The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  “How do you say the name of the boy with the big ears?” he asked Ted, as he always did.

  “Who?” said Ted.

  “The one who always asks the difficult questions.”

  “Pod-rig,” said Ted.

  “I thought last time you said it was more like…” He puckered up his lips. “Pahd-rag.”

  “Ach, I don’t know,” said Ted. “I’m not good with these Irish names.”

  “You’re Irish,” said Israel.

  “I’m an Ulsterman,” said Ted.

  “Right.”

  “Big difference,” said Ted.

  “Sure,” said Israel.

  “It might be Paw-rick.”

  “Right,” said Israel.

  “It just depends,” said Ted.

  “On what?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Ted.

  “So, is it Pod-rig. Or Paw-rick?”

  “Paaah-ric?” said Ted, rolling the vowels around in his mouth. “I don’t know. Paw-drig.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Israel.

  “Just call him Paddy,” said Ted. “That’s what I do.”

  “Marvelous,” said Israel.

  “I’ll just have a wee smoke here, then,” said Ted.

  “But—”

  “Me back’s a bit sore, still. You hurry on there, sure.”

  While Ted waited cozily in the van Israel trudged toward the classroom and the moon-faced children of Tumdrum, who stared up at him, as they always did, loudly fidgeting, while Tony Thompson, headmaster of the school, sat at the back, in his shiny black suit and his gray shirt and black tie, smirking, and poor Israel droned.

  The reading was bad enough. He read from a supersized book about someone called Red Ted, who sat on a shelf and did very little else, except clearly demonstrate some pointless rule of phonics. There were the usual skirmishes. It was awful. But there was worse to come. Question time. He absolutely hated question time.

  “Yes, Laura,” said Tony Thompson, when Israel had finished reading about Red Ted, on his shelf. “You have a question for Mr. Armstrong—the librarian.”

  Tony somehow always managed to make the word “librarian” sound dirty and sinister, as though a librarian was a sort of a book pimp.

  “Why have you grown a beard?” asked Laura, a girl with pure pale blue eyes and a full head of fizzing ginger hair, like a changeling out of a horror film.

  “Erm.” Israel was thrown. “Just to make my face look…smaller. Any other questions?”

  “Are you on a diet?” asked Laura.

  “No. I am not on a diet. Any book questions?”

  “Do you make books?” asked Laura, without pausing for a beat.

  “No,” said Israel, trying to muster what might pass for a tone of infectious enthusiasm. “No, personally, I don’t actually make the books myself, I just…”

  Laura’s eyes bored into him, withering his confidence.

  “I just…look after the books,” he continued. “Like a…zookeeper looks after the animals.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Thompson. “Any other questions for Mr. Armstrong, the bearded book zookeeper?”

  A hand shot up. It was Padraig.

  “Any other questions?” said Israel, eyeing up Padraig. “Anyone else?”

  No hands were raised.

  “Sure?” said Israel. “No one else? Any questions?”

  Silence.

  “Good. So…Yes…Paddy,” said Israel.

  “My name’s Padraig,” said Padraig.

  “Ah, yes, sorry. Of course. Porr—idge?”

  “What do you do?” said Padraig.

  “What do I do?” said Israel. “I’m a librarian.”

  “But do you have another job?” interrupted Padraig. He had intricate whorl-like ears, Padraig, and a head like a pug.

  “No,” said Israel, “I don’t have another job. This is my actual job.”

  “D’ye not have another job?”

  “No. I don’t. It’s actually quite a busy job, being a librarian. You have to…sort the books out, and put them on the shelves, and…”

  “Thank you, Padraig,” said Tony Thompson. “Any final questions for Mr. Armstrong this week before he rushes off to rearrange his books on the shelf?”

  Hands again.

  “Yes, Billy?”

  “What are books?” asked Billy, whose face was as wide as it was tall.

  “What are books?” said Israel. “Erm. Books? Good…question. Excellent…question.”

  “I’m sure we’d all like to hear your answer to that question, Mr. Armstrong,” said Tony Thompson. “What is a book? Listen, children, to what Mr. Armstrong has to say.”

  “A book is…” Israel was struggling here slightly. “Well, a book can be about…”

  “Sorry,” said Tony Thompson. “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Armstrong. But I think what Billy was asking was not what is a book about, but a wider and more general question—wasn’t it, Billy?” Billy nodded obediently, his pure white lardy child-jowls shaking. “About what exactly a book is?”

  “Ah, yes, what is it? A book?”

  “Indeed,” said Tony Thompson.

  “A book?” repeated Israel. “What is a book?”

  “Yes,” said Tony Thompson. “That’s the question, Mr. Armstrong. And the children would love to hear your answer.”

  “Well, a book is a kind of…” Israel looked around desperately for inspiration. “It’s a dead tree, basically.”

  “A dead tree,” repeated Tony Thompson, grinning and showing his teeth. “Really?”

  “Yes,” said Israel, “basically.” He got the sense he was maybe losing his audience here, but he’d started so he’d have to finish. “Not a tree that’s been killed, exactly, by a…gun or anything. It’s more…I mean, more like a piece of a dead tree.”

  “A piece of dead tree,” said Tony Thompson.

  “Yes. That’s one way of looking at it,” said Israel. “Or, I know…a tree flake.” Oh, god. “Yes! That’s it, that’s what books are. Tree flakes. Little parts of the body of a tree, you see, that has been…Like pork scratchings…It’s not something alive, anyway. If you turn it over in your hand.” He turned over the supersized Red Ted on the Shelf in his hand. “Here we are then,” he said. “Listen! Can you hear it saying anything?” He held the book up to his ear. “Hello, Mr. Book? Red Ted? Anybody there? No? No. That’s because a book is not a disembodied voice. Can you hear it, children?”

  Tony Thompson was shaking his head.

  The children were leaning forward in their seats.

  A hand shot up.

  “Yes?”

  “I can hear it, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “No. No. You can’t. That must be a…voice in your…head. You can’t hear the book,” continued Israel, changing tack. “Because a book can’t speak. Because a book is not…a person.”

  “Is it imagination?” asked Laura.

  “Yes. Well, not exactly. A book is not itself imagination, or an idea, or anything like that. It’s just…A book is basically…I mean, literally, of course a book is just…paper covered in ink, like lots of…little black…maggots crawling around on a big…white sheet, or snow, or…”

  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong,” interjected Tony Thompson. “I think that’s enough this morning. Thank you very much for your little talk. As enlightening as ever.”

  “No, thank…you,” said Israel.

  “Good to be back in the saddle, eh?” said Ted, when Israel—mentally and emotionally drained, and dizzied by his ordeal—arrived back at the van.

  “You’re not meant to smoke in the van,” said Israel.

  “Ach, wise up,” said Ted. “Glad to be back in the swing of things, though, eh?”

  “No,” said Israel.

  “Good,” said Ted. “Go all right?”

  “It was horrific,” said Israel.

  “No,” said Ted. “Having no arms and legs would be horrific.”

  “Right,” said Israel. “Yes. Of course. I
forgot. I am lucky to have the use of my arms and legs.”

  “Exactly,” said Ted. “Count your blessings.”

  Israel counted his blessings all the way to the visitors’ car park at the Myowne mobile home park, their last stop of the week, 1 p.m.–5 p.m., the traditional rush as Tumdrum’s many mobile home dwellers changed their books for the weekend.

  “So,” said Israel, staring out at the gray expanse of the strand.

  “So,” said Ted, producing his ancient orange-colored Tupperware lunchbox. “Back to normal, then.”

  “Yes,” agreed Israel.

  “Do you no good, lying in yer bed,” said Ted.

  “No,” agreed Israel, for the sake of peace and quiet.

  “Weather’s not looking the best,” said Ted, tucking into the first of his customary two-ham-sandwich lunch. “It’s autumn, mind. So what do you expect?” In the absence of anyone else to actually argue with, Ted enjoyed arguing with himself. He was pretty much self-sufficient, conversationally.

  “What are books, do you think, Ted?”

  “What are books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you losing your mind?” said Ted, with sandwich poised.

  “No. I’m just…interested.”

  “Ye’re not eating right,” said Ted. “Your mother’d be onto me if she knew.”

  “Right.”

  “What are ye eatin’? Weetabix and lettuce? D’ye want a bite?” He held out his sandwich between his fingers.

  “No, thank you.”

  Ted then proceeded to peel open the two slices of white bread and peer carefully inside, as though he were Howard Carter uncovering the entrance to the tomb of Tutankhamen.

  “They’re ham.”

  “I know they’re ham. You have ham every day, Ted. You have eaten a ham sandwich every lunchtime ever since I’ve known you. You only eat ham sandwiches at lunch.”

  “Aye, well, and I’m offering you a bite, seeing as the condition ye’re in, but it’s an offer I’ll not make again in all pobability, given your attitude.”

  “Probability,” said Israel.

  “Exactly,” said Ted.

  “You’re offering me a bite of your ham sandwich?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, I would accept, under normal circumstances,” said Israel wearily, “but as you well know, Ted, I’M A VEGETARIAN.”

  The vegetarian conversation was another one of the conversations that Ted and Israel had had at least once a day every day since Israel had arrived in Tumdrum—along with the conversation about Israel resigning and why there were no longer any great Irish boxers—yet the memory of it seemed to leave no trace with Ted, like the taste of tofu, or Quorn. Ted took a long and very noisy slurp of tea from the plastic cup of his old tartan Thermos flask.

  “Aye, well, the vegetenarianism’d be yer problem. Ye’ve the skitters, have ye?”

  “What?”

  “Aye, all them there fruit and vegetables, skittering the guts out of ye. It’s a wonder ye’re not on the po the whole time.”

  “I have been vegetarian for many years, Ted. And my digestive system remains in good working order, thank you.”

  Ted finished one sandwich and then slid another from under the firmly elastic-banded lid of his lunchbox.

  “So ye’re just off yer food, are ye?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Ye frettin’ about yer birthday, eh? And the girl?” Ted spoke with his mouth full, pointing at Israel with the sharp end of the sandwich.

  “No. I am not fretting about my birthday. And no, I am not fretting about Gloria.”

  “Well, it’s strange but, isn’t it, seeing as ye were a wee ball of lard when you were with her.”

  “I was not a ‘wee ball of lard’ when I was with Gloria, thank you, Ted.”

  “Wee bunty, so you were. Ye want to get back on the stew and the Guinness, boy. Get a good rozner in ye, ye’d be right as rain.”

  “A rozner?”

  “A good feed, boy, and ye’ll be out gropin’ the hens again.”

  “Well. Thank you for your dietary and relationship advice, Ted. To the point, as ever.”

  “I tell ye, ye’ll be playing the vibraphone on your ribs soon enough, ye keep this up.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s not healthy, so it’s not, losing all that weight like that. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll put it all back on again. Ye’re depressed, just.”

  “I am not depressed, Ted.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve just got things on my mind,” said Israel.

  “Very dangerous,” said Ted, midmouthful.

  Ted finished his sandwich in silence, screwed the cup back on the top of his Thermos, and looked at his watch.

  “Books,” said Israel.

  “Books?” said Ted.

  “What are they?”

  “Ach, knock it off,” said Ted.

  “I mean a book is not a person, is it? Or an idea. Not just an idea.”

  “No,” said Ted, disinterested.

  “It’s not an issue or a theme.”

  “No,” said Ted. “I’ll tell you what it is: a book is a blinkin’ book, for goodness’ sake. End of conversation.”

  “But—” began Israel.

  At which point a man entered the van.

  “Hi!” he said.

  “Hello,” said Israel.

  “Saved by the bell,” said Ted. “I’m away for a smoke here. Think you can cope?”

  “Yes, I think so?” said Israel.

  “Not going to go crazy in my absence?”

  “No, Ted. I am not going to go crazy.”

  “Good,” said Ted. “Watch him,” he instructed the man. “He’s a bit”—he tapped a finger to the side of his head—“ye know.”

  The man was wearing a navy crombie jacket, faded jeans, and cowboy boots, a look that was one part bohemian to one part gentleman farmer, to one part middle manager in corporate marketing. He also sported a goatee beard, which added to the overall effect and which gave him a rather sincere appearance, like he’d just made a decision and was mulling over the consequences, and he also had close-cropped hair that made him look as if the decision he’d just taken was a serious one, possibly related to the military or the sale of some new kind of social-networking software. Israel wondered if it might be an idea for him to have his hair cut short, to look as though he were making important decisions relating to weapons technology or new media. Unfortunately, when Israel had his hair cut short in the past, it made him look like he meant to commit a serious crime.

  “Neil Gaiman,” said the man.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Israel. “I’m Israel Armstrong.”

  “No, sorry,” said the man, laughing. “I mean, do you have any books by Neil Gaiman.”

  “Ah,” said Israel. “Right. Yes! Of course. I think we’re all out actually. Sorry. We could always do an interlibrary loan request.”

  “No, that’s OK, I’m not really in for borrowing,” said the man.

  “Right,” said Israel. “You’re not one of our regulars?” And as he spoke these words Israel almost choked: he knew the regulars; he had become a local; he was mired, inured, and immersed in Tumdrum.

  “No,” said the stranger. “My parents are originally from here. But I live in Belfast.”

  “Well, nice to see a new face,” said Israel. Oh, god.

  “My name’s Seamus,” said the man. “Seamus Fitzgibbons. I’m the Green Party candidate for the forthcoming election.”

  Seamus stuck out a friendly hand.

  “Oh. Hello. I’m Israel. Israel Armstrong.”

  “Look, thanks for coming,” said Seamus.

  “That’s OK,” said Israel. “I work here.”

  “Oh, yes!” laughed Seamus. “I’m so busy at the moment with meetings and meet and greets it’s difficult to remember where I am.”

  God. Israel would give anything to not know where he was. He knew exactly where he was: stuck. Seamus looked to b
e about Israel’s age, but while Israel had drifted and gone from job to job, aimlessly, Seamus had obviously set out with a goal and achieved a position of responsibility—prospective parliamentary candidate! A position where he wasn’t sure where he was, and conducted meetings and meet and greets! And he was a man who looked as though he enjoyed shouldering the responsibility; it was something in his eyes. If you looked closely in his eyes you could see Atlas with the world upon his shoulders.

  “Let me come straight to the point, Israel,” said Seamus. Israel could never get to the point. That’s how people who shouldered responsibility spoke! They got straight to the point. “We in the Green Party don’t have a campaign bus.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Israel.

  “And so…”

  “Yes?” said Israel, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  “Well, we were wondering if we could perhaps use the mobile library?”

  “Ha!” said Israel.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “No!” said Israel instinctively. “I mean yes…No. I mean no.”

  “Oh.”

  “No. No. I don’t think so. No, Linda would go mad.”

  “Who’s Linda?”

  “Linda Wei, she’s responsible for the library provision in Tumdrum and—”

  “Well, maybe I should speak to Linda directly, if you’re unable to make those sorts of decisions.”

  “Well. I…It’s not that I…I mean, I am responsible for the mobile library.”

  “But that sort of bigger decision would be out of your hands?”

  “Not entirely,” said Israel, smarting rather from the implication that he was a powerless functionary. “I do have some…sway with these things.” He had no sway with anything: he didn’t even have sway with himself.

  “Well.”

  “I could probably take it to the mobile library subcommittee,” offered Israel.

  “Well, the election’s in less than a week now, so we would really need to know very soon,” said Seamus.

  “Ah,” said Israel.

  “I don’t suppose it could be justified on the basis of educational benefit?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Israel.

  “Look,” said Seamus. “I really didn’t want to put you in a difficult position. It was worth asking, but.”