The Case of the Missing Books

11

Israel was not exactly feeling welcome anywhere-not at the farm, not in Tumdrum, not in fact on the whole of the island of Ireland generally, which had not turned out to be the place he had imagined it might be, and if his father had been alive, he'd have called him and told him so. As it was, he'd called his mother a few times, but he didn't like to tell her exactly how he was getting on, in case she said, 'I told you so.' He kept on calling Gloria, but she was always too busy to talk:

'Hello?' he'd say.

'-.'

'It's me.'

'-.'

'Israel.'

'-.'

'Yeah, sure. I'll call you later.'

'-.'

'Yeah. Fine.'

'-.'

'No, that's fine. Yeah. OK. Bye. Bye.'

He missed her. She didn't seem to be missing him.

He was feeling pretty alone, then, in this godforsaken wasteland, and he most certainly did not expect to find himself feeling welcome in church of all places, but it was strange, he didn't have a problem being here now, in Tumdrum First Presbyterian; there was a Second, also, apparently, according to Mr Devine, and a Third and a Fourth, and if they were all like this then Israel felt he could maybe reconsider his position on the Christian Church, if not indeed on Christianity as a whole. Presbyterians might as well have been theosophists as far as Israel was aware, and they may have practised child sacrifice and believed in every kind of impossible thing, but he liked their style.

The big double church doors had been wide open when he arrived in town and wedged the mobile library in the nearest on-street parking space, just nudging the kerb, and there may have been a slight bump with the car behind, but nothing major, no lasting damage, and nobody seemed to notice so nobody needed to know.

And then he checked in his wing mirrors and leapt out of the van and ran inside the church, really sprinted-which was quite a feat, given the state of his old brown brogues and those pinchy combat trousers of Brownie's, and the amount of potatoes he'd been having to eat recently to make up for the lack of any alternative vegetables of any kind or any non-meat protein. He ran as fast as he could, under the circumstances; the last thing he needed was people stopping him and trying to borrow library books; anyone might have thought he was a librarian.

There'd been no sign of the map of Tumdrum in the post from Amazon.co.uk, or indeed of any post arriving for him at the Devines' whatsoever and he'd decided that before setting out on any more wild-goose chases to Ballygullable-Ballygullable, God-or anywhere else, he'd try the Reverend Roberts at First Presbyterian, who Minnie believed might have a map and who might be able to help him out.

Inside, Tumdrum First Presybterian was a root-bare kind of a church which looked as though the Reformation had just happened, about half an hour ago, and people had just been in with their lime and whitewash and stripped and scraped out all the craven images and left the place looking sparkling clean and not unlike a fresh-painted gallery waiting to be hung with one or two tastefully abstract paintings; a nice Rothko, maybe, or something done with a roller and a tin of matt emulsion, nothing too challenging or religious. It was a bit like the soft-seating area in a corporate reception: in fact, the church reminded Israel of the reform synagogue he'd sometimes attended with his mother as a child, which was more like a doctor's waiting room than a place of worship; all it would have taken would have been a few dog-eared copies of the National Geographic and the place could have been in business as a kind of giant, open-plan orthodontist's.

'Yes?' said an elderly, black-suited man, with a face like a gargoyle and a little floral pinny around his waist, who popped up suddenly from behind the large, oak lectern as Israel wandered down the aisle.

'Bloody hell!' said Israel.

'Mind your tongue now,' said the man.

'Sorry. I…Erm. You gave me a hell of a fright there.'

'Aye,' said the man, who was holding a large multicoloured duster-on-a-stick, which he was now absentmindedly flicking around the lectern. 'But this is a house of God.'

'Yes. Sorry.'

'And what would you be wanting exactly?'

'Erm. Well. You're not the Reverend Roberts by any chance, are you?'

'That I am not.'

'Right. Sorry. I was hoping to see the, er, minister.'

'The Reverend Roberts?'

'Yes. If that's him.'

'Aye, it is, surely.'

'OK. Well, I wonder if I might be able to see him?'

'Aye. Mebbe.'

'Is he around?'

'Well, he's in, but he's out.'

Oh, God, another comedian. These people gave him a headache.

'OK,' said Israel pleasantly.

'Would you be having an appointment at all?' asked the man.

'No. No, I don't, I'm afraid. Do I need an appointment?'

'Generally those that don't, do, and those that do, don't.'

'Erm. Well, I can always come back later if now is not convenient.'

'Mebbe.'

'Right. OK. So, where does that-'

'Would it be a matter of personal and spiritual urgency?'

'Er. No, not really. It's more sort of business, actually.'

'Are you selling something?'

'No. No, I'm not.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. I'm the new mobile librarian.'

'You don't have the look of a librarian.'

Israel was currently sporting a Green Day T-shirt ('AMERICAN IDIOT'), the combat trousers, and his brown brogues and corduroy jacket, most of the rest of his own clothes having now gone mouldy hanging to dry-after he'd washed off all the chicken shit-in the Devines' stinking damp scullery back at the farm. Also he had had to apply another layer of masking tape on the bridge of his glasses to hold them together, so he looked like a down-on-his-luck Second World War fighter pilot, someone who'd perhaps lost both their legs coming down over France and who was now reduced to begging for a living.

'No. Sorry. It's just, I needed a very quick word with the, er, reverend.'

'Aye. Right,' said the old gargoyle man. 'Well, take a pew. We'll see what we can do.'

The man then disappeared somewhere behind the organ.

Israel sat down in the front pew and stared up at the creamy-white walls and the big grey organ pipes, like some grim industrial machinery: maybe the place could have done with some decoration after all.

The dark-suited man reappeared.

'Reverend Roberts is on the phone at the moment. If you come into the robing room, he'll be with you shortly.'

The man led Israel to the robing room in silence, through a door and down a little corridor and ushered Israel in, and said goodbye.

'I've just tidied in here,' he said, as his parting shot. 'So don't touch anything.'

'Right. OK. No, I won't,' promised Israel. 'Definitely not.'

There was nothing much to touch: the windowless room was as cold and bare as the church, like a cell, in fact, except for a table set in the middle of the room piled high with hymn books, and long low bookshelves all around, and portraits of unsmiling ministers in black and white up on the walls, and a long black gown which hung on the back of the door, which presently opened, and in walked the Reverend Roberts.

Who was a black man.

For a moment it was all Israel could see, and he was amazed, flabbergasted: it was like someone had fixed an aerial on the telly, and the world had suddenly gone into colour. He realised he hadn't seen a single person who was not a pure pasty white since he'd arrived, and he felt like going up to this man, this fine example of colour and contrast, and shaking him warmly by the hand just to say thanks. But then he thought better of it: when he was at university and he told people his name, they'd sometimes say to him, 'Some of my best friends are Jewish,' which as a welcome and introduction he'd always felt was rather less than warm, and very possibly a threat, in fact-the implication usually being, 'And therefore this justifies me being a raging anti-Semite.' So he just smiled.

'Hello,' said the reverend, who towered above Israel, and who had a booming voice born of years of sermonising and stating the sublime and the startlingly obvious, a voice of great echoey depths.

'Hello,' said Israel, 'you must be the Reverend Roberts?'

'Ah, it's the dog-collar that always gives me away, isn't it?' said the Reverend Roberts, booming.

'Right,' said Israel.

'But please, call me England.'

'Sorry?' said Israel, hesitating. He could feel a headache coming on. 'Say again? You lost me there. Call you England?'

'Yes.'

'Erm…'

'That's my name.'

'England?'

'Yes. I'm from South Africa, as you may be able to tell.'

And here England boomed a laugh, a 'Ho! Ho! Ho!' as deep and as echoing and as resonant as Paul Robeson doing Santa somewhere in a grotto deep underground, and it was the sweetest, the richest and the most welcomingly ironic sound that Israel had heard since arriving in Ireland.

'My mother,' he continued, 'was a great admirer of your Queen. And indeed of the whole of your United Kingdom! I have a brother called Scotland, and another called Wales.'

'You're joking me?'

'No! Most certainly not. She always wanted us to travel: she thought the names would give us a good start.'

'You didn't have a brother called Northern Ireland?'

'Yes. I did, of course, although my mother called him Ireland. Her grasp of post-partition politics was not strong. Ho, ho, ho! But I'm afraid he died shortly after he was born.'

'Oh, God, I'm sorry.'

'That's OK. He was unwell: God is merciful. Anyway. It's very nice to meet you, sir. You are…?'

'Sorry, yes, I'm Israel Armstrong. I'm the new librarian.'

'Ah, of course. Welcome, sir, welcome! Your reputation precedes you. Everyone has been looking forward to meeting you. Including myself.'

'Right.'

'You were in the local paper.'

'Yes, so I believe. Unfortunately.'

'Ho, ho, ho. Yes! When I first arrived my photograph was in the paper every week for almost a year. You'll get used to it.'

'I will?'

'Of course. The novelty will wear off. How are you settling in so far?'

'Well,' said Israel, 'it is taking a little getting used to.'

'Ah yes. But you'll become accustomed to our strange ways. Ho, ho, ho! It took me about three years to get in the swing of things. But now, Israel-can I call you Israel?'

'Yes. Sure.'

'The promised land. You don't have brothers named Egypt and Canaan?'

'No, no. I don't.'

'Ho, ho, ho! Never mind. Well, I think it took me three years to get used to things, but now I really love it here.'

'I doubt I'll be here for three years.'

'Ah, that's what I thought. I thought I'd be back home by now in South Africa, married and with little children running around, but instead here I am, all alone here among the mad Irish heathen! Ho, ho, ho! God moves in mysterious ways.'

'Yes, I suppose he does. I guess it must be much more difficult for you, actually,' began Israel, thinking aloud and then immediately regretting he'd set out on this train of thought.

'What? Being the only black man?' said England generously. 'Ho, ho! Of course, it can be a problem at first…' He hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but changed his mind. 'But enough about me, sir,' he continued. 'What can I do for you?'

'Well, I'm trying to put the library back together, rounding up overdue books and what have you, for the mobile library service-you know the main branch library's been shut?'

'Yes, of course.'

'But what I'm really after is a map of the area, that might help me get around, you see. And Minnie, down at Zelda's, the, er, café, she said she thought you might have something, you know, having been a stranger here yourself.'

'Oh yes, very much so. A stranger in a strange land, isn't it. Ho, ho, ho! Indeed. A map though. Hmm. Now I did used to have something, years ago, but it's all in my head now-worse luck! Ho, ho, ho! Actually, I think perhaps I borrowed the map from the library.'

'Ah. Oh well.'

'But!' boomed England. 'I'm sure I can help you with some overdue books, if that's a help to you?'

'Oh really?'

'Yes, of course. I can ask in the notices for the congregation to return their overdue books to me.'

'That'd be great, if you could.'

'No problem! But first, let's start with my own little hoard, shall we?'

England Roberts then indicated the long, low bookcases that lined the room. Israel glanced at some of the titles: it seemed to be all books about the Bible and devotional works, but then the Reverend Roberts went over to a small gathering, a group of books at the bottom row and far end of one of the bookcases, and all of them had the tell-tale purple mark of the Tumdrum and District Library along the spine. Israel bent down to look at the titles: Elmore Leonard; Carl Hiaasen; American crime, mostly, and true crime, plus a few books about serial killers and the occult.

'Phew. That's pretty racy reading for a minister.'

'Ah, well. I suppose as Christians we have a very well-developed sense of sin, ho, ho, ho!' laughed England, who was now heaping the books onto the table in the middle of the room: as well as the fiction there was also the Chartered Management Institute's Guide to Building a Brand, The Hypnotic World of Paul McKenna, and Stephen R. Covey's The Seven Habits of Successful People.

'There we are now. That's a start for you, I hope.'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'So have you gathered many in yet?'

'Well, a few dozen so far.'

'That's very good.'

'Actually, it's not,' said Israel miserably. 'There are thousands missing.'

'Thousands? Oh dear.'

'I'm a bit stuck, to be honest, trying to find them all.'

'These are all overdue books that people have at home?'

'Well…' Israel glanced around, conspiratorially. 'If I tell you this in the strictest confidence?'

'Yes, of course,' said England, leaning slightly towards Israel. 'Anything you tell me is strictly between me, you and the gatepost-I mean the Lord, of course. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Right,' said Israel. 'Well, I think there's a possibility they've been stolen.'

'My goodness! Stolen? How many?'

'All of them.'

'All the library books?'

'Yes. But we've not told anyone.'

'I see. But what about the police?'

'Well, it doesn't look good for the library service.'

'Hmm.'

'So, you can't mention that to anyone…'

'No. Absolutely. You have my word, as a man of God.'

'Thank you.'

Israel looked totally defeated.

'So, Israel,' said the Reverend Roberts, his voice dropping even deeper, unfeasibly deeper and warmer. 'It's all down to you then?'

'I'm afraid so. It's my job to find out who stole them.'

'To find the perp?' said the reverend, perking up.

'Sorry?' said Israel.

'The perpetrator: that's what they're called, in the books.'

'Is it? Right? Yes, I suppose.'

'Have you got many leads?'

'Er…Well, a few.'

'Yes. You're going to need juice on the inside.'

'What?'

'Juice. On the inside.'

'Sorry, you've lost me.'

'You need a snitch, or a nark-isn't that what they're called? Someone with their ear to the ground, who'll tell you the word on the street.'

'The word on the street? Right.'

'Oh yes, that's essential. Have you tried at the market?'

'No.'

'Oh, well. That'd be the place for you to start, wouldn't it? You're bound to find people there who've heard about any missing books-you know what market traders are like.'

'Right. No, I don't actually.'

'Slags, mostly. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Sorry?'

'"Slags?" It means part of the criminal fraternity, I believe. Come, come, Israel, do you never read any crime fiction or watch television?'

'No. I don't watch a lot of TV.' Gloria didn't agree with TV. She was always busy working. 'I've read the classics, you know, Dashiell Hammett and what have you. And I read The Name of the Rose a few years ago…'

'NYPD Blue though? Murder One? CSI? LA Law? The Sopranos? The Bill even?'

Israel shook his head.

'I used to love them. Can only get a lot of them on satellite and cable now, alas. You don't have satellite or cable, do you?'

'No. I don't, I'm afraid.'

'It doesn't look good for a minister, you see, to have a satellite dish.'

'I see.'

'Never mind. CSI is on terrestrial again at the moment. That's very good. And there's a new 24 coming up, apparently. Gives one something to look forward to.'

'Yes. Good.'

'Apart from the Second Coming, of course. Ho, ho, ho! But anyway. What we need to do is get you a grass or something.'

'Some juice on the inside?'

'Exactly! See-very good!-you're picking up the lingo already. Come on, the market's today: we can take a walk down there, if you like. I can introduce you to some people.'

'See what's the word on the street.'

'Yes. Ho, ho, ho!'

'And the slags?'

'That's it!'

The reverend made for the door.

'And also, Israel, can you remind me-let's see-while we're at the market I need some potatoes, a new scrubbing brush, and some out-of-date biscuits…'

'Sure.'

The Reverend Roberts waved Israel through into the corridor.

'Now, just before we go, though,' said the reverend, lowering his voice ominously.

'Yes?' said Israel.

'How about a cup of coffee?' The reverend was virtually whispering now.

'Er.' Israel's experience of coffee in Tumdrum so far had not been good.

'Would you like an espresso?'

'Erm.' He'd been caught out with that one before also.

'I have my own machine in the kitchen,' explained the mighty reverend. 'My little luxury.' He looked around suspiciously. 'Don't tell the congregation, though: I keep it locked up. They'd think the money would be better spent on poor black children in Africa, you know. Ho, ho, ho!'

'Right,' said Israel, following the reverend's huge silent strides.

'It's my only vice,' he explained. 'I roast my own beans also: I have them sent from Scotland.'

'From Scotland? Really? Is it known for its-'

'No, no, no! My brother Scotland, in London.'

'Oh, right.'

'You can't underestimate the importance of a good cup of coffee, can you?'

'Absolutely. No. You can't.'

'And yet you can't describe it either,' said the reverend reverently, ushering Israel through a door. 'Which is a little bit like God, isn't it?' he mused. They were up behind the lectern.

'Yes. I suppose…' agreed Israel.

'Now. Here.'

Glancing around, England Roberts knelt down and extracted a large bag of coffee beans tucked behind one of the organ pipes.

'Keeps them cool,' he explained, grinning. 'Perfect temperature.' He then rustled around again. 'And…To go with that…My other vice…' He pulled out a large box wrapped in brown paper. Israel suspected for a moment that…'Chocolates!' boomed England.

'Reverend?' said the dark-suited man in the floral pinny, who popped his head round the door.

'Ah!' said England, flustered.

'Keep the noise down.'