The Library of Lives

What if you could choose a different life?

Connie paused to read the sign. T.S. Harden Dealer in Second-Hand Books. Why hadn’t she noticed the bookshop before? It clearly wasn’t new. The glass was grimy, and the books arranged haphazardly behind it had faded in the sun. A ginger cat reclined next to a bleached copy of The Goldfinch. It had a heart-shaped patch of white fur on its chest and a frayed right ear. Its resemblance to her recently departed and much-loved cat, Rusty, was uncanny. Connie tapped on the glass.

‘Hello puss.’

The cat looked up and, in one of those surreal moments when the normal rules don’t seem to apply, she could have sworn it said come in. Although, of course, she couldn’t hear because there was a pane of unwashed glass between them.

She went in, not because of the cat – obviously cats can’t talk - but because she had been meaning to read The Goldfinch since Penny at work recommended it. Penny was an excellent judge of books, or rather, she shared Connie’s taste, which amounted to the same thing.     

Inside, the store was deceptively large, with overstuffed bookcases and more books piled on a central table. Connie picked one up and a wisp of dust drifted into the air.

‘Can I help you?’

A man – T.S. Harden? – had materialised from the dark recesses of the shop like a spider or maybe a mouse. He was wearing a baggy grey cardigan, and he was almost as round as he was tall. Pince-nez glasses and a monkish frill of white hair completed the look. She guessed he was in his mid-sixties. About her age, although his skin was enviably smooth apart from a few creases around the eyes.    

‘I was interested in your copy of The Goldfinch,’ Connie said, glancing at the window.

The bookseller smiled. He had terrible teeth; jumbled together like fallen dominos.  

‘An excellent choice.’ He retrieved the book without disturbing the cat, which was washing itself with one leg pointing towards the sky. The Goldfinch was dauntingly thick, and the pages had turned a sickly yellow at the edges, like a slab of butter left too long in the fridge. ‘We have a special offer today,’ he said as he handed it to her. ‘A free lucky dip when you purchase any hardback.’

There was a hint of desperation in his voice. The shop probably didn’t attract many customers, and although the book wasn’t in the best condition, it was only four pounds. Connie did a quick calculation in her head. If it was five hundred pages long and she read twenty a day, that was sixteen pence a day.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

The lucky dip was a wooden crate by the till and the bookseller brushed aside the cobweb that was strung over it like a tiny trampoline and told her to help herself. It reminded Connie of the annual fete at her primary school, where, for a small fee, you could thrust your hand into a barrel of sawdust and select a ‘surprise gift.’ The gift was invariably a disappointment – a bath set or stale chocolates that had been in some parent’s cupboard since Christmas – but she felt the same thrill of anticipation as she pulled out a book wrapped in brown paper. 

She didn’t get around to unwrapping it for several days. She was too busy handing over at work and, on Friday, Penny had organised a party to celebrate her retirement. They drank warm white wine out of disposable cups while her manager made a speech. Connie felt like a balloon slowly deflating as she accepted an oversized card and a John Lewis voucher for fifty pounds. Fifty divided by thirty-four was one pound and forty-seven pence for every year she’d worked there. 

At home, she ripped the paper off the lucky dip while she waited for the kettle to boil, but what she discovered did nothing to lift her spirits. The book’s dust jacket was mouse grey – coincidentally the same colour as T.S. Harden’s cardigan - and where the title should have been, there was only a number - Sixty-Three to the Power of Twelve. A stamp inside the front cover read, Property of The Library of Lives. Please call this number if found.

What were you expecting, Connie? The Lindisfarne gospels? You get what you pay for, which in this case was a stolen library book. It seemed to be some kind of biography, and she flicked through the pages until she came to a black-and-white photograph of a family group. It was disturbingly familiar, and when she put her glasses on, she realised it was a picture of her family taken in the late sixties. Her parents were there and in her mother’s arms, wrapped in a blanket, was Rupert, her baby brother.

More photographs followed. They were all of people she knew and events she remembered, and the text was no less troubling. There was an account of her first job at an accountancy firm in Thame, her disastrous relationship with a married man and the heart-breaking miscarriage that followed.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. How could anyone know this? It wasn’t as if she was in the public eye; she didn’t have an Instagram account or a Facebook profile. Had someone been watching her? And if so, why? She retrieved her mobile and dialled the number under the library stamp. The phone rang six times before a woman answered.

‘Library of Life, Alexandria speaking.’

‘I think I have a book that belongs to you,’ Connie said. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird and her voice was half an octave higher than usual. ‘It sounds mad, I know, but it seems to be my life story. I bought it in a second-hand bookshop and your number was inside.’

Mad? Of course, it was mad. Madder even than a talking cat, which, obviously, she’d imagined. Had she imagined the book too? But no, there it was on the kitchen table. Sixty-Three to the Power of Twelve, whatever that meant.

‘Oh, thank goodness for that.’ Alexandria exclaimed. She sounded delighted. ‘Could you bring it round? We’re in Caversham, number twenty Beech Avenue. Any time after three would be good.’

‘How…?’ Connie began, ‘Who…?’

But Alexandria had ended the call.  

Number twenty Beech Avenue was an Edwardian semi in a tree-lined street. An online search for the Library of Lives had drawn a blank, and Connie hesitated before she rang the bell. Perhaps it was an elaborate scam that lured its victims with unauthorised biographies, the sort of thing they warned you about on Radio 4. Before she could change her mind, a woman opened the door. She was about Connie’s age, only more glamorous in a smart navy suit and high heels.

‘Alexandria, Chief Librarian,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘and you must be Mrs Parker.’

‘Connie,’ Connie said.

Alexandria didn’t look like a scammer, and Connie followed her into a lounge with a stripped wooden floor and tastefully bland furniture. There were no ornaments, and the walls were bare except for a print of two children playing on a beach. It felt like an upmarket waiting room, although they were the only people in it.   

‘Cup of tea?’ Alexandria said.

Connie shook her head and placed the not-so-lucky dip on the coffee table next to a pile of old Country Life magazines.

‘What is this?’

Alexandria frowned, as if Connie was being wilfully dim. 

‘It’s your life story. You must recognise it?’

‘Yes, but who wrote it? And why was it in a second-hand bookstore?’

Connie forced her voice into its normal range. Her mother used to say she sounded like Donald Duck when she was upset.

‘My bad.’ Alexandria held up her hands. ‘I was getting rid of the duplicates, and I must have picked it out by mistake. Mr Harden helps us dispose of surplus volumes. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when you called. We’re only supposed to hold one copy, but with so many coming in, it’s difficult to keep track. This,’ she pointed at the book, ‘is an original, which is why we needed it back.’

She smoothed her skirt over her knees. Unlike Connie’s knees, which had turned podgy with age, Alexandria’s were as slim and glamorous as the rest of her.    

‘Difficult to keep track of what? What are you talking about?’

‘The records,’ Alexandria said. ‘There are trillions of them, as you can see from the number on the front of your book, and she insists on keeping hard copies of all of them. Goodness knows why. Hardly anyone reads them and don’t get me started on the languages.’

‘She?’ Connie said.

‘Oh, you know, God, the boss.’ Alexandria frowned. ‘You’re not an atheist, are you?’  

Connie scanned the librarian’s face, but if she was joking, there was no sign of it.

‘Are you really telling me God keeps a written record of everyone’s life?’

‘Every possible life,’ Alexandria clarified. ‘You’ve heard of the multiverse?’ Connie nodded, although she only had the vaguest idea what Alexandria was talking about. ‘There’s the thing,’ Alexandria continued. ‘It would be a doddle if there was only one life per person, but no, that would be too easy. Would you like to see it? The library, I mean. I’ll show you your shelf. It’s the least I can do after you’ve come all this way.’     

The stairs to the cellar were off the kitchen, and Connie watched as Alexandria vanished into the darkness. If this went horribly wrong, she would only have herself to blame. At the bottom, they came to a heavy wooden door and when Alexandria turned the handle, a blast of cold air rushed in, making Connie gasp. Behind the door was a small, white-washed room. It looked innocuous, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realised that where the far wall should have been was a gaping hole. Tendrils of mist swirled around it and beyond, racks of shelves stretched into the distance, each stacked with row upon row of books. Some were thick with brightly coloured covers and others were like pamphlets in drab shades of brown or grey. Connie stared at the shelves in amazement.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Alexandria said. ‘The boss has given us a corner of infinity. We’re not crammed into a galaxy like some of the other departments. Shall we find your shelf?’ She pulled out a phone and tapped something into it. ‘We use DNA now. It’s more accurate than ISBN. You just have to be careful not to get your G’s and Cs mixed up.’

As she spoke, the shelves were rearranging themselves. Some were shooting forwards and others back and sideways. After a few moments, they all vanished except one leaving twelve grey volumes and a blue pamphlet wedged between metal bookends.

‘There we are,’ Alexandria said. ‘This is you. We like to keep family members together. There are two volumes for your parents and grandparents and this,’ she indicated the pamphlet, ‘is for your younger brother. It looks thin, but he did very well, considering how little time he had.’ A lump rose in Connie’s throat and she choked it down. Rupert’s death was even worse than losing the baby. ‘Shall we put your book back?’ Alexandria took Sixty-Three to the Power of Twelve from Connie and inserted it next to the pamphlet. ‘You’ll be starting on your second volume. A hundred years ago, hardly anyone made it to two, but these days we get people with four or even five. Obviously, they’re the ones who cram a lot in. You can tell by the colour. Usually the brighter the cover, the more volumes there are. If your life is a little dull - no offence - two is a respectable showing.’

Rupert wasn’t dull. He was bright and funny and everyone loved him. When he died, it was if someone had turned the lights off and she’d been groping around in the dark ever since.

‘Didn’t you say something about other lives? The multiverse thing?’

‘Oh, that.’ Alexandria shook her head. ‘Of course, you don’t get to choose. There would be chaos, people running around getting their lives tangled up. It would take forever to unpick the mess.’

‘Could I have a look at one of mine? Just out of interest.’

Alexandria shook her head again. ‘I don’t know. I’m going out on a limb just bringing you down here.’

‘Please,’ Connie said, ‘A quick look and I promise I won’t tell anyone.’

For a moment, Alexandria didn’t reply, then she sighed and took out the phone.

‘Fine, but no touching. You’re lucky. The boss has a meeting with him downstairs to talk about some war or other, so there’s no danger she’ll drop in.’ 

She jabbed the device, and the shelf vanished into the mist to be replaced by another much longer one packed with brightly coloured tomes. Alexandria selected a book with a vibrant pink and yellow cover.

‘This is my favourite,’ she said holding it up.

The book seemed to glow in the dim light. It was the most beautiful thing Connie had ever seen.

‘That’s me?’

‘Well, not exactly,’ Alexandria corrected her. ‘It’s you in another life, which isn’t quite the same thing.’

It was as if the book was calling to her and, without thinking, Connie lunged at Alexandria and snatched it out of her hands.

‘I want this life.’

She clutched the volume to her chest. It felt warm, like a living thing. She knew instinctively that in this story Rupert was alive and the baby too.

Alexandria glared at her.  

 ‘Impossible. No one has ever swapped lives. It breaks all the rules.’

 She tried to snatch the book back, but Connie was too quick for her, stepping deftly out of the way.

‘Don’t try,’ Connie said. ‘Or I’ll rip it up.’

For the first time she could remember, she was in charge. She flicked through the pages at random. The Connie whose life this was, had climbed Machu Picchu, canoed up the Amazon and swum with sharks. She had two children and a brother who worked for the United Nations. Rupert. A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.  

‘You can’t do that.’ Alexandria’s hair had come loose from its bun, giving her the appearance of a deranged Medusa. ‘If you rip the book up, you’ll die and I’ll have to reorganise everything.’ She threw her arms open to illustrate the enormity of the task. ‘Why not wait for a bit?’ Her tone was wheedling. ‘See how you get on? Dullness has its advantages, you know. It’s less tiring for a start.’

Rupert would be in his fifties now, no longer a cute toddler with ears that were too big for his head.

‘I want the whole kit and Kaboodle, a family, Machu Picchu, sharks, the lot,’ Connie said. And Rupert. More than anything, she wanted her brother. ‘I’ll do it, you know.’ She mimed tearing the book in half. ‘It’s not as if anyone will miss me.’

Connie’s stomach was churning as Alexandria stabbed angrily at the phone. There was no clap of thunder or puff of smoke like in the movies and, when she glanced at her feet, she was still wearing the same sensible brogues she’d bought in the M&S sale. Would Machu Picchu Connie wear brown lace-ups? It seemed unlikely.

 ‘All done,’ Alexandria said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot to be getting on with.’  

She reached for the pink and yellow book and, reluctantly, Connie let her have it. The fight had gone out of her and her legs felt wobbly, as if she’d just run a marathon or climbed a mountain. Alexandria had fooled her. Stupid, gullible Connie.

As she crunched down the drive, the rest of her life stretched before her like a trail of stale breadcrumbs. She was halfway to the bus stop when she heard someone calling her name and turned to find a middle-aged man jogging toward her.

‘Connie, where are you going? You walked right past the car?’

His voice was familiar, but it wasn’t until he got closer and she saw his ears peeking through his hair that she realised who he was.

‘Rupert?’

She stumbled as she stepped towards him and he put out his hand to catch her. He was at least five inches taller than she was, taller even than their father. He looked at her quizzically.

‘Who else would I be? Connie are you OK? You seem a bit off.’

Off was the word they used as children to describe or anything that wasn’t quite right, like the raisins in rum and raisin ice cream or baked beans that didn’t come out of a tin.

‘I…’ Connie began. ‘I… I forgot… I wasn’t thinking.’

She wanted to tell him how much she’d missed him. To touch his face and his wiry blond hair and make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

‘Shall we go? If we don’t get moving soon, you’ll miss your flight to Buenos Aires.’

‘Of course,’ Connie said, remembering. ‘Buenos Aires. Riding with gauchos.’

Behind Rupert, perched on a garden wall, a ginger cat with a heart-shaped patch of white fur on its chest and a frayed right ear was washing itself with one leg pointing towards the sky.