The Night Library – Part 1: Exam Week

"There is a kettle in the stacks," said Orla.

"There isn't," said Zainab.

"It's in the third row. Behind the Irish history. With a cord down the leg of the desk."

"It's a heater."

"It's whistling."

Zainab put her head in her hands. The great Reading Room of the Dublin university library was hushed and golden at two in the morning, with rows of green desk lamps glowing like small moons. Students bent over books. A radiator ticked. Somebody snored softly in the corner.

Orla, thirty-four, the night librarian, was tall and freckled, with a long red plait, round glasses and a cardigan the colour of porridge. She had worked the night shift for five years. Zainab, thirty, a PhD student in medieval history, small, sharp and exhausted, in a faded sweatshirt, had been at her desk for fifty-one hours.

"I'll confiscate it," said Orla.

"Please don't."

"It's a fire hazard."

"It's a lifesaver. I haven't slept since Sunday."

"That's not the kettle's fault."

Zainab looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and desperate and funny. "I've got a draft due on Friday, I've lost a footnote, I've eaten nothing but tea, and I think the ghost of a medieval scribe is reading over my shoulder."

Orla's mouth twitched. She pulled out a chair opposite and sat. "Show me the footnote."

For an hour, they hunted it. Orla fetched volumes, flicked through indexes, muttered about call numbers. She found it in the third book, a Latin footnote on a charter of 1342, crossed out in some previous student's pencil. Zainab put her hand over her mouth.

"You found it."

"It's what I do."

"I could kiss you."

Orla turned very pink. Zainab realised what she had said and went pinker.

"Can I ask you something?" said Orla, gently.

"Yes."

"What time do you finish?"

"I have no idea."

"Green?" said Orla, a lamp, a light.

"Green," said Zainab, laughing. "Very green. I'll bring the kettle."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Draft.