It was never meant to start this way.  A furtive glance in the wrong direction at the wrong time, discovered.  Guilt wracked his face, and immediately, too quickly, he glanced away.  He ploughed back into the text he was reading, his mind was elsewhere and he soon realised that where he was trying to catch up to he had already read half a dozen times.  His lack of focus was not a good sign – he needed to stay sharp, but the headlines had begun to bother him.  Was he being overly cautious? He wasn’t so concerned about what the papers were telling him, more what they weren’t saying – the devil was always in the detail.  His present predicament though was more pressing, more immediate.  Acting relaxed and casual came as a greater challenge than he realised; in reality he didn’t want to blend in as the others around him did for he had a mission – he wanted to observe someone intently.  Granted, he could have used the security cameras which were at his disposal but somehow that didn’t seem fair.  No, somehow it didn’t seem real – it was sterile, as if painting by numbers.  Matadors don’t phone in their work – adrenalin isn’t injected into the vein.  This had to be done in person; this had to be done right.  He made a conscious effort to finish the next two pages of his book, whilst those around him stared at the shelves deciding upon what they might read.  In more abstract moments he wondered what discernable impact the reading of many of these books would have on the lives of its patrons.  Did they read with an ultimate goal in mind?  Were careers being honed with academic knowledge? Or were many of the people here merely going through the motions – appeasing their bosses, leaving copies of management journals conspicuously lying on their desks; dusty and ring stained from the numerous cups left on the covers?  Volumes of data were being generated at such a ferocious rate these days; what chance did the workforce stand in keeping up? What chance did they have to sort the good from the bad?  Ah well, not his problem.  He had a job, a good job too, but his job wasn’t the reason why he was here.  The reason was sat someway down the vast room that offered tables at which to sit and read.  At 39, Robert Fisk had spent more time indoors than out.  A lack of sunlight screamed from his pours, and a fidgety demeanour didn’t put those around him at any ease – however, wherever possible Robert kept himself to himself.  Ten years in prison had taught him that lesson very well indeed.  It was only due to a sneeze that didn’t come, that Robert noticed the man in the wheelchair looking at him – no, not looking at him, watching him.  Again, time in prison had taught him the difference.  He had seen people eating from across the table, chewing their food in his face whilst eating, occasionally looking up with the eyes of the dead.  They were lost in their own world – their imagination had them dining at the finest restaurants their fantasy would allow, good company and better alcohol was on offer than the low grade fare they were eating now.  In their own minds they were already free and living the good life, but they certainly weren’t looking at Robert when all this was going on. What made Robert sad more than anything else; was this was probably the highlight of his day for ten years straight – low grade food, and no grade company.  He thought no more of it and returned to his paper – his discarded book sat on the side, and he started to focus again on the crossword that was challenging him.  Ten years gave a man a lot of time to think, and that was a habit that Fisk didn’t switch off from now that he had been released from jail.  He was wondering what the purpose of making him read a book was all about.  It certainly wouldn’t have been a book of his choice – A Portrait of Dorian Gray? He tutted and thought about the rest of the reading list his parole board stipulated that he read; he remembered their excited faces as they claimed it was learning through literature – a re-awakening of the senses through writing.  He smiled to himself, he would have agreed to read the phone book if it meant he got out any earlier.  Fisk was hoping that he could at least watch some of the titles on DVD.  God knows, the language of this first book was challenging his will to live.

As the numerous 8-letter breeds of dog swam in his head, the wheelchair man appeared in his peripheral vision.  Fisk still found it hard to shake his prison-vision, and so concentrated extra hard on the crossword seeking to mind his own business but that wasn’t going to happen today.

“Excellent! Dorian Gray is one of my favourites” exclaimed the excitable man in the wheelchair.  “My name is Justin Baines – it cheers me up no end to see someone read such a wonderful book.” The glow in his cheeks beaconed in time to the pitch in his voice.  “How are you finding it?”

A wry grin spread across his face “Well it ain’t Andy McNab”.  Baines appeared none the wiser; these two were clearly approaching the library from opposite ends of the spectrum.

“Ah yes, but the language, the prose, the detail, the wit – oh the wit! Nothing comes close to it today – nothing”.  Baines was enthused – now it was Fisk’s turn to be unimpressed.

“It bores me”.  Fisk replied; his eyes followed the statement up as if that was all to be said on the matter – his prison-vision more than confirming that this was the end of the conversation.

“Oh” said Baines, “well I do hope you find some value in it – do you mind me asking why you are reading it if it lacks such appeal?” Fisk was ok with this; he had had uninteresting conversations for the better part of ten years, what was one more to the collection?

“It was recommended to me”

“Then you have a very well read friend.  It speaks of dilemmas, and the truth and beauty of what our lives can be.”

“I think you’d like the people who recommended it to me then” replied Fisk.  For the first time Baines could see that Fisk was chewing gum, but he was on a role in his praise of this book.  “It teaches one virtue, and that to vanquish evil from without, we have to expel it from within.”  Fisk wasn’t sure if he could almost see tears forming in Baines’ eyes, but the man was clearly ecstatic. 

“Well thanks for the summary; I guess I’ll stick with it” Said Fisk.

“Well cheerio, and good luck with the crossword” replied Baines.

Fisk resumed his crossword challenge, and Baines wheeled himself away – satisfied, for now, that Fisk didn’t have to die.

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