The Bad Book Affair

17

While he drove to pick up Ted, Israel listened, as he always listened, to the news on BBC Radio Ulster. And, as always, it made no real sense to him: it was like news from some pointless elsewhere.

Except, alas, this pointless elsewhere was here.

“I was ten months’ pregnant,” a woman was saying.

“Ten months’ pregnant?” said Israel back to the radio.

“And I’m standing there, ten months’ pregnant, crying and gurning,” continued the woman, “and the traffic warden was horrible to me, so he was. I had to ring my mummy, and she had to come and get me. And me ten months’ pregnant. It’s a disgrace, so it is.”

“And now the farming update,” said the presenter. “Charolaises are up. Hoggets are down-”

“Oh god,” said Israel, to no one.

He drove as quickly as he could round the coast road to Ted’s house, which sat looking out to sea and the A2. He parked, took a deep breath, and knocked at the door.

When Ted eventually opened the door, Israel was surprised by a strong waft of…what seemed to be curry. Which was not a smell he associated with Ted. It was not at all an unpleasant smell. In fact-since he’d rather got into the habit of skipping breakfast-Israel found the smell rather piqued his morning appetite.

“Mmm,” he said.

“What do ye want?” said the curiously currified Ted, who was wearing his apron. He had a tea towel over his shoulder, and his Jack Russell terrier at his feet.

“Woof!” said the dog.

“Quiet,” said Ted.

“What are you cooking?” asked Israel. “It smells like-”

“Curry,” said Ted. “You’ve had enough of yer lady friend then, have ye?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Israel.

“Ach, she’s a false face if ever there was one.”

“Do you think?”

“Ach. Wise up. Ye wouldn’t trust her with one half of a bad potato.”

“Well, no one’s asking you to trust her with a half of a bad potato.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t,” said Ted.

“Fine.”

“Not even one half of a half.”

“A quarter,” said Israel.

“Exactly,” said Ted.

“Anyway,” said Israel. “Lovely to see you. As always. Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“For work.”

“Aye, well,” said Ted, “ye were that late I’d given up on ye. Thought ye’d mebbe decided to take to your sickbed again.”

“Sorry,” said Israel. “I was at the doctor’s.”

“The doctor’s?”

“Yes.”

“What in God’s name’s where ye doing at the doctor’s?”

“I had to get a sick note for Linda.”

“Why?” said Ted. “Is she not well?”

“No, for me.”

“Aye. Right. What, ye looking to swing the leg again, are ye?”

“No,” said Israel. “I need a sick note for when I was off last week.”

“Ah, well. Where’d ye go? The health center?”

“Yes.”

“Who’d ye see?”

“Dr. Withers?”

“Ach, for goodness’ sake. What d’ye go and see him for?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“He’s a complete header.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Of course. They’re all the same. He give you anything for it?”

“For what?”

“For the stress and strain of being Israel Armstrong?”

“Yes, he did actually.”

“Good. Mind ye, much longer ye won’t be need of it.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause ye’ll have disappeared completely. Sight of ye! Good feed’s what ye need, never mind medicine.”

“Anyway,” said Israel. “Much as I enjoy your hilarious craic and banter, Ted, shall we go? Are you ready?”

“Do I look ready?” said Ted, indicating his apron and tea towel.

“No…Not really.”

“Well then. I need to turn off my curry.”

“Shall I come in and wait?” asked Israel.

Ted huffed.

“It is quite cold out here, actually,” said Israel, putting on his best shivery face.

Ted huffed again but allowed him to enter.

“Mmm,” said Israel as he stepped across the threshold and the curry wafts became all-embracing waves. “That really is curry.”

“Aye,” said Ted. “And what’s wrong with curry?”

“Nothing. I like curry.”

“Good. Because you’re not having any.”

“No, I don’t want any, it’s fine,” said Israel. “But do you often have curry for breakfast?”

“It’s for my tea, ye eejit. D’ye not plan ahead?”

Israel didn’t, actually, plan ahead at all. Gloria had always planned ahead. She worked out everything in accordance with a great scheme-as if she had been born with a ready reckoner in one hand and a five-year day-to-view diary in the other. Gloria planned not just weeks or months but years in advance. If she wanted to be doing something in, say, two years’ time, she simply worked backward, step by step to the present, and worked it into a grid. It was like the mind of God. If God was a highly organized young lawyer. Which, clearly, he wasn’t. What God needed was a wife. God needed Gloria. So did Israel. If he’d planned ahead properly he’d be living in a brownstone in Brooklyn, going for breakfast with Paul Auster. He certainly wouldn’t be picking up Ted in a mobile library van in the middle of the middle of nowhere and discussing his curry making.

“Good idea,” he said wistfully. “Planning ahead.”

“It’s not exactly rocket science,” said Ted.

“No,” said Israel. “I didn’t really have you down as a curry kind of a man, though.”

“Aye, well you might want to reexamine your prejudices, then, eh?”

Ted disappeared into his kitchen. Israel followed. The kitchen was spotless and ancient: a shrine to wipe-clean Formica. There was a small table in the middle of the room, set neatly with breakfast things: a loaf of bread, butter, jam, a brown teapot.

“Sorry to hear about yer man Pearce,” said Ted, dessert-spooning up a testing mouthful of curry.

“Yes,” said Israel.

“When’s the funeral?” said Ted, shaking corrective pepper into the pot.

“Friday, I think.”

“Is the house open?”

“How do you mean?”

“So people can call in and pay their respects.”

“I don’t know,” said Israel.

“I tell ye what,” said Ted, spooning a second testing mouthful of curry.

“What?” said Israel.

“Perfect!” said Ted, referring to the curry. “It’s a reminder to us all, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Yer man Pearce. If ye can put yer elbows out in the morning and ye don’t touch wood, ye’re doing OK.”

“What?”

“If ye…Never mind. Anyway,” said Ted. “While I get myself ready, could ye-”

But Israel was over at the stove inspecting the curry.

“The smell’s lovely,” he said. “How do you make your curry?”

“How do ye think?” said Ted.

“I don’t know. I’ve never made curry,” said Israel.

“Never made curry.” Ted shook his head, as though this confession was tantamount to admitting to never having had a bath. Israel hadn’t had a bath recently either, actually.

“Do you have a recipe?”

“I do not,” said Ted, appalled.

“Is it lamb?” said Israel, peering in.

“Mincemeat,” said Ted. “Half a pound of mincemeat, some carrots, some onions. Potatoes.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“It doesn’t sound like curry, actually,” said Israel.

“Does it not?”

“No,” said Israel. “That sounds more like shepherd’s pie.”

“And then I add some curry powder,” said Ted.

“Ah.”

“Curry,” said Ted decisively, turning off the heat and putting a lid over the saucepan.

Before his recent listlessness Israel’s repertoire had been slowly expanding. He had perfected a number of simple recipes: sautéed mushroom on toast, tomatoes on toast, cheese on toast, cream cheese on toast, beans on toast. He was particularly fond of toast flavored lightly with salt and pepper. It was, admittedly, a largely toast-based repertoire, but it served its purpose. It was all going well until the toaster broke: it was a blow to him. There was a burning smell, and the toaster stopped working. He’d changed the fuse. No good. It must have been the element. He didn’t know how to fix the element.

Thinking about his recipes and smelling the curry, his appetite was now well and truly whetted: he felt like Winnie the Pooh faced with a honeypot. He found himself helplessly eyeing up the breakfast things set on the kitchen table.

“So,” Ted was saying, “I take it you’ve sorted this trouble with the Morris girl, then?”

“Not exactly,” said Israel distractedly.

“No?” said Ted. “It was on the news earlier.”

“Was it?”

“Aye. A twenty-nine-year-old man is helping police with their inquiries, apparently.”

“That’d be me,” said Israel, wrenching his thoughts and his gaze away from breakfast. “Do they have to tell people your age?”

“And how are the police inquiries going?” said Ted.

“I have no idea,” said Israel. “I’m sort of working on the case myself now.”

“Working on the case yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Aye, right, Columbo,” said Ted. “That woman put you up to it, did she?”

“What woman?”

“Flashy Annie, yer journalist?”

“No,” said Israel.

“I’ll bet she did,” said Ted. “Sticking her…bits in where they don’t belong. No good’ll come of it, if you ask me.”

“Ah, well, funnily enough,” said Israel, “I was going to ask you, actually.”

“No!” said Ted.

“Hold on, I haven’t-”

“The answer’s no,” said Ted.

“I haven’t asked you yet!”

“Well, whatever you’re asking, the answer’s no,” said Ted.

“What, you’re not going to help me out?”

“Correct.”

“Why not?”

“You want a list of reasons?”

“Well, no, but-”

“First of all, it’s not my problem. Second of all, it’s not yours. And third of all-”

“Yeah, all right,” said Israel. “That’s plenty of reasons, thanks.”

“-the girl’ll turn up soon enough anyway. She’ll be raking about with her mates somewhere.”

“Right. Well,” said Israel. “I’ll just go it alone then.”

“With yer fancy woman.”

“She is not my fancy woman.”

“Well, if she’s not, ye’ve a funny way of showin’ it. Anyway,” said Ted conclusively, “if ye just tidy up my breakfast things there and I’ll-”

“Actually, Ted,” said Israel, nodding coyly toward the breakfast things.

“What now?”

“I wonder if I might perhaps prevail upon you for a slice of bread?”

“What?”

“A slice of bread?”

“My bread?”

“Erm. Yes.”

“From my table?” said Ted.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just-”

“Have ye not had any breakfast?”

“No, actually.”

“Ye should always have breakfast.”

“My toaster’s broken.”

“And you can’t fix your own toaster?”

“No.”

“What sort of an idiot can’t fix his own toaster?”

“Erm…”

“Aye, well, answered me own question there, didn’t I. All right, ye help yerself to a slice.”

“Really?”

“Aye. But ye’ll not be making a habit of this, mind.”

“What?”

“Eating your breakfast at another man’s table.”

“No.”

“It’s not natural. You’ll have to give that plate a wee rench in the sink there.”

“Sorry?”

“The plate, a wee rench in the sink?”

Israel gave the plate a wee rench in the sink, while Ted ceremoniously removed his apron and put on his black leather car coat and his cap, and sat down at the kitchen table waiting for Israel to eat.

It was good bread.

“Mmm,” said Israel, midmouthful. “Ted?”

“What?”

“Do you happen to know the man who owns the Venice Fish Bar?”

“Ach, big Gerry Blair? Surely. You know him.”

“No,” said Israel. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you do. He’d the franchise on a load of fish and chip places. Sold ’em up, so he did, and he has just the Venice Fish Bar now. He’s retired.”

“What sort of car does he drive?”

“What sort of car does he drive?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea.”

“Mercedes?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“And how old is he?”

“I don’t know. Fifty?”

“What does he look like?”

“You’d know him if ye saw him. He’s a couple of bay pacers he trains down at the beach sometimes. Has a tan. Looks a wee bit like yer man…what’s he called?”

“I don’t know.”

“Actor.”

“Who?”

“He’s in all sorts.”

“Brad Pitt?”

“No!” said Ted. “Dark hair.”

“Johnny Depp?”

“No! Does coffee adverts.”

“George Clooney?”

“That’s him,” said Ted. “With a wonky nose, but. Few pounds heavier. Big Gerry Blair. You know him.”

“No, I don’t think so. What’s he like?”

“He’s all right. A bit full of the smell of himself.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’ve played golf with him a couple of times.”

“I didn’t have you down as a golfing man,” said Israel, polishing off the slice of bread.

“Well,” said Ted. “You know what they say. When in-”

“Rome?” said Israel.

“Portstewart,” said Ted.

Israel reached for another slice of Ted’s wheaten bread. Ted scowled.

“May I?” said Israel.

“Ach, right,” said Ted. “Don’t ye stint yerself, eh? Ye want to be eating a proper breakfast, mind.”

“Yes,” said Israel. “You said.” It was delicious bread. “The Venice Fish Bar man, is he married?”

“Gerry? That he is.”

“I see.”

“Why? What are ye fishing around for?” said Ted.

“Nothing.”

“You’re finagling around for something.”

“Just,” said Israel. “The Morris girl works at the Venice Fish Bar at weekends, and one of the people she works with kind of implied that she and the boss were…close.”

“Right. And what did they mean by ‘close’?”

“Close,” said Israel.

“Aye, well, there’s close and then there’s close. What did they mean by ‘close’?”

“Intimate.”

“Intumate?” said Ted.

“Intimate,” corrected Israel.

“Exactly,” said Ted. “And how old’s the Morris girl?”

“Fourteen.”

“For goodness’ sake! They’re implicating that Gerry’d…”

“I don’t know,” said Israel. “It’s not…impossible, is it.”

“Who was it telling you about this?”

“It was a Romanian girl who works in the Venice Fish Bar.”

“Ah, well, there you are, then.”

“What do you mean, ‘there you are’?”

“Romanians. They’re like the Poles, aren’t they?”

“What?”

“Shifty bunch. Trying to cause trouble.”

“I don’t think they were trying to cause trouble.”

“What, accusing a well-respected member of the community, and a member of the golf club, of some kind of…relationship with this young girl? You want to ask yourself why they’re telling you that.”

“I think they were just trying to be helpful.”

“Aye, right. Helpful! Ye need yer brains tested, boy! This is Tumdrum! It’s not Sodom and blinkin’ Gomorrah! I’ll tell ye what’d be helpful: what’d be helpful would be if ye talked to her actual boyfriend, rather than listening to tittle-tattle about some imaginary intumacy-”

“Intimacy,” said Israel.

“Exactly, with some imaginary boyfriend.”

“Why? Who’s her actual boyfriend?”

“Colin.”

“Colin who?”

“Colin Wilson? Sammy Wilson’s boy.”

“No, sorry, I don’t-”

“Ach, Israel. He’s one of these computer nerds. Always at that place on High Street.”

“How do you know he’s her boyfriend?”

“Well, if ye listened to the young ones on the library for a change, ye’d get to know quite a few things. They split up, though, I think.”

“Do you think the police will have talked to him?”

“Mebbe. If they’ve got the inside information.” Ted tapped the side of his nose.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“You didn’t ask. I doubt he’s anything to do with it, mind. He’s a wee squirt. No hair on his balls.”

“And where was it you said he hangs around?”

“At the game place on High Street.”

“Game On!?”

“That’s it.”

By which point Israel had got up and was by the kitchen door.

“Come on, then!” he said.

“Come on where?” said Ted.

“Let’s go.”

“Ye’ve not finished your piece of wheaten,” said Ted. “Ye’re not going to waste it, are ye?”

“We haven’t any time to lose,” said Israel.

“We?”

“Yes!”

“To do what.”

“To get to the bottom of this mystery-”

“The only thing ye could get to the bottom of is a packet of crisps, ye eejit. Leave it to the police.”

“But if I leave it to the police my name’ll end up in all the papers and-”

“The reek’ll go up the chimney just the same.”

“Which means?”

“It’s just a sayin’,” said Ted. “She’s blackmailing you, then, is she, your wee friend, the journalist, to help her out?”

“No, we’ve come to an arrangement.”

“Well, if that’s what you call an arrangement you need your brains tested as well as your balls. I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re not going to help me?”

“No.” Ted crossed his arms implacably.

“Would you be able to drop me off on the way through town, and you can go on to the day’s run?”

“By myself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So I could have a quick word with this boy Colin.”

“For why?”

“So I can start to get to the-”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Ted.

“Please!” said Israel.

“Ach. Only because it’s a wee girl involved,” said Ted. “I wouldn’t be helping you otherwise.”

“Fine. No. Of course not.”

“So don’t ask me again.”

“Never.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

They drove into town. Ted dropped Israel at Game On!

“Just remember,” said Ted as he drove away. “A bird in the hand can’t see the wood for the trees.”

“Right,” said Israel. “Thank you, Dalai Lama.”