by Ian Sansom
'He's what?'
'You know. Funny.'
'What do you mean, funny?'
'Och, funny, you know.'
'No.'
'Man his age, never married.'
'Oh, right. I see. But that doesn't necessarily make him—'
'Aye, but the frost'll try the rhubarb.'
'What?'
'You're not funny, are you?' asked Minnie.
'No! Of course I'm not funny! Although, I mean, it's fine if people are funny…'
Thompson edged away slightly from Israel on the bench.
'Good. I'll have a wee word with her, then, see if I can't fix you up with a date,' said Minnie.
'No!' spluttered Israel, being careful to cover his mouth this time. 'Minnie! No!'
'Bit of initiative!' said Minnie, winking.
'What? No, Minnie, no!'
But it was too late: Minnie had glided swiftly away, bearing scraps of scone.
Once he'd finished his lunch Israel went to pay, which proved to be a problem, because he had no money.
'Ah. Erm. Minnie,' he said. 'I'm so sorry. I forgot, I've got a problem with my cash card and I've not—'
'Och, never worry,' said Minnie. 'It's not as if you're going to just disappear is it? We all know where you live, eh?'
'Yes,' said Israel. Unfortunately.
'We'll put it on the slate.'
'Right, thanks. And about you having a word with George—'
'Consider it done!' said Minnie.
'No!' said Israel.
But Minnie had moved away to serve another table.
It was as he made for the door then that Israel noticed that the computer in the corner was on, and seemed to be working–and there was an elderly grey-haired woman in a wheelchair with a rug over her knees squirling around with the mouse.
Israel went and stood beside her.
'Just surfing,' she said.
'Right,' said Israel. 'Could I…Would you mind, when you're done?' he asked. 'I've just…'
'Of course,' she said, wheeling herself away, backwards, and at some speed. 'Work away there, sure. I was just checking out the chat-rooms.'
'Right.'
'Some of them, honestly…'
'Yes.'
And he sat himself down and paused for a moment, staring at the screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard, suddenly excited–checking his e-mails! He could hardly believe it. His first contact with the real world since he'd arrived here. He fired up Hotmail, typed in his user name and his password, hit return, and took a long, deep, anticipatorily satisfied breath.
No one had e-mailed him. Or at least no one he knew. His in-box was of course stuffed full with messages from people offering to extend his credit-card limits, and the size of his…But no one else. Not even Gloria. Since coming here not only had he become lost: he seemed completely to have disappeared. He sent Gloria a rather self-pitying message with the subject line, 'Remember me?'
It had been Gloria's idea that he took the job in the first place. He was always complaining about his sad, wasted life at the discount bookshop, and the lack of opportunities with which he was faced, as a potential genius, and so when he was offered the job in Tumdrum it was Gloria who had convinced him that this was his opportunity, and that although they'd have to live apart for a while she would of course be over at weekends to visit him, and that it would only bring them closer in the long term, and that once he'd done his time in Tumdrum offers of other library jobs would be raining down upon him: he'd be fielding calls from the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, and the Vatican, and Harvard's Widener Library; and librarian head-hunters from all over would be tracking him down, waving big fat vellum hand-inked librarian contracts, written in Latin, stipulating twenty weeks' paid reading time per year; and before he knew it he'd be padding along foot-worn marble corridors into the unimaginable glories of the world's great stacks and depositories. So far things weren't turning out quite like he'd expected.
As he was about to sign out of the site it suddenly occurred to Israel where he might be able to buy a map of Tumdrum.
For years, Israel had been unable to afford to buy new books–which is why he worked in a bookshop, and one of the reasons he'd trained as a librarian in the first place: the prospect of free, or at least free access to books.
First of all he tried www.abebooks.com.
Nothing, and anyway he'd have to wait too long for the shipping from America.
Then he thought he'd try amazon.co.uk, the marketplace: lots more individuals selling books. He found what he was looking for straight away.
Ordnance
Survey. One-Inch Tourist Map
.
Good,
some edge repair. Soft cover
.
National
grid seventh series, 1959. Printed on paper
.
Covers
good. Ex-library
.
It was a little more expensive than he'd been planning to pay, but it all went on the credit card anyway and he needed the map, so he hit 'Buy with 1-Click' and the map was his.
Now, if he said it himself, that was showing initiative.
10
The chicken coop was beginning to feel suspiciously like home. There were books everywhere; and unwashed dirty mugs from the farmhouse littered every surface; and clothes piled on the bed; and a slightly chickeny, not entirely unpleasant smell of sweat and damp, as if a little pot of stock were simmering on some not too far distant stove.
Israel splashed some cold water on his face from the wash-jug and bowl and poured himself a large glass of whiskey and lay down to contemplate another day's successful amateur sleuthing. He had a growing list of suspects. He had a map on the way. And he was starting to find the whiskey almost as effective as a couple of Nurofen.
And then there was a knock on the door.
He got up, took a fortifying sip of his drink, and went and opened the door, expecting Brownie.
It was not Brownie.
It was a woman, around about his age, and, Israel had to admit, she looked more like his kind of person than a lot of the people he'd been meeting recently: she was wearing clothes that had definitely crossed the border from practical to stylish, and she looked intelligent, and thrusting, as though she was maybe on the way to drinks after work, rather than, say, as though drinking was her work. Her hair was dark; her lipstick was red; her overcoat was unbuttoned; and she looked like she meant business. She could easily have passed in north London.
'Mmm,' she said, taking a last quick draw on a cigarette and stubbing it out underfoot; and Israel reckoned he was probably the most politically correct person in about a hundred-mile radius at this very moment but even he couldn't help noticing her legs.
'Hello?' he said shyly.
'Mr Armstrong?'
'Yes.'
'Hi. I'm Veronica Byrd,' said Veronica Byrd, straightening up underneath her tailored overcoat and putting on a wide smile and forming the words carefully in her mouth.
'Hello, Veronica Byrd,' said Israel, his brow furrowing.
'I'm from the Impartial Recorder.'
'I see,' said Israel, in a way that suggested that he didn't see at all.
'We're the local newspaper.'
'Oh, right. I, er, I'm more of a Guardian sort of person myself.'
'Uh-huh. Good. Well, I was hoping'–she paused momentarily–'I could ask you a few questions?'
She was straining slightly forwards now, standing up on tiptoe, looking over Israel's shoulder into the room.
'Look,' said Israel, manoeuvring himself to block her view, 'if it's about the school gateposts, it was an accident, and no one was hurt.'
'The school gateposts?' said Veronica, still trying to look round him.
'It's not about the school gateposts?'
'No. I don't think so,' said Veronica Byrd disinterestedly. 'Although it sounds fascinating. Maybe you want to tell me all about it?'
'No. Thanks.'
Veronica looked at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Sure?'
'Yes. Thanks. Right. Well.'
Veronica continued staring at him. 'Have you been in a fight?'
'No. Why?'
'It's just, your eye.'
'Accident.'
'Oh. So.'
Veronica's gaze did not waver.
'Do you want to come in?' asked Israel, finally giving way, although really there was no need; Veronica was already across the threshold.
'Well well,' said Veronica, staring round, clearly unimpressed, 'this is home?'
Despite his attempts at home improvements–the scattering of clothes and books, the strategic placement of empty mugs–the place still looked exactly like what in fact it was: a home for chickens, with perhaps an untidy weekend guest who'd overstayed his welcome. A chicken coop, after all, is a chicken coop, no matter how many books and old clothes you leave scattered around. And Israel himself of course by this stage in his stay looked like a hobo who'd been riding trains: his corduroy jacket suit the only thing of his own remaining in an outfit in which he increasingly resembled the Unabomber. He needed some new trousers. And shirts. And shoes.
'It's temporary. Sorry,' he said, embarrassed, 'I can't offer you a seat or anything.'
'It's OK.' Veronica perched herself on the edge of the bed, pushing aside Israel's pile of books to make more room for herself. 'You like reading, huh? Isn't that a bit clichéd for a librarian?'
'Well,' said Israel, flushing. 'You could say that. Isn't it a bit clichéd for a journalist to barge in and be asking so many questions?'
'Touché!' said Veronica.
No one had said anything like 'Touché!' to Israel for quite a while. He liked it.
Veronica was sitting just inches away from Israel's bedside bottle of Bushmills and was now looking at him expectantly.
'Sorry. Can I get you a…?' Israel said, indicating the bottle.
'Sure.'
'Erm…' Israel searched around for another glass but there was no other glass, so he poured his own whiskey into a mug, and wiped out the glass with one of Brownie's spare T-shirts–The Thrills. Then he topped up the clean glass with whiskey and gave that to Veronica.
'You certainly know how to treat a girl, Mr Armstrong.'
'Ha, ha,' laughed Israel nervously, hovering at the side of the bed. 'So. How can I help you?'
'It's all right, you can sit down,' said Veronica, patting the bed beside her. 'I don't bite.'
'Right. Ha, ha.' Israel perched himself on the edge of the bed, as far away as possible.
'Actually,' said Veronica, removing a reporter's spiral-bound notepad and a pencil from her handbag, 'it's about the missing books.'
Israel coughed nervously. How did she know about the missing books?
'The missing books?'
'Yes. The library books? Is it true that over ten thousand books have gone missing from—'
'Fifteen thousand, actually.'
'Really?'
'No! No. That's just the stock, of the library. I believe. Look. Sorry. I really don't think I'm the best person to help you with this. I'm only—'
'The librarian?'
'Yes. But, I've only just—'
At that moment there was another knock at the door, thank goodness, and Israel was about to get up and answer it when the door flew open. It was George.
'George!' said Israel, leaping up from the bed, his voice slightly hoarse with relief and fear and excitement. 'Lovely to—'
'Armstrong,' said George, taking in the scene.
'Come in,' said Israel, taking off his glasses, and then putting them back on again. 'I was just—'
'No. Thank you. I didn't realise you were entertaining.'
'Ha, ha!' laughed Israel, blushing. 'I'm not entertaining. This is Veronica Byrd, from the local paper. She's just popped in to—'
'Georgina,' said Veronica.
'Veronica,' nodded George.
'Do you two know each other?'
'Yes,' said Veronica.
'From a long time ago,' added George. 'I'll leave you two to it then.'
'George, no, it's fine…'
But George had already gone, shutting the door loudly behind her.
'So,' said Israel, embarrassed, turning towards Veronica, who was taking a long sip of her whiskey.
'So?'
'Erm. How do you two…?'
'Oh, Georgina?' said Veronica, smoothing down her skirt. 'She was head girl when I was at school.'
'Really?'
'And I was deputy head girl.'
'Uh-huh.'
'We were sworn enemies, actually. Competed over everything: you know, homework, netball, swimming, boyfriends,' said Veronica, with some bitterness. 'She was an all-rounder. Straight As in her exams. She was going to go to university.'
'Really?'
'Yes.'
'But?' said Israel.
'But?'
'I detected a but there?'
'Oh you did, did you?'
'Yes.'
'You'd make a very good journalist, Mr Armstrong.'
Israel blushed. And Veronica moved a little closer towards him on the bed.
'It's all the Beckett and Pinter,' said Israel nervously.
'Sorry?'
'Samuel Beckett? Harold Pinter? Lot of pregnant pauses, silences, stuff like that. You know.'
'Oh.'
'I did them at university.'
'OK. Good. Well done.'
'So your "but"?' persisted Israel.
'My butt, Mr Armstrong?' said Veronica, shifting ever so slightly closer.
'Yes, your, er, not your…ahem. Your…'
'Oh yes, my "but",' said Veronica, laughing. 'But–as I was saying–then George's parents died.'
'Oh dear.'
'It was the toy-shop bomb.'
'The what?'
'In 1986 they put a bomb in the litter bin outside the toy shop on Main Street.'
'Who? The IRA?'
'Of course.'
'In Tumdrum?'
'Yes. Her parents were going to buy a christening present for her little brother.'
'Brownie?'
'Is that his name? I don't remember his name.'
'Yes. Brian his proper name is, but people call him Brownie.'
'Ah, right, yes, that's him.'
'God.'
'He survived, anyway. His pram was blown across the road by the blast. Both parents killed instantly.'
'That's terrible.'
'Yes. It was. But that was a long time ago. Things like that don't happen here now.'
'Right,' said Israel, sounding unconvinced.
Veronica took another long sip of her drink.
'So what happened to George?' asked Israel.
'She left school and came to look after the farm with her grandfather, and to bring up her little brother.'
'I see.'
'Is he still around, Brian, the brother?' asked Veronica.
'Brownie? Yes. Yes, he is.'
'He must be, what…?'
'He's probably late teens, early twenties. He's at university.'
'Inherited the brains then. And what about the grandfather?'
'Yes. He's still around too.'
'Huh,' said Veronica. 'So, how are you finding it, being stuck out here with them? Would it not put you in mind of the Addams family or something?'
'Well, it's—'
'Or the Simpsons?'
'It's not so bad.'
'Or Psycho.'
'Yes, well, thanks.'
Veronica finished her drink.
'Anyway,' she said, patting the bed, 'let's get back to the subject in hand, shall we?'
'Which,' gulped Israel, 'was?'
'The missing library books?'
'Ah, well. Yes, I really can't say anything about that. You'll have to ask Linda Wei.'
'Linda?' laughed Veronica, reaching into her handbag and taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
'Yes.'
'What
about if you spoke to me, strictly'–and she leaned a little closer to Israel here, as she lit the cigarette–'off the record,' and she spoke the words 'strictly off the record' as if they already were strictly off the record and slipping between silk sheets.
She exhaled.
Israel coughed.
'No. I…' Israel wriggled away towards the end of the bed, where a brass knob prevented him from going any further. 'Would you mind if you didn't…'
'What?'
'Erm. Smoke?'
Veronica laughed. 'Why?'
'I'm a bit, er…' He coughed again. 'And it's very bad for you, you know.'
'You're very funny, d'you know that?' said Veronica.
'Am I?'
'I think you know you are.'
Israel blushed. 'Yes. Well, I'm sure Linda will be able to help you out. And…'
Israel went to open the door.
'Lovely to have met you,' he said. 'I need to…'
'Help muck out the pigs?'
'Something like that.'
'Well, I can take a hint, Mr Armstrong. It's a shame. I thought we were going to get along so well.'
'Thank you.'
'Here's my card. In case you decide you want to…talk.'
Now, Israel could not deny that Veronica Byrd was a woman of considerable persuasive charms, and the pleasure was really all his, but all he could think about was that Linda Wei was going to kill him if she found out that the local paper knew about the missing library books: she'd blame him, without a doubt. The only people who knew about the missing books, apart from him and Linda, were Ted and Norman Canning, neither of whom was likely to have gone to the paper if they were guilty of stealing the books.
Israel could not work out at all how Veronica had found out about the missing books. He certainly hadn't told anyone else about them, except of course for George, and Brownie and Mr Devine…
Oh, no.
He thought he could have trusted them. Surely he could have trusted them. He didn't have anyone else to trust.
He hurried to the farmhouse, looking for George. There was no one there, but then coming out he spotted her in a field–it was a late winter's afternoon and the sun was shining, and he could see her from way off, her red hair–and he trudged and trudged and trudged his way up to her in the mud, his brown brogues squelching beneath him, calling her name.
'George! George!'
George ignored him. She was holding a wooden post in one hand and a mallet in another, and she was scowling.
'George!'