The Date Stamp at Elmsgate Library

The first thing I hear is the returns chute, I think, that soft metal clatter a book makes dropping through after hours. Then I notice the chute flap hasn't moved. It's the date stamp on the counter, the old wooden-handled one, rocking on its base like someone's just set it down too hard. Yusuf doesn't look up from the trolley he's loading. "Leave it," he says. "It does that." I've been covering Tuesday closes for three weeks now — three, maybe four, I've lost count of which Tuesday this is — and I still don't know half the rules here. I ask him what he means. He wheels the trolley to the end of the aisle before he answers, like he wants something between him and the desk. "Before your time there was a girl, Priya, did Thursdays. Went to close out the chute one night and found a book in there that wasn't due. Hardback, local history, the one about the brickworks. Date due on the slip was the e