The Bad Book Affair

by Ian Sansom

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind telling me a little bit about your daughter and your relationship with her?”

  Which Maurice Morris gladly did.

  “That’s all now,” said Highsmith, reappearing five minutes later.

  “That’s such a shame,” said Maurice. “Perhaps we could meet up for an informal chat,” he said, “over coffee?”

  “Well, that would be…”

  “Here’s my card,” said Maurice. “Call me anytime. If there’s anything I can help you with.”

  16

  Israel managed to get an early morning cancellation with a doctor in Tumdrum’s state-of-the-art health center out on the main road going up toward Coleraine.

  The health center looked like something designed by dreamy Finns and built by Australians in a screaming hurry, a kind of cross between an Alvar Aalto and a woolshed in New South Wales, with a lot of ambitious angles and exposed wood and steel frames and corrugated iron cladding in bright blue and red, and with a big black roof like a butterfly straining to take off from its mounting board. Yard upon yard of thick red plastic guttering spewed rain into downpipes, as if the building itself had realized its mistake and had slit its veins and was slowly bleeding to death into Tumdrum’s bitter ground. There was what appeared to be a cattle ramp-a long, high-sided yellow platform bridge, the yellow of an old French postal van, like a long, sickly unrolling tongue glistening with saliva-leading from the car park to a deep, shady veranda stretching along the whole front of the building, set with low steel benches on which sat disconsolate smokers, people shamed and condemned by their own families and contemporaries, who sat inside staring out at the backs of them through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The building would probably have worked in Helsinki or Sydney, and may even have won prizes, but in Tumdrum it was a sick joke, as if an architectural prankster had dumped it off the back of a truck and driven away at high speed: the iron parts were rusting, the wood cladding was rotting into a sickly shade of green, the miserable phormiums planted up all around it looked as though they’d been chewed at by hungry hounds, and the acres of glass were not a good idea in Ireland, thought Israel, as he sat and waited to see the doctor, the whole building thrumming with the sound of rain and the big windows streaked as if they themselves were downpouring. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was elsewhere.

  It didn’t work.

  Eventually, he was buzzed through to his appointment with Dr. Withers.

  “Yes?” asked Dr. Withers, as though Israel had arrived unexpectedly to clean the room.

  “Dr. Withers?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Israel Armstrong.”

  “Israel Armstrong,” repeated the doctor. “I see.”

  Israel hovered nervously by the door.

  “Come in and sit down.”

  Israel came in and sat down, and “Yes?” said Dr. Withers again. He was hoping for a hiatus hernia. “How can we help you?”

  “I need a sick note,” said Israel.

  “I see,” said Dr. Withers. They all needed sick notes. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Israel listed his symptoms: exhaustion, vomiting, weight loss, sleeplessness, anxiety.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Withers, disappointed, when Israel took a pause for breath. He eyed the Jack B. Yeats print he’d recently rehung on the other side of the room, to give him something interesting to ponder when pretending to listen to his patients. He had an original Paul Henry at home. He’d not had a hiatus hernia for a while.

  Withers was a jowly man with a funereal manner who had pure white hair and wore dark suits, and who had his glasses-little half-moon glasses-on a little golden chain around his neck, making him look more like a magistrate or a mayor than a man of medicine. He looked like a hanging judge. With his glasses off you could see clearly his hard, unforgiving eyes, eyes that had all the assurance of a man who was comfortable in his knowledge of his own body, and who was more than happy to point out the faults in others’. At weekends, it was said, Dr. Withers played the bassoon and wore a hat, and cultivated his interest in art and in po etry and in music, and attempted to bully his obstinate and determinedly independent wife, a woman who preferred the Beatles to Beethoven, and who was unimpressed by her husband’s moods and his Wagner. They often visited Dublin, the Witherses, and they had a second home in Donegal; they were perfectly self-satisfied. Dr. Withers was not the kind of man you could imagine either young or happy, and his patients provoked in him only the occasional pity, at best.

  “They’re my symptoms,” said Israel.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Withers.

  “I’ve not been feeling very well.”

  “Not very well.” None of them took any responsibility for their lives, that was the problem. Working classes. Middle classes. They were all the same. “I see. And how long have you been off?”

  “I was off for a week. My boss says I need a sick note.”

  “I see. Any other symptoms. Or is that it?”

  “I think that’s it,” said Israel, wishing he had something astonishing up his sleeve. “Actually, no,” he added. “I suffer from migraines.”

  “Migraines,” said Dr. Withers, unimpressed. Migraines. Dispensing for migraines was not what you became a doctor for. “And what are your migraine symptoms?”

  “Well, just the usual, I suppose. Headache. Nausea. Flashing lights sometimes.”

  “And you take medication for these symptoms?”

  “Mostly Nurofen.”

  “Hm. And anything else? Maxolon, or Migramax?”

  “I’ve tried different things. I saw you, about a year ago?”

  “I see.”

  “But I’m not taking any medication at the moment, no.”

  “I see. And how long have you been suffering these other symptoms?”

  “I don’t know. A few months.”

  “A few months.” If he repeated what the patient said often enough, it appeared as though he were listening. His wife didn’t allow him to do it at home; she’d rumbled the trick years ago. “Can I ask what you do for a living, Mr. Armstrong?” He always wondered what they did for a living, the patients. He was always looking for one of them to surprise him: a concert pianist, perhaps. Or a rodeo rider. Something a little out of the ordinary. But they were always the same. On the social. Or on the sick. Working for the council. Work-shy malingerers, most of them.

  “I’m a librarian,” said Israel.

  “A librarian,” said Dr. Withers. Better than nothing. “Life of the mind.”

  “Well, it’s physical as well as mental,” said Israel. “Because of all the driving.”

  “The driving.”

  “Yes.”

  “You drive to work?”

  “No. I drive in work: it’s the mobile library.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Withers, displaying exactly the kind of response that most people had to the mention of the mobile library, as though the fact of its being mobile made it less of a library, as though it were in some way lacking.

  “And did you say you’re not sleeping?”

  “That’s right,” said Israel. He wasn’t sleeping because of the dreams. Every night, the same vivid, troubling dreams. Often he would wake with a jolt, as though a vast electrical current had passed through him. One dream: he’s in a hotel and has lost everything. The only thing he has is a pair of shoes. His choice is to stay in the hotel room, waiting for someone to come, or leave and walk the streets in only his shoes.

  “I see.” Dr. Withers always hated this bit of the consultation. It always came to this: confessions of hopelessness and helplessness. People wallowing in their human weakness. But he had to ask; he was supposed to ask. “And are you feeling depressed at all?”

  “Yes,” admitted Israel. “I suppose I am.”

  “I see. And are you getting any exercise?”

  “I…well, not really, no.”

  “I see. And have you ever taken anything for y
our depression before?”

  “No.”

  “And have you had counseling”-or rather, counseling, he said, “counseling”-“or therapy?”

  “No.”

  “No. Well, what I’m going to suggest, Mr. Armstrong, is that we prescribe you a mild antidepressant and refer you to one of the counselors here in the center.”

  “Oh. I don’t know if I…”

  This is what always happened. They always resisted when you prescribed the cure. Anyone would think they wanted to be depressed. Snivelers.

  “What I’m prescribing is known as an SSRI. It’ll treat your symptoms and then the counseling should deal with the underlying causes of your problems.” He typed into his computer, pressed PRINT, and the prescription printed.

  “Well, I’m not sure that-”

  “There should be no problem with you continuing taking ibuprofen. Some patients, however, can experience a temporary increase in anxiety when using SSRIs,” said Dr. Withers.

  “Increase?”

  “That’s correct. But often that’s a good sign that the treatment is going to be effective.”

  “It gets worse before it gets better?”

  “Yes. So.” He handed Israel a prescription. “And there’s nothing else?” The old catch question: you treated the first set of symptoms, and then they revealed the lump in the breast.

  Nothing else? Where to begin?

  The fact that he was nearly thirty?

  Or that his girlfriend had left him and he was alone in Tumdrum, adrift without purpose or destination?

  Or that being on the library made him feel sick-all that knowledge, pretend knowledge, looking down on him, mocking him, speaking to him of his wasted opportunities?

  The accumulated weight of all the years, and the books, all that acid in them, digesting themselves and him with it?

  “No,” said Israel. “Just the sick note. Which is what I really came for.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Dr. Withers. “The sick note.” He typed again, pressed PRINT again. The sick note printed.

  “There we are. That’s us, then, I think, Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Yes. Right.”

  “Thank you, good-bye.”

  Israel got up and left, with his sick note, and his prescription. Dr. Withers looked at his watch. Only another seven hours to go. He flicked open the latest issue of the British Journal of Psychiatry. That was always good for a laugh.

  17

  While he drove to pick up Ted, Israel listened, as he always listened, to the news on BBC Radio Ulster. And, as always, it made no real sense to him: it was like news from some pointless elsewhere.

  Except, alas, this pointless elsewhere was here.

  “I was ten months’ pregnant,” a woman was saying.

  “Ten months’ pregnant?” said Israel back to the radio.

  “And I’m standing there, ten months’ pregnant, crying and gurning,” continued the woman, “and the traffic warden was horrible to me, so he was. I had to ring my mummy, and she had to come and get me. And me ten months’ pregnant. It’s a disgrace, so it is.”

  “And now the farming update,” said the presenter. “Charolaises are up. Hoggets are down-”

  “Oh god,” said Israel, to no one.

  He drove as quickly as he could round the coast road to Ted’s house, which sat looking out to sea and the A2. He parked, took a deep breath, and knocked at the door.

  When Ted eventually opened the door, Israel was surprised by a strong waft of…what seemed to be curry. Which was not a smell he associated with Ted. It was not at all an unpleasant smell. In fact-since he’d rather got into the habit of skipping breakfast-Israel found the smell rather piqued his morning appetite.

  “Mmm,” he said.

  “What do ye want?” said the curiously currified Ted, who was wearing his apron. He had a tea towel over his shoulder, and his Jack Russell terrier at his feet.

  “Woof!” said the dog.

  “Quiet,” said Ted.

  “What are you cooking?” asked Israel. “It smells like-”

  “Curry,” said Ted. “You’ve had enough of yer lady friend then, have ye?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Israel.

  “Ach, she’s a false face if ever there was one.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Ach. Wise up. Ye wouldn’t trust her with one half of a bad potato.”

  “Well, no one’s asking you to trust her with a half of a bad potato.”

  “Good. Because I wouldn’t,” said Ted.

  “Fine.”

  “Not even one half of a half.”

  “A quarter,” said Israel.

  “Exactly,” said Ted.

  “Anyway,” said Israel. “Lovely to see you. As always. Are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  “For work.”

  “Aye, well,” said Ted, “ye were that late I’d given up on ye. Thought ye’d mebbe decided to take to your sickbed again.”

  “Sorry,” said Israel. “I was at the doctor’s.”

  “The doctor’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What in God’s name’s where ye doing at the doctor’s?”

  “I had to get a sick note for Linda.”

  “Why?” said Ted. “Is she not well?”

  “No, for me.”

  “Aye. Right. What, ye looking to swing the leg again, are ye?”

  “No,” said Israel. “I need a sick note for when I was off last week.”

  “Ah, well. Where’d ye go? The health center?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’d ye see?”

  “Dr. Withers?”

  “Ach, for goodness’ sake. What d’ye go and see him for?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “He’s a complete header.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. Of course. They’re all the same. He give you anything for it?”

  “For what?”

  “For the stress and strain of being Israel Armstrong?”

  “Yes, he did actually.”

  “Good. Mind ye, much longer ye won’t be need of it.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause ye’ll have disappeared completely. Sight of ye! Good feed’s what ye need, never mind medicine.”

  “Anyway,” said Israel. “Much as I enjoy your hilarious craic and banter, Ted, shall we go? Are you ready?”

  “Do I look ready?” said Ted, indicating his apron and tea towel.

  “No…Not really.”

  “Well then. I need to turn off my curry.”

  “Shall I come in and wait?” asked Israel.

  Ted huffed.

  “It is quite cold out here, actually,” said Israel, putting on his best shivery face.

  Ted huffed again but allowed him to enter.

  “Mmm,” said Israel as he stepped across the threshold and the curry wafts became all-embracing waves. “That really is curry.”

  “Aye,” said Ted. “And what’s wrong with curry?”

  “Nothing. I like curry.”

  “Good. Because you’re not having any.”

  “No, I don’t want any, it’s fine,” said Israel. “But do you often have curry for breakfast?”

  “It’s for my tea, ye eejit. D’ye not plan ahead?”

  Israel didn’t, actually, plan ahead at all. Gloria had always planned ahead. She worked out everything in accordance with a great scheme-as if she had been born with a ready reckoner in one hand and a five-year day-to-view diary in the other. Gloria planned not just weeks or months but years in advance. If she wanted to be doing something in, say, two years’ time, she simply worked backward, step by step to the present, and worked it into a grid. It was like the mind of God. If God was a highly organized young lawyer. Which, clearly, he wasn’t. What God needed was a wife. God needed Gloria. So did Israel. If he’d planned ahead properly he’d be living in a brownstone in Brooklyn, going for breakfast with Paul Auster. He certainly wouldn’t be picking up Ted
in a mobile library van in the middle of the middle of nowhere and discussing his curry making.

  “Good idea,” he said wistfully. “Planning ahead.”

  “It’s not exactly rocket science,” said Ted.

  “No,” said Israel. “I didn’t really have you down as a curry kind of a man, though.”

  “Aye, well you might want to reexamine your prejudices, then, eh?”

  Ted disappeared into his kitchen. Israel followed. The kitchen was spotless and ancient: a shrine to wipe-clean Formica. There was a small table in the middle of the room, set neatly with breakfast things: a loaf of bread, butter, jam, a brown teapot.

  “Sorry to hear about yer man Pearce,” said Ted, dessert-spooning up a testing mouthful of curry.

  “Yes,” said Israel.

  “When’s the funeral?” said Ted, shaking corrective pepper into the pot.

  “Friday, I think.”

  “Is the house open?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “So people can call in and pay their respects.”

  “I don’t know,” said Israel.

  “I tell ye what,” said Ted, spooning a second testing mouthful of curry.

  “What?” said Israel.

  “Perfect!” said Ted, referring to the curry. “It’s a reminder to us all, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Yer man Pearce. If ye can put yer elbows out in the morning and ye don’t touch wood, ye’re doing OK.”

  “What?”

  “If ye…Never mind. Anyway,” said Ted. “While I get myself ready, could ye-”

  But Israel was over at the stove inspecting the curry.

  “The smell’s lovely,” he said. “How do you make your curry?”

  “How do ye think?” said Ted.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never made curry,” said Israel.

  “Never made curry.” Ted shook his head, as though this confession was tantamount to admitting to never having had a bath. Israel hadn’t had a bath recently either, actually.

  “Do you have a recipe?”

  “I do not,” said Ted, appalled.

  “Is it lamb?” said Israel, peering in.

  “Mincemeat,” said Ted. “Half a pound of mincemeat, some carrots, some onions. Potatoes.”