Eleanor did not repeat herself.
She stood beside the kerb, holding her suitcase, while I watched the doorway across the road. The sign above it was still there. Beyond the threshold, I could see a tiled corridor with fluorescent lights and a row of brass-plated doors.
“I'm not going in,” I said.
“All right.”
“I mean it.”
“I heard you.”
I waited for her to persuade me. When she did not, I began to feel that my refusal had been somehow premature, as though I had declined an invitation before discovering what it was for.
“What happens if I don't?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
She looked at the traffic passing between us and the doorway.
“Things will continue to happen. You simply won't be there to see them.”
I considered this. It was not the reassurance I had hoped for.
“Where are you going?”
“To the library.”
“Is that where you're always going?”
She looked surprised.
“No. Sometimes I go to the station.”
“And sometimes the museum?”
“Yes.”
“Don't you ever leave?”
She was silent for so long that I thought she had not heard me.
“Once,” she said.
“What happened?”
“I came back.”
She picked up her suitcase and crossed the road. I watched her enter the doorway and disappear down the corridor.
I remained on the pavement until a bus passed, briefly obscuring the entrance. When it had gone, I saw that the doorway was no longer there. The building had an ordinary shopfront, with a display of second-hand books and a notice announcing reduced opening hours.
I decided that I would go somewhere else.
I walked for perhaps fifteen minutes, following streets that seemed familiar but whose names I could not remember. Eventually I came to a public library. It stood between a pharmacy and a bank, in a building of pale stone with broad windows and a clock above the entrance.
I went inside.
The librarian was sitting at a desk near the entrance. She looked up as I approached.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I'm looking for an archive.”
“What kind of archive?”
“Records of the station. Its history, its buildings, perhaps its staff.”
She considered this.
“We have local history records. The railway archive is kept in the basement.”
“Thank you.”
She pointed towards a staircase.
I descended.
The basement was cool and smelled of dust and paper. Shelves lined the walls, and at the far end stood a long table with several reading lamps. A man in a grey cardigan was sorting a box of photographs.
I explained what I was looking for.
“Which station?” he asked.
I gave him its name.
He nodded, as though I had asked for something quite ordinary, and disappeared between the shelves. A few minutes later he returned carrying a large folder.
“There's not much here,” he said. “The railway company moved most of its records elsewhere. But these may help.”
He placed the folder on the table and opened it.
Inside were photographs of the station at different periods in its history. I recognised the façade, the ticket office, the concourse, and the platforms. Some photographs showed steam trains; others showed electric trains. There were pictures of renovations, demolitions, and the construction of a new footbridge.
I turned the pages slowly.
Then I found a photograph of the museum.
It showed a long hall with glass cases, a lectern near the entrance, and a woman sitting behind a desk.
I leaned closer.
The woman was Eleanor.
The photograph was dated 1963.
I looked at the archivist.
“Who is this?”
He adjusted his spectacles.
“Let me see.”
He examined the photograph, then the caption beneath it.
“Eleanor Vale. Museum assistant. She worked there for a number of years.”
“When did she leave?”
He consulted a card attached to the folder.
“There's no record of her leaving. Her employment simply ends in the records in 1968.”
“Was she dismissed?”
“It doesn't say.”
“Did she die?”
He shook his head.
“There's nothing here about that.”
I sat down.
The archivist returned to his shelves, leaving me with the photograph. I studied Eleanor's face. She looked younger than the woman I had met, but there was no mistaking her. Beside her, on the desk, lay a large cloth-bound book.
The catalogue.
I turned the photograph over.
On the back, in faded ink, someone had written:
The museum is closed until further notice.
Beneath that, in a different hand, were the words:
It has always been open.
I put the photograph down.
For a moment I could hear nothing but the hum of the lights. Then I became aware of another sound, faint but unmistakable: the rhythmic tapping of a finger against glass.
I looked towards the far end of the room.
There was a glass-fronted cabinet beside the shelves. It contained old railway timetables, neatly arranged in rows. One of them lay open, its pages held apart by a small brass weight.
I stood and approached it.
The timetable listed departures from the station, with columns for the time, destination, and platform. Most of the entries were faded. One remained clear.
10:42.
Platform 0.
Beside it, someone had drawn a small arrow pointing towards the margin.
I followed the arrow with my eyes.
In the margin, in handwriting I recognised, was a sentence:
If you have come this far, you have already returned.
I stepped away from the cabinet.
The archivist had reappeared at the table.
“Have you found what you need?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
He looked at the photograph of Eleanor.
“Do you know her?”
“I think so.”
He studied me for a moment.
“You look familiar.”
I felt a chill pass through me.
“Have we met?”
He seemed to consider the question seriously.
“I don't think so.”
Then he smiled.
“But I may have seen you before.”
“Where?”
He pointed towards the photograph.
I turned to look at it.
The photograph had changed.
Eleanor was still sitting behind the desk, but the man standing beside her was no longer obscured by the edge of the frame. He was wearing a dark coat and holding a book. His face was mine.
I reached for the photograph, but the archivist put his hand over it.
“Careful,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because once you alter the record, it becomes difficult to remember what it was you came to find.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
He removed his hand.
“I don't know. I found it written on the folder when I took it from the shelf.”
I looked at the folder. On its cover was a label:
ARCHIVE OF UNRESOLVED EVENTS.
Beneath it, in smaller type:
ACCESS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
“Who made this archive?” I asked.
The archivist looked towards the shelves.
“I did.”
“When?”
He frowned.
“I don't remember.”
I returned to the table and opened the folder again. Beneath the photographs was a set of typed notes, arranged in chronological order. The first described the construction of the station. The second recorded the opening of the museum. The third listed the staff employed there.
The fourth was headed:
VISITORS WHO HAVE NOT YET ARRIVED.
I read the first entry.
It contained my name.
The date beside it was tomorrow's.
I turned to the next page. There were several entries, each with a name and a date. Some names were unfamiliar. Others seemed vaguely recognisable. One entry described a woman carrying a leather suitcase.
Eleanor Vale.
The date was 1963.
I read the accompanying note:
Visitor reports having met a man who has not yet arrived. She claims to have seen him on a train, in the museum, and in the library. She is unable to say which encounter occurred first.
The next entry was dated 1968.
Visitor reports that she has returned to the station. She is unable to recall having left it.
The third entry had no date.
Visitor asks whether the archive contains a record of its own beginning.
Beneath this, in handwriting that was almost certainly mine, someone had added:
It contains several.
I closed the folder.
I wanted to leave the library, but I was afraid that the ordinary world outside would prove to be no more reliable than the station. I wanted to stay, but the archive had begun to feel like another room in the same building, another catalogue pointing towards another catalogue.
I looked at the archivist.
“Can I see the original records?”
He nodded and led me to a locked cabinet at the back of the room. From his pocket he took a key and opened the door.
Inside were several identical grey-bound volumes.
Each bore the same title:
Archive of Unresolved Events.
I took down the nearest volume and opened it.
The first page was blank.
The second contained a single sentence:
The visitor enters the library in search of a record that will establish whether he has been here before.
I turned the page.
He finds a photograph of a woman he believes he knows.
I turned another.
He discovers that the archive contains a record of his visit.
The pages continued in this manner, each describing something that had already happened.
At the end of the volume was a blank page.
I stared at it.
Then I noticed the faint indentation of writing on the paper. I tilted the page towards the light.
The words emerged slowly, as though they had been pressed into the sheet from the other side.
The visitor now closes the book.
I closed it.
The archivist was standing beside me.
“Have you found what you need?” he asked.
I could not answer.
He took the volume from my hands and returned it to the cabinet.
“You should go now,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because the library is about to close.”
I looked towards the door.
There was a clock on the wall. Its hands showed ten minutes past ten.
I checked my watch.
10:02.
The archivist locked the cabinet and put the key away.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” I asked.
He smiled.
“If you need me.”
I climbed the stairs.
The librarian was still at her desk. She looked up as I passed.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
I stopped.
“I think I found something else.”
She nodded, as though this were a familiar answer.
“That's usually what happens.”
I stepped outside.
The street was empty. The pharmacy and the bank were gone. In their place stood a long, high-ceilinged hall, with glass cases arranged in parallel rows.
At the far end, a woman sat behind a desk, reading a newspaper.
I recognised the museum.
I also recognised the woman.
She looked up as I approached.
“Good morning,” she said.
I looked at my watch.
10:02.
Then I noticed the catalogue lying on the lectern beside her.
It was open at the index.
The final entry read:
Archive. See Library.
I did not ask her where the library was.
I already knew.
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