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his fur collar is dangling. Nigel opens the computer list of customers who've ordered books. Riddle, Samson, Sprigg, but not a solitary Sole or anything it could have been mistaken for. "Could you just confirm the name?" Nigel at once feels unwary for asking.
    "He's wondering about your name." Another pause interferes with Nigel's breath before Gavin reports "It's like I said."
    "I'm coming down," Nigel says to forestall any repetition of it, and heads fast for the stairs.
    He's nearly at the Information terminal when the customer swings round with a swirl of his ponytail and a smell of old astrakhan. His lower lip helps the upper rise into a smile as he fingers the thumb-hole in his chin and then extends a hand as pudgy as his wrinkled piebald face. "Bob Sole."
    "Pleasure. Nigel," Nigel offers, and hastily "I'll see to Mr Sole, Gavin. Would you happen to know when you ordered the book, Mr Sole?"
    "The day you opened. I was nearly the first through the door."
    "Glad you keep coming back."
    "It's about time there was a bit of intelligence round here."
    Nigel isn't sure if this refers to Texts or the customer, and restrains himself to asking "Would you know the author?"
    "I've got his name if that's what you're after. Bottomley's the feller. Don't ask me the book."
    Nigel types the surname in the Search box of the online catalogue. Soon a multiplication of the name rises up, bringing titles with it: In the Dells of Delamere, Stories of a Stockport Stockbroker, Manchester Murders and Mayhem, Poems on the Peaks, Commons and Canals of Cheshire... "Could that be it?" Nigel suggests, pivoting the screen towards the customer.
    "You'd wonder what'd drive that out of your thick skull, wouldn't you?" Mr Sole enquires, presumably about himself. "Can you give it another go?"
    "I will the moment I'm back at my desk. I'm sorry your order slipped through the system somehow."
    "I'm not blaming any of your crew."
    All the same, once he has dictated an address in Lately Common and Nigel has printed out the slip, Mr Sole scrutinises his copy before folding it pocket-sized. He's the only customer now—indeed, Nigel didn't notice when Toddlers turned deserted; there wasn't anybody there when he came downstairs. He shows the wall his badge and hurries back to his computer.
    It's displaying a screensaver that he hasn't seen before. Presumably the image of several figures performing a dance or some other repetitive business hasn't fully loaded: it's too greyish and muddily blurred. He touches a key to get rid of the spectacle and search for Mancunian Press. He emails an order for Bottomley's book and glances at the security monitor in case Mr Sole is waiting to be told his order is in order, but the public is represented only by two bald men in armchairs. Each is staring at the nearest shelf as though the spines of books are quite enough to read, until one raises his face like an aquatic creature mouthing the surface of a pond.
    It's time for Nigel's secret indulgence. He wonders sometimes whether everybody has one so silly they would be mortified if it were ever discovered. His is acting like a vandal towards already damaged or imperfect books; perhaps he needs the break from playing manager. Racks stir with a furtive jangle as he hurries through the stockroom to find a trolley, onto which he lobs half a dozen faulty video cassettes and more than twice as many books. He wheels them to his section of the office bench and sets about examining his take.
    He isn't going to assume that any of the staff are responsible for the problems with the cassettes: no two of the original purchases bear the same staff identification number. He initials the Reason for Return slips, which say "blurred picture" or "blurred tape" or just "blurred", and lays the tapes to rest in a carton addressed to the Plymouth warehouse. The books have more reason to leave the shop—entire sections of text are repeated, or the skewed print is sliding helplessly off the page—and