The Bad Book Affair

1

“Here we are, then,” said George, opening the creaking, paint-flaking, hinge-rusted, wood-rotting brace-and-ledge door to the former chicken coop that was now home to Israel Armstrong (BA, (Hons.)), certainly Tumdrum’s and possibly Ireland’s only English Jewish vegetarian mobile librarian.

“The king of Siam,” said Ted, striding in. “Let’s have a look at him, then.”

Israel lay on his metal-framed bed in the middle of the room, dirty quilt pulled up around him, broken-backed books everywhere, empty bottles of wine and Jumping Jack cider stacked around like giddy sentinels. A row of broad- shouldered peanut butter jars stood lined up on top of the rickety shelves next to the bed, staring down disapprovingly at the squalor below.

Israel raised his head wearily and dismissively from his book as George and Ted entered.

“Quite a sight, eh?” said George.

“Ach, for goodness’ sake,” said Ted.

“Morning, Israel!” said George.

Israel placed his index finger on the page of Infinite Jest that he was currently reading and rereading and rereading again, looked up at his visitors, returned to the book.

“This what he’s been like the whole time, is it?”

“Well, I only came across him last week,” said George. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen him for a while. He’d not been in the house, and I hadn’t seen him leaving for work.”

“Hmm,” said Ted, going up to the end of the bed, like a doctor on his ward rounds. “What’s with the auld face-lace then?”

“I think he’s growing a beard,” said George quietly.

“That’s always a bad sign,” said Ted.

“He might look all right with a goatee,” said George.

“I wouldn’t have thought it,” said Ted. “They look all right on goats, but…Maybe a mustache.”

“Ach, no,” said George. “No one has a mustache these days. They went out with the Troubles.”

“More’s the pity,” said Ted. “I had a nice mustache once. Back in the day.”

“Sorry. Excuse me? Can I possibly help you two?” said Israel, rubbing his forehead as if in great pain. “You do seem to have just barged into my home here.”

“I’ve brought Ted to see you,” said George.

“I can see that,” said Israel. “And do neither of you normally knock before you enter someone’s home?”

“Don’t ye dare get sharp with me,” said Ted.

“The door was open,” said George.

Israel tutted.

“Bit of fresh air is what ye need in here,” said Ted.

“Yes,” agreed George quietly. “It is a bit…rich, isn’t it. It’s damp, I think. And the chickens, maybe.”

“That’s not chickens,” said Ted.

“Well, his personal hygiene,” said George, whispering. “He has let himself go a bit, recently.”

“Lost the run of himself entirely,” said Ted, picking up a discarded tank top thrown on the bed and rubbing it disdainfully between forefinger and thumb.

“I think it’s because of the split with his girlfriend,” said George.

“Ach,” said Ted. “He needs to pull his finger out.” He glanced over at Israel. “Mind ye, difficult to pull your finger out if it’s never been in.”

“Hello?” said Israel. “I don’t want to appear rude, but could you leave, please? Is that too much to ask? A little privacy here, in the comfort of my own home?”

Ted tensed and stared at Israel fiercely. It looked for a moment as though he might actually reach out and grab Israel and throw him off the bed, but he seemed to think better of it, and instead he turned his back on him and wandered slowly round the coop, which didn’t take long-it was only one room-sniffing and poking around at the books and clothes piled on every surface. T-shirts. Toby Litt. Alice Sebold. Pants.

Israel’s ambitious program of refurbishment for the coop had stalled some time ago-his most recent acquisition, an old sofa that he’d found out in someone’s yard, was wedged tightly between the wardrobe and the Baby Belling tabletop cooker balanced precariously on a stool. The place clearly hadn’t been cleaned or tidied for quite a while.

“He’d always the breath of a garlic eater,” said Ted, fanning his hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to dispel the room’s fumes.

“I don’t think he’s been eating much,” said George.

“No,” said Ted, removing a spoon from an open jar of peanut butter.

“Hey!” said Israel. “Leave that alone! That’s mine!”

“Shall I leave you boys to it, then?” said George.

“Yes,” said Ted. “I think that’d be best.”

“No problem,” said George. “I thought it wise to get you in, Ted. I hope you don’t mind. We were all getting a wee bit worried about him. I wasn’t sure if I should have called the doctor.”

“Don’t ye be worrying about him anymore, my dear. No need for the doctor. I’ll soon have him sorted,” said Ted.

George shut the chicken coop door behind her.

“Right, ye brallion,” said Ted, stepping briskly toward the side of Israel ’s bed. “What are ye on, the auld loonie soup?”

“What?”

“What in God’s name d’ye think ye’re doing?”

“I’m not feeling well,” said Israel.

“Aye, right, me elbow. Lying in yer bed when there’s work to be done-yer head’s a marlie.”

“What?” said Israel. “What are you talking about? Bob Marley?”

“God give me strength,” said Ted. “Right. Up. Come on. It’s no good you lying there.”

“I can’t get up, Ted. I’m…cultivating my mind,” said Israel dreamily, stroking his beard. “Like Saint Jerome.”

“Who?”

“He’s the patron saint of libraries.”

“Patron saint of my arse. You can cultivate your mind out in the van with me. Come on.” He went to grab Israel ’s arm. Israel shrank back.

“Get off! I’m on holiday,” said Israel.

“Aye,” said Ted. “Ye were. But ye’ve had your two weeks off and another week off sick.”

“I’ve not been feeling well.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Ted. “Ye been in this stinking pit the whole time?”

“More or less.”

“Right. Good. Time to get out then.”

Ted threw the bedcovers from Israel, scattering books and toppling wine bottles in the process-merlot and Roberto Bolaño everywhere.

“Hey!”

“Up! Come on, let’s go.”

“Leave me alone!” said Israel.

“That I shall not,” said Ted. “Ye might be able to run rings round the others, but you can’t fool me.”

“I’m not trying to fool anybody.”

“‘We were all a bit worried about him,’” Ted said, mimicking George.

“There’s no need to be worried about me, thank you,” said Israel.

“Good. Up and out yer stinking pit then. Lyin’ in bed like a cripple-”

“We don’t say ‘cripple’ these days, Ted.”

“Aye. Lying in like a woman-”

“You can’t say-”

“No wonder ye don’t know what end of you’s uppermost.”

“What?”

“Come on. Up and out, ye bedfast.”

“Ted. Sorry. No. I’m staying here.”

“Ye’re due in work, boy. Come on.”

“Ted. Look. I really can’t be bothered.”

“Can’t be bothered?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t be bothered to work?” said Ted, incredulous.

“That’s right.”

“If a man work not, then how shall he eat?”

“Yeah, all right, spare me the lecture,” said Israel.

“That’s not a lecture, ye fool, that’s the Bible. Now come on. Get yerself up and let’s go.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Ted.”

“If you act like a child, then I’ll talk to ye like a child.”

“Well, I would appreciate it if you could just moderate your language and talk to me in a calm and rational fashion.”

“Calm and rational?” said Ted. “Calm and rational? What do you want me to say? ‘Please come back, Israel’? ‘We all miss you on the mobile library’?”

“Well, that might-” began Israel.

“Of course we don’t miss ye on the mobile library. Ye blinkin’ eejit. Ye’ve got a job to do. And you’re expected to do it, like anyone else. And don’t expect me to be covering for ye, because I’m not. Linda Wei’ll hear about this before ye know it, and ye’ll be out on yer ear.”

“So?” said Israel.

“So? I’ll tell ye what’s so. I’m stepping outside here for a smoke, and ye’ve got five minutes to get out of yer stinking bed before I lose my temper.”

Ted walked outside.

And Israel readjusted himself on the bed, pulling the quilt back up around him, plucking David Lean’s Great Expectations from out under the covers-he wondered where that had got to. He’d joined an online DVD postal delivery service, which was very good-unlimited DVDs, no late fee, twelve pounds per month, delivered to the door of the farm-and he’d been steadily working his way through the British Film Institute’s Top 100 films. The Third Man, Brief Encounter, The 39 Steps, Kes, The Red Shoes. Often he’d fall asleep in the coop to black-and-white images and then wake up in the morning to the sound of the shipping forecast on the World Service. Alfred Hitchcock, Dirk Bogarde, “And now the Shipping Forecast, issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency at 0520 today. There are warnings of gales in Rockall, Malin, Hebrides. The general synopsis: low Rockall 987, deepening rapidly, expected Fair Isle 964 by 0700 tomorrow.”

Sometimes he didn’t know where he was. Or what year it was. It was like he’d come adrift in his life.

He thought maybe he’d try ringing Gloria on his mobile again. He’d only rung a couple of times so far today. She hadn’t answered the phone to him since he’d arrived back in Tumdrum.

Straight to voicemail.

He’d try again later.

He picked up Infinite Jest again. Laid it back down. Started flicking through a month-old Guardian.

He scanned the job ads. He was seriously thinking about retraining. Administration. There were always jobs in administration. Israel knew he would make a great administrator. He just needed the right thing to administrate. How difficult could it be, being an administrator? “Israel Armstrong is The Administrator.” He could see it, in his mind’s eye. “When the going gets tough there are men who know how to take charge. Men who know how to make things happen. Men who know how to administrate.” He had many times cast the film adaptation of the book of his life-he imagined John Cusack playing him, or someone younger, maybe Owen Wilson, he would be fine, he had an intelligent face, and Harvey Keitel as Ted, maybe, and a nice little cameo for Steve Buscemi, although obviously he’d have to beef up a bit, and Salma Hayek would be perfect as Gloria…

The trouble was, though, he wasn’t in the film of the book of his life. He was in his life, in which he had split with his longtime girlfriend, Gloria, was living in a converted chicken coop, and was paid exactly fifteen thousand pounds a year as a mobile librarian on the northernmost coast of the north of the north of Northern Ireland. And he was nearly thirty. He had somehow become a shadow of himself, as though he were somewhere else and this thing-this body-was having experiences on his behalf. It was like his own life had become a series of ancient lantern slides, or an old video, or a shaky cine-show, or a snippet on YouTube, or a cinema trailer for a blockbusting main feature called Failure. He had no idea what he was doing here or what was the point or how he was feeling. All he knew was that sometimes, in the chicken coop, he’d wake in the night sobbing and sobbing, his chest heaving, and there were these black beetles all over the floor, and when he switched on the light the beetles froze, like they were holding their breath, waiting for something, their own destruction, or salvation, possibly, or the dark again, and that’s exactly what he felt like…

“Time up!” said Ted, bashing back through the door. “Not ready?”

“Look, Ted, I’m really not feeling the best this morning. Can we maybe reschedule?”

“Reschedule?”

“Yeah, look-”

“Reschedule?”

“Yeah. Just, if you could give me a couple of days maybe and I’ll get back to you.”

“Ye’ll get back to me?”

“Yeah. I just need a little time to take stock and-”

“Take stock!?”

“Yes.”

“Ach, Jesus. Fine.”

At which Ted walked over to the bed, bent down, locked his knees, and grabbed hold of the bed frame.

“I’ll tell ye what,” he huffed. “Take stock.” Huff. “Of.” Huff. “This!”

And he stood up, flinging the metal frame up as he stood.

Israel fell onto the floor, only the quilt protecting him from serious injury and a thousand cuts from the smashed wine bottles.

“What the hell are you doing, you madman!” screamed Israel, leaping up, flannelette pajama-clad, from the floor. “I could have broken my back!”

“Your back!” said Ted, straightening up. “Your back! I could have broken my blinkin’ back, ye eejit!”

“Yes, but-”

“Ahh!” said Ted painfully.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m not blinkin’ all right, ye eejit! Aahh!”

“Shall I get George, or-”

“No, ye shall not,” said Ted, drawing himself up stiffly to his not inconsiderable shaven-headed height. “What ye’ll do is get dressed in the van is what ye’ll do, or I’ll-”

“What?” said Israel.

“Ahh!” said Ted.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. Just, some of these joints haven’t been moved in a while, that’s all. Now. Where were we?”

“You were just-”

“Ach, aye. Yes. In the van, come on. Now.”

“Or?” said Israel.

“Or,” said Ted. “I’ll ring your mother.”

“No,” said Israel. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes,” said Ted, hobbling toward the door. “I would.”

Israel’s mother had recently made a brief and disastrous visit to Tumdrum, where, as a loud, extravagant, wildly hand-gesturing, menopausal scarf-wearing, middle-aged north London Jew, she had made quite an impact on the local dour, largely Presbyterian, muttering community. She and Ted had formed an unnaturally close bond, and Ted had spent much time with her, taking her to visit Northern Ireland’s supposed tourist attractions-the place where the Titanic was built, for example, and the colorful sectarian murals of Belfast-leaving Israel to single-handedly man the mobile during the day and to sit up waiting for their return late in the evenings. They would return flushed and smelling suspiciously of cigarettes and drink. Israel’s mother had successfully managed to embarrass Israel the entire length and breadth of Tumdrum, including at an agonizing dinner at the Devines’, the farm where Israel stayed as a lodger, during which she had flirted outrageously with old Mr. Devine, and had spent all evening urging George to adopt a rigorous daily beauty routine.

“And I’ll tell ye what,” said Ted, gesturing toward the debris in the coop. “When she hears about all this auld nonsense she’ll be over on the next flight.”

“No!” said Israel. “You wouldn’t-”

Ted had his mobile phone in his hand.

“Five minutes,” he said. “In the van. And don’t ye dare waste another moment of my precious time.”

Five minutes later, Israel was in the van.

“There we are, then,” said Ted.

“Humpff,” said Israel miserably.

“I tell ye what, son, ye want to learn to count your blessings,” said Ted as he slammed the van into first and pulled out of the Devines’ yard.

“What?”

“Ouch!” said Ted.

“You OK?”

“My back. Never mind it. Yer blessings. Ye want to count them.”

“Right. All right, Ted, thank you. I’m here, all right. I don’t want to hear any more-”

“Go on, then.”

“What?”

“Count ’em.”

Israel sighed.

“Go on,” repeated Ted. “Count ’em.”

“Ted. I’m really not in the mood. I have a headache and I’m really not well.”

There was a pause of a few seconds.

“Ye counted ’em?”

“I am not counting my blessings, Ted. Thank you.”

“How many d’ye get?”

“I’m not counting blessings!”

“Aye. Because ye’re scared.”

“What? Scared of what?”

“That yer miserable life is not as blinkin’ miserable as ye like to think, ye streak of misery. I tell ye what, as long as ye’re dodging the undertaker ye’re doing OK.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Good. Are ye ready?”

“Do I look like I’m ready?”

“Count them.”

“All right. All right,” said Israel, who had learned from long experience that the only way to conclude an argument with Ted was to lose it.

Israel attempted to tot up his blessings in his mind, while Ted pulled onto the main coast road back into central Tumdrum.

“So, how many d’ye get?” said Ted.

“Two,” said Israel. He was alive, after all. And he wasn’t starving.

“Two?”

“Yes,” said Israel.

“That it?” said Ted. “Two?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “Alas.”

“Well, that’s better than one,” said Ted, “isn’t it. Sure, some people have no hands.”

“What?” said Israel, watching the grim outer-lying estates flashing by.

“No hands,” repeated Ted, sticking his own arm out the window as they approached the first of Tumdrum’s many mini-roundabouts. “Must get that indicator fixed.”

“Some people have no hands?” said Israel.

“That’s right. I saw a program on the television the other week, about a fella with no legs.”

“No legs?”

“Aye. Makes ye think, doesn’t it? Come back to me when you’re in that sort of a position and start complainin’ and I might start listening to ye.”

“Right, OK. When I’ve lost my legs in some horrific-”

“Or yer arms.”

“Or my arms.”

“Aye. Get back to me then with yer troubles.”

“I will, Ted, most certainly get back to you when I have lost either my arms or my legs-”

“Or both.”

“Both.”

“And ye might get some sympathy then. In the meantime,” continued Ted, “turn the peat.”

“What?”

“It’s a saying.”

“Right.”

“And get a haircut and a shave as well while ye’re at it-that’ll cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering up, Ted.”

“You need a haircut and a shave, but.”

“All right, thank you. Let’s drop this whole conversation now, can we?”

“Well, I promised yer mother I’d look out for ye, and I don’t intend lettin’ her down.”

“I don’t need you keeping an eye on me, Ted, thank you.”

“Well, believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do either, but I told your mother I would, and I will. She’s a good woman, yer mother.”

“She doesn’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course she needs to worry about ye,” said Ted. “That’s what mothers are supposed to do.”

“Right.”

“You know what they say.”

“No. What?”

“You always meet your mother when you’re young.”

“Right,” said Israel. “Well, thank you, Martin Buber. Illuminating as ever.”

They were approaching the square, the downtown of Tumdrum.

“Ye probably just need a new challenge,” continued Ted.

“Probably,” agreed Israel.

“A hobby,” said Ted, “is what you need.”

“A hobby?”

“Aye. A choir or something.”

“A choir?”

“Or line dancing.”

“Line dancing?”

“Aye, or a jigsaw even.”

“A jigsaw?”

“Or walk a good brisk mile every morning. That’d cure you.”

“A jigsaw?” repeated Israel.

“Yes.”

“And a good brisk walk.”

“Aye.”

“I’m sure that’d do the trick, Ted. But can we talk about something else now, please?”

“It wasn’t me got us started on the subject of yer hartship,” said Ted.

“Anyway,” said Israel.

They pulled off the main road.

“Ye all ready for the morning, then?” said Ted.

“Oh yes,” said Israel, who wasn’t ready at all. He’d spent the best part of two weeks in bed reading David Foster Wallace, and he’d lost all track of time, place, sense, meaning, or himself. “What day is it? Where are we going?”

“It’s Friday. All day. Morning in the lay-by. And then we’re off to the school.”

“Oh god. No.”

“No language, thank ye.”

“Oh Jesus,” said Israel.

“Shut up,” said Ted, leaning over and slapping Israel across the back of his head. “I’ll not tell ye again.”

Israel and Ted were back in business.