“Hello? Mrs. Morris?”
“Hi,” said Mrs. Morris, raising her sunglasses momentarily, as if she were expecting him. She squinted. The room—which was an enormous, exquisite jumble of paints and canvases and sofas and easels, and which seemed simultaneously both bare and plush—was filled with harsh natural light.
Mrs. Morris remained one of Maurice’s greatest assets, not least because she herself happened to be one of the best-looking women in Northern Ireland, or at least one of the best-looking women over fifty-five in Northern Ireland, and certainly the best-looking woman over fifty-five who was a politician’s wife in Northern Ireland, where there was a surprising amount of competition, politician wife–wise; in Northern Ireland ambitious men still preferred to marry women who would look good and keep home for them; the career woman was only just emerging.
This morning, Mrs. Morris was wearing a white paint-splattered shirt. Her dark shoulder-length hair was tucked behind her ears, and her fingernails were painted a purply red, like bruises at her fingertips. Israel noticed that she was probably wearing perfume—he’d almost forgotten what it smelled like, perfume—and in his excitement a terrible shiver ran through him, like ripples of shot silk or fingers through water. She didn’t bother getting up.
“Sorry, am I disturbing you?” said Israel.
Mrs. Morris flipped her sunglasses back down.
“Not at all.”
“Are you…painting?” asked Israel, looking around at the empty canvases, and the shelves lined with paint.
“Preparing to paint,” said Mrs. Morris, continuing to smoke.
“Right.”
“As I have been for almost twenty years.”
“Lovely music,” said Israel. The music seemed to be being piped in from recessed speakers around the room.
“Sigur Rós,” said Mrs. Morris.
“I’ve not heard of him.”
“It’s a them,” said Mrs. Morris. “A beat combo. From Iceland. With an accent.”
“It’s very nice music.”
“The title is a parenthesis.”
“Sorry?”
“The title of this piece of music is a parenthesis. It has no title.”
“Right. Well, it’s a very nice studio you have here,” said Israel.
“Isn’t it,” agreed Mrs. Morris.
“Wonderful views.”
“Yes. The full gamut,” agreed Mrs. Morris. “Summer, autumn, winter, and spring.”
She drew contemplatively on her cigarette, as though trying to overcome some terrible deep discomfort.
“You’re an artist, then?” said Israel.
“I was going to be an artist,” she said. “But I wasn’t allowed to go to college. I had to go to work.”
“Right.”
“Cheltenham, I would have gone to,” said Mrs. Morris. “If I’d had the chance.”
“You could still go to art college,” said Israel.
“Ha!” said Mrs. Morris. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand what art college is all about.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Practical anatomy,” said Mrs. Morris.
“Sorry?”
“Sex and drugs and rock and roll.”
“Right.”
“Although you’re not supposed to talk about that, obviously. If you’re a politician’s wife.”
“No. I guess that would be—”
“I used to go to dances at the art college in Belfast.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was. Tea, we used to call it,” she said. “Would you like to try some tea?”
“No, thanks,” said Israel.
“That’s what we used to say, if there was any weed or hash.”
“Oh, right. Yes.”
“And then when I was eighteen I hitchhiked down to Cork with my boyfriend from the art college. And we took the ferry to France, and my boyfriend, he imported forty kilos of kif from Morocco. Made a fortune. Went back a few months later to try to do a similar deal, was thrown in jail in Tunisia.”
“God.”
“Six months later I met Morris.”
“Right.”
“And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Right.”
Mrs. Morris sat up slightly on the sun lounger, as though awaking from a dream.
“Anyway, how can I help you, young man?”
“Sorry. I should have introduced myself. My name’s Israel Armstrong.”
“And you are?”
“A librarian.”
“The librarian?”
“Well, in Tumdrum, yes.”
“The mobile librarian?”
“Yes.”
Israel expected the usual wary response.
“Well, well,” said Mrs. Morris, raising her sunglasses again. Her blue eyes bored into him. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Maurice doesn’t like you at all.”
“Right.”
“He thinks you’re a corrupting influence.”
“I see.”
“Like Mellors.”
“Well…”
“In Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”
“Yes, I know…”
“So, Mellors, how can I help you?”
Israel felt a little uncomfortable about the tone of the conversation. He could hear the incoming waves outside smashing up against the shore.
“I was just…I’m interested in helping find your daughter?
“Are you now? And why is that, Mellors?”
“I’d rather you called me Israel, actually.”
“Would you, Israel?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, I’m going to call you Mellors anyway.”
“Right.”
“Until you tell me what’s your interest in my daughter.”
“The police seem to be under the impression that my lending her books from the Unshelved in the library may have influenced her decision to run away.”
“I see. Like The Catcher in the Rye and the man who shot John Lennon?”
“That sort of a thing, yes. So I’m rather interested in finding out where she is.”
“I see.”
“You seem remarkably relaxed, erm, Mrs. Morris, for someone whose daughter has gone missing, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I’m rather delighted she’s gone, to be honest,” said Mrs. Morris.
“Really?”
“It’s an adventure, isn’t it? What chance for escape and adventure does she have, living here?”
“Why would she want to get away from here?”
Mrs. Morris laughed.
“You’re not from round here, are you, Mr. Armstrong?”
“No, I’m not. I’m from London.”
“Well then, why do you think she’d want to get away from here?”
“Erm…”
“Or are you one of these people who thinks this is a great wee country and won’t have a word said against it?”
“No, I…”
“I have a sister in Dubai. She’s not been back here for twenty years, and I can’t say I blame her.”
“So you think Lyndsay’s just run off on an adventure?”
“Seems most likely, doesn’t it? Why? Do you have a theory, Mellors?”
“No. I…”
“If I was her I’d run away.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And where would you go?”
“Me? Marrakech, of course!” Mrs. Morris laughed a deep, throaty laugh that echoed the sound of the waves. “Although we also have a little place down in the Mournes, Slievenaman. We used to go there sometimes when Lyndsay was little.”
“Slievenaman?”
“That’s right. Wonderful quality of light. She’s probably in London, though, isn’t she? I hope so. Experiencing the world. That’s what life’s about, isn’t it, Mellors?”
“Yes.”
“Seizing an opportunity when
it presents itself to you?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps you’d like to join me for some coffee—or some tea?—before you go?”
“Actually, no…I…Should be getting on.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Morris, sinking back into her sun lounger. “You run along there.”
“Well, thanks.”
Mrs. Morris did not reply. She seemed lost again to the light, and the sound of the waves.
And Israel, if he wasn’t mistaken, had a lead.
22
Ted agreed to drive down to the Mournes with Israel as long as they could listen to an audiobook in the van.
“An accompaniment to another wild goose chase,” he said.
Israel had been an audiobook virgin before arriving in Tumdrum, a gentile; by now he was thoroughly deflowered, his ears circumcised. In the past few weeks alone they’d worked their way, exhaustingly, through Lance Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike (a book that rather contradicted its title, in Israel’s opinion), plus an unidentifiable Ian Rankin (Nazi war criminal, Chechen people smuggler, Japanese gangster; or was it Japanese war criminal, Nazi people smuggler, Chechen gangster; or…), Sebastian Faulks’s Birdsong (again), and one of the ones about the African lady detective who was so smart, so wise, so gentle, and so patient that she made Nelson Mandela look bad. Today, they were spending the journey down to the Mournes in the company of the ever-fruity Stephen Fry, reading from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone—an audiobook classic, according to Ted. Ted had worked his way through all the Harry Potter audiobooks; they were his absolute favorites. Sometimes, if young people were causing trouble on the van, he would point at them and shout, “Expelliarmus!” and the young people would quake and Ted would bellow with laughter. Israel had tried the technique himself, but it didn’t seem to work for him in quite the same way. Ted somehow had the necessary…oomph to carry it off, while Israel rather lacked oomph: when he said “Expelliarmus” to the gathered Goths, casuals, emos, and wannabe rap artistes who plagued him on the van, they laughed at him, which was the opposite of what was supposed to happen. He did not therefore share Ted’s enthusiasm for Stephen Fry’s celebrated readings of J. K. Rowling’s celebrated tales of public school wizardry and japes, but since no publisher had yet seen fit to produce an audiobook of Infinite Jest or of any Donald Barthelme, he seemed to be stuck with it. Then again, at least Harry Potter wasn’t Allen Carr, whose Easy Way to Stop Smoking Ted had inflicted upon Israel several times since his arrival in Tumdrum, despite its obvious flaw: Ted had not given up smoking as a result of listening to Mr. Carr’s billion-selling audiobook, and Israel had seriously considered taking it up, out of sheer spite.
Today, though, by the time they had reached the Sandy-knowes roundabout, just outside Belfast, Stephen Fry had got to one of those long, boring Potter passages in which inexpli cable parts of the plot had to be explained in excruciating detail by characters with no other apparent role or function, and Israel had cracked and had lunged for the tape in frustration, but Ted had swatted him away, so there he was, condemned to another interminable journey listening to a story about a scarred, bespectacled orphan trying to find his way in the world, and what was the use or appeal of that?
It was the last day of his twenties. And this was not what was supposed to happen.
Israel wound down the window of the van, to try to drown out the sound of some guff about dragon’s eggs, and to savor the crisp air of an Irish autumn. Floral tributes to car crash victims flashed by them, and blue plastic bags lined the roadside, like ornamental flags in the whinney bushes. They had long since left behind the Glens of Antrim, with its homemade signs promising “Dulse and Potatoes, 100 Yards,” and were now deep into the long soul-destroying stretches of the A24 where all that was on offer were intermittent bar snacks and novelty ornamental concrete products.
Just outside Ballynahinch, Ted abruptly pulled the van over into a pub car park.
“I’m hefted,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt and clambering out.
“What?”
“I’m away for the toilet here.”
“Right,” said Israel, stretching uncomfortably; the library wasn’t really built for distance.
“Might be a while,” said Ted.
“Fine, take your time,” said Israel. “No hurry.”
“Been holding on since Carryduff.”
“Right.”
Ted patted the van affectionately.
“Gives ye a quiver in the liver, doesn’t she?”
“Yep. Too much information, thanks, Ted. You go ahead and treat yourself. Bye. Bye!”
The pub they’d stopped at was called the International and looked anything but. It was an old cottage which had long since been pebble-dashed and had its old wooden windows replaced by uPVC, and its garden turned into the car park. A sign boasted of Live Big-Screen Sport, and the inevitable alcopop Happy Hours, and a range of bar snacks that called themselves, unpromisingly, “Belt-Busters” and “Monster-Bites.” Along its road-facing gable wall a crude mural had been painted, depicting an Ulster fry: bacon, potato farls, soda bread, and a very large-yolked fried egg. The detailing on the bacon was reminiscent of a Lucian Freud: quease-making man-size marbled fat. But the place did have one saving grace—a good old-fashioned red telephone booth by its front door. Israel hadn’t seen an old red phone booth in years: it was like seeing an old friend. When he was young back home in north London he would often slip out of the house in the evenings to make calls from a filthy old red phone booth to his first girlfriend, who was called Leah. He’d spend hours on the phone to Leah, breathing in the smell of rusting metal and urine and other people’s stale cigarette smoke, and kicking restlessly at the takeaway cartons at his feet, hardly saying anything, gazing up at the moon and space and the innumerable prostitutes’ cards and his own fantasies, while angry dog-walkers and fellow students and immigrants and men in overcoats would tap impatiently on the window, willing him to finish. He had happy, happy memories of the old red telephone booth.
He wandered over, pulled open the heavy door, and picked up the phone. He’d forgotten how heavy the handsets were, and how cold and gray. But miraculously, to his surprise, there was a dial tone: the phone was working.
He jangled the change in his pocket, just like he would when he was fifteen and desperate to talk to Leah, and he wondered for a moment whom he might possibly ring. Just for old times’ sake.
He could ring Leah, of course, but he’d no idea what had become of her. She’d gone to university and that was that. Had disappeared, in the way that people do. She was probably married by now. Career. Children. All the things that Israel had somehow failed to achieve. He feared it might be a rather one-sided conversation. A near-thirty-year-old man couldn’t really go around ringing up ex-girlfriends: it was weird. Leah existed now only in his mind. For a moment he thought he could smell her revolting, come-hitherish pineapple lip gloss.
There was always Gloria, of course. He could ring Gloria.
No need.
He found these days he only thought about Gloria once or twice a day.
Or, actually, maybe six or seven times.
Or a dozen.
In fact, he thought about Gloria all the time, even though they hadn’t actually spoken since he’d left London with Ted, months ago. When he’d arrived safely back in Ireland she’d sent him a single, solitary text, which read, “Sorry. Plse do not get in touch. Hope you understand.” He didn’t, and he’d tried ringing hundreds of times, but she was obviously screening his calls and never picked up. He’d tried writing letters. “Dear Gloria,” he would begin. “I am writing to you to…” but that was no good. It sounded as if he were writing to a solicitor asking about a point of probate. And “Dear Gloria, So?” Or “Dear Gloria, Why?” He just couldn’t find the words. She had struck him dumb.
He definitely wasn’t going to ring Gloria.
He rang the number.
And before he knew what
was happening someone had picked up, and Israel was frantically pushing money into the slot and saying, breathlessly, “Hello, Gloria?”
“No,” said a man’s voice.
“Oh.” He couldn’t quite place the voice. “Who’s that?”
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Can I speak to Gloria, please?”
The voice said, witheringly, “Who’s calling?”
“My name’s Israel. I’m a…friend of Gloria’s.”
Israel detected a slight pause, and the voice said, “I’ll just check if she’s here.”
He could hear voices in the background.
He stared deeply into the Plexiglas of the phone booth and thought about Gloria in the flat—their flat—and the mystery of this man’s voice. He had no idea…And then suddenly he did have an idea. He recognized the voice. It wasn’t anything he’d said; they’d only spoken for a moment. It was the intonation, the smart-arse, singsonging, pleading, wheedling intonation of a Bill Clinton or a Tony Blair or Bing bloody Crosby crooning his way carefully up and down and between the scales. It was Danny, his old friend from school. Danny! Danny the lecturer. Danny the author of the book Postmodern Allegories. Danny, a complete fraud and a show-off and an arrogant, selfish shit who thought Foucault was a major twentieth-century thinker…Danny, who was…what? Visiting?
Israel slammed the phone down and walked back to the van, leaned up against the front of it, took a deep breath, hung his head, and gave out a long, low moan of “No!”
At which point, Ted sauntered back from the toilet.
“Need the toilet?” said Ted.
“No,” said Israel, breathing deeply.
“Ye sure?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“All right, then, ye set?”
Israel was staring down at his broken-down brogues, his head resting against the cool flank of the mobile library.
Ian Sansom_A Mobile Library Mystery Page 23