'Will do, sir.'
They said their goodbyes and Lambert hung up, plunged once more into the silence of the room. He clapped his hands together as if trying to shake himself free of the lethargy which gripped him. He got up, tired of the silence, and crossed to the record player. He selected the loudest recording that they had in their collection and dropped it onto the turntable.
Someone thundered out 'Long Live Rock & Roll' and Lambert went back into the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.
Already, the emotions were slipping to the back of his mind, waiting to be stirred perhaps the next day, but, for now, he began to feel brighter.
'Long Live Rock & Roll' blasted on.
Debbie Lambert looked at her watch and noted with delight that it was nearly one o'clock. She took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. There was a nagging ache behind her eyes and she closed them for a moment. The ledgers lay before her as if defying her to carry on work. This was the only part of her job she hated. Cataloguing. She was thankful it only happened once a year. Every book in the library, all 35,624 of them, had to be listed by author, publisher and serial number. She'd been working at it now for more than a week and hadn't even got half way. She resolved to take some of it home with her that night.
Mondays were usually quiet, but today there were agitated babblings from the direction of the children's section. A party of twenty kids from the local infants school had been brought in with the idea of introducing them to the delights of a library. Debbie could see two of the little darlings giggling uncontrollably as they pawed through a book on early erotic art. She barely suppressed a grin herself, especially when the kids looked up and saw her watching them. They both turned the colour of a pillar box and hurriedly replaced the book.
'Don't you just love kids?' said Susan Howard, struggling past with an armful of books.
Debbie raised one eyebrow questioningly and Susan laughed. Nice girl, thought Debbie, about twenty, a year or so younger than herself. They got on well together. All the staff in the building did. There were just four of them: herself, Susan, Mrs Grady and Miss Baxter (who took care of the research section, or reference library as everyone else liked to call it). Debbie had wondered whether Miss Baxter would resent being under a woman more than thirty years younger than herself, but there had been no animosity shown. The previous head librarian had died three years before and few people suspected that the job would go to someone as young as Debbie, but her aptitude for the job was undeniable. She had, since she took over, tried to change the image of the building somewhat. She disliked the staid, Victorian picture of libraries which most people had. Of old spinsters in long skirts and horn-rimmed glasses hobbling about the corridors, and endless leather-bound dusty volumes which no one ever read. Since she had taken over, more youngsters had joined. Attracted no doubt by the presence of Susan, and, she hoped, herself. More men were members now than ever before.
She dropped her glasses into her handbag and stood up, shaking her legs to restore the circulation. She'd been sitting in more or less the same position for nearly four hours, bent over the ledgers and her shoulders and legs felt as if someone had been kicking her. She exhaled deeply and swept a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair.
'Sue,' she called quietly, 'I'm just popping out for lunch.'
The other girl nodded and struggled on with her armful of books.
Debbie walked out, the noise of her high heels clicking conspicuously on the polished wooden floor. As she reached the exit door she eyed her reflection in the glass and smiled. She had a good figure, slim hipped, the small curve of her bottom accentuated by the tight jeans which she wore. The thick jumper which covered her upper body concealed her pert breasts and made her look shapeless, but she dressed for comfort, not show.
As she stepped out into the street, an arm enfolded her waist and she spun round anxiously.
It was Lambert.
Debbie smiled broadly and kissed him.
'I thought you were at home,' she said happily.
He shrugged, 'I ran out of things to do. You were the last resort.' He smiled as she punched him on the arm.
'Cheeky sod,' she giggled. 'I was just going for lunch.'
'I know.'
'My God, you're not a policeman for nothing, are you?' she said sarcastically, trying not to smile.
He slapped her hard across the backside. 'Come on, Miss Librarian, let me buy you some lunch.'
The nearest cafe was busy but they found a seat near the window and Debbie sat down while
Lambert fetched the lunch, picking food out from beneath the plastic fronted cabinets. He returned with a laden tray and began unloading it onto the table.
As they ate, she told him about her morning's work and about the kids. He smiled a lot. A little too much perhaps. She reached across the table to clutch his hand.
'You all right?' she asked.
He nodded, 'I walked down here to meet you,' he told her, 'I needed the air.'
She smiled, then trying to sound brighter, 'Were those letters anything important this morning?'
He told her about the bill. 'The other one was from my mother.'
'What did she have to say? Or do you want me to read it when I get home?'
'I tore the fucking thing up,' snapped Lambert.
Two women on the table next to them looked round, and the policeman met their stare. They returned quickly to their tea, and gossip.
'What did it say?' asked Debbie, squeezing his hand tighter.
He shrugged and took a sip of his tea before answering, 'The same old shit. Same as always. I don't know why the hell she can't just leave me alone. I never asked her to start writing in the first place.' He slammed his cup down with a little bit too much force, making a loud crack.
The two women looked round again and this time Lambert thought about saying something. But he returned his gaze to Debbie. Her eyes were wide, searching his own, trying to find something that lay beneath his visible feelings.
There was a long silence between them. The only sound was that of many voices talking at once, each lost in their own world, making sense alone but, combined, becoming a noisy babble of nonsense. People around them chatted about the weather, their families, their jobs. The everyday monotony of life.
'I phoned the station,' said Lambert, at last.
'Why?' asked Debbie.
'I wondered if there was anything I could do, or if they needed me.'
Debbie looked at him reproachfully, 'Tom, the doctor told you to rest. You're not supposed to be at work. Sod the bloody station. They can run things without you.'
'I can't sit at home all day doing nothing,' he protested, 'it's driving me crazy.'
'Well, going back to the station isn't going to help either.'
'At least it might give me something else to think about. That's what I need, something to take my mind off what's been happening. You don't understand what it's like, Debbie,' he gripped her hand. 'I relive that bloody accident, that night, every time I visit Mike's grave. Even when I'm not there, it's still with me, you don't forget something like that easily.'
'No one expects you to. Just stop blaming yourself.' She didn't know whether to be angry with him, or feel pity.
'Shit,' he said it through clenched teeth, his head bowed.