property. I thought they were builders but... Now I come to think of it I suppose it could have been someone suspicious.”

He turned to face the officers as he entered the lounge. “Well that's exactly the kind of thi-” Officer Stanley began. She stopped mid-word as she looked in shock at the six bookcases against his lounge wall. Her partner stared at her with a puzzled look on his face which turned to concern as he also spied the book-cases.

“Mr Gatling, what are you doing with all these, books?” She asked, spitting the word books as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

Clarence was surprised by the reaction.“Something wrong?” He asked.

“Well you tell me, don't you think there's something wrong with cluttering up your house with thousands of books? Don't you have a screen?” The police-woman asked.

“Oh don't be silly there's only a few hundred, they're hardly cluttering up my house and no I don't have a screen.”

Both officers looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“Is there something wrong with having a few books?” He asked trying to keep his frustration masked.

“That depends what's on them doesn't it?” The woman said ominously.

“Oh now wait a minute, I'm not some kind of political radical or anything, I'm a bit of a bibliophile I suppose. These are just old fiction books, rubbish mostly, many of them you can't even get on the screen.” Clarence replied, trying his best to remain reasonable, he'd done nothing wrong. Books weren't illegal.

“Why would they not be on the screen? Are you saying these are Unapproved?” She asked, her voice becoming even more suspicious.

“Unapproved?” Clarence asked, genuinely confused. “No, just old, out of date.”

“But you said they were not available on the screen. The only reason that they would be banned from the screen-stores is because they were Unapproved.” Officer Stanley insisted.

“Unavailable, not banned.” Clarence insisted.

“Why would they be unavailable?” Officer Stanley asked, rapidly, as if trying to catch him out.

“Several reasons, lack of rights, no one ever filmed the book, the public aren't interested. I'm sure there are others.”

“I'm sure there are. However they might not be on screen because they are Unapproved. You said it youself. It might not interest the public. Well that's right, especially if they contain pornography, extremist propaganda, hate speech, obscenity, or anything that a reasonable person might find inappropriate of offensive.”

“Well I consider myself a reasonable person.” Clarence said with a slightly humorous intonation, an attempt to deflate the pressure building up in the room. “And I can tell you none of my books are any of those things.”

“That's the thing. You don't get to say what a reasonable person might think.” Officer Stanley replied.

“I don't see why not, who does?”

The grin that stretched across her face was in no way friendly. “We do.”

“O-oh.” Clarence said, stammering the word, feeling the weight of what she had just said crush down on him. “I see.”

“So, any or all of these books might not be approved.” Officer Thompson replied, cheerily.

“That's doesn't make them against the law though does is it?”

“Well that remains to be seen doesn't it? Who knows what kinds of hate or filth might be hidden in those countless pages. It might take us some time, but if there is something we can charge you with, we'll find it.” Officer Stanley said, her grin still wide, still without warmth.

“Jesus Christ, it's just some old fiction books, I'm not trying to bring down the Government.” Clarence said, losing his cool and regretting it.

“Whoa! Take it easy, there's no need to start using Anti-Christian slurs.” Officer Thompson said, threateningly, his hand caressing his nightstick.

“You know what's funny Mr Gatling?” Officer Stanley answered.

“No.”

“I'm not even Christian, it doesn't matter, all that matters is that young Officer Thompson perceived you to be using anti-Christian slurs against my religion. Please desist from such outbursts or I'm afraid I'm going to have to charge you with a hate crime.”

“Are you kidding me? When was Jesus Christ anti-Christian?” Clarence pleaded.

“You're taking their lord's name in vain Mr Gatling, that is very offensive to them and thus is an offence against a protected religious group. That is a crime Mr Gatling.” The young officer explained. “So behave or I'll have to charge you. We won't tell you again.”

“Why are you getting so defensive?” The large woman asked, peering right into Clarence's eyes like a hawk staring at it's mousy supper.

“Well you barge into my house and start accusing me of having all sorts of illegal material.” Clarence replied defiantly.

“You invited us in Mr Gatling and we've accused you of nothing, we are simply trying to understand why you would have so many books and why you collect Unapproved literature.” Officer Stanley stated, her voice a mix of exasperated authority and inquisitorial suspicion.

“I think there is a misunderstanding. It's not that the books are “Unapproved.” He began, even making air-quotes. “They are simply out of print. They've not been banned or blacklisted, they're just stories, just books. I like collecting books.”

“I understand that part Mr Gatling, but what you fail to understand is that without being Approved, we have no way of knowing whether or not these books are legal for you to have. Many of these old books have been reprinted in line with modern social thinking. You can't just have a printed copy of a book from sixty years ago when it was still acceptable to say things like the “N” word. If you have a copy of such a book, then you are promoting hate-speech, which is against the law.”

“How is me having a private book in my house that is not illegal to sell, promoting hate-speech?”

“You're just being difficult now. The law does not tolerate offensive literature.” She replied.

“And the law gets to decide whatever it wants is offensive.” Clarence said.

“Exactly.” Both police said at once as if finally happy to have gotten through to him.

Clarance found this difficult to believe. He felt like he was in one of those Kafka or Orwell books. “This is fucking ridiculous.” Clarence whispered in frustration. That set them off.

“Right I warned you!” The male officer said, marching forth and grabbing Clarence's hands and cuffing them. “Mr Gatling, I am arresting you for using sexually violent threats against a female officer of the state. You have the right to a solicitor and please note while you have still the right to silence to remain so will be used as evidence against you.”

“I'll get the vice team down here, they'll want a look at all this.” The female officer said. “You take him in, I'll wait here.” she said.

Clarence was too shocked to protest as the young officer frog-marched him out of his house.

Officer Stanley shook her head in dismay as she looked around Clarence's lounge. He was another aggressive hate-monger she surmised, there were more and more of them popping up, ever since they had started the department.

She looked at the large collection of books and gave her objective and unfounded diagnosis of his mental state. O.C.D. with sexual fetish. He claimed as much himself, said he a bibliophile. She shuddered to think what he did with the books, imagining the vile depravity in her head. Did he get naked with them, use them to masturbate with, did he stick them in his rectum? She bet he did, he and others like him were warped, had sick minds, she was sure of it. How else could they come up with such depravity? Always the quiet ones, she thought to herself.

She walked over to where Clarence had been sitting and looked at the lurid image on the book he'd been reading. She put on gloves, plucked out an evidence bag and examined the cover as she bagged it. There was some kind of phallic shark thing bursting out of the water, probably to devour the semi-naked woman on the cover. The subtext was obvious, the sexual dominance over the objectified “female”. It was the sort of sexually sadistic brutality that had been commonplace for thousands of years. It was a shocking image, perverse, but it came as little surprise. More and more of them were popping up these days, had been ever since the Government given them higher targets.

“Sick fuck.” she hissed, satisfied that she'd make the world a slightly better place by getting another perverted terrorist off the street.