I don't do this. Instead, I pick up a newspaper that has been left on a table and head to the toilets. The librarian glances over her glasses at the newspaper and raises her eyes. I feel like I've been caught with my trousers down. Again. I expect her to tell me to put the paper down, to remind me again that the library is about to close. She returns to her computer screen. I walk on tiptoes, trying to be oblivious. It crosses my mind that this might not be a good idea, that it really isn't worth the effort or the guilt. Then I curse myself for being so melodramatic. Who do I think I am? I'm only popping to the toilet for a quick browse of the paper, for God's sake. What difference can ten minutes make? They are hardly going to lock me in now, are they?
I dutifully follow the signs directing me upstairs and then I climb the wide, concrete spiral staircase. Nobody is about. It is just me. Bliss. I shut the cubicle door. Pull the lock across. Take a seat. Unfold the newspaper and take a cursory look at the headings. I have a thought. A wonderful one. I dig my hand inside my rucksack, all the way to the bottom. I cup an orange, then an apple. I packed them in my bag with the best of intentions, but I know I'll throw them both out once they start moulding. That is more like it. I pull out my cigar and then light up. Inhaling, I savour the aroma. I never had any doubts that this was worth the effort.
The rest room door opens. I am no longer alone.
My mouth is full of smoke, but I'm afraid to exhale. I blow out my cheeks to the point that they're ready to pop like a couple of balloons. I lower my head between my knees and blow the smoke in the direction of the floor. Then I close my legs to act as a barrier to stop the smoke from rising. I wave my hand in the air.
"Cleaner!"
What am I expected to do in these circumstances? Am I supposed to notify the cleaner that I am in the cubicle? I stay silent, and I remain motionless. My eyes momentarily return to the newspaper, but my focus is broken. I'm aware that the library will lock the doors in just a few minutes. Unless I leave now then I may be locked in after all. I stand up to pull across the lock.
The cleaner starts humming a tune. I sit back down.
My buttocks are glued to the toilet seat. My eyes stare at the blank canvas of the toilet door. There is something about the tune that grips tightly at my throat, that strangles my windpipe. Or maybe - just maybe - it is the way he hums the tune? It is jovial and upbeat. It is passionate. Nothing untoward there. But it is in dire conflict with the tune. It becomes louder. He is walking towards me. The footsteps are slow and measured, but he is definitely getting closer. Then he stops. I crouch down and glance under the gap at the bottom of the door, like an excited kid at the swimming baths for the first time. I can see his shoes. He is stood just a few feet from the door. I flinch and silently move away.
My hands grip the side of the plastic toilet seat. I try to calm my nerves, to think rationally. But why is he stood on the other side of the door? What is the worst that can happen? I realise that if it is him then the worst that can happen is I am bludgeoned to death with a razor blade. Thinking rationally doesn't help. I decide not to think at all. I shut my eyes and try to focus on the words that he is humming.
Don't fear the reaper - Baby I'm your Man.
And then the words stop. I can hear his footsteps on the tiled floor. He is walking away. It feels like the vice-like grip around my neck has been released. I wait for the toilet door to open. I keep waiting. He hasn't headed for the door. He hasn't left. He is still in the room. What is he doing? I stare at the floor, at the spidery cracks in the tiles, counting down the seconds, waiting for the inevitable. My time has finally come, thirty years and seven days after it should have come.
The toilet door opens and then - seconds later - it closes.
I begin to think clearer. I have become paranoid. It was just the cleaner, pissed off because I was smoking in the toilets. It was against all the regulations. The fire alarm could have gone off. The guy was just trying to intimidate me. It worked. Hell, it worked, but not for reasons he could ever realise. I shake my head and emit a loud, excited laugh. The cleaner could smell my smoke. I push my hands down on the seat, jolted into action, suddenly focussed on what really does matter. The library is about to shut, and I need to get out of here quick.
I pull across the bolt and push open the cubicle door. I take one step forward and then stop. My eyes widen as they fix on the mirror, on the words that have been scrawled in blood.
Twenty-three days.
DAY EIGHT 8TH JUNE 1988
Kate Phillips grips her mother's hand as they walk down the library's concrete steps.
Fair play, the afternoon had passed surprisingly quickly since her mum picked her up from school. Kate wasn't going to tell her mum that, though; she knew her
