The Bad Book Affair

4

They waved good-bye to Pearce playing his viola outside and pushed into the crowds. Even by the usual packed standards of Zelda’s on a Friday morning, Zelda’s was packed: you couldn’t move for the thick fug of car coats, steamed milk, and potpourri.

“Oh god. What the hell’s happening in here?” said Israel.

“Busy,” agreed Ted.

Zelda’s Café was a kind of holding area for the nearly departed, a place where the retired of Tumdrum assembled for coffee and scones before ascending toward the Judgment Seat and the Gate of Heaven; it was a place neither in nor entirely of this world, or certainly not of the world that Israel wished to inhabit; not a world he could ever feel a part of. It wasn’t that they were bad people, the ever-fragrant coffee-and-scone crowd in Zelda’s. In fact, they were very decent people-sweet, sweet milky coffee ran in their veins, and they were as good-hearted as the glacé cherry in a cherry scone. They just weren’t Israel’s kind of people. And here they all were, gathered together, just about every last one of them: it was as though Zelda’s was staging the worldwide scone and coffee fest. Scoffest.

“We’ll never get a seat,” said Israel, staring at the heaving throng. “Shall we go somewhere else?”

“There is nowhere else,” said Ted.

“Ah,” said Israel. “Yes. You see. There’s the rub.”

“Give over,” said Ted.

“Come on, ye, on on in,” said Minnie, bustling over, frilly pinny on, brown cardigan sleeves rolled up. “Plenty of room, gents, plenty of room!”

“God. Really?” said Israel. “Isn’t it a little-”

“And none of yer auld language here today, please. We’ve a visitor. Come on on.” She waved them forward and started to lead them through the crowded café, like a guide taking tourists through a souk in Marrakech.

“Who’s the visitor?” said Israel, squeezing between car coats.

“A Very Important Person,” said Minnie.

“Who?” said Ted.

“Nelson Mandela?” said Israel.

“Och!” said Minnie.

“The Berlin State Philharmonic?”

“What?” said Minnie.

“You know you’ve got Pearce outside busking?”

“Ach, he’s harmless, bless him,” said Minnie.

“He’s away in the head,” said Ted, demonstrating what he considered to be a state of away-in-the-headness by rolling his eyes and lolling his tongue.

“He’s not well,” said Minnie.

“It’s the Haltzeimer’s,” said Ted.

“The what?” said Israel.

“Have you lost weight, pet?” said Minnie, glancing behind her.

“Just a bit,” said Israel.

“He’s depressed,” said Ted.

“I am not depressed,” said Israel.

“Split up with his girlfriend back in London,” said Ted.

“Oh dear,” said Minnie. “And you’ve grown a beard as well,” she added.

“Adding insult to injury,” said Ted.

“Top-up of coffee when you’ve a minute,” said a man in the traditional Zelda’s getup of car coat, plus a suit and a tie, and a zip-up pullover, with a Racing Post propped before him, as Minnie bustled by.

“Make that two,” said his similarly attired companion.

“And I’ll take another date and wheaten scone,” piped up another identically clad man at another table.

“And me!”

“Cinnamon scone, and a large cappuccino?” called someone else.

“Och, all right,” said Minnie, squeezing past women whose calorie intake had clearly exceeded recommended daily amounts for some years, and men whose red, flushed faces suggested that an occasional tipple had become a rather more regular routine. “Give me a wee minute here, will ye?”

Zelda’s was not the Kit Kat Club.

“So who’s the VIP?” said Ted. “Not the fat boy off the radio? He gets everywhere.”

“Stephen Nolan?” said Israel. “Oh god, no. Not him.”

“Stop it,” said Ted, pointing a finger at Israel. Ted insisted on the highest standards of nonblaspheming. “I like him.”

“No,” said Minnie. “Maurice Morris.”

“Oh god, not him, the f-” began Israel.

“I said, no language!” said Minnie. “He’s getting worse,” she said to Ted.

“I’ve warned you,” said Ted to Israel. “Ye bad-mannered bastard.”

“Come on, now,” said Minnie. “Let me squeeze you in the wee huxter here, and I’ll see if I can’t bring Maurice over for a wee chat. I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

“No!” said Israel.

“I’ll be back in a minute for your orders,” said Minnie, bustling away.

“Maurice Morris,” said Ted. “Well, well, well. The Man with the Plan.”

Maurice Morris, the Man with the Plan: Independent Unionist candidate for Tumdrum and District, out on the stump, one of Northern Ireland’s most popular politicians, admired by all and loved by many, until he’d fallen from favor and had been defeated-crushed, humiliated-by the Democratic Unionists at the last election, not because of any policy or political crisis, but because of the small complicating matter of his affair with one of his constituency workers, and the accompanying slight whiff of financial impropriety, which never came to more than a whiff but which was more than enough for the good people of Tumdrum, the scone and coffee crowd, who could smell a rat when they saw one and who had turned their car-coated backs to him and set their po-faces against him. It had taken Maurice years to patch things up and make himself anew, and only now was he seeking to regain his seat, which is why he was here in Zelda’s, the very heartland of Tumdrum, busy working the crowd, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, receding hair swept boldly back from his vast lined but deeply un-troubled forehead, looking every thickset square inch the comeback politician. In his campaign literature Maurice liked to draw attention to his confidence-inspiring six-foot-five-inch frame and his well-cut suits-suits for which he was, according to his campaign literature, renowned provincewide. His Savile Row pinstripes and his Jermyn Street shirts and ties, he believed, spoke for themselves, and they most certainly did; they told you everything you needed to know about Maurice Morris, or M ’n’ M, as he preferred to be called. His sparkling white teeth and his perma-tan spoke eloquently also-they sang out on his behalf-as did his reputation as North Antrim’s most successful independent financial adviser. What M ’n’ M did not know about mortgages, repossessions, and trusts in kind simply was not worth knowing: Maurice was the man, the big man in the big picture, financially, politically, and socially; this was a man who had been photographed consistently, for over a decade, in the Ulster Tatler, and the Belfast Telegraph, and the Impartial Recorder, with every Irish and Northern Irish celebrity, major and minor, excepting Bono, who was still on his wish list. Maurice was not just a politician or a businessman: he was a brand and a celebrity, and he was not a man to be underestimated, overlooked, doubted, mocked, questioned, queried, or in any other way challenged. Maurice Morris had been blessed at birth-by whimsical, apparently homonymic-and possibly crossword-puzzle-minded parents-with his own surname for a first name, and he had known from an early age that this somehow made him impregnable and unassailable, like God with Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Maurice was like New York, New York. He was entirely in and of himself; he was, according to his campaign literature, the Man with the Plan. His ostensible plan was accountable government, investment in jobs, reform of the planning process: all of the usual. His actual plan was to win back power by any means necessary. He’d done his penance, he’d made his apologies, and now he wanted back in. Israel had followed Maurice’s charmless charm offensive on the many billboards of County Antrim as he drove in the van every day, Maurice Morris’s shining face staring down at him: dominant, necessary, and appalling.

“So what is it, gents,” said Minnie, returning to take orders. “Two coffees and two scones of the day?”

“Aye,” said Ted.

“Right you are,” said Minnie. “And I’ll make sure Maurice comes and has a quick word with you.”

“I heard he’d had a cafetière fitted,” said Ted.

“A cafetière?” said Israel.

“Aye.”

“A cafetière is what you make the coffee in,” said Minnie.

“Not a cafetière, then,” said Ted. “Something like that.”

“A catheter?” said Israel.

“Well, I don’t want you asking him about that,” said Minnie.

“I don’t want to meet him anyway,” said Israel. “Thanks.”

“The man running to be your own elected representative?” said Minnie.

“Sure, you probably vote for the Shinners,” said Ted.

“The whatters?” said Israel.

“Now!” said Minnie. “We’re one big happy rainbow nation these days, Ted.”

“Does he have any actual policies, Maurice Morris?” asked Israel.

“Aye,” said Ted. “The same as the rest of them. Snouts in the trough and selling the rest of us down the river. I tell ye, I’ve some questions for Mr. Morris if he comes over.”

“That’s fine,” said Minnie, beginning to walk away. “Healthy democracy and all that-just you make sure you go easy on him, Ted. I don’t want any trouble. Nothing personal. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Nothing personal!” said Ted. “Adulterating so-and-so.”

“Ex-adulterer,” said Minnie, as a parting shot.

“Ex-adulterer?” said Israel.

“A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” said Ted.

Israel watched, fascinated, as Maurice slowly worked his ex-adulterating way from wipe-down-gingham-tableclothed table to wipe-down-gingham-tableclothed table, firmly shaking hands with the men and hugging the ladies and kissing the babies-grandchildren, mostly-and grinning and winking with utter conviction, as though there were no other place on earth that he’d rather be right now, a-grinning and a-winking, than right here, in Zelda’s Café. In his years out of office Maurice had read a lot of books about commu nication and persuasion and entrepreneurial self-realization and reinvention, and during his time in the wilderness he’d learned that in life generally and in politics in particular, no matter how you felt or what your circumstances, you needed to appear always as though this really mattered-this coffee morning, this photo shoot, this meeting, this community liaison event. Even if it didn’t. Which it didn’t. Maurice had become, even more than he was previously, an of the and in the moment kind of a guy. When Maurice Morris went out campaigning around Tumdrum and District he put all thoughts of himself, of his many personal successes and achievements, from his mind and focused instead on the little people and their problems and difficulties, and the amazing thing was, it worked. They flocked to him, the people, because he, Maurice Morris, was in the moment. He was the moment: he had presence, you couldn’t deny it, and right now, at this moment, middle-aged and elderly women who should have known better were in the moment with him, giggling and photographing each other, posing cheek to cheek with him, using the cameras on their mobile phones, many of them for the first time, delighted that they’d upgraded, as their daughters and the suited salespeople in the Carphone Warehouse in the Fountain Center at Rathkeltair had wisely suggested. There were megapixel flashes, and much automatic red-eye reduction, and laughter, and good-natured banter and repartee, and even though it was Zelda’s, and even though it was a Friday afternoon in September, and even though it was softly raining outside, it felt like a glittering gala event. Maurice Morris was about as glamorous as it got on the North Antrim coast. Short of George Clooney himself turning up in Zelda’s, as part of some promotional tour for a new film about the Giant’s Causeway-Atlantic Ocean’s Eleven?-Maurice Morris was it.

“Come on now, fellas, sit up straight,” said Minnie, returning with coffee and scones.

“What?” said Israel, mesmerized by this manifestation of pure, adulterated charisma in their midst.

“Sit up straight, for goodness’ sake,” said Minnie. “You make the place look untidy. He’ll be over in a minute.”

Minnie leaned across and pulled Israel’s T-shirt collar straight.

“There,” she said, “that’s better.”

“I’m not a child,” said Israel.

“Well…” said Ted. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. The mental age of a-”

“It’s my birthday next week, actually,” said Israel.

“Ah. Really?” said Minnie. “How old are ye going to be, pet?”

“About a hundred and twenty?” said Ted.

“Sssh,” said Minnie. “I asked him, not you. Do you know how old he is?”

“Not a clue,” said Ted. “But I could guess. What do you reckon?”

“Well…” Minnie looked Israel up and down: the mess of hair, the scrap of beard, the sullen cheeks, the gold-rimmed spectacles pushed up onto his forehead, the broken-down brogues, the baggy corduroy trousers, the Triple H World Wrestling Entertainment T-shirt featuring a grimacing sweaty-looking man with long hair in black underpants, one of Brownie’s. “Difficult to say,” she concluded diplomatically. “What do you think?”

“Hello?” said Israel, trying to break into the conversation, unsuccessfully.

“He carries on like a wee cappy, and he blethers on like a grumphie old man,” said Ted. “I’d place him around fifty.”

“Fifty! I’m not fifty!” said Israel. “Fifty! Do I look fifty?!”

“Early fifties?” said Ted.

“It’s the beard, maybe,” said Minnie.

“Fifty! I’m nowhere near fifty! I’m going to be thirty!”

“Thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” said Minnie.

“Middle age,” said Ted. “Make anybody depressed.”

“It’s not middle age,” said Israel. “And I am not depressed.”

“Might be older than middle age,” said Ted.

“Depends when ye’re going to die,” said Minnie.

“Right,” said Israel.

“No man knoweth the hour,” said Minnie.

“Right,” said Israel.

“Never mind,” said Ted.

“Never mind what?” said Israel.

“Thirty. Bad age.”

“It’s not a bad age. I have no problem with reaching thirty. That’s the least of my problems.”

“Good,” said Ted.

“I’ll leave you boys to it, then,” said Minnie. “Enjoy your coffee. And happy birthday for next week.”

“Thanks,” said Israel.

“Thirty,” said Ted, shaking his head.

Israel had no problem with thirty, actually. Thirty is not that old. When you think about it. At thirty, really, you’re still on the cusp of your twenties. At thirty you’re an honorary twentysomething-that’s a good way of looking at it. It’s like you’re the top of your year at school. You’re a September baby. At thirty you might still conceivably be a late developer. You have a whole lifetime still ahead of you. At thirty the world remains your proverbial oyster…

“Buddy Holly,” said Ted, slathering his scone with butter.

“What about Buddy Holly?” said Israel.

“He died young,” said Ted.

“Right. And your point is?”

“I’m just saying, like. He was what, twenty-one, twenty-two?”

“Right.”

“And the other fella.”

“Which other fella?”

“The actor fella. The leather jacket and the T-shirt.”

“Marlon Brando?”

“Ach, no, the other one.”

“James Dean?”

“Aye, that’s yer man. How old was he when he died?”

“I have no idea, Ted,” said Israel.

“Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“And?” said Israel.

“You’re a young man no more at thirty,” said Ted, taking a huge bite of scone, as if the scone itself might bite him back if he didn’t get at it quick enough.

“Yes you are,” said Israel. “Of course you are.”

“You’re not in your twenties in your thirties,” said Ted, chewing, his mouth wide open.

“Yes, right, that’s very true, Ted. Brilliant. Thank you for pointing that out. You’re not in your twenties in your thirties. You did maths in school, then?”

“Big difference, twenties and thirties,” said Ted, ignoring Israel, swallowing. “Big, big difference.”

“No it’s not.”

“I’m telling ye. Yer movers and shakers, they’ve all done their moving and shaking by thirty, haven’t they?”

“Well, some of them have, but-”

“Maurice Morris here.” Ted nodded toward the pin-striped figure of Maurice moving among them. “Look what he’d achieved by the time he was thirty.”

“I have no idea what he’d achieved, actually. But I’m sure-”

“Well, what about yer Romantical poets, then. What about them?”

“Who?”

“All done in, weren’t they, by thirty?”

“Who?”

“Kates and-” Ted attacked the scone again.

“Keats?”

“Aye. All hanged themselves, didn’t they, by the time they were-”

“No, they did not all hang themselves,” said Israel factually. “And I think Wordsworth lived till-”

“Exception that proves the rule,” said Ted. “Like Johnny Cash.”

“What?”

“Oldest swinger in town.”

“You’re losing me, Ted.”

“That’s why you’re depressed. The birthday and breaking up with the girl-”

“I am not-” said Israel.

“The beard. The diet.”

“I’m not on a diet!”

“Have it your way.”

“I will. Thank you. I think thirty is a fine age.”

Ted finished his scone. Israel looked around Zelda’s.

Thirty was an absolute disaster.

At thirty you could no longer pretend that you might have lived a different, more extraordinary life, because you’d already lived a large part of your life-thirty useless years, for goodness’ sake!-and it was utterly ordinary and straightforward and dull, dull, dull. Ted was right. At thirty you have lost touch forever with the great and the good and the rich and the famous-the simple fact is, you do not move and you do not shake. At thirty there’s no way you’re going to start behaving like…whoever the hell it was, it didn’t matter, because in fact you’re just a half-decent butcher or a baker or a candlestick-maker, or even a librarian, let’s say, for the sake of argument, a mobile librarian named Israel Armstrong, on the northernmost coast of the north of the north of Ireland, and your whole life-let’s just pretend, for who could possibly imagine a life of such inanity and nullity?-is preoccupied with cataloguing, and shelving, and making sure you remember to switch off the lights before you go home to the pathetic little converted chicken coop-imagine!-where you live on a farm-oh god-in the middle of the middle of nowhere around the back of beyond, and your idea of a good time is coming here to Zelda’s to drink ersatz coffee with elderly men and women in car coats…

Basically, his life was over.

“Israel?” said Ted.

Israel did not answer.

“Hey?” Ted clicked his fingers in front of Israel’s face. “Wakey wakey.”

“What?” said Israel.

“Ye eatin’ your scone?” said Ted.

“I suppose,” said Israel, as though a scone were all he deserved in life. “What is it today?”

“Bacon and cheese,” said Ted.

“Oh god. Not again. Why do they do that? That’s not a scone!”

“That’s a scone and a half,” said Ted.

“Exactly: that’s lunch,” said Israel.

“Ye not having it then?”

“I’m a vegetarian! How many times do I have to tell you!”

“Can veggetenarians not eat scones?”

“Vege-tarians,” said Israel.

“I didn’t know they couldn’t eat scones.”

“Not with bacon in they can’t.”

“Aye, well,” said Ted, reaching across. “There we are, now.”

Minnie bustled over with the coffee pot.

“Refill?”

Israel took a hasty sip of coffee.

“It tastes off,” he said grumpily.

“What does?” said Minnie.

“The coffee,” said Israel.

“It doesn’t.”

“Coffee can’t go off,” said Ted.

“The milk can.”

“Our milk is not off,” said Minnie.

Israel sniffed the milk in the jug.

“It’s fine,” said Ted.

“It must be the coffee then,” said Israel. “It has a sort of fishy smell. Is this an americano? Are you using that chicory stuff again?”

“Ach,” said Minnie, “the machine’s not working.”

“That machine has never been working,” said Israel.

“It has, so it has,” said Minnie.

“When?”

“It’s usually working.”

“Not since I’ve been living here.”

“How long have you been living here?” said Ted, in an accusatory fashion.

“Long enough,” said Israel.

“Aye,” said Ted.

“Life sentence,” said Israel.

“Ooh, did you see Prison Break, Ted?” said Minnie.

“That the one with the tattooed fella?”

“Aye.”

“Was it on last night?”

“Aye.”

“I think I Sky-plussed it. I was watching this program last night about the American security services on the History Channel.”

“Ooh. Really? Was it any good?”

“In America,” said Ted, raising his fingers as though about to conduct. “In America, they have sixteen security agencies.”

“Sixteen?” said Minnie, impressed.

“I bet you didn’t know that, now, did you?” Ted said to Israel.

“No, I must admit, I didn’t-”

“There’s the CIA,” said Ted.

“Oh god,” said Israel. “Are you going to-”

“The FBI. The NSA.”

“Never heard of it,” said Israel.

“National Security Agency,” said Minnie.

“How do you know that?” said Israel.

“The Defense Intelligence Agency,” said Ted, counting on his fingers. And…some others.”

“Drugs Enforcement Administration?” said Minnie.

“Aye, that’s one,” said Ted.

“How the hell did you know that?” said Israel.

“Sure, wasn’t Denzel Washington in one of those films?”

“Was he?” said Ted.

“Aye?” Minnie turned to Israel. “Now what’s up with ye? You’ve a face’d turn milk sour.”

“The coffee,” said Israel, grimacing. “It really is-”

“I was telling ye, we can’t get the parts,” said Minnie.

“How long have you had the machine?”

“The Gaggia?” said Minnie. “I don’t know. Forty years?”

“Right. Well, there you are,” said Israel. “It’s obsolete.”

“It’s a very good make,” said Minnie.

“It’s an antique,” said Israel. “Like everything else in this godfor-”

Ted reached forward and clipped Israel round the ear.

“He smells lovely,” the women at the next table were agreeing among themselves at that very moment, as Maurice Morris wafted over to them, and he did, they were right, Israel could smell it as he ducked down with the force of Ted’s blow; he smelled absolutely lovely, Maurice; it was the sharp, sweet lemony smell of a Turkish cologne, which Maurice had discovered while on holiday with friends at a luxury golf resort hotel in southern Turkey some years previously, a cologne to which he had become famously-according to his campaign literature-addicted, and which he had sent over specially from London, and whose smell of exotic sweetness had until recently cut famously and decisively through the manly whiff of his cigar smoke, though, alas, since the beginning of his campaign Maurice had-also famously-given up smoking. You had to make certain sacrifices in politics, Maurice believed, and politicians were expected to set an example. Also, smoking was no longer a vote winner, so the cigars had had to go. A politician caught smoking cigars in public these days might as well have been caught patting a secretary on her pert little behind, or having an affair-for the sake of argument-with one of their constituency workers; those days, the good old cigar-chomping, camel-coat-wearing, secretary’s-pert-little-behind-patting, and constituency-worker-bedding days were long gone, and they sure as hell weren’t ever coming back. You had to keep moving with the times and keep on moving forward in politics, according to Maurice, which could be easier said than done, frankly: since giving up smoking he’d put on a few pounds around the waist, and if he was absolutely honest the last place he wanted to be was in a café surrounded by gray-haired men and women in car coats discussing coffee and cakes, but if these good people-his people, his constituents-wanted to talk traybakes, Maurice talked traybakes. He was like Jesus, Maurice Morris: his life was a living sacrifice.

“Tasty, ladies?”

“Yes,” said one of them.

“That was a statement rather than a question,” said Maurice, winking.

“Here you are,” offered one woman, “would you like a wee nibble of mine?”

“Well, thank you,” said Maurice, leaning down teasingly. “It’s not often I get an offer like that.”

“Go on, then,” said the woman, blushing and reaching forward with her fork, the dark brown confection poised perilously on the end. Maurice closed his mouth around the cake, winked at the assembled crowd, smacked his lips around the cake, and exaggeratedly chewed and swallowed.

“Mmmm!” he exclaimed suborgasmically. “That is delicious. So rich!”

“I think it’s made with buttermilk,” said the woman.

“Really?” said Maurice, entirely as if the use of buttermilk in cakes were a point of great interest to him.

“You have to use buttermilk,” piped up someone from the crowd.

“I can’t get buttermilk these days,” said someone else.

“Buttermilk,” repeated Maurice, confirmingly.

“Me neither,” said another woman.

“You ladies can’t get buttermilk?” said Maurice.

“No,” they all chorused.

“That sounds to me like a problem,” said Maurice. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” chorused the ladies.

“Well, let’s make a note of that,” said Maurice. This was where he really came into his own, M ’n’ M; this was where his years of independent financial advising and his reading of Neuro-linguisic Programming For Dummies really came into play: he profoundly understood that people liked to think that they were being consulted, even when they weren’t, that you had to give people at least the illusion that they were in charge of their lives and their destinies. Hence one of his favorite phrases, “Let’s make a note of that.” Maurice didn’t make actual notes of anything himself, of course-that would have been ridiculous; he always had a secretary with him-whose pert behind went noticeably unpatted-whose job it was to make notes of things.

“Buttermilk,” he said as he got up from the table. “Let’s see what we can do about that. Ladies, I hope I can rely on your vote.”

Of course he could rely on their votes: Maurice was the tallest and the best dressed and the most pointlessly and aggressively articulate Unionist politician in Northern Ireland, where there was plenty of competition in the pointlessly aggressive articulation stakes and no competition whatsoever between parties outside of their secure geographical and sectarian areas, which made Maurice’s reelection a real possibility. All he needed to do was to win back the popular vote and to get people on his side again-including his wife, Pamela, who’d stood by him through thick and thin, even though she had every reason not to, given the…unique…stresses and strains that Maurice’s career had placed upon their marriage.

“Here he comes!” said Minnie. “Quick! Sit up!”

“Macher,” said Israel.

“What!” said Ted.

“It’s Yiddish,” said Israel.

“I don’t like the sound of it,” said Ted.

“It’s just a word,” said Israel. “It means-”

“I don’t care what it means,” said Ted, “Shut up. Here comes his lordship. I’m going to give him a-”

And then there he was, in the flesh, Maurice Morris, looming over them, teeth a-sparkling, tan a-glowing, body a-facing them-whenever Maurice spoke he consciously moved his body to face the person he was talking to, so that they could feel the full force of his personality.

“Gentlemen, I’m Maurice Morris. I wonder if I can rely on your vote next Wednesday?”

“Aye,” said Ted, resolve failing, and blushing like a schoolgirl.

“Marvelous. And how about you, young man?”

Israel looked up at Maurice Morris, up at the blue suit, at the shiny tie, the rosy cheeks, the hair with some sort of shiny product in it, and he smiled.

“Nope,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Oh,” said Maurice Morris.

“He’s Jewish,” said Ted apologetically.

“Ah,” said Maurice Morris.

“What?” said Israel.

“Also, he’s not from round here,” added Ted. “So he’s probably not illegible.”

“Eligible,” corrected Israel.

“It depends if he filled in the census,” said Maurice Morris, speaking to Israel as though he were wheelchair-bound. “Did you?”

“I have no idea,” said Israel. “But I’ll not be voting for you anyway.”

“So, anyway,” said Minnie, glaring at Israel, beginning to usher Maurice Morris away.

“Well, good to meet you, gents. Enjoy your coffees,” said Maurice, ready to move on.

“Hold on,” said Israel. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Ssshh,” said Minnie.

“No, no, fire away,” said Maurice. “Always open to questions.”

“It’s a policy question,” said Israel.

“Good,” said Maurice.

“What are you going to do about global warming?”

Global warming was one of the many things that Israel felt bad about.

Minnie frowned but Maurice smiled his weird politician’s smile. This was not the usual traybake kind of a question. This was one of those questions that he’d said something about in his brochure. One of the things that had always distinguished Maurice from his rivals, according to his campaign literature, was the sheer quality and quantity of his campaign literature; his election brochure had been printed at an expense and in a style that might more properly have been used to advertise the first release of a complex of luxury apartments in Majorca, or a major development opportunity on the north coast, and Maurice also blogged (at mnmblogspot.com), and did e-mail circulars and had a MySpace site; he was, according to his brochure, Northern Ireland’s first and most successful cyberpolitican. And he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was he’d said in the brochure about global warming.

“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.