The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  'What do you mean, the rest of them?'

  'The whole library committee. Ye're a bunch of hypocrites. You've no interest in this mobile library conference thing at all.'

  'The Mobile Meet?'

  'Aye.'

  'Well, actually, as it happens, I am very—'

  'You just want an excuse to get over to England.'

  'Well, obviously, that too.'

  'That's all ye're interested in.'

  'No, it's not.'

  'Aye, it is.'

  'No.'

  'Yes.'

  'All right, fine,' said Israel, 'if it makes you feel better, Ted. You're right. I don't care at all about the Mobile Meet. I don't care about the new mobile library, or the old mobile library for that matter. I just want to go home. Which means we have to leave in a minute and get on the ferry and go.'

  'Well, at least ye're being honest now.'

  'Good. And so while we're about it, why don't you be honest?'

  'What?'

  'If it's honesty time, how about you being honest for a change?'

  'What in God's name are ye talkin' about now?'

  'I think you're scared of going over to England,' said Israel.

  'Of course I'm not scared,' said Ted.

  'I think you are scared.'

  'Of what?'

  'Going over to England. The big wide world out there.'

  'I've seen more of the big wide world than ye'll ever see, ye runt.'

  'Well, then, what's stopping you?'

  'Nothing. Just…'

  'Well?'

  Ted was silent and gazed down at the floor. Muhammad, too, went quiet.

  In all his time working on the mobile library with big Ted Carson, Israel had never known him to drop his gaze. Ted was the kind of person who looked at a problem straight in the eye and waited for it to back down. And if it didn't back down, he punched its lights out.

  Israel saw his chance to seize the initiative.

  'All right, Ted, listen. We are going. Because, Ted, look. Look at the van, Ted. Ted!' Ted looked up. 'Look. Just look at the van!'

  Ted looked across at the clean-scrubbed van.

  'I don't want to make you big-headed here, but honestly, you've done an incredible job. It's possible—and I realise I'm talking myself out of a thousand pounds here—it's possible that you might win the Concours D'Elégance. You owe it to yourself, Ted.' Israel was into his stride now. 'Not just that. You owe it to the van, Ted. Look at her. She could sit here, loved by you, or you could share her with others, show other people what this little country—'

  'Province,' corrected Ted.

  '—province is capable of. Do you know what I call her?' said Israel.

  'What?' said Ted.

  'Marilyn,' said Israel.

  'Marilyn?' said Ted.

  'Like Marilyn Monroe.'

  'My favourite film actress,' said Ted, nodding his head.

  'Really?' said Israel. 'There you are then. Let's get Marilyn out on the road and show people what we're made of, shall we?'

  Ted took a deep sigh and looked slowly from the van to Israel, and back again from Israel to the van, and out across the obscured vista to the sea, and then he opened the door a crack wider.

  'Ach, ye wee bastard. All right. I'll grab me duncher, and the dog. You're going to regret taking on this bet,' he said.

  'We'll see,' said Israel, and then, pushing his luck a little too far, 'but you definitely can't bring the dog.'

  'I'm bringing the dog.' Ted's face hardened.

  'Fine!' said Israel. He didn't like dogs. 'Bring the dog! Fine. But let's just go, can we? We've not got much time.'

  'And I need me duncher and some clothes.'

  'Your whatter?'

  'Me cap, me cap. I'm not going away over to the mainland without me cap.'

  And so eventually, somehow, by driving at frighteningly high speed along the winding coast road that Israel had come to love and to loathe, Ted and Israel and Muhammad the dog boarded the Liverpool ferry, and now they stood at the bow of the ship, Ted in his duncher, Israel in his duffle coat, Muhammad in the mobile library stowed safely down below.

  Israel was thinking of warm beer, and muffins, and Wensleydale cheese, and Wallace and Gromit, and the music of Elgar, and the Clash, and the Beatles, and Jarvis Cocker, and the white cliffs of Dover, and Big Ben, and the West End, and Stonehenge, and Alton Towers, and the Last Night of the Proms, and Glastonbury, and William Hogarth, and William Blake, and Just William, and Winston Churchill, and the North Circular Road, and Grodzinski's for coffee, and rubbish, and potholes, and a slice of Stilton and a pickled onion and George Orwell. And Gloria, of course. He was almost home to Gloria. G-L-O-R-I-A.

  Oh God. He couldn't wait.

  Muhammad, down below, was thinking of bones, and scraps and bouncing balls.

  And Ted's thoughts went unrecorded.

  And Israel felt the chill wind and the spray on his face and waved good-bye to Northern Ireland. He turned to Ted.

  'Goodie!' he said.

  'Ach, Jesus,' said Ted.

  6

  Israel vomited continually and consistently for most of the journey, although it was dry vomiting after a while, obviously; retching, voiding, spewing, ructating; stomach turned up and turned overboard; and down, and up, and down again, struck low and lower and down yet again by the ship's gentle toss and heave; beaten down and down in the ship's filthy toilets, down on his knees in other men's yellow filth, clinging to the toilet bowl, face up against white plastic, praying to God for mercy and forgiveness.

  Ted spent most of the journey smoking and eating biscuits and sipping tea and worrying about Muhammad.

  So it was with great relief to them all when they finally arrived in Liverpool docks and announcements called all passengers to prepare to go back down into the hold and return to the vehicles. Ted stood at the front of the queue, at the top of the steps, and turned solemnly to Israel.

  'We're entering your territory now,' he said.

  'Well, I don't know about that,' said Israel, extremely queasily.

  'England,' said Ted.

  'Well, yes, I suppose,' said Israel, swallowing hard.

  'So.' Ted took the keys to the van and placed them in Israel's hands.

  'No, it's okay,' said Israel, burping. 'I—'

  'You're the boss now,' said Ted.

  'No, really, Ted. I'd be much happier if—'

  'Your country—'

  'Needs you?' said Israel.

  'I don't know about that,' said Ted. 'But here's the keys anyway.'

  When the doors were finally opened to allow passengers down to the hold, Ted strode, Kitchener-like, down the steps to the van. Israel followed gingerly.

  He climbed miserably into the driver's seat. He hated driving.

  'Ugh! That is disgusting,' he said. 'What's that…?'

  Muhammad had left a few little presents for them inside the van.

  'Ugh!' repeated Israel. 'Ugh! I think I'm going to be…ugh!' as Ted scraped up what he could from the floor using a spare plastic bag. 'That dog! Is! Ugh!'

  'Ach, give over, Israel, will ye? It's only a wee drop of shit, man.'

  'A drop! A drop! That's not a drop! It's a…ugh! It's a mound! It's like something out of…ugh! Close Encounters of the…ugh!'

  'Well, what d'ye expect? He's been shut down here all by hisself.'

  'Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! I can't breathe!' said Israel.

  'Don't be so stupit,' said Ted.

  'I said we shouldn't have brought the dog.'

  'Don't refer to him as "the dog",' said Ted. 'He's a name.'

  'Ugh! Look. Let me…argh. Can I be honest with you, Ted?'

  'No.'

  'I—'

  'I said no,' said Ted.

  'But—'

  'What? What part of "no", do ye not understand?'

  'It's just…,' said Israel, holding both hands over his mouth.

  'What?'

  'I really don't feel very well.'

&nbs
p; 'Aye.'

  'I've got a really bad headache. And I think I might be allergic to dogs.'

  'You're not allergic to dogs.'

  'But I think I might be though.'

  'You're not. You were seasick, ye eejit. You'll be fine.'

  'You've not got a hot-water bottle, have you, Ted?'

  'Do I look like I've got a feckin' hot-water bottle?'

  'No. But—'

  'There's your answer then. Now shut up.'

  Israel dry-retched while Ted double-bagged the dog shit. There was a great heaving sound as the ferry's doors began winding open at the front of the hold.

  'Agh. Ted?' said Israel.

  'What!'

  'I really don't think I can drive.'

  'It's your—' began Ted.

  'Yes, I know. But I really hate driving at the best of—'

  'Ach, Israel. You can't hate driving.'

  'I do hate driving.'

  'You can't hate driving. Nobody hates driving.'

  'I do.'

  'You don't hate driving.'

  'I do! I'm telling you I do!'

  'People just drive.'

  'Yes, I know, but…I've just never really known what you're supposed to do when you're driving.'

  'What?'

  'No. I mean…I never even really liked Dinky Toys.'

  'What are ye going on about now?'

  The vast doors opened up fully, light flooding into the hold, the steep concrete bank before them. Vehicles all around started revving. The stench of the dog shit was overwhelming. Israel could feel his palms getting sweaty and a prickling on the back of his neck. He felt nauseous. His head was pounding like someone was in there swinging a hammer and breaking up his mental dresser full of bone china. And he really didn't like driving. He didn't like driving at all. He'd failed his test three times before passing, and eventually he had had to go on a three-day residential course, at a former outward-bound centre in Wales, where he'd been forced to do hill starts and practice reversing into a parking space for eight hours a day, and at the end of the course he drove to Hereford to take the test, and failed that too, and in the end he'd passed only when his sister Deborah had started taking him out on the North Circular, to harden him; he wouldn't forget that in a hurry; and neither would she. The memory of it made him feel sick.

  'Come on,' said Ted.

  Israel put the key in the ignition.

  He'd once had a head-on collision with a skip on a wide, empty road during the hours of daylight. And had also accidentally brought down a Belisha beacon on a pedestrian crossing. And he'd driven his mother's car into a concrete wall in a multi-storey.

  'Hitler,' he mumbled.

  'What?' said Ted. 'What?'

  'With the Volkswagen, you know. I think that's probably part of my problem with cars.'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'Hitler. I'm sure.'

  'The Italian Job,' said Israel. 'Did you ever see that?'

  'They were Minis,' said Ted.

  'I know, but I was just thinking about the meaning of driving.'

  'The meaning of driving,' repeated Ted, to Muhammad. 'D'ye hear him?'

  'Music. They're really about music, cars,' continued Israel, half-deliriously.

  'Is that right?' said Ted.

  Israel had listened to a lot of music in cars: he could chart his entire adolescence according to exactly where and when and who he was with in what car when he was listening to, say, Blur, or Oasis, or Portishead, or Pulp. At this moment, however, the most appropriate music would be a doomy Philip Glass film score, or some weepy thing by Arvo Pärt. Israel dry-belched.

  'They're machines for listening to music in. Brian Eno said that.'

  'Did he now?' said Ted. 'And what would he know?'

  'Brian Eno?'

  'Aye. What would he know?'

  'How d'you mean?' said Israel.

  'He. Know? It's a joke, Israel, for pity's sake.'

  'Ah, right.'

  'Anyhow, it's us,' said Ted. They were next in line to pull away and off and up the ramp and into England.

  'You're sure you don't want to—' began Israel.

  'Drive!' said Ted.

  'Yes,' said Israel. 'Of course.'

  He turned the key. The van didn't start.

  He glanced across at Ted, who sat impassive, staring ahead, much as though he were in a film with a doomy Philip Glass score. Muhammad sat in his lap.

  'Ted?'

  Ted remained silent.

  Israel turned the keys in the ignition again.

  Israel felt his mouth and throat go dry.

  There was an incident on the A40 once, with Gloria. He'd stalled. Couldn't get the car started again. A man had come out of his car and reached in, called Gloria a stupid bitch, and then punched Israel; he'd punched him only lightly, once, but it was in the face. It had hurt.

  'Ted?'

  'What?'

  'She's not starting.'

  'Well, try her again.'

  'I've tried her again.'

  'Well, try her again again.'

  Israel could begin to feel the restlessness of the vehicles behind him.

  He tried turning the ignition again.

  'Turn the ignition and give it a shoggle!' said Ted.

  'I am turning the ignition and giving it a…shoggle.'

  'Ach!' said Ted, placing Muhammad down. 'Are ye totally useless, man? Can ye not do anything right? Let me there.'

  Ted stood up and started pulling Israel out of the driver's seat.

  'Out! Come on, out!'

  'Ow! Get off! What are you doing?'

  'I'm driving. Come on. Shove over. Get out of the seat, ye eejit. You can't even start a bloody vehicle, never mind drive her.'

  'It's not my fault!' said Israel, slinking into the passenger seat. 'I don't feel well. It's this stupid van.'

  'Don't blame the van. There's nothing wrong with this van.'

  'There is.'

  'There is not!'

  * * *

  By the time Ted had positioned himself in the driving seat and claimed the wheel, a number of other drivers had started to emerge out of their own vehicles and were approaching the van. There was a sharp tap on the window by Ted's head. Ted rolled down the window—with some slight difficulty. He hadn't got round to fixing the windows.

  'Problem, mate?' said a shaven-headed man with a London accent.

  'What?' said Ted.

  'Problem?'

  'No. Why? Have ye a problem?'

  'Yeah. I do as it happens. I want to get my van off this ferry and get 'ome.'

  'Well,' said Ted, turning the key in the ignition and hoping for the best, 'if you were to stop poking yer nose in here and get back in your ve-hicle'—and yes! yes! the van started—'you might be able to.' He loudly revved the van. The man walked away. '"Problem, mate,"' said Ted loudly, mimicking the man's accent.

  'God,' said Ted, as they drove off the ferry and up the concrete ramp and into the blinding light and Liverpool docks. 'I hate the fucking English.'

  'We're not all bad,' said Israel.

  'No,' said Ted, casting Israel a pitiful glance. 'Some of youse are worse.'

  * * *

  They drove in a long snaking queue through the docks, past multi-coloured containers stacked high one upon the other, and huge lorry trailer-loads and cranes and cargo ships and freighters and they could have been anywhere in the world, until Israel saw a WELCOME TO LIVERPOOL sign that had been spray-painted to read WELCOME TO POO, and he knew he was back in England.

  'Hello, England!' he said.

  Muhammad barked in approval.

  Israel wound down his window and breathed in the fresh air, and he couldn't explain it: it felt like a huge weight was being lifted from his shoulders. He felt instantly refreshed and renewed, as though he'd slept for a long long time and awoken with renewed vigour.

  'England!' he shouted, through his nausea and over his headache. 'In-ger-lund!'

  'All right,' said Ted. 'That's enough now.'

  'Do yo
u want me to take over the driving?' offered Israel.

  'I thought you hated driving,' said Ted.

  'Well, you know. Like you say, we're on my manor now.'

  'We're what?'

  'On my manor.'

  'Aye, and ye're one of the Kray twins all of a sudden, are ye?'

  'No. Just. Home, I mean. This is my home.'

  'Is it?'

  'Yes.'

  'What? You live in Liverpool?'

  'No.'

  'So you don't live in Liverpool?'

  'No, I don't.'

  'So this isn't your home?'

  'No! I live in…I just mean, England. Oh, never mind. You drive, and I'll…' Muhammad looked up at him reproachfully from the floor. 'Just sit quietly here, shall I?'

  Just as Israel spoke these words they were waved over towards a set of Portakabins by two armed policemen.

  'Ach, no,' said Ted. 'I don't believe it.'

  'What?' said Israel. 'What's happening?'

  'Just don't say anything,' said Ted, as he swung the van over.

  One policeman approached Ted's side of the van. Another approached Israel's. Ted wound down his window.

  'Morning, gents,' said Ted's policeman, breathing coffee fumes into the van. 'Any form of identification at all?'

  'Me?' said Israel, shocked.

  'Yes, you,' said Israel's policeman, who'd perhaps had a meal with garlic in it the night before.

  The policemen examined the passports. Israel's garlicky policeman seemed satisfied with his. Ted's coffee policeman was not so sure.

  'Can we have a word, Mr Carson?'

  Ted got out of the van.

  Israel started to get out of the van too.

  'Ted?'

  'You stay there,' said Israel's policeman.

  'But—'

  'Get in the van, and stay in the van, sir,' said the policeman.

  Israel stayed in the van and waited. And waited. He needed to go to the toilet. He wasn't sure he'd be allowed to go to the toilet. He took some Nurofen. They made him feel sick. You shouldn't take Nurofen on an empty stomach. Israel always took Nurofen on an empty stomach. He'd probably die of a stomach ulcer before he was thirty. Or internal bleeding. Multiple organ failure. Muhammad sat silently, occasionally scratching at himself.

  Almost an hour later Ted re-emerged from the Portakabins. He looked ashen-faced. He got in the van.

  'Bloody hell!' said Israel. 'Are you all right? What's going on?'