The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery (13 page)

“I’m staying right here!” Pearce said, suddenly much more loudly, so that Joan could hear. “Tell that bloody woman! I’m not going anywhere. In the end…Nowhere. Staying. Leonard…”

“Leonard?” said Israel.

“Leonard Bast.”

“Right,” said Israel.

“You know what I’m talking about?” said Pearce.

“Yes,” lied Israel.

“Here!” shouted Pearce, with all his might. The dogs barked in response.

Israel looked over at Joan. She cast her eyes down, sadly.

“Right here! Do you…understand!”

“That’s OK, Pearce,” said Israel, soothingly. “I understand.”

“You’re all alone, aren’t you?” asked Pearce, suddenly quiet again.

Israel nodded.

“No sign of marrying?”

“No,” said Israel, “there’s…”

“You’re young?”

“I’m nearly thirty,” said Israel.

Pearce gave a harsh, faint little laugh, as though in pain.

“Alone,” said Pearce.

“You still have plenty of friends,” said Israel.

“No,” said Pearce gently. “Eventually…” His voice trailed off. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away,” said Israel.

Pearce placed a hand on Israel’s arm. “The collection.”

“The collection?” said Israel.

“The books.”

“Yes,” said Israel.

“For the library,” said Pearce.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Israel.

“I want the library,” said Pearce. “To have my books.”

There was a long pause. Israel could see Pearce struggling to stay on track with the conversation.

“Pearce?” prompted Israel.

“They say England’s changed,” said Pearce.

“Yes, I suppose it has.”

“Ireland…”

“Yes?” said Israel.

“The Glens,” said Pearce, who seemed to be having conversations in his own mind. “We’re very lucky.”

“Yes,” said Israel.

“Glenn Patterson. The coast road,” said Pearce.

“Yes,” said Israel.

“Finer than the Grande Corniche. And Jim McKillop. Finest fiddle player in Ireland. Have you seen the Book of Kells?”

“No,” said Israel.

“You must see the Book of Kells! My brother is at Trinity, he’ll take you to see the Book of Kells. All the magic people.”

Israel had no idea what he was talking about.

“Comedy of…” began Pearce.

“Errors?” said Israel.

“Manners,” said Pearce. “Do you know how many words there are in a pencil?”

“Sorry?”

“Forty-five thousand.”

“I’m not following you, Pearce, sorry.”

“In a magazine. It said. Forty thousand words in a pencil.”

“Doesn’t it depend on the size of the words?” said Israel.

“Very good!” said Pearce, laughing hoarsely. “Very good! Oh, you’ll go far, young man, mark my words.” And then, “The books!” he said suddenly—“words” having apparently brought him back to the books. “Keep them together.”

“Of course.”

“I trust you with the books.”

“I understand.”

“All of the paperwork has been done.”

“Good.”

“And there’s a book I’d like you to have.”

“No. No. I don’t need any books, Pearce.” Israel glanced nervously across at Joan.

“I…insist.” Pearce reached out a hand and closed it around Israel’s wrist.

“Very important. You know Dewey?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Israel.

“Dewey. The…”

“Oh, the classification system…”

“Yes. Remind me. What are the…”

Israel recited the Dewey decimal system to Pearce. “General works. Erm. Philosophy and psychology. Religion. Social sciences. Language. Science. Technology. Arts and recreation. Literature. History and geography.”

“Philosophy,” said Pearce. “That’s it.”

“Right.”

“Go on then. Fetch! Fetch!”

Israel got to his feet, followed by the dogs, who’d obviously taken the command to heart, and started making his way along the shelves, which were—loosely—arranged by the Dewey system. Halfway down the library he came to a halt and called back to Pearce, who had closed his eyes again.

“I’ve found Philosophy, Pearce.”

“J,” said Pearce, dreamily.

“J?”

“J.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Dr. Johnson.
Rasselas
. Do you know it?”

“No, I don’t think I do.” Israel ran his finger along the shelf. “Got it!”

Israel took the book down and brought it over to Pearce. It was bound in leather with fine embossed lettering. The pages were musty, and the dust set Pearce to coughing—deep, deep coughing—and hawking, and then struggling for breath. His eyes welled up with tears again. His frail body was shaking with panic.

Joan hurried over. She held up his head and helped him hawk into a handkerchief.

“I think he needs a rest now,” she said.

“Yes, of course,” said Israel. “Sorry. I…”

“Israel’s going now, Pearce,” she said.

Pearce stared up at Israel, unable to find words. His eyes stared up at him—as if he was looking for something, searching for reassurance.

“Go on,” said Joan. “He needs rest.” Israel hesitated. “Please,” said Joan. “He’d rather you went.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Please,” said Joan insistently.

Israel glanced back at Pearce as he left the room: the dogs were sitting quietly by him, Joan was fussing over him. Like he was a child, or a small broken bird.

It was dark as Israel walked down the lane back to the Devines’ and there was a full moon, as though the scene had been carefully set for a theatrical performance. Normally, Israel didn’t respond to nature—he responded mostly to books, and to his own narcissistic impulses and needs—but tonight, brushing past the cow parsley and the whin bushes, and with the sound of his feet in the silence, it felt for a moment that he was outside himself and outside time, and that the whole of nature was somehow audible and available to him, and he was overcome by a feeling of intense love, and of loss—as though he was completely connected to the world and, simultaneously, completely and irrevocably cut off.

He paused before reaching the Devines’, in the little clearing by the big red barn, and stood in the bright moonlight and opened the book that Pearce had given him, turning to a page at random.

And he burst into tears. And wiped his eyes. And walked on.

10

M
onday morning, Linda’s office. Israel’s six-monthly appraisal.

He hadn’t slept well. The usual sorts of dreams. And thinking about Pearce. About Gloria. About George. About his own deterioating mental and physical health.

“Mr. Armstrong, do you have a copy of your contract of employment with you?”

“No. Sorry,” said Israel. “Was I supposed to—”

“That was in the e-mail I sent you about our meeting.”

“Ah, well…I, erm…don’t have very good connectivity, you see, on the farm, in the chicken coop. It’s Wi-Fi they’ve got. But I haven’t quite hooked into it…somehow.”

“Well, Mr. Armstrong, perhaps you can recall for me the Overall Purpose of your role here?” said Linda.

She always had a tendency to speak like this, Linda, or at least certainly to Israel, and certainly for as long as Israel has known her—a tendency to stating the obvious as if it were both catastrophic and incomprehensible to mere mortals. She spoke as though she were reading the news for the deaf on regional TV.

Israel already had a headache.

“The overall purpose?” said Israel.

“Yes.”

“Of my role here?”

“Yes.”

“On earth, do you mean?”

Linda sighed a sigh of a kind that indicated not so much weariness as utter contempt.

“Clearly not, Mr. Armstrong. I mean your overall purpose in your role here, as Learning Support Officer on the Learning Support Vehicle.”

“Mobile librarian, you mean?” said Israel. It was a bone of contention.

“
Learning. Support. Officer
,” repeated Linda. “Thank you. But go ahead.”

“Well…” Israel gazed out of the window.

“You might want to try to break it down into your primary responsibilities.”

“Yes. Of course,” said Israel.

“Go ahead,” said Linda. She had folded her arms across her chest in a way that suggested she was preparing for a wrestling bout.

“Erm,” said Israel.

“Would you like me to remind you?” said Linda.

“Well…sure,” said Israel. “Yes. Go ahead.”

“To be responsible—and I quote,” said Linda, reading from a sheet of paper, “‘responsible for the running and administration of Tumdrum’s Mobile Learning Resource Center—’”

“Mobile library.”

“Mobile Learning Resource Center,” repeated Linda. “And your principal accountabilities—”

“Sorry?”

“Your principal accountabilities.”

“Ah.”

“Are ‘to develop and maintain a thorough understanding and up-to-date knowledge of mobile learning center resources.’”

“Uh-huh.”

“‘To be responsible for taking forward specific campaigns in developing user participation; developing an appropriate strategy for each campaign; monitoring and evaluating the effectiveness of the strategy; developing and building relationships with and between diverse groups; developing and supporting links with established groups at all levels; to promote a safe working environment by complying with Health and Safety regulations; and to
undertake any other duties that may be required by your manager.’”

“Right. That sounds like a pretty fair summary of what I’m doing, yes,” agreed Israel, jauntily.

“Does it?” said Linda.

“Yes.”

“Good. Well, perhaps then, Mr. Armstrong, you could tell me where in this list of responsibilities it mentions LENDING UNSHELVED BOOKS TO UNDERAGE READERS!”

Linda banged the desk so hard at this point that it shook all of her carefully placed soft cuddly toys.

“Sorry?” said Israel, rubbing his temples.

“You have been lending the Unshelved to underage readers,” said Linda, gathering herself.

“I don’t think so,” said Israel.

“Maurice Morris’s daughter!”

“Who?”

“Lyndsay Morris? She was—”

“The Goth?”

“Yes!”

“Ah,” said Israel.

“So?”

“Well, when people ask for the Unshelved, I…give them the Unshelved.”

“And she asked for the Unshelved and you gave her the Unshelved?”

“That’s right.”

“Yet you know you shouldn’t lend the Unshelved to the young and the impressionable and the—”

“She’s sixteen,” said Israel.

“She’s fourteen!” said Linda.

“Really?” said Israel. “Gosh. They look older these days, don’t they, the…”

“Fourteen!” repeated Linda.

“Well, even so,” said Israel. “There’s no proscribed list, as such, is there?”

“I know there’s no proscribed list, Mr. Armstrong! But it is our responsibility to protect our young people from—”

“What?”

“Things that they should not be exposed to as young people.”

“Like what?” said Israel. “D. H. Lawrence?”

“Yes!”

“D. H. Lawrence? Oh come on, you can’t tell people what to read, Linda.”

“I am not suggesting for one moment, Mr. Armstrong”—when Linda got really, really annoyed, she spoke more slowly, through clenched teeth, and dropped her voice—“I am clearly not suggesting for one moment that you tell people what to read.”

“Well, what are you suggesting?”

“I am simply suggesting that you should steer young people away from what
not
to read.”

“Which amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?” said Israel.

“NO!” said Linda, banging her desk again.

Israel took some ibuprofen from his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just a bit of a—”

“So. Can you please explain yourself?” said Linda.

“Sorry. Regarding?” mumbled Israel as he swallowed the tablets.

“Regarding the Unshelved!” said Linda.

“Sorry,” said Israel. “I don’t really see the relevance of who’s been borrowing what and when to my six-monthly—”

“Relevance?” said Linda. “
Relevance
? Relevance! You have seen today’s
Telegraph
, I take it?”

“Er, no,” said Israel. “I’m more a
Guardian
man, myself, although I’ve found some of their coverage of the—”

Linda flung that morning’s
Belfast Telegraph
across her desk toward him.

“Maurice Morris’s daughter has gone missing!”

“Sorry?”

“Maurice’s daughter has gone missing.”

Israel read out the headline. “‘Daughter of Local Politician Missing.’”

“Read on.”

“‘Police are this morning searching for the teenage daughter of local businessman and Independent Unionist candidate Maurice Morris. Lyndsay Morris (pictured), fourteen, went missing sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning. Police are appealing for witnesses. Anyone with information is asked to ring Crimestoppers.’ Oh dear.”

“Oh dear?” said Linda.

“Yes, that’s awful.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“What? How do you mean?”

“This young girl has gone missing, and it turns out she’s recently been borrowing adult books from the mobile library—”

“Well, they’re not
adult
books, Linda, in the sense of their being ‘adult,’ they’re—”

“They’re not children’s books, are they?”

“No, but I still don’t quite understand what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Armstrong. My concern is what
other people
will be suggesting when they discover that we may have contributed to this poor young girl’s disappearance!”