Skein Island

Начало книги

The library is empty for the first time today. I put away the rest of the returned books as I always do at closing time: the hardbacks on the shelves, the paperbacks in the rotating stand by the window that overlooks the car park. It’s blank out there, frozen under the shock of the outside light.

I think of the letter.

It arrived this morning, in a thick yellow envelope. My address was written by hand, in black pen. Above it was my maiden name. Miss Marianne Spence, like a call from the past. So I slipped a thumbnail under the flap of the envelope and ripped the past open.

The first thing I noticed was the letterhead, and then, at the very bottom, a single line written in the same hand as the address.

The night is so still. I decide nobody else is coming to the library tonight, so I go into the back office and take the letter from my bag, where it hangs on the peg behind the door. I unfold it and read it through again. Am I distrustful of my memory or the typescript? Both, I suppose.

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