The Bad Book Affair

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.

“Hello?” said Ted. “Wakey wakey! Time to go?”

“Sorry,” said Israel. “What did you say?”

“Have you taken the strunt or what?”

“Taken the-”

“Strunt, for goodness’ sake. Somebody said something that’s upset ye?”

“No. I’m fine. I just feel a bit…queasy, that’s all.”

“Aye, well, whatever it is, ye’ll get over it.”

“I don’t know if I will, actually.”

“Aye, right. Heard it all before. Let’s get on. I want to be back home for my tea tonight, and I’ve choir practice later.”

“Right.”

Ted walked round to the passenger side of the van.

“What are you doing?” said Israel. “Where are you going?”

“You’re driving, remember?” said Ted.

“What?”

“Half and half is what we agreed.”

“Yes, but-”

“And I’ve already done more than my share.”

“Actually, Ted, I’m feeling a little bit…”

“Aye, right,” said Ted, walking back beside Israel, shaking his head. “I might have known. Always the blinkin’ same with you, isn’t it, eh?”

“No.”

“Aye. Ye shirker.”

“I am not a shirker.”

“Could have fooled me,” said Ted.

“I don’t mind driving,” said Israel, becoming agitated.

“Aye, right.”

“No, really, it’s fine, I’ll-”

“I’ll drive,” said Ted, walking round the other side of the van, toward the driver’s side.

“No, I’ll drive,” said Israel, catching up with him.

“I said, I’ll drive!” said Ted.

“I don’t-”

“Shut up and go and sit down,” said Ted. “And stop mucking me about. Ye give me the jandies, so you do.”

“The whatties?”

“Ach!”

Israel went and sat miserably in the passenger seat while Ted got back into the driver’s seat.

“Sorry,” said Israel, “I just-”

“I don’t want your apologies,” said Ted, starting up the engine and slamming the van into reverse. “I don’t know…What’s the point of having a dog and barking yerself, eh?”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s a saying, just.”

“Right, well, I-”

“One of yer headaches, is it?” said Ted, without sounding in any way sympathetic.

“No, it’s…”

“Ye’d only be deedlin’ along at ten miles an hour, anyway.”

“Deedling?” said Israel.

“That’s right,” said Ted, flooring the accelerator as he pulled back out onto the main road.

“Is that a word?”

“Of course it’s a word. I just said it, didn’t I?”

“Is it a proper word, though?” said Israel.

“What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve just never heard it before. It’s like jandies, and-”

“What, ye’ve heard every word in the English language, have ye, Professor?”

“No, not-”

“All fifty billion of them?”

“I don’t think there are fifty billion words in the English language-” said Israel as they began to pick up speed past the outlying areas of Ballynahinch.

“Aye, well,” said Ted. “However many, deedlin’s one of them.”

“Right,” agreed Israel.

“And jandies.”

“Sure. And what would be the opposite of deedling?”

“The opposite of deedlin’?” said Ted, as if no one had ever asked a more stupid question. “Going a dinger.”

“You’re making all these words up, aren’t you?” said Israel.

Ted’s response was to press PLAY on the cassette recorder.

“Expelliarmus!” he bellowed, and then Stephen Fry resumed reading.

They drove in silence the rest of the way down and into the Mournes, Israel spending most of the journey with his eyes half-closed, hoping it might somehow lessen the impact of his discovery of Gloria’s betrayal, as you might try to lessen the impact of a horror film by watching it through your fingers. It didn’t work. Scenes played before his mind, in appalling Technicolor: Gloria and Danny in flagrante, the whole thing in close-up, in detail, and in its entirety, as if he were in the clutch of some perverse mania or delirium, or in that film by Michael Winterbottom that he and Gloria had gone to see in the Coronet in Notting Hill. How had he not realized? Was he stupid? Had he missed something? Some intimation of this…outrage, this…betrayal, this…inevitability.

As they drove farther into the mountains, the roads became narrower and the bends sharper, and Israel’s anxieties rose as Ted’s driving style became correspondingly more relaxed. As they lurched round one corner, the van leaning dangerously to the left, Israel broke off from the explicit screenings in his mind and sat up with a start.

Ted, as usual, was driving with his knees.

“Can you stop driving with your knees?!”

“I am not driving with my knees,” said Ted, casually.

“Yes, you are.”

“I am driving with my thighs,” said Ted.

“Well, can you stop!”

“What, the van?”

“No, driving with your knees. You need both hands on the wheel here!”

“I was not driving with my knees. I was driving with my-”

“Yeah. Right. Whatever. It’s dangerous.”

“Ach,” Ted grunted, putting his hands firmly and deliberately on the wheel. “That all right?”

“Yes. Thank you,” said Israel.

Ted instantly lifted his hands off the wheel.

“Aaghh!” screamed Israel.

“Relax!” said Ted, laughing. “Ye’re wound up tight, boy, let me tell ye.”

“Right. Are we nearly there yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Ted. “You’ve got the map.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t need the map?” said Israel.

“Aye, well,” said Ted.

“Oh, so we do need the map?” said Israel, pulling an old, damp, dog-eared Ordnance Survey map from the glove compartment.

“Well, for the last bit of the journey, mebbe,” said Ted.

“‘I won’t need a map, sure’ were your exact words, I think,” said Israel. “As we were leaving Tumdrum.”

“Well,” said Ted. “Where is it we’re headed again?”

“We need the map,” said Israel, spreading the map out over his knees.

“All right,” said Ted. “Yes. We do.”

“You were wrong,” said Israel, his finger poised on the sheet.

“Aye, all right,” said Ted. “I was wrong.”

“Sorry?” said Israel, leaning over and cupping a hand to his hear. “What did you say? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I was wrong,” repeated Ted.

“Say it again,” said Israel.

“No,” said Ted.

“I like hearing you say it,” said Israel.

“Aye, right. Wise up,” said Ted. “And tell us where we are.”

Israel squinted at the map.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“That’s your job,” said Ted. “I’m driving.”

“That’s not my fault,” said Israel. “You wanted to drive.”

“No, you didn’t want to drive,” said Ted. “So, you’re reading the map.”

“Well, I don’t know where we are,” said Israel.

“What did the last sign say?” said Ted.

“I don’t know? Have you seen a sign recently?”

“Not recently,” said Ted. “No.”

“I thought you said you’d been down here before.”

“I’ve been down to Newcastle,” said Ted. “The Slieve Donard. Old friend of mine had his wedding reception there. Beautiful meal, so it was. We had braised lamb, so we did, with-”

“Yeah, maybe another time. At this moment I think we should-”

“Where is it we want again?” said Ted.

“Slievenaman,” said Israel. “I can’t see it here. Is that how you say it?”

“No idea,” said Ted.

“Anyway, some little cottage on Slievenaman, is what I think she said.”

“We’ll need to ask someone,” said Ted.

Israel stared out at the bleak mountain landscape all around them.

“What, a leprechaun? Or one of the little people? Or-”

“We’ll find someone,” said Ted.

“Yeah, right,” said Israel.

They drove for another mile until they did find someone-an old man out walking, wearing a yellow fluorescent jacket and carrying a long stick. He didn’t look like a walker. He looked, worryingly, like a local.

Israel wound down his window.

“Hello!” he said, as brightly as possible.

“Ye sellin’ fish?” said the old man.

“No, no,” said Israel. “We’re not selling fish. We’re a mobile library.”

“Potatoes?” said the old man.

“No. Sorry. No potatoes either. We were just wondering-”

“Thon’s a brave yin the day,” said the man.

“Erm…” said Israel.

“Quare and warm.”

“Indeed,” said Israel. “I wonder if you could-”

“But she’s comin’ on plump,” said the man, pointing into the sky with his walking stick.

“Sorry? Coming on plump?”

“Aye,” said the man. “I used to cut turf up here.”

“Right, lovely,” said Israel.

“Until the peelers and all put a stop to it. The world’s a miserable, crabbit sort of a place, isn’t it?”

“Actually,” said Israel, who knew when he was beaten, “you know what? I’m just going to hand you over to my colleague here.” He leaned back, to let Ted do the talking.

“Hi. How are ye?” said Ted.

“All right,” said the man.

“We’re after”-he spoke to Israel-“where is it we’re after?”

“Slievenaman,” said Israel.

“Slievenaman?” said the old man. “Ye’ll not get to Slievenaman from here.”

“Oh,” said Israel.

“Ye’d need to be back down the road.”

“Right.”

“And ye know the Fofanny Dam?”

“Er, no.”

“Turn yerself around,” said the old man.

“Hold on,” said Israel. “Let me find a pen here, and I’ll just make a quick note.” But “Where are ye from?” the old man had asked, and before the pen could be successfully retrieved for a quick note and a speedy getaway, the old man and Ted had started swapping stories about dance halls and places and people from long ago. After five minutes of hit-and-miss reminiscence, Israel managed to wrestle the conversation back to the question of how to get to Slievenaman, and they were finally away again, Ted executing a tricky three-point turn, the old man conducting them with his stick.

“He’s right about the weather,” said Ted as they drove away.

“How do you mean?”

“She is coming on plump,” said Ted, pointing up toward gray clouds in the distance. “Let’s swoop in, grab her, and get home again. Like the SAS in the Iranian embassy siege.”

“Right,” said Israel.

Eventually they found the narrow lane that led toward a cottage, and parked up on the gravel by the stone boundary wall. The cottage sloped away before them, built on the incline of the mountain, as though it were not so much a building as a glacial deposit. The roof was thatched. There were small outbuildings, a little courtyard.

“Would have been a nice little farm once, I suppose,” said Ted.

“It’s not bad now, is it?” said Israel, looking at the rough open moorland spread as far as the eye could see. “Rural idyll, isn’t it?”

“If you say so,” said Ted.

They pushed open the wooden gate and went and knocked at the door. There was no answer. The knock seemed to echo across the fields and mountains.

“Now what?” said Ted.

Israel was bending over, peering inside the windows of the cottage: it had clearly been expensively renovated inside in a traditional style, with a prominent pine dresser and stone floors and what looked like milking stools for seats.

“Wow,” he said to Ted, “come and look at this.”

“It’s a cottage, said Ted. “I’ve seen plenty of cottages before.”

“It’s really cool, though,” said Israel.

“Aye, right,” said Ted.

There were colorful cushions on thick-string-seated chairs, a plain rug, oil lamps, and a huge wall-mounted plasma-screen TV over the open fire.

“It’s lovely,” said Israel.

“Looks dark and damp to me,” said Ted. “So, now what?”

“Well, she’s clearly here,” said Israel, straightening up.

“The Morris girl?”

“Yes.”

“Aye, how can you tell, Sherlock Holmes?”

“There’s a pink iPod nano sitting on the table in there.”

“And what’s that when it’s at home, then?”

“An iPod?”

“I’m joking,” said Ted.

“So she can’t have gone far.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t go anywhere without their iPods, do they?”

“Does she not have a car?” said Ted.

“She’s only fourteen,” said Israel.

“Hmm,” said Ted.

Israel gazed around.

“If you were fourteen, Ted, and you were hiding in this cottage, what would you do?”

“Get the bus to Newcastle and go home?”

“No. If you were here, hiding. I think she’s gone for a walk,” said Israel.

“In the mountains?”

“Yes.”

“Ach, don’t be soft.”

“Why?”

“If you live in the mountains, you don’t go walking in them,” said Ted. “Sure, I’ve lived in the Glens most of my life, and I’ve never been walking out. It’s only tourists go walking.”

“But she is a tourist, isn’t she? This is her parents’ second home.”

“Aye,” said Ted dismissively. “Second home. One not good enough for them.”

“Walk,” Israel confirmed to himself. “That’s definitely what she’d do.”

“Aye,” said Ted.

“That’s what I’d do.”

“Aye, you would,” said Ted. “Go all naturalistic, wouldn’t you.”

“Yes, well, sort of,” said Israel, who was walking away past the stone boundary wall. “Like Thoreau. I think if we follow this path…”

“Aye, right,” said Ted dismissively. “You follow away there. I’m going to sit in the van for a wee smoke.”

“You sure you don’t want to come?”

“Do I look like I want to go walking in the mountains?”

“No.”

“There you are, then. You work away there.”

So Israel went walking alone. He’d not walked in mountains for years: the last time was probably when he’d gone on holiday with his mum and dad to Wales when he was eight or nine years old. He’d never really understood the whole nature and sublimity thing: he found his sublimity in a nice cup of coffee on a bustling city street, a crisp copy of the Guardian before him, and the prospect of a day’s flaneuring ahead.

He followed the worn path up and up.

And after just ten minutes he sat down on a rock, exhausted, and shut his eyes. Even though he’d lost the weight, he was maybe not as fit as he could have been. Not that there was any previous, perfect state of fitness he’d fallen away from: he’d never been as fit as he could have been. He was sweating. And his knees hurt. But at least he hadn’t been thinking about Gloria and Danny. The walking had somehow allowed him to stop thinking. Just for a moment he had escaped his imagination, and he was living in the here and now. He allowed his breathing to become regular and deep, and he felt the warm autumn sun on his eyelids.

“Hi.”

Israel leaped up off the rock like a chamois leaping from a mountain peak.

“Oh god!” he yelled.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“You gave me the fright of my life!”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes. I’m fine, thank you. Yes,” gasped Israel.

“You’re the librarian, aren’t you? From Tumdrum.”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“And you’re Lyndsay,” said Israel, for Lyndsay indeed it was.

“What are you doing here?” said Lyndsay. “Out walking?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Actually, no, I’ve come to find you,” said Israel.

“Oh,” said Lyndsay. “You know, then?”

“I know that people back home are worried sick about you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“They are. Your parents are beside themselves.”

“They don’t care at all about me,” said Lyndsay, who looked remarkably well for someone who’d been hiding away in a remote cottage halfway up a mountain.

“Of course they care,” said Israel.

“My father is a scummy politician.”

“No,” said Israel, finding it difficult to disagree. “He’s…a man doing a very difficult job.”

“He’s a total scumbag,” said Lyndsay.

“No…” said Israel. “I wouldn’t say that. I think he’s a man who…”

“You don’t know him,” said Lyndsay.

“No. But I know of him,” said Israel.

Lyndsay sat down beside him on the rock. They both stared in silence at the vista-the admittedly sublime vista-before them.

“What did you think of the Philip Roth, then?” said Israel.

“American Pastoral?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t started it yet,” said Lyndsay. “I’m reading the Stephenie Meyer at the moment.”

“The vampire books?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” said Israel. “Really? I thought maybe you’d…Anyway.”

“I hate living there,” said Lyndsay.

“Where?” said Israel.

“Tumdrum.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Israel.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Where are you from?” said Lyndsay. “Originally?”

“London,” said Israel.

“I’d love to live in London.”

“Well, you can, when you’re older,” said Israel. “It’s open to all.”

“What’s it like living in Tumdrum, if you’re from London?” said Lyndsay. In all his time in Tumdrum no one had ever asked him that simple question. He didn’t quite know how to answer.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose it’s a bit like…It’s a bit like Groundhog Day.”

“I love that film!” said Lyndsay.

“Yeah,” said Israel. “Punxsutawney Phil.”

“Bill Murray,” said Lyndsay. “I love Bill Murray in that film.”

“Yeah. He’s good, isn’t he?”

“And in Lost in Translation.”

“Yeah,” agreed Israel. “And what was that other one? About Schmidt.”

“I think that was Jack Nicholson,” said Lyndsay.

“Was it?”

“Yeah, but he was…a bit like Bill Murray in that, I suppose.”

“Yes, he was,” agreed Israel.

He glanced up at the gathering clouds above them.

“She’s coming on plump,” said Israel. “And you really shouldn’t be out in the mountains in this weather. In clothes like…” Lyndsay was wearing a sort of black miniskirt, with black leggings and black pixie boots and a black T-shirt. “Sorry, I sound like my mother.”

“You sound like my father,” said Lyndsay.

“Shall we go back to the cottage, then?” said Israel.

They began walking back down the mountain, side by side.

“How did you find me, though?” said Lyndsay. “I didn’t think anyone would find me here.”

“I spoke to your mother,” said Israel.

“Is she all right?” said Lyndsay.

“She’s very upset,” said Israel.

“I’m sorry,” said Lyndsay. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted that you’re safe and sound.”

“Did she tell you where I was?”

“No,” said Israel. “I just sort of pieced it together. I spoke to your boyfriend-”

“Who?”

“Colin.”

“He’s my-ex, actually.”

“Well, he seemed very…nice.”

“God, no. He’s an idiot. He spends all his time gaming, it’s so boring.”

“It could be worse,” said Israel.

“Really?”

“He could be a librarian.”

Lyndsay laughed.

“What made you become a librarian?”

“You make it sound like a conscious decision.”

“Why? Was it not?”

“Well. As you get older,” Israel started saying-what was he saying?-“you realize that all your decisions are not necessarily made consciously by you, if you see what I mean. I mean, it would be like me asking you why you’re a Goth?”

“I don’t know,” said Lyndsay.

“There you are,” said Israel.

“I just…am. It’s just like…a state of mind.”

“Well, that’s me being a librarian,” said Israel.

“It’s a state of mind?”

“Something like that.”

“People think being a Goth is just, you know, Morticia Addams fashion,” said Lyndsay.

“But it’s not?”

“Not at all. It’s about experiencing the world in a more intense way.”

“Right. I spoke to Adam Burns, as well.”

“From Kerugma? Did you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been stalking me, then, basically?”

“No,” said Israel. “I’ve been trying to find you.”

“Why?”

Israel thought this probably not the moment to explain about Veronica and the police.

“Just. Doing a good turn, I suppose.”

“I do love it here,” said Lyndsay. There was a clap of thunder as they approached the cottage, and the first fat rain drops began falling. Israel could see Ted in the distance.

“It is beautiful,” agreed Israel.

“I used to come here with my mother when I was young, when my dad was too busy working.”

“What’s that over there?” asked Israel, pointing to something shimmering in the distance.

“That’s the Trassey River,” said Lyndsay.

“Right.”

“And that,” she said. “You see there, between the two peaks?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the Hare’s Gap.”

“Right.”

“And there’s a path there called the Brandy Pad, where people used to smuggle stuff.”

“Wow.”

“And there’s Clonachullion Hill there, and the Spellack cliffs.”

“You really know your stuff,” said Israel.

“I guess.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“Yes,” agreed Lyndsay. “I suppose I am.”

They reached the cottage.

“Well, well,” said Ted, as they approached. “By the seven secrets of the Ballymena coach builders! If it’s not our missing young lady.”

“Hi, Ted,” said Lyndsay.

“How are ye?” said Ted.

“Fine,” said Lyndsay.

“We takin’ ye home, then?”

“Yeah.”

“We should ring her parents and let them know,” said Israel. “They’re worried sick.”

“No,” said Ted. “Let’s ring later.”

“Why?”

“There’s no reception here, you’ll not get through.”

“But weren’t you just on your-” began Israel.

“No reception,” said Ted. “Quicker we get back in this weather the better.”

After Lyndsay had gathered her things from the cottage, they climbed into the van and began the long, rain-soaked drive back to Tumdrum, Ted and Israel up front, Lyndsay perched on the children’s book trough behind them.

“What are we going to do about this little lady, then?” said Ted as they accelerated through the torrential rain up the A24 toward the north coast.

“Get her back to where she belongs,” said Israel. “Reunite her.”

“Hmmm,” said Ted.

“What?” said Israel.

“I think you owe us an explanation first, young lady, don’t ye?” said Ted.

“I just had to get away,” said Lyndsay.

“Aye,” said Ted. “Why was that, then?”

“The place was doing my head in.”

“Ye’d be better off telling us the truth, ye know.”

“That is the truth,” said Lyndsay.

“The actual truth,” said Ted.

“That is the truth, Ted,” said Israel, turning around and looking at Lyndsay. “Isn’t it?”

“The actual truth?” said Ted.

“Yes,” said Lyndsay.

“Ye pitched up down at the cottage all by yerself, did ye?” said Ted.

“Yes.”

“Get a lift?”

“No,” said Lyndsay. “I got the bus to Newcastle, and then just walked up to the cottage-”

“And no one knew you were there?”

“No.”

“You haven’t seen a soul?”

“No.”

“Funny that,” said Ted. “Because there were fresh tire marks on the gravel up at the cottage there.”

“Were there?”

“Mercedes-type tire marks, if I’m not mistaken.”

“How can you tell-” began Israel.

“I don’t know who that could have been…” said Lyndsay.

“No?” said Ted. “Who do we know who drives a Mercedes?”

“Lots of people,” said Lyndsay.

“Including your da?”

“Well…”

“Hold on,” said Israel. “Do you mean Maurice Morris has already been down here looking for her?”

“No,” said Ted.

“No!” agreed Lyndsay.

“I don’t think he’s been down here looking for her,” said Ted.

“Right,” said Israel, confused.

“Because he wouldn’t need to look for her, would he? He knew full well that she was here all along. Didn’t he, Lyndsay?

Israel looked into the rearview mirror and could see that Lyndsay was looking shamefaced.

“No?” said Israel.

Lyndsay wiped away a tear.

“Steady on,” said Israel. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that our little Miss Runaway here was in caboots-”

“Cahoots?”

“Exactly. With her father.”

“No!” said Israel. “That’s ridiculous. That can’t be right. That’s not right, is it?”

“Yes,” said Lyndsay, from the children’s book trough. “It’s true. I’m sorry…”

“But you told me you’d run away!” Israel protested.

“Do you believe everything everyone tells you?” said Ted.

“No,” said Israel. “But…if he knew she was here, why didn’t he bring her back?”

“I think we’d best ask Lyndsay that one, hadn’t we?”

“Lyndsay?” said Israel, turning round to face her.

“Sorry,” she said between sobs.

“Best to tell the truth,” said Ted.

“Yes!” said Israel rather more forcefully than was necessary. “Tell us the truth!”

Ted slapped him round the head.

“We’re not the KGT.”

“KGB,” said Israel.

“Or them,” agreed Ted. “In your own time, my dear.”

Lyndsay wiped her eyes.

“My dad asked me to come down here,” she said.

“Why?” said Israel.

“He wanted the publicity.”

“What?”

“He thought it would get him the sympathy vote. In the election. After the way he’d treated Mum, everyone hated him. And he’d gone from being Mr. Popular to being…”

“A total scumbag,” said Ted.

“Yes.”

“Did your mum know about it as well?”

“No, no,” said Lyndsay. “She didn’t know. They don’t really get on anymore. They just argue at home. But I thought if Dad got elected again, things might-” And she started sobbing again.

“That’s all right, darling,” said Ted.

All three of them sat in silence as they drove through Ballynahinch.

“Well, now what?” said Israel.

“Please,” said Lyndsay, “you mustn’t tell anyone. If people find out-”

“If people find out yer da put you up to it, he’ll not be able to show his face in Tumdrum again,” said Ted. “And he’d lose the election, for sure.”

“Which wouldn’t be such a bad-” began Israel. “Sorry, Lyndsay.”

“It’s all right. I wouldn’t vote for him anyway,” said Lyndsay.

“But you were prepared to do all…this for him.”

“He’s my dad,” said Lyndsay.

“Well,” said Israel. “That’s…”

“Let’s listen to some Harry Potter, shall we?” said Ted.

“Which one is it?” said Lyndsay.

“Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone,” said Ted.

“Oh great.”

“Oh no,” said Israel.

“And we’ll have a little think for a bit,” said Ted.

Lyndsay eventually dozed off to Stephen Fry’s susurrations. And they were finally back on the coast road up to Tumdrum.

“She’s asleep,” said Ted.

“Seems to be,” said Israel. “And we’re nearly back.”

“We’ve a decision to make, then,” said Ted.

“Yes.”

“What about your journalist friend?”

“What about her?”

“If you tell her, it’d be fate accomplished.”

“Fait accompli,” said Israel.

“Be in all the papers. The big fella’ll be finished. Divorce of the wife, I wouldn’t wonder.”

“God. So what if we don’t tell anyone?”

“Yon Lyndsay’s just a runaway, then, who’s happily reunited with her parents.”

“And Maurice Morris gets the sympathy vote.”

“He thinks,” said Ted.

“A moral dilemma, isn’t it?” said Israel.

“That it is,” said Ted.

“Between public and private,” said Israel.

“Probably,” said Ted.

“E. M. Forster again,” said Israel.

“Who?” said Ted.

“E. M. Forster.”

“He play for Chelsea?”

“No! He’s a famous writer.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know him if he offered me a sausage sandwich,” said Ted.

“He’s dead,” said Israel. “So it’s not likely.”

“Aye.”

“Anyway, he famously said that if offered the choice between betraying a friend and betraying his country he hoped he’d have the courage to betray his country.”

“Hmm,” said Ted.

“What?”

“I don’t know about that.”

The sign up ahead said Welcome to Tumdrum.

“Decision time,” said Ted.