The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  'No, this is the best bit,' he was concluding. 'You're going to love this!' he guaranteed, barely able to contain his own mirth, 'So she said: "But the chicken was delicious!"' There were gales of laughter. 'Ted!' called Israel. 'Ted! Ted! Ted! Come here, Ted. What'll you have?'

  'Ach, Israel, what are you doing in here?'

  'Now. Ted.' Israel put a beery arm around Ted's shoulder. 'I'm not ashamed to say this, Ted. I'm just…I just. I wanted to say…I really…Ted…I wouldn't want…'

  'All right, Israel.'

  'No. Let me finish. Let me finish. Let me finish. I wouldn't want what's been…said. To. Come…And…A beautiful friendship.'

  'Has he been drinking?'

  The barmaid nodded her head. 'First and Lasts.'

  'Ach, Rosie.'

  'He seemed all right with them.'

  'He's a vegetanarian, Rosie, for goodness sake. He's hardly going to be able to manage a First and Last.'

  'No stomach lining,' agreed Sean, sniffing.

  'He'd struggle with a pot of hot tea and a fry.'

  'Sorry, Ted. I thought…'

  'Ted,' said Israel. 'Ted! Ted!!'

  'Yes, Israel.'

  'I can't do it without you, Ted. I'm like a…rudderless…Ted. Ted! I am a…lonesome…fugitive.'

  'All right, Israel,' said Ted.

  'No. No. Let me finish. I'm…Feeling. Please. Ted. I need you, Ted. I need…' He put an arm on Ted's shoulder. 'Please, Ted, say you'll. Come back to me…Come! Come! To the mobile library, Ted. Ted? Ted?'

  'All right, all right,' said Ted, 'take it easy, Israel.'

  Ted had faced enough drunks in his time in the back of his cab to know exactly how to deal with them: you just agreed.

  'Ted, Ted, Ted, Ted,' persisted Israel. 'Come back to me, Ted. I'm never going to…I can't…Without you, Ted.'

  'Aye, all right, no problem,' said Ted. 'I'll come back and help you.'

  'Mmm!' groaned Israel. 'Hey!' he shouted, to everyone and no one in particular, throwing his arms up in the air. 'Hey, hey, hey! Did you hear that? Ted! Is going to help me…On the mobile…Learning Centre!'

  At which point he went to put his arms around Ted, missed, and fell off his stool.

  'You're barred,' said Elder, from the other end of the bar. 'Barred!'

  16

  'Here,' said Ted, taking a hand off the wheel and fetching into his pocket.

  'What?' said Israel.

  'Take these.'

  'What are they?'

  'What do you think they are? Boiled potatoes? They're headache tablets.'

  'Ugh. Thanks. Have you got any water?'

  'I'm not your mother. And don't make a habit of it, all right,' warned Ted. 'Sets a bad example.'

  Israel took the tablets dry.

  'Yeeuch.'

  'And remember, I'm only back because of the van,' said Ted. 'Not because of you.'

  'Eerrgh.'

  'You made such an auld mess of the van, I can't believe it. I shouldn't have let you out on the streets alone in the first place.'

  The morning after the night before had not got off to a good start. Back at the farm, George and Brownie had been less than sympathetic towards Israel's hangover, and the permanently aproned Mr Devine had offered up last night's leftover grilled fish and onions for breakfast, the mere thought of which had delayed Israel's departure when Ted had arrived to collect him.

  'How's he doing then, the king of comedy?' Ted had asked Brownie, while he waited for Israel to compose himself.

  'Israel? Oh, he seems to be settling right in,' said Brownie, as Israel scuttled back and forth, whey-faced, to the toilet. 'Wee touch of the skitters just.'

  By the time Israel was steady enough on his feet, Ted had finished off a pot of tea, two plates of grilled fish and onions, and had successfully set the world to rights with the elderly Mr Devine, who agreed absolutely with Ted about young people today, and that another war might not be such a bad thing and lock 'em all up and throw away the key.

  'Here,' said Ted, in the van, fetching into his pocket again.

  'What's this?'

  'It's a tie.'

  'I know it's a tie, Ted.' Israel was having to take deep breaths to prevent himself from… 'I mean what's it for.'

  'Ach. What do you think it's for? You got a dog with no lead?'

  'No. Is it a hangover cure?'

  'Of course it's not a hangover cure–unless your hangover's that bad you're thinking of doing away with yerself.'

  'I don't…wear ties,' said Israel weakly. And he certainly didn't wear this tie–which was fat, and purple, and nylon, and shiny.

  'You're a librarian, aren't you?' said Ted.

  'Yes.'

  'And this is not a disco, is it?'

  'No.'

  'So?'

  'I'm not wearing a tie.'

  Ted slowed the van as they approached some lights.

  'Sorry, Ted!'

  'Aye?'

  'Could you just…' Israel gestured for Ted to pull over, which he did, and Israel almost fell out of the van as he went to be sick at the side of the road.

  All done, he clambered back in, ashen-faced.

  'Well, look at it like this, son,' said Ted, as if nothing had happened, 'if you're not wearing a tie, I mightn't be pulling over at your convenience.'

  Given Israel's track record of working without Ted, this did not appeal to him as a pleasing prospect.

  'We're doing things my way now,' continued Ted, who was warming to his theme, 'since you've made such an outstanding success of things on your own. Do I make myself clear?'

  'Yes, Ted.'

  'Which means wearing the tie.'

  'I'm wearing a T-shirt though, Ted.'

  'I don't care if you're wearing nothing but a vest and pants, if you're out with me in the library, you wear a tie.'

  'All right, I'll wear the tie.' Israel laid the long thick purple tie in his lap. He felt as though someone had hoovered out his stomach lining.

  There was a pause at the lights and in the conversation, as Ted waited for the green and for Israel to put on the tie, and Israel attempted to overcome his feelings of nausea.

  'It's not really my colour though.'

  'Aye, well, next time bring your own tie. If you're out in the mobile library with me, you're representing the library, which represents the council…which represents the…' Ted was struggling a little with his extended metaphor here, but he ploughed on. 'Government…which represents the…'

  'People?' offered Israel.

  'That's it,' said Ted. 'So put on the tie.'

  Israel slowly and carefully knotted the tie round his neck and looked at himself in the wing mirror. If he said so himself, he was looking pretty bloody rough.

  'And you'll need to get a haircut,' said Ted.

  'Ted, I'm not feeling well.'

  'D'you want me to stop again?'

  'No.'

  'I don't want you bokin' in here.'

  'No. I'm not going to.'

  'Sure?'

  'Yep.'

  'Good. So, what's that supposed to be, your hair?'

  'It's my hair.'

  'Aye, right. It looks like a bird's nest.'

  'Thanks.'

  'If it touches the ears it's too long. You're a librarian, you know, not a pop star.'

  'Yeah.'

  'There's a place in town.'

  'All right. I'll get it cut. OK?'

  'Good.'

  Ted was picking up speed now on the outskirts of Tumdrum.

  'So, where are we heading exactly?'

  'Listen. I'm telling you. We're doing a service run. We're doing it all methodo…Methododo…'

  'Methodically?'

  'That's it.'

  'OK.'

  'So we're collecting in all the books that are overdue first, to try and establish exactly how many are missing.'

  'Right.'

  'Rather than just running around accusing people willy-nilly and at the drop of a hat. You've got to be disciplined with this
sort of thing. You've got to think…'

  'Methodically?'

  'Logically.'

  'Of course.'

  'You can add up, can you?' said Ted.

  'Yes. Of course I can.'

  'Aye, right. Because you're keeping the tally. As far as I can work it out, currently we're missing…See that notebook there, on the dash? Open her up. What's the figure there on the first page, where I've written it?'

  'Fifteen thousand.'

  'Aye.'

  'But I've found some already.'

  'Aye. How many?'

  'Not many.'

  'Well, let's say fifteen thousand, then. That's our starting figure, give or take a few. Let's go round 'em up.'

  The further they drove out of town the more exotic the housing became–the whole landscape becoming freer, and wider, and looser, taller, stretching itself out and slipping off the grey render and the pebble-dash and stripping down and relaxing until you might actually have been driving through southern Spain, there were so many fine, bright, hacienda-style bungalows, with spreading palm trees standing tall against the pale sea. If it wasn't for the cloud and the drizzle and the signposts for places like Brablagh and Ballycleagh and Doomore you might have thought you were gazing at time-shares along the Mediterranean.

  Out on a stretch of road with no one coming and nothing around Ted slowed the van and pulled over.

  'Are we stopping?'

  'We're stopping.'

  'Here?' Israel looked around.

  There was nothing around: just road and hedge and cliff and sea.

  'Aye.'

  'Are you all right?' said Israel. 'Is there something wrong with the van?'

  'The van's fine. It's a pick-up,' explained Ted. 'This is a service point. You know what I told you about service points?'

  'Erm. What? The stops? The places where the mobile library stops?'

  'There you have it.'

  'What? This is one?'

  'Aye. You're a fast learner.'

  'The side of a road?'

  'That'd be it. Second furze on the left afore the bridge there.'

  'But I thought a service point was a timetabled stopping point where members of the public can safely gather to meet the mobile library.'

  'Strictly speaking. But some service points are by private arrangement.'

  'I see.'

  'So, by the bridge, second furze on the left.'

  'People are meeting us there?'

  'No, you eejit. Someyin's left their books there.'

  'What? Someone's left their books by the side of the road?'

  'Yes! For pity's sake, man.'

  Israel looked outside nervously: hedges, sea, nothing, Irish skies.

  'Is it safe?'

  'What are you talking about, is it safe?'

  'I don't know. I mean, you know, safe.'

  'There's no book-rustlers out here, as far as I'm aware.'

  'What about…I don't know. The IRA?'

  'The IRA?'

  'The IRA.'

  'The IRA?'

  'Yes, the IRA! You know, like booby-traps or something?'

  Ted took a deep breath. 'D'you get the news over there on the mainland, do you?'

  'Yes.'

  'So you'll be knowing there's a ceasefire on.'

  'I know, but…'

  'Since 1994. And there's no longer a British Empire. You're up to date with all that, are you?'

  'Yes. Of course I am.'

  'Good, well, I wouldn't worry too much about it then, if I was you. I don't think the Tumdrum and District mobile library is currently a prime target for dissident republicans.'

  'No. I didn't mean that.'

  'Aye, right. I don't know why we bother, to be honest.'

  'Who?'

  'We, us, the loyal people of Ulster. I think we should maybe set up our own republic or something.'

  'Well, I'm sure—'

  'Aye, right. That'd suit you, wouldn't it? Get rid of us all.'

  'Erm. I've got a terrible headache actually, Ted, and I would love to discuss the…'

  'Aye.'

  'Shall we just get back to the books?'

  'You brought the subject up.'

  'Right. Well, why have they left their books there, at the side of the road?'

  'Who? The IRA?'

  'No. Whoever's left their books there.'

  'Mr Onions.'

  'Mr Onions?'

  'That's right.'

  'Is that his real name?'

  'What do you think?'

  'I would, er, I'd guess not, no.'

  'Aye, well, all that education didn't go to waste then, did it. He's a farmer.'

  'And he grows onions?'

  'No, he grows mangoes and oranges.'

  'Right.' Israel caught himself on. 'No…Hang on…Well, why's he left his books here?'

  'When he's too busy on the farm he leaves them. I pick 'em up, and then leave him some more. It's a private sort of arrangement. It's traditional.'

  'Right.'

  'Go on then.'

  'What?'

  'Go and get 'em.'

  'But it's raining.'

  'Aye, hardly but. It'll not melt you.'

  'I'm still feeling a bit—'

  'Well, you've only yourself to blame there, haven't ye. Go on.'

  Israel got out of the van, turning up the hood on his old brown duffle coat.

  'And Israel,' called Ted.

  'What?'

  'Mind the land-mines.'

  Israel went over to the bridge. It was another harsh, wet winter's morning: the trees were bare, shivering in the wind; and the stream was flowing fast; and Israel's head felt like it was splitting in two, and the fresh air hit him so hard in the face he felt even more sick than he'd been feeling in the van. He didn't know where he was supposed to be looking. He turned around and gestured to Ted. Ted wound down the window.

  'The furze!' he shouted. 'The gorse! The second furze!'

  Israel wasn't entirely sure he knew what a furze was but he started rootling around under a couple of likely looking bushes, ripping his hands on their yellowy spiny branches.

  'Ouch!' he cried.

  Ted ignored him.

  'Ouch!' he cried again, louder.

  Ted still ignored him, and eventually Israel found a couple of old feed sacks, tightly tied with cord, stuffed with something, and tucked under a bush, and he brought them to the van.

  'This them?' he said to Ted, offering up the bags.

  'Jesus Christ, no, that's a bomb!' said Ted, covering his face with his hands.

  'What!' screamed Israel, flinging open the door to throw out the bags.

  'Of course it's them,' said Ted, laughing through his fingers. 'Were you born yesterday?!'

  Israel's hair was plastered to his head, and steam was rising off him, he was panting, and his hands were cut.

  'That's not funny,' he said.

  'No, you're right,' said Ted, wiping tears from his eyes, and starting up the engine and pulling off. 'That's not funny. You're absolutely right. That's not funny at all. I'll tell you what that is: that is hilarious. You're a geg, d'you know that? That is precious, so it is…'

  Israel opened up the bags, which contained some slightly damp books, and a small bag of potatoes.

  'There's potatoes in here as well, Ted.'

  'Aye.'

  'For us?'

  'I'd warrant.'

  'That's very kind of Mr Onions.'

  'Aye, that it is.'

  'Ted,' said Israel.

  'Hmm.'

  'I hope these are not gifts or services in kind.'

  Ted remained silent.

  'Ted? Are these gifts or services in kind?'

  'Of course they're not. They're potatoes.'

  'But you know you're not allowed to receive goods or services in kind?'

  'Ach, give over.'

  'I'm serious.'

  'I'm serious. Now, be quiet, boy, will you, and keep your head down, or the snipers'll see you.'

 
Israel flinched, and Ted roared with laughter.

  'Ha! Got you! Oh yes, that's good!'

  'Ted, I've got a headache.'

  'Aye, me too. Listening to your auld nonsense.'

  'We're never going to find all the books like this, Ted.'

  'Ach, Israel, quiet, will you. You're like an auld woman.'

  A couple more miles down the coast road and they came to the Myowne mobile home park. It looked like an open prison, actually: it had an air of miserable solitude about it, an air of unwelcome and rebuke, like a barracks, a place that had turned its back upon the world not through choice but through necessity, and which had grown sad and bitter as a consequence, appalled by its own exile and isolation. There were whitewashed boulders flanking the entrance, and rows of bollards linked together by rusty chains, and floodlights set upon tall posts. Signs indicated that it was an RAC-approved campsite, but it would have done equally as well as a detention centre for asylum seekers.

  'I don't think I'd fancy spending my holiday here much,' said Israel.

  Ted ignored him and turned off the road and drove in under the big metal arching sign which announced MYOWNE: PRIVATE, HOMES TO BUY AND RENT and they pulled up into the clearly signposted Visitors' Car Park and then went into the reception, a long, low building all flaky with paint and with faded inflatable toys hanging in its windows, and out-of-date posters advertising summer bingo nights in the communal hall, and an evening of Country Gospel with a singer called Bobbie Dylan, and a children's Bible holiday club.

  'God. Holiday from hell,' joked Israel.

  Ted continued to ignore him.

  Inside the reception there were more pathetic inflatables hanging from the ceiling, and a rack of postcards, and shelves with nothing on them, and two trestle tables set up in front of an old wooden counter which had set out upon it newspapers and bread and milk, and a man was sat behind the counter, smoking a fragrant pipe and flicking through a newspaper, the Irish News. He was wearing a boiler suit and had a fat alsatian lying at his feet.

  'Ted,' said the man, nodding to Ted.

  'Jimmy,' said Ted, nodding back.

  'Hello,' said Israel, extending his hand, his purple tie glistening against his brown corduroy jacket under the lights. The man named Jimmy in the boiler suit just looked at him–at the tie, at the T-shirt, at the brown corduroy jacket–and looked back down at his paper. 'My name's Israel Armstrong,' said Israel. 'I'm the new mobile librarian.'

  'Aye.'

  'And—' began Israel.

  'Anything strange or startlin', Jimmy?' said Ted.

  Jimmy shook his head.