The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery (7 page)

“That’s still one for the scientists,” he told Israel.

“Not according to the scientists it’s not,” said Israel, one of whose only companions these days was the BBC World Service late at night and early in the mornings.

“Ha!” said Maurice, changing the subject rapidly. “Well, it’s been good talking to you.”

“I would still like an answer,” said Israel.

“Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Maurice to Israel. “You are?”

“I’m a librarian,” said Israel.

“Really?” said Maurice.

The phrase “I’m a librarian” usually excited a number of depressingly predictable responses, in Israel’s experience, responses that usually began with an “Oh” and were soon followed by a vague and slightly uncomfortable look in the eye. Maurice’s response was unusual.

“The
mobile
librarian?” said Maurice.

“Yes,” said Israel.

“Isaac Angstrom?”

“
Israel Armstrong
,” said Israel. Had Maurice been reading John Updike?
Couples
?

“Israel Armstrong,” said Maurice, savoring the words in his mouth. “The mobile librarian.”

“Yep,” said Israel. “That’s me.”

“Well, I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, you sick bastard,” said Maurice, striding away.

5

“A
ch, brilliant!” said Ted, again and again, after they’d left Zelda’s and they were driving to their next port of call, Tumdrum Primary School, where Israel was expected to help the children with their reading. “Brilliant! Brilliant. Priceless.”

“All right, thank you, Ted,” said Israel.

“The look on his face, but. Brilliant. Brilliant. You must have done something bad to upset him! Oh, brilliant!”

“He’s just a miserable bas—” began Israel.

“Language!” said Ted. “Mebbe he just doesn’t like the look of you.”

“Horrible,” said Israel. “A creepy, slimy, rude, horrible man.”

“Ach, he was maybe in a bad mood, just, eh? ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself, you sick bastard!’ Oh dear, oh dear.”

“He’s got some sort of problem,” said Israel. “Personality disorder probably.”

“It’s the election, isn’t it?” said Ted. “Pressure getting to him.”

“I know the feeling,” said Israel.

“What? Pressure?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “Do you have any Nurofen?”

“Ach, wise up,” said Ted, as though Nurofen were a heroin substitute. They pulled into the school playground. “Who’d ye think ye are, Barack O’Bana?”

“Obama,” said Israel. “O. Ba. Ma.”

“Aye,” said Ted. “His family were from Kerry, weren’t they?”

“What? He’s a black man from Hawaii,” said Israel.

“I’m not arguing with you about it,” said Ted. “Just get on with it. Come on. We’re late.”

They visited the school once every two weeks, and the routine was always the same: the children would choose their books from the library under Ted’s menacing gaze and without major incident—no tears, no fights, no tantrums—and then Israel would trudge with them into the classroom for the compulsory story time, and all hell would break loose.

Israel was just not a story-time kind of a librarian: he absolutely hated children’s books, for starters. Most of them were mind-bogglingly bad, illustrated by the artistically challenged—can no one draw hands anymore?—and with words by people who clearly hated words. He was always
trying to read
Where the Wild Things Are
or
Green Eggs and Ham
again, but the children, being children, wanted novelty, and the teachers wanted something more appropriate to the national curriculum’s reading strategy. So Israel would read something dull and appropriate in a dull and appropriate monotone, and the children would inevitably fidget, and then this would lead inevitably to shoving and poking, and then usually to a fight, and hence to chaos. It didn’t help that Israel also didn’t much like children, per se. He could never remember their names, or if he could remember them, he couldn’t pronounce them.

“How do you say the name of the boy with the big ears?” he asked Ted, as he always did.

“Who?” said Ted.

“The one who always asks the difficult questions.”

“
Pod-rig
,” said Ted.

“I thought last time you said it was more like…” He puckered up his lips. “
Pahd-rag
.”

“Ach, I don’t know,” said Ted. “I’m not good with these Irish names.”

“You’re Irish,” said Israel.

“I’m an Ulsterman,” said Ted.

“Right.”

“Big difference,” said Ted.

“Sure,” said Israel.

“It might be
Paw-rick
.”

“Right,” said Israel.

“It just depends,” said Ted.

“On what?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Ted.

“So, is it
Pod-rig
. Or
Paw-rick
?”

“
Paaah-ric
?” said Ted, rolling the vowels around in his mouth. “I don’t know.
Paw-drig
.”

“Oh, come on,” said Israel.

“Just call him Paddy,” said Ted. “That’s what I do.”

“Marvelous,” said Israel.

“I’ll just have a wee smoke here, then,” said Ted.

“But—”

“Me back’s a bit sore, still. You hurry on there, sure.”

While Ted waited cozily in the van Israel trudged toward the classroom and the moon-faced children of Tumdrum, who stared up at him, as they always did, loudly fidgeting, while Tony Thompson, headmaster of the school, sat at the back, in his shiny black suit and his gray shirt and black tie, smirking, and poor Israel droned.

The reading was bad enough. He read from a supersized book about someone called Red Ted, who sat on a shelf and did very little else, except clearly demonstrate some pointless rule of phonics. There were the usual skirmishes. It was awful. But there was worse to come. Question time. He absolutely hated question time.

“Yes, Laura,” said Tony Thompson, when Israel had finished reading about Red Ted, on his shelf. “You have a question for Mr. Armstrong—the
librarian
.”

Tony somehow always managed to make the word “librarian” sound dirty and sinister, as though a librarian was a sort of a book pimp.

“Why have you grown a beard?” asked Laura, a girl with pure pale blue eyes and a full head of fizzing ginger hair, like a changeling out of a horror film.

“Erm.” Israel was thrown. “Just to make my face look…smaller. Any other questions?”

“Are you on a diet?” asked Laura.

“No. I am
not
on a diet. Any
book
questions?”

“Do you
make
books?” asked Laura, without pausing for a beat.

“No,” said Israel, trying to muster what might pass for a tone of infectious enthusiasm. “No, personally, I don’t actually make the books myself, I just…”

Laura’s eyes bored into him, withering his confidence.

“I just…look after the books,” he continued. “Like a…zookeeper looks after the animals.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Thompson. “Any other questions for Mr. Armstrong, the bearded book
zookeeper
?”

A hand shot up. It was Padraig.

“Any other questions?” said Israel, eyeing up Padraig. “Anyone else?”

No hands were raised.

“Sure?” said Israel. “No one else? Any questions?”

Silence.

“Good. So…Yes…Paddy,” said Israel.

“My name’s Padraig,” said Padraig.

“Ah, yes, sorry. Of course.
Porr—idge
?”

“What do you do?” said Padraig.

“What do I do?” said Israel. “I’m a librarian.”

“But do you have another job?” interrupted Padraig. He had intricate whorl-like ears, Padraig, and a head like a pug.

“No,” said Israel, “I don’t have another job. This is my actual job.”

“D’ye not have another job?”

“No. I don’t. It’s actually quite a busy job, being a librarian. You have to…sort the books out, and put them on the shelves, and…”

“Thank you, Padraig,” said Tony Thompson. “Any final questions for Mr.
Arm
strong this week before he rushes off to rearrange his books on the shelf?”

Hands again.

“Yes, Billy?”

“What are books?” asked Billy, whose face was as wide as it was tall.

“What are books?” said Israel. “Erm. Books? Good…question. Excellent…question.”

“I’m sure we’d all like to hear your answer to that question, Mr. Armstrong,” said Tony Thompson. “What is a book? Listen, children, to what Mr. Armstrong has to say.”

“A book is…” Israel was struggling here slightly. “Well, a book can be about…”

“Sorry,” said Tony Thompson. “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Armstrong. But I think what Billy was asking was not what is a book
about
, but a wider and more general question—wasn’t it, Billy?” Billy nodded obediently, his pure white lardy child-jowls shaking. “About what exactly a book
is
?”

“Ah, yes, what is it? A book?”

“Indeed,” said Tony Thompson.

“A book?” repeated Israel. “What is a book?”

“Yes,” said Tony Thompson. “That’s the question, Mr. Armstrong. And the children would love to hear your answer.”

“Well, a book is a kind of…” Israel looked around desperately for inspiration. “It’s a dead tree, basically.”

“A dead tree,” repeated Tony Thompson, grinning and showing his teeth. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Israel, “basically.” He got the sense he was
maybe losing his audience here, but he’d started so he’d have to finish. “Not a tree that’s been killed, exactly, by a…gun or anything. It’s more…I mean, more like a piece of a dead tree.”

“A piece of dead tree,” said Tony Thompson.

“Yes. That’s one way of looking at it,” said Israel. “Or, I know…a tree flake.” Oh, god. “Yes! That’s it, that’s what books are. Tree flakes. Little parts of the body of a tree, you see, that has been…Like pork scratchings…It’s not something alive, anyway. If you turn it over in your hand.” He turned over the supersized
Red Ted on the Shelf
in his hand. “Here we are then,” he said. “Listen! Can you hear it saying anything?” He held the book up to his ear. “Hello, Mr. Book? Red Ted? Anybody there? No? No. That’s because a book is not a disembodied voice. Can you hear it, children?”

Tony Thompson was shaking his head.

The children were leaning forward in their seats.

A hand shot up.

“Yes?”

“I can hear it, Mr. Armstrong.”

“No. No. You can’t. That must be a…voice in your…head. You can’t hear the book,” continued Israel, changing tack. “Because a book can’t speak. Because a book is not…a person.”

“Is it imagination?” asked Laura.

“Yes. Well, not exactly. A book is not itself imagination, or an idea, or anything like that. It’s just…A book is basically…I mean, literally, of course a book is just…paper covered in ink, like lots of…little black…maggots crawling around on a big…white sheet, or snow, or…”

“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong,” interjected Tony Thompson. “I think that’s enough this morning. Thank you very much for your little talk. As enlightening as ever.”

“No, thank…you,” said Israel.

“Good to be back in the saddle, eh?” said Ted, when Israel—mentally and emotionally drained, and dizzied by his ordeal—arrived back at the van.

“You’re not meant to smoke in the van,” said Israel.

“Ach, wise up,” said Ted. “Glad to be back in the swing of things, though, eh?”

“No,” said Israel.

“Good,” said Ted. “Go all right?”

“It was horrific,” said Israel.

“No,” said Ted. “Having no arms and legs would be horrific.”

“Right,” said Israel. “Yes. Of course. I forgot. I am lucky to have the use of my arms and legs.”

“Exactly,” said Ted. “Count your blessings.”

Israel counted his blessings all the way to the visitors’ car park at the Myowne mobile home park, their last stop of the week, 1 p.m.–5 p.m., the traditional rush as Tumdrum’s many mobile home dwellers changed their books for the weekend.

“So,” said Israel, staring out at the gray expanse of the strand.

“So,” said Ted, producing his ancient orange-colored Tupperware lunchbox. “Back to normal, then.”

“Yes,” agreed Israel.

“Do you no good, lying in yer bed,” said Ted.

“No,” agreed Israel, for the sake of peace and quiet.

“Weather’s not looking the best,” said Ted, tucking into the first of his customary two-ham-sandwich lunch. “It’s autumn, mind. So what do you expect?” In the absence of anyone else to actually argue with, Ted enjoyed arguing with himself. He was pretty much self-sufficient, conversationally.

“What are books, do you think, Ted?”

“What are books?”

“Yes.”

“Are you losing your mind?” said Ted, with sandwich poised.

“No. I’m just…interested.”

“Ye’re not eating right,” said Ted. “Your mother’d be onto me if she knew.”

“Right.”

“What are ye eatin’? Weetabix and lettuce? D’ye want a bite?” He held out his sandwich between his fingers.

“No, thank you.”

Ted then proceeded to peel open the two slices of white bread and peer carefully inside, as though he were Howard Carter uncovering the entrance to the tomb of Tutankhamen.

“They’re ham.”

“I know they’re ham. You have ham every day, Ted. You have eaten a ham sandwich every lunchtime ever since I’ve known you. You
only
eat ham sandwiches at lunch.”

“Aye, well, and I’m offering you a bite, seeing as the condition ye’re in, but it’s an offer I’ll not make again in all pobability, given your attitude.”

“Probability,” said Israel.

“Exactly,” said Ted.

“You’re offering me a bite of your ham sandwich?”

“Aye.”

“Well, I would accept, under normal circumstances,” said Israel wearily, “but as you well know, Ted, I’M A VEGETARIAN.”

The vegetarian conversation was another one of the conversations that Ted and Israel had had at least once a day every day since Israel had arrived in Tumdrum—along with the conversation about Israel resigning and why there were no longer any great Irish boxers—yet the memory of it seemed to leave no trace with Ted, like the taste of tofu, or Quorn. Ted took a long and very noisy slurp of tea from the plastic cup of his old tartan Thermos flask.