The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  Ted didn't say anything.

  'You look like you've seen a ghost,' said Israel.

  Again, Ted did not reply.

  'I'd almost given up on you there,' said Israel.

  Ted started up the engine.

  'Hang on,' said Israel, as they moved off through the docks. 'Hang on. What was that all about?'

  'Nothing,' said Ted.

  'Nothing?' said Israel. 'They don't question someone for an hour for nothing.'

  'They do here,' said Ted.

  'Really?' said Israel. 'About what? Ted? Is there something you're not telling me?' Ted was always very cagey about discussing his past—he took caginess to new heights, or depths.

  'It was a misunderstanding just,' said Ted.

  'Probably mistook you for a terrorist, eh?' said Israel. 'Or a drug runner or something.' The thought of this tickled Israel. 'There's not something you've been meaning to tell me, Ted, is there? You're not a drug runner, are you?' The thought of Ted as a drug runner greatly amused Israel.

  'Shut up,' said Ted.

  'I was only—'

  'We're not talking about it anymore. All right? So shut up. They made a mistake, and that's it.'

  'All right, I was only…D'you want me to drive?'

  'I'm driving!' said Ted.

  'Fine,' said Israel. 'I was only—'

  'Which means you're navigating,' said Ted.

  'Good,' said Israel. 'No problem.'

  'Silently,' said Ted.

  'How do you—'

  'Just shut up!' said Ted.

  'So,' said Israel, after less than a minute. 'Where are we?'

  'In Liverpool docks,' said Ted, sighing.

  'You know we could get a sat nav system when we get the new van,' said Israel.

  'We're not getting a new van,' said Ted.

  'No. No. Of course not. So. Directions-wise, we're going to…?'

  Ted reached down beneath the driver's seat and felt around and took a book out and handed it over to Israel. It was a large burgundy hardbacked book with gold embossed lettering on the cover proudly announcing itself as The AA Illustrated Road Book of England & Wales with Gazetteer, Itineraries, Maps & Town Plans.

  'What's this?' said Israel.

  'It's the map.'

  'It doesn't look much like a map. It's more like an encyclopaedia.'

  'It's all we had in stock.'

  * * *

  Israel opened the book and turned to the title page.

  'Erm, Ted. I think this might be a bit outdated.'

  'Why?'

  'Well, it was published in 1965.'

  'I've a map of Ireland was my father's, it's done me rightly.'

  'Yes, but, erm, I think there's been quite a bit of road-building and what have you in England since 1965.'

  'Aye, well, there's been a lot of road-building in County Antrim too since 1965, but we never made a fuss about it.'

  'Okay, well, if you're sure.'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'So?'

  They had arrived at the main exit out of the docks.

  'Where are we?' said Ted.

  'Erm…' Israel was flicking through the index looking for Liverpool.

  'There's people behind us here,' said Ted. 'Which way?'

  'Okay, okay. I'm just looking. This doesn't seem to include any motorways or—'

  'Do we need to go on the motorways?'

  'Well, it's quite a journey.'

  Israel kept flicking through the book. There were dozens of exquisite line drawings: Bockleton's lych gate, the lake castle built by Sir Edward Dalyngrigge in 1385, High Wycombe's arcaded town hall, the Jewry Wall in Leicester.

  At last, he found Liverpool.

  'The cathedral has notable stained glass,' he said. 'And there are a number of good Georgian houses.'

  'I need directions,' said Ted. 'Not a fuckin' guided tour!'

  * * *

  There was the sound of the hooting of horns from behind.

  'Israel?'

  'Yes?'

  "Just tell me where in God's name we're supposed to be going here?'

  'Right, where are we?' said Israel, starting over again with the book's index.

  'In Liverpool! At the docks! Are ye stupit!'

  'Do you know what road?'

  'No! We're at a junction. There's people up behind us! What do the signs say?'

  'Ah, right, A5036. Okay. A5047. A57. Erm…'

  'Come on! Where do I need to go?'

  'Erm. You sure you don't want me to drive and you can—'

  'Tell me where to go!'

  'I don't know!' said Israel weakly. He had a headache so bad he'd never had a headache like it before. The Nurofen weren't working.

  'You're meant to be telling me!'

  'Ah. Right. Manchester? Is that south of Liverpool?'

  'I don't know,' said Ted. 'You're the Englishman.'

  'Liverpool. Manchester. Manchester. Liverpool. Yes, it is, isn't it? I think it is. Manchester. Yes. Definitely. Let's follow the signs for the M62 then, shall we?'

  'Right. Thank God.'

  Ted pulled out into the heavy stream of traffic, and their journey proper began.

  The pair travelled on in haphazard and argumentative fashion for several miles—'Bear right'; 'I'm trying to bear right'; 'Quick!'; 'I'm going as quick as I can, there's all these lorries up behind me'; 'Road's a bit busier over here on the mainland, eh?'; 'Shut up, Israel'—until at last they safely reached the relative calm of the M62.

  'I think Manchester's south,' said Israel. 'Should we pull over and ask someone?'

  'It's a bit late now, ye fool,' said Ted. 'We're on a motorway.'

  'Yes, but we could…Maybe we should just check our route with someone.'

  'Aye, and what would you be asking them? Excuse me'—Ted adopted here a kind of Cockney–meets–Quentin Crisp imitation English accent—'how do I get to London?'

  'Well, yes.'

  'What sort of a question is that, ye eejit?'

  'How to get to London? What's wrong with that?'

  'You sound like Dick blinkin' Whittington, that's what's wrong with it. "How do I get to London?" Ye're from London!'

  'Yes, but I've never travelled much up north!'

  'Holy God, man.'

  They drove on for a few moments in silence.

  'Are you hungry, Ted?' said Israel.

  'No.'

  'Not even a little bit?'

  'No.'

  'Not even a tiny, teensy-weensy little bit?'

  'No. Why? Are you hungry? I thought you were feeling sick a minute ago.'

  'Yes. I am. But I wonder if a little something would…You know, settle my…But if you're okay. I was just wondering if you were…'

  'No, I'm fine.'

  'Good. We'll keep on going on then, shall we? We wouldn't stop at the services yet, would we?'

  'No,' agreed Ted.

  'You don't need the toilet or anything?'

  'No.'

  'Don't want to buy anything?'

  'No.'

  'A paper, or a…souvenir, or anything?'

  'No, Israel. We're here working. We're not on holiday.'

  'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'Quite. Lunch though. We'll be stopping for lunch somewhere?'

  Ted gave a huge eloquent sigh. Israel shut up.

  Somewhere down the road, somewhere south, somewhere after the M62, on the M6, just after the Knutsford Service Area—the manifold facilities of which, much to Israel's disappointment, the pair did not avail themselves—Ted started to relax and decided to put on the audiobook of The Da Vinci Code. Again.

  Israel had had to listen to The Da Vinci Code—all six and a half hours of it, repeatedly, narrated by a man who did comedy French accents—for much of the past six months in the van. It was Ted's favourite.

  'No!' he groaned, as Ted extracted the first of the cassettes from its special box. 'No! Please! Not that bloody book again.'

  'It's good,' said Ted.

  'It's not good at all. It's total crap.'

&nb
sp; 'Have ye read it?'

  'No. But—'

  'Well then.'

  'I may not actually have read it. But I have had to listen to it being read out loud by Dan fucking—'

  'Language,' said Ted.

  'Sorry. Flippin' Brown.'

  'It's not Dan Brown who narrates it. He's the author.'

  'I know he's the author.'

  'It's another fella who narrates it. He's an actor.'

  'Yes! Fine! And I've been listening to him read the bloody thing for what seems like most of my adult life, so I think I have pretty good grounds to be able to form a judgement on the book!'

  'Maybe,' said Ted.

  'And it's crap,' said Israel.

  'It's not crap.'

  'It's even worse than Harry bloody Potter, and that bloody accordion music. It's total nonsense.'

  'What, the Field Marshal Montgomery Pipe Band?'

  'No! The Da Vinci Code. It's rubbish.'

  'It is not.'

  'It is!'

  'The Priory of Sion,' said Ted. 'Fact.'

  'What?'

  'The sacred femimime. Fact.'

  'What?'

  'Holy Blood, Holy Grail. That was a great book also,' said Ted.

  'Oh God.'

  'Stop it,' said Ted.

  'Sorry,' said Israel.

  'And what are you reading at the moment, then, Einstein?'

  'Paul Auster, actually.'

  'Well, that's a lot of crap,' said Ted.

  'Have you ever read any Paul Auster?'

  'I don't need to: if youse are reading it then I know it's a lot of crap.'

  Israel agreed to allow Ted to play The Da Vinci Code—again—if they could stop at the next service station. Which they did.

  And which Israel instantly wished they hadn't. He hadn't been at a service station for a long time: they didn't seem to have any service stations in Northern Ireland; there weren't enough motorways, and people still believed in doing flasks and their own sandwiches, and taking rugs and fold-up chairs for the lay-by. He'd forgotten what service stations were like: they were like England, complete, but in miniature: women in tight T-shirts giving out peanut butter KitKats, men in shiny suits trying to sell credit cards, young men in football shirts, older men in baseball caps, fat women dressed for the gym, celeb mags, sweeties, super-value meals. Machine coffee. Spoliation.

  'This is great, isn't it?' said Ted, tucking into an all-day five-piece fry. 'I've not had an English fry for years,' he said. 'You miss the potato bread, but.'

  Israel had gone for the vegetarian option—a fried egg on toast. The egg had not been recently fried.

  When they got back into the van, Israel got into the driver's seat.

  'Look, Ted, you have a rest. I'll drive. You can navigate.'

  'No,' said Ted. 'You navigate. I'll drive.'

  'No!' said Israel. 'I insist. We need to share the responsibility.'

  Ted sat with the burgundy AA Illustrated Road Book of England & Wales unopened on his lap.

  'Concord De Le Elegant,' said Ted sleepily to himself as they motored down the M6, down, down towards the south of England.

  'Concours D'Elégance,' corrected Israel.

  'That'll give that wee nigger bitch Linda a—'

  'What?' said Israel. 'You can't say that.'

  'What?' said Ted.

  'That! What you just said.'

  'What? Wee nigger bitch?'

  'Yes! That! That's racist! And sexist!'

  'It is not.'

  'Of course it is.'

  'Are ye calling me a racist?'

  'Yes, I am. You can't call someone a nigger bitch.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because it's offensive!'

  'Aye. But Linda is a wee nigger bitch, so she is.'

  'Ted! No. No. Also, Linda's not black, she's Chinese.'

  'I don't mean she's black, ye fool.'

  '"Nigger"?' said Israel.

  'Aye. D'ye not say that in English?'

  'No, we don't. Unless you're…you know.'

  'Like, "niggerly" but?' said Ted.

  'Niggerly?' said Israel.

  'Aye.'

  'Niggardly, do you mean? Nig-gard-ly?'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'Same thing.'

  'It's not the same thing at all, Ted.'

  'Well, it might not be to you, but it is to me.'

  'Well, it's still outrageous. You better stop talking like that now we're here.'

  'Oh!' said Ted, again putting on the strangulated, nasal voice that was supposed to be his approximation of an English accent. 'You want me to start speaking proper?'

  'You could try,' said Israel.

  'Aye, and you can try the back of my hand,' said Ted.

  Hours passed. They crawled along: the van shuddered at anything over fifty. Places. Muhammad slept. M6. M1. Newport Pagnell.

  'It'll be stiff competition,' said Israel.

  'What?' said Ted.

  'The Mobile Meet. It's the UK's premier—'

  'Aye. But we've the luck of the Irish,' said Ted.

  'Ted?' said Israel, sucking on a fruit pastille; he'd stocked up on sweets at the service station: two Snickers, Maltesers, some M&Ms and a Daim bar. They were so good; the fruit pastilles now were just to clear his palate.

  'Aye.'

  'You know when you're in Northern Ireland you insist you're Northern Irish.'

  'That I am. Ulsterman and proud.'

  'Yes. Well. Did you know now we're in England you've started to refer to yourself as an Irishman? Just Irish?'

  'And?' said Ted.

  'It's interesting though, isn't it, multiple identities? How we shift and redefine ourselves according to our environment.'

  'Aye, right, d'ye read that in a book?'

  'No. I—'

  'Just give over, Israel, will ye? And get ready to pay out one thousands pounds.'

  Coming into the Great North Way, off the M1. Mill Hill. Israel could feel his pulse rate increasing.

  'What are you doing now?' said Ted.

  Israel was humming 'London Calling' by the Clash. He could almost smell the tartan moquette on the old Route-master buses.

  'I'm home, Ted.'

  Ted looked around.

  'This is it?'

  It was mostly light industrial units.

  'Not like North Antrim, eh?' said Israel.

  'You're right there,' said Ted.

  * * *

  England is a complete mess, of course—everybody knows that—and London is at the heart of the mess, the guts, the nub: vast, cosy, labyrinthine, stinking, fresh and alive—like a bucket of still beating offal. Israel loved it. It was hard to explain, but it felt to Israel as though he'd been in a place where the house lights were permanently dimmed, and now suddenly someone had turned on the lights, turned up the volume and thrown open the windows.

  'The ripeness!' he called out, as they came through Hendon.

  'What?' said Ted.

  'The ripeness,' repeated Israel. 'The full, rich, frothing…richness of it all,' said Israel.

  'Jesus,' said Ted.

  'Woof,' said Muhammad.

  As they came closer and closer to Finchley, Israel was filled with excitement. He could almost feel a Time Out in his hand.

  'Time Out!' he said out loud.

  'What?'

  'London's premier listings magazine.'

  'Are ye having some sort of nervous breakdown?' said Ted.

  Time Out: the almost pornographic thrill of it in his hand—the pictures, the absurdly boostering coverage of the Arts, the Books, the Films, the Theatre, everything! He could see himself once again at the Royal Opera House! At the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton! At the Serpentine Gallery! The V&A! (Not that he'd ever been to the Royal Opera House. Or the Serpentine Gallery.) This was his city!

  'This is my city!' he announced to Ted.

  'Aye, right. Well, which road do we want here then?' said Ted.

  'Erm.'

  It was as though they were drawing close to the very cradle o
f humanity, the omphalos, the whirlpool, the centre of the universe. First every few miles, and then the half-mile, and quarter-mile, and finally by yards, feet and inches he was confronted by and consumed with memories: the DIY centre where he'd gone with his mother when his father had died, to buy a lighter lawnmower; the place they'd bought his bed and his wardrobe; the shop he'd bought his first bike; the cinema; the bus stop; the school; the youth club; the post box; his street.

  Home!

  He parked outside the house—not bad. He didn't even clip the kerb. It was like he was driving on air, in a fantasy or a dream.

  'We're here,' he said, amazed.

  'Well,' said Ted.

  'This is home,' said Israel, gesturing at the long bare suburban street, no different from suburban streets anywhere else in England, Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland. Telegraph poles, flowerpots, a touch of mock Tudor, front gardens paved over for cars. Not much different, in fact, from Tumdrum.

  'What do you think?'

  'Hmm,' said Ted. 'I thought it'd be—'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'The way you santer on…' said Ted.

  'Yes?'

  'I don't rightly know. I was expecting maybe knights and turrets, and streets paved with gold.'

  'Right.'

  'Mansions. Rolls-Royces.'

  'Okay. Yep. Anyway…Come on,' said Israel. 'Mum'll be delighted to see us.'

  He jumped down out of the van, and Ted followed.

  He rang the doorbell of his parents' standard suburban semi.

  'Mum!' he said, when his mother opened the door.

  'You're late,' said his mother. 'Dinner's already on the table.'

  'Sorry.'

  She leaned forward and kissed him and then looked over his shoulder, past Ted, at the van.

  'Is that your van?'

  'Yes.'

  'You can't leave the van there.'

  'Why not?'

  'You're blocking the drive.'

  'Well, that's okay, isn't it?'

  'It would be better if you parked it elsewhere.'

  'Why?'

  'Just park out of the way, somewhere round the corner.'

  'But—' 'Do hurry up, Israel, and do what you're told.' Home?

  Definitely.

  He felt like a child again already.

  7

  Israel's mother was not a good cook. It was a myth about Jewish mothers, in Israel's experience: he knew a lot of Jewish mothers who were good eaters, but good cooks? Gloria's mother, for example, had ambitions as a cook, but her meals were always somehow inappropriate, or undone by her own ambition: meals made with a random coulis of this and an inexplicable jus of that; and a Puerto Rican fruit and chicken dish she liked to make, soaked in sherry for two days and garnished with candied fruit and raisins; and stuff she liked to do with braised celery; and weird shiny food; and breakfast soups—all of it just…not a good idea. Israel's mother specialised in half-raw roast chicken dinners—put in too late or taken out too early—and also crispy plasticised ready meals, burnt beyond recognition while she was talking on the phone, overcooked casualties of hasty multi-tasking. In Israel's experience, the only good food in the Armstrong household came direct from the deli counter at the Waitrose in Finchley.