The Bad Book Affair

18

Game On! was located above Crumbz! and not far from Cutz!, just off the main square, on Market Street, which was that street in every town that attracts the slightly off-the-wall and off-kilter. Market Street was Tumdrum’s Bay Area: Market Street was out-there. Crumbz!, for example, was a little bakery-half the size of the Trusty Crusty-that did just a few regular sodas and wheatens but mostly a range of its own gluten-free breads and cakes: in Ireland, where wheat intolerance and celiac disease were becoming almost as commonplace as Guinness and potatoes, Crumbz! was onto a winner. Their lemon drizzle cake-using quinoa as a wheat substitute-literally had to be tasted to be believed. Cutz! was doing pretty well also: it was one of those hairdressers in which all the staff have multiple piercings and are wise beyond their years. Cutz! attracted mostly the younger crowd in Tumdrum, although Mrs. Onions had booked herself in for a shampoo and set a few months ago and had unwisely agreed to try henna and straighteners; she’d worn a head scarf ever since. And Tatz!, next door to Cutz!, was Tumdrum’s tattoo parlor with a difference: it was run by born-again Christian ex-Hells Angel Little Stevie, who specialized in full-body biblical scenes and themes. When he’d converted some years ago, Little Stevie had taken as his inspiration Robert De Niro’s character in the film Cape Fear, and he’d had the scales of Justice and Mercy done on his back, plus Moses with the Ten Commandments across his chest. Little Stevie was an arm-wrestling, chain-smoking, shotgun-toting (for the purposes of legal hunting) man-mountain who was yet somehow deeply in touch if not with his feminine then certainly with his spiritual and creative side, and he’d done a big wall painting inside the shop of the vision of Christ in the Book of Revelation: the white horse, eyes flaming like fire, head crowned with many crowns, and the clothes dipped in blood, and the words “And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS” in Gothic lettering scrolling all around the top. It didn’t seem to put people off. In fact, people came not just from all over the island of Ireland, but also from the UK and farther afield, to have Little Stevie do seraphim and cherubim on their forearms and ankles, and Celtic crosses on their shoulders: one man had been traveling over regularly from Germany for the past five years to have Stevie work on an illustrated Bible, in full color, with (abridged) text; so far they’d reached the minor prophets and were heading fast down his waist. At this rate they were going to reach the Acts of the Apostles at an unfortunate physical juncture.

Managing to resist the temptation to get his hair cut, have a biblical tattoo, or buy a gluten-free loaf of bread, Israel walked boldly-or as boldly as any vaguely bearded man wearing a duffle coat and brogues was able-up the stairs to Game On!

There was a brightly lit booth at the top of the stairs with a thick scratched, stained Plexiglas screen, which looked as if it had been used as a very large chopping board in a very dirty kitchen; in places you could barely see the scratches for the dreck. Crammed inside the booth, and just visible, was a portable TV, a kettle, mugs, boxes and boxes of Mars bars, and Red Bull, and packets of Tayto cheese and onion crisps, an old cash register, an armchair, and a middle-aged man, his graying hair cut short except for a ponytail sprouting from the back from his head, which gave him the appearance of an extra in the film of The Lord of the Rings. He sat, gaunt, the man, on the armchair, with a can of Red Bull in one hand, staring blankly into the distance. He looked like someone who might enjoy listening to a Kate Bush album. And then eat you. He certainly belonged on Market Street.

“Hello,” said Israel. “I wonder if you could help me…I’m looking for a Colin Wilson, who I think is a member here?”

The ponytailed man snapped out of his middle-distance reverie and focused on Israel with narrowed eyes.

“Annual membership is forty pounds,” he said. “OK?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “I mean, no. I just want to-”

“One day entry without membership is twenty pounds.”

“But I just want to talk to-”

The ponytailed man tapped a sign stuck up on the Plexiglas which stated the terms and conditions he’d just explained.

“But I just want to-”

“The rules are the rules. OK? If you don’t want to pay you can wait outside. There’s a big free street out there.”

“Right. Could you not make an exception, on this one…”

The ponytailed man could not make an exception.

Israel reluctantly dug out his money. He went for the day membership. The annual membership was obviously the better deal, but he couldn’t imagine he’d be coming back anytime soon.

The money rung into the till, the ponytailed man pressed a buzzer and said, “Through the door,” and Israel pushed against the door next to the booth and entered a dark room.

There were blinds drawn at the windows, and young men-all men, as far as Israel could tell in the gloom-were ranged around all four walls at computer monitors, frantically tapping away. Those who weren’t wearing headphones or earpieces were able to enjoy the kind of splintering, yelling, thrashing music that might have been the theme tune to Dante’s Inferno being blasted out from vibrating speakers set high up on the walls. There was cracked linoleum on the floor, and a smell of damp and adolescent deodorant. Even though it was on the first floor, it felt like a dungeon. It was horrible. Gustave Doré might just have done it justice.

No one looked up as Israel entered. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to make an impact in the room: to be sure of getting anyone’s attention he’d have had to switch off the main power supply. Instead, he did the next best thing and went and tapped one of the young men on the shoulder. The young man’s computer screen showed a chariot racing around the rim of a canyon filled with flames, and unfortunately, as Israel tapped him on the shoulder, the chariot skidded and went hurtling over the edge into the fiery pits below. The young man turned round furiously and pulled an earpiece from one ear.

“What the fuck are ye doing?”

“Hi,” shouted Israel, as best he could above the sounds of death metal. “Sorry. I’m looking for Colin? Colin Wilson?”

“You interrupted me!” said the young man.

“Sorry,” said Israel.

“I’m playing fucking Chariots of War here!”

“Right. Yes. It looks very-”

“It’s a fucking beast! And you’ve fucking killed me!”

“I’m sure it is a beast,” said Israel. “And I’m very sorry. But do you happen to know where I could find Colin Wilson?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, good.”

“How about up your fucking arse! You fucking idiot!”

“Right. Well, thank you. Thank you very much,” said Israel.

“Fuck off!” said the young man, turning back to the screen.

“Charming!” said Israel as he walked away.

It took two more taps on the equally unforgiving shoulders of equally charming individuals before Israel managed to track down the person he thought was possibly Colin. He was rocking slightly backward and forward in his seat, twirling a ballpoint pen between the fingers of his left hand. He looked like a cross between a computer nerd and a bodybuilder. With dyed black hair. Israel took a deep breath and tapped again.

The young man swiveled his seat round, much as a computer-game-playing Bond villain might swivel round.

“Hello!” said Israel. “Colin? Colin Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“I wonder if I might talk to you for a few moments?”

“Are you the police?”

“No. I’m a librarian.”

“Ha!” said Colin.

“What’s funny?” said Israel.

“You’re joking, are you?”

“No.”

“You’re a librarian?”

“Yes. And I’m investigating the disappearance of Lyndsay Morris.”

“I thought you just said you were a librarian?”

“Well, I’m sort of doubling up as a-”

“Detective?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re a librarian slash private detective?”

“Yes, I suppose you could-”

“Wicked! Is this some sort of setup or what?”

“No.”

Colin punched the man sitting at the next terminal on the shoulder.

“Hey!” he said. “Is this is a prank?”

“What?” said the young man.

“Is this a prank?”

“Is what a prank? What are you talking about?”

“This bloke says he’s a librarian slash detective.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said the young man, turning back to his screen.

Israel continued smiling, trying to look suitably like a librarian slash detective.

“So you’re for real, are you?” said Colin.

“Yes,” said Israel. “I am definitely for real. One hundred percent.”

“I’ve already spoken to the police,” said Colin.

“Well. I just wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time. It would be a big help to me and might help find Lyndsay.”

Colin looked Israel up and down.

“All right,” he said. “This is totally random, but.”

“Great. Thank you,” said Israel as Colin got up. “Is there somewhere quiet we can talk for a moment?”

“All right,” said Colin. “But only because you’re a librarian slash detective. You guys are an endangered species.”

“Thanks,” said Israel.

They went out through the main door and then straight out a fire door onto a narrow fire escape.

“Nice,” said Israel.

“It’s the smoking terrace,” said Colin. “Do you smoke?”

“No,” said Israel.

“Me neither,” said Colin. “I just come here for the views.”

The smoking terrace afforded unenviable views of the back of Tumdrum High Street’s various takeaway establishments and the main car park.

They stood leaning over the fire escape railing.

“So, librarian slash private detective, how can I help you?” said Colin.

“Well, I’m looking for Lyndsay.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Israel didn’t feel he could say that if he didn’t find her his name would be in the Impartial Recorder. “I know you two were…close. I just wondered what you thought had happened to her.”

“Like I told the police, I think she’s just having a benny.”

“A benny?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I quite catch your drift.”

“Catch my drift?” said Colin, mimicking Israel’s Estuary accent. “Are you for real? Where are you from?”

“Not from round here,” said Israel.

“No. I can tell that. She’ll be back soon-”

“Right,” said Israel. “Can I ask-I know it’s personal, and please don’t feel you have to…if you aren’t…-anyway, you and her, your relationship was…”

“It was just caj, you know,” said Colin.

“Casual?”

“Yeah. Like, we were going out, it was OK. It was jokes, ye know.”

“Jokes?”

“Yeah. She was all right, we were into the same music, you know.”

“Goth?”

“No, not just Goth. Grime, dubstep, gabber, crunk, nu rave.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel, painfully realizing his youth was slipping away from him.

“But in the end, I was, like, CBA.”

“CBA?”

“Can’t be arsed?”

“Right, I see.” Israel was feeling older by the minute. “Can I ask how you got to know each other?”

“I don’t know. I think I had a mate who Facebooked her and then, well, you know…We’d cotch around at hers.”

“I see.”

“But then she was getting into this whole church thing, man, which is just dry, ye know.”

“Which church thing?”

“The whole house church thing. The happy clappies.”

“The happy clappies?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s weird. I was brought up Presbyterian, but I’m much more do what you want, you know.”

“Yes, I think I know,” said Israel.

“Why don’t you just Facebook her and ye can find out everything.”

“There’s nothing like the personal touch,” said Israel.

“Right,” said Colin. “When it comes to private investigating.”

“Yeah,” said Israel.

The fire door opened and they were joined by a man wearing a white hoodie. His hair had been shaved completely at the back and sides, and the tufty remainder bleached into blondness. It gave him the look of a ferret. He looked Israel up and down as he lit a cigarette.

“Who’s this?”

“Librarian,” said Colin.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, he is,” said Colin.

“I am,” agreed Israel.

“Hufter,” said the man. “What’s he want?”

“He’s looking for Lyndsay.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yeah. He’s a librarian. But he’s all right.”

“Thanks,” said Israel.

The man looked at him.

“I’m Rory,” he said.

“Hello, Rory,” said Israel.

“I didn’t realize there were librarians anymore,” said Rory.

“Well, yes there are.”

“I thought Google had it all sewn up.”

“We’re struggling on,” said Israel.

“You want to think about retraining, mate.”

“Yes,” said Israel, wistfully. “Probably I do.”

“Still no sign of Lynds then?” said Rory to Colin.

“No.”

“You’d already split up, mate, though, hadn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“You want the real answer or the answer I gave the police?” said Colin, who seemed momentarily to have forgotten that Israel was there.

“The real answer would be great,” said Israel, chipping in.

“She was fed up with the time I spent editing Wikipedia!” said Colin.

Rory laughed.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You edit Wikipedia?” said Israel.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Colin.

“I’ve never met anyone who edits Wikipedia before.”

“Well, you’ve met one now.”

“Gosh. I didn’t think…Can anyone do it?”

“Doh! That’s the whole idea, isn’t it?” said Rory.

“Yes, well, I suppose,” said Israel. “Does it take long?”

“I do about fifty hours a week.”

“Fifty hours a week! Fifty? Or fifteen?”

“Fifty.”

“That’s a full-time job.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“Do you get paid?”

“Of course you don’t get paid.”

“Do you get paid?!” said Rory. “Doh!”

“Would I be familiar with your work?” asked Israel.

“‘Would I be familiar with your work?’” repeated Rory. “Fuck’s sake! Where d’ye get him, Colin!”

“Yeah,” said Colin, ignoring Rory’s provocations. “I’ve got a couple of Featured Articles: Saruman you might know.”

“Sorry?”

“From The Lord of the Rings?”

“Oh, right. Yes, of course.”

“And a piece about James Thurber.”

“I love James Thurber!” said Israel.

“I’d never heard of him, actually,” said Colin. “I just like editing them.”

“I’ll tell ye what,” said Rory, finishing his cigarette.

“What?” said Israel.

“Libraries are fucking finished, man.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that-”

“Who needs a fucking encyclopedia when you can get it all online?”

“Libraries are repositories,” said Israel.

“That’s random,” said Colin.

“Yeah,” said Rory. “Repositories! Doh!”

“Well, gents, anyway, thank you for your assistance.”

“‘Well, gents,’” said Rory, “‘thank you for your assistance.’ Are you some sort of perv or what, mate? Looking for Lyndsay. You’re old enough to be her dad, you know.”

“Well, I’m not, I think I…” Israel did the sum in his head. Actually, he was old enough to be her dad. Technically old enough to be her father. He thought it was probably time to beat a retreat. “Thanks again, anyway, gents.”

“Check out that whole church thing,” said Colin, as Israel backed toward the door. “They are total weirdos. It’s like a cult, almost.”

“Right. Will do,” said Israel. “Thanks.”

“Hufter!” said Rory.