Mayhem - Issue One - March 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
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Jo Wilson
Dewey Decimals
He leaves the night behind and slinks in through the doors. Keeps close to the wall. Hood is up,
eyes downcast. Slips past towering rows; rows and rows of books. Their shadows weigh him
down. Paper and ink. Ink and paper. The AC churns out recycled air. He stays away from the
issues desk. He shies away from the people. He hides himself as a piece of furniture, and when
he sits, he dissolves into the desk.
Tick, tick, tick. The red hand tiptoes round the face. 6pm. Time to begin.
Watch the woman move from shelf to shelf, top to bottom, left to right; next row and the
next, pulling books forward. She aligns them against the palm of her hand, flush with the edge of
the shelf. Each row lines up vertically. Standing, crouching, standing…next.
Count the rows of books. Count them, one, two, three…no. STOP!
Watch the woman, the one with the auburn hair. It falls down her back, ironed straight.
She bends down to pick a book up off the floor; discarded, left in calculated chaos. Her fringe
falls into her eyes.
He picks at a scab on his hand with his fingernail. He tears the thick crust off. He lets it
fall, losing it on the carpeted floor. Newborn blood fills the crater. Red. Brilliant. It begins to
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author
Mayhem - Issue One - March 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
trickle down his hand. He uses the sleeve of his sweatshirt to cover it up. It bleeds through the
fabric, and dries rust red. Another stain. Another imperfection.
Watch the woman. She sweeps her fringe out of her eyes. She tucks her hair behind her
ear. He can breathe again…
In and out. In and out. Tick, tick, tick. He swallows the seconds. He measures them
against the pace of his heart. Slow it down.
Start again.
He follows her with his eyes. He fidgets in his chair. He places his phone upon the desk.
He skirts his eyes back and forth between its screen and the woman.
There is another woman. An older one with a pinched nose. He sees her every time. She
works here almost every day. She scuttles around like a crab. She tells the teens off for being too
loud. She hands run-away children back to unconcerned parents with a reprimand. She tells the
others what to do. She presses the buzzer. One; Buzz. Two; Buzz, buzz. Three; Buzz, buzz, buzz.
They all come running. A buzz to rule them all…
She glares at him; a line etched between her brows. She sees his shifty eyes. She’s seen
him watching. She suspects…something.
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© Copyright remains with the individual author
Mayhem - Issue One - March 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
He shifts his attention to his phone. He touches the screen as if he’s scrolling,
reading…but he’s watching. Always watching, from the corner of his eye. He waits for the
moment she finds some other prey and scuttles away…scuttles away.
Watch the woman, the one with the perfect hair. She stands in front of him. Her left arm
is laden with books. She reads their spines and finds their homes on the shelf. She shuffles and
squeezes and shuffles and squeezes them into position. It is a process of counting and numbers.
611: Human Anatomy. 613: Health and Safety.
Watch the woman. Through the lens of a camera. Watch him zoom in. See her fill the
screen of his phone. He compares the real with the digital. With the digital he can touch her.
With the digital he can save her. He taps the shutter button. It is on silent. No one has heard. No
one has seen.
Tick, tick, tick. It is 6:38pm. One hour and twenty-two minutes. One hour and twentytwo minutes until she leaves. He knows this. He has watched her before. She leaves much earlier
than all the others. Tonight is special. Tonight he leaves at 8pm. Tonight he leaves with her.
He touches his pocket. His gift to her, it sits there, folded safely in on itself.
A woman enters pushing a pram. A small child in tow wears pajamas and slippers. It
should probably be in bed. The child swings the DVD rack round and round. Some of the DVD’s
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author
Mayhem - Issue One - March 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
fall forward in their stands. One tumbles to the floor. It spills its guts, its round shiny disc, faceup and exposed to the world.
The child keeps turning the stand. Around and around, it picks up speed. The mother
bends over the pram. She does not notice her other child.
The sound prickles under his skin. He doesn’t like it. Make it stop. The rack scrapes as it
turns, scooping out his insides.
He counts; one, two, three…make it stop, make it stop… He closes his eyes. There’s a
roaring in his ears. Four, five, six...stop…stop…seven, eight…His leg vibrates, jostling the table.
Nine, ten!
The mother looks up, grabs the child’s arm and pulls it away. He can breathe again.
In and out. In and out.
In and out. In and out.
It is 7:14pm. Forty-six minutes until he can leave. He feels inside his pocket. Turns her
gift over in his hand. Forty-six minutes and he’ll give it to her.
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© Copyright remains with the individual author
Mayhem - Issue One - March 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
The security guard has a button missing. His shirt is one button short. Count them; one,
two, three, four…the gap shows his undershirt…four, four, four…there’s more…can’t count,
he’s stuck at four. STOP!
He is old and balding. He has no weapon, only a radio. Static churns from his belt. He is
no threat. He wanders through the stacks. He chats to some of the staff. He picks up and fingers
through a book that’s fallen to the floor. He puts it on a shelf, any shelf, in no order. No one
sees…but him. He sees. Watch the man, the man that undoes the work of the woman.
Watch the woman, the one with the auburn hair. She chats to the guard and smiles at his
jokes. He is taunting her with his sloppiness. Next time…next time, but not tonight. Tonight is
special.
It is 7:33pm. Twenty-seven minutes and counting.
Watch the woman. Watch the woman rearrange the books on the cart. First by author:
Grafton, Gregory, Grimshaw. Then by title: “A” is for Alibi, “I” is for Innocent, “S” is for
Silence.
It is 7:42pm. Tick, tick, tick…Time creeps closer.
Swish, clunk, swish, clunk, swish clunk. Books through the self-issue machine. The beats
don’t line up, it trips up his heart.
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© Copyright remains with the individual author
Mayhem - Issue One - March 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
Swish, clunk, swish, clunk. The mother and children are leaving. It hurries them through
the door.
7:58pm. Time to prepare. The red hand tiptoes round the clock.
His hood is up, his eyes downcast. One hand rests uneasily in his pocket.
Count the seconds…fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five…
He shies away from the people. He stays away from the Issue desk. He shuffles past the
security guard; an old man asleep on his feet. He slips past the rows and rows of books. Count
them; one, two, three…no! STOP. He will lose track of time.
He slinks into the night. He’ll meet her round the back as she’s walking to her car.
He pulls her gift from his pocket and unfolds it in the dark. He strokes its cutting edge.
Watch the woman.
It is 8pm.
It is time.
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© Copyright remains with the individual author