The Case of the Missing Books

16

'Here,' said Ted, taking a hand off the wheel and fetching into his pocket.

'What?' said Israel.

'Take these.'

'What are they?'

'What do you think they are? Boiled potatoes? They're headache tablets.'

'Ugh. Thanks. Have you got any water?'

'I'm not your mother. And don't make a habit of it, all right,' warned Ted. 'Sets a bad example.'

Israel took the tablets dry.

'Yeeuch.'

'And remember, I'm only back because of the van,' said Ted. 'Not because of you.'

'Eerrgh.'

'You made such an auld mess of the van, I can't believe it. I shouldn't have let you out on the streets alone in the first place.'

The morning after the night before had not got off to a good start. Back at the farm, George and Brownie had been less than sympathetic towards Israel's hangover, and the permanently aproned Mr Devine had offered up last night's leftover grilled fish and onions for breakfast, the mere thought of which had delayed Israel's departure when Ted had arrived to collect him.

'How's he doing then, the king of comedy?' Ted had asked Brownie, while he waited for Israel to compose himself.

'Israel? Oh, he seems to be settling right in,' said Brownie, as Israel scuttled back and forth, whey-faced, to the toilet. 'Wee touch of the skitters just.'

By the time Israel was steady enough on his feet, Ted had finished off a pot of tea, two plates of grilled fish and onions, and had successfully set the world to rights with the elderly Mr Devine, who agreed absolutely with Ted about young people today, and that another war might not be such a bad thing and lock 'em all up and throw away the key.

'Here,' said Ted, in the van, fetching into his pocket again.

'What's this?'

'It's a tie.'

'I know it's a tie, Ted.' Israel was having to take deep breaths to prevent himself from… 'I mean what's it for.'

'Ach. What do you think it's for? You got a dog with no lead?'

'No. Is it a hangover cure?'

'Of course it's not a hangover cure-unless your hangover's that bad you're thinking of doing away with yerself.'

'I don't…wear ties,' said Israel weakly. And he certainly didn't wear this tie-which was fat, and purple, and nylon, and shiny.

'You're a librarian, aren't you?' said Ted.

'Yes.'

'And this is not a disco, is it?'

'No.'

'So?'

'I'm not wearing a tie.'

Ted slowed the van as they approached some lights.

'Sorry, Ted!'

'Aye?'

'Could you just…' Israel gestured for Ted to pull over, which he did, and Israel almost fell out of the van as he went to be sick at the side of the road.

All done, he clambered back in, ashen-faced.

'Well, look at it like this, son,' said Ted, as if nothing had happened, 'if you're not wearing a tie, I mightn't be pulling over at your convenience.'

Given Israel's track record of working without Ted, this did not appeal to him as a pleasing prospect.

'We're doing things my way now,' continued Ted, who was warming to his theme, 'since you've made such an outstanding success of things on your own. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Ted.'

'Which means wearing the tie.'

'I'm wearing a T-shirt though, Ted.'

'I don't care if you're wearing nothing but a vest and pants, if you're out with me in the library, you wear a tie.'

'All right, I'll wear the tie.' Israel laid the long thick purple tie in his lap. He felt as though someone had hoovered out his stomach lining.

There was a pause at the lights and in the conversation, as Ted waited for the green and for Israel to put on the tie, and Israel attempted to overcome his feelings of nausea.

'It's not really my colour though.'

'Aye, well, next time bring your own tie. If you're out in the mobile library with me, you're representing the library, which represents the council…which represents the…' Ted was struggling a little with his extended metaphor here, but he ploughed on. 'Government…which represents the…'

'People?' offered Israel.

'That's it,' said Ted. 'So put on the tie.'

Israel slowly and carefully knotted the tie round his neck and looked at himself in the wing mirror. If he said so himself, he was looking pretty bloody rough.

'And you'll need to get a haircut,' said Ted.

'Ted, I'm not feeling well.'

'D'you want me to stop again?'

'No.'

'I don't want you bokin' in here.'

'No. I'm not going to.'

'Sure?'

'Yep.'

'Good. So, what's that supposed to be, your hair?'

'It's my hair.'

'Aye, right. It looks like a bird's nest.'

'Thanks.'

'If it touches the ears it's too long. You're a librarian, you know, not a pop star.'

'Yeah.'

'There's a place in town.'

'All right. I'll get it cut. OK?'

'Good.'

Ted was picking up speed now on the outskirts of Tumdrum.

'So, where are we heading exactly?'

'Listen. I'm telling you. We're doing a service run. We're doing it all methodo…Methododo…'

'Methodically?'

'That's it.'

'OK.'

'So we're collecting in all the books that are overdue first, to try and establish exactly how many are missing.'

'Right.'

'Rather than just running around accusing people willy-nilly and at the drop of a hat. You've got to be disciplined with this sort of thing. You've got to think…'

'Methodically?'

'Logically.'

'Of course.'

'You can add up, can you?' said Ted.

'Yes. Of course I can.'

'Aye, right. Because you're keeping the tally. As far as I can work it out, currently we're missing…See that notebook there, on the dash? Open her up. What's the figure there on the first page, where I've written it?'

'Fifteen thousand.'

'Aye.'

'But I've found some already.'

'Aye. How many?'

'Not many.'

'Well, let's say fifteen thousand, then. That's our starting figure, give or take a few. Let's go round 'em up.'

The further they drove out of town the more exotic the housing became-the whole landscape becoming freer, and wider, and looser, taller, stretching itself out and slipping off the grey render and the pebble-dash and stripping down and relaxing until you might actually have been driving through southern Spain, there were so many fine, bright, hacienda-style bungalows, with spreading palm trees standing tall against the pale sea. If it wasn't for the cloud and the drizzle and the signposts for places like Brablagh and Ballycleagh and Doomore you might have thought you were gazing at time-shares along the Mediterranean.

Out on a stretch of road with no one coming and nothing around Ted slowed the van and pulled over.

'Are we stopping?'

'We're stopping.'

'Here?' Israel looked around.

There was nothing around: just road and hedge and cliff and sea.

'Aye.'

'Are you all right?' said Israel. 'Is there something wrong with the van?'

'The van's fine. It's a pick-up,' explained Ted. 'This is a service point. You know what I told you about service points?'

'Erm. What? The stops? The places where the mobile library stops?'

'There you have it.'

'What? This is one?'

'Aye. You're a fast learner.'

'The side of a road?'

'That'd be it. Second furze on the left afore the bridge there.'

'But I thought a service point was a timetabled stopping point where members of the public can safely gather to meet the mobile library.'

'Strictly speaking. But some service points are by private arrangement.'

'I see.'

'So, by the bridge, second furze on the left.'

'People are meeting us there?'

'No, you eejit. Someyin's left their books there.'

'What? Someone's left their books by the side of the road?'

'Yes! For pity's sake, man.'

Israel looked outside nervously: hedges, sea, nothing, Irish skies.

'Is it safe?'

'What are you talking about, is it safe?'

'I don't know. I mean, you know, safe.'

'There's no book-rustlers out here, as far as I'm aware.'

'What about…I don't know. The IRA?'

'The IRA?'

'The IRA.'

'The IRA?'

'Yes, the IRA! You know, like booby-traps or something?'

Ted took a deep breath. 'D'you get the news over there on the mainland, do you?'

'Yes.'

'So you'll be knowing there's a ceasefire on.'

'I know, but…'

'Since 1994. And there's no longer a British Empire. You're up to date with all that, are you?'

'Yes. Of course I am.'

'Good, well, I wouldn't worry too much about it then, if I was you. I don't think the Tumdrum and District mobile library is currently a prime target for dissident republicans.'

'No. I didn't mean that.'

'Aye, right. I don't know why we bother, to be honest.'

'Who?'

'We, us, the loyal people of Ulster. I think we should maybe set up our own republic or something.'

'Well, I'm sure-'

'Aye, right. That'd suit you, wouldn't it? Get rid of us all.'

'Erm. I've got a terrible headache actually, Ted, and I would love to discuss the…'

'Aye.'

'Shall we just get back to the books?'

'You brought the subject up.'

'Right. Well, why have they left their books there, at the side of the road?'

'Who? The IRA?'

'No. Whoever's left their books there.'

'Mr Onions.'

'Mr Onions?'

'That's right.'

'Is that his real name?'

'What do you think?'

'I would, er, I'd guess not, no.'

'Aye, well, all that education didn't go to waste then, did it. He's a farmer.'

'And he grows onions?'

'No, he grows mangoes and oranges.'

'Right.' Israel caught himself on. 'No…Hang on…Well, why's he left his books here?'

'When he's too busy on the farm he leaves them. I pick 'em up, and then leave him some more. It's a private sort of arrangement. It's traditional.'

'Right.'

'Go on then.'

'What?'

'Go and get 'em.'

'But it's raining.'

'Aye, hardly but. It'll not melt you.'

'I'm still feeling a bit-'

'Well, you've only yourself to blame there, haven't ye. Go on.'

Israel got out of the van, turning up the hood on his old brown duffle coat.

'And Israel,' called Ted.

'What?'

'Mind the land-mines.'

Israel went over to the bridge. It was another harsh, wet winter's morning: the trees were bare, shivering in the wind; and the stream was flowing fast; and Israel's head felt like it was splitting in two, and the fresh air hit him so hard in the face he felt even more sick than he'd been feeling in the van. He didn't know where he was supposed to be looking. He turned around and gestured to Ted. Ted wound down the window.

'The furze!' he shouted. 'The gorse! The second furze!'

Israel wasn't entirely sure he knew what a furze was but he started rootling around under a couple of likely looking bushes, ripping his hands on their yellowy spiny branches.

'Ouch!' he cried.

Ted ignored him.

'Ouch!' he cried again, louder.

Ted still ignored him, and eventually Israel found a couple of old feed sacks, tightly tied with cord, stuffed with something, and tucked under a bush, and he brought them to the van.

'This them?' he said to Ted, offering up the bags.

'Jesus Christ, no, that's a bomb!' said Ted, covering his face with his hands.

'What!' screamed Israel, flinging open the door to throw out the bags.

'Of course it's them,' said Ted, laughing through his fingers. 'Were you born yesterday?!'

Israel's hair was plastered to his head, and steam was rising off him, he was panting, and his hands were cut.

'That's not funny,' he said.

'No, you're right,' said Ted, wiping tears from his eyes, and starting up the engine and pulling off. 'That's not funny. You're absolutely right. That's not funny at all. I'll tell you what that is: that is hilarious. You're a geg, d'you know that? That is precious, so it is…'

Israel opened up the bags, which contained some slightly damp books, and a small bag of potatoes.

'There's potatoes in here as well, Ted.'

'Aye.'

'For us?'

'I'd warrant.'

'That's very kind of Mr Onions.'

'Aye, that it is.'

'Ted,' said Israel.

'Hmm.'

'I hope these are not gifts or services in kind.'

Ted remained silent.

'Ted? Are these gifts or services in kind?'

'Of course they're not. They're potatoes.'

'But you know you're not allowed to receive goods or services in kind?'

'Ach, give over.'

'I'm serious.'

'I'm serious. Now, be quiet, boy, will you, and keep your head down, or the snipers'll see you.'

Israel flinched, and Ted roared with laughter.

'Ha! Got you! Oh yes, that's good!'

'Ted, I've got a headache.'

'Aye, me too. Listening to your auld nonsense.'

'We're never going to find all the books like this, Ted.'

'Ach, Israel, quiet, will you. You're like an auld woman.'

A couple more miles down the coast road and they came to the Myowne mobile home park. It looked like an open prison, actually: it had an air of miserable solitude about it, an air of unwelcome and rebuke, like a barracks, a place that had turned its back upon the world not through choice but through necessity, and which had grown sad and bitter as a consequence, appalled by its own exile and isolation. There were whitewashed boulders flanking the entrance, and rows of bollards linked together by rusty chains, and floodlights set upon tall posts. Signs indicated that it was an RAC-approved campsite, but it would have done equally as well as a detention centre for asylum seekers.

'I don't think I'd fancy spending my holiday here much,' said Israel.

Ted ignored him and turned off the road and drove in under the big metal arching sign which announced MYOWNE: PRIVATE, HOMES TO BUY AND RENT and they pulled up into the clearly signposted Visitors' Car Park and then went into the reception, a long, low building all flaky with paint and with faded inflatable toys hanging in its windows, and out-of-date posters advertising summer bingo nights in the communal hall, and an evening of Country Gospel with a singer called Bobbie Dylan, and a children's Bible holiday club.

'God. Holiday from hell,' joked Israel.

Ted continued to ignore him.

Inside the reception there were more pathetic inflatables hanging from the ceiling, and a rack of postcards, and shelves with nothing on them, and two trestle tables set up in front of an old wooden counter which had set out upon it newspapers and bread and milk, and a man was sat behind the counter, smoking a fragrant pipe and flicking through a newspaper, the Irish News. He was wearing a boiler suit and had a fat alsatian lying at his feet.

'Ted,' said the man, nodding to Ted.

'Jimmy,' said Ted, nodding back.

'Hello,' said Israel, extending his hand, his purple tie glistening against his brown corduroy jacket under the lights. The man named Jimmy in the boiler suit just looked at him-at the tie, at the T-shirt, at the brown corduroy jacket-and looked back down at his paper. 'My name's Israel Armstrong,' said Israel. 'I'm the new mobile librarian.'

'Aye.'

'And-' began Israel.

'Anything strange or startlin', Jimmy?' said Ted.

Jimmy shook his head.

'Rosie?'

'Aye,' said Jimmy, nodding, not breaking stride with his reading of the paper or his smoking, and Ted walked off, through a door at the back of the reception, outside and along a paved path and through a picket gate in the direction of the rows of caravans.

'Hold on, Ted,' said Israel, catching him up.

'He'd talk a dog to death, Jimmy.'

'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'Where are we going?'

'We're going to see Rosie. Collect some books off her. She looks after the library books on site for everyone. Unofficial librarian, like.'

'Right.'

'You know Rosie.'

'Do I?'

'You do.'

'I don't think so.'

'Aye, you do,' said Ted knowingly. 'She runs a little childminding business.'

'What? Here? In a caravan?'

'They're not caravans, they're mobile homes,' said Ted.

'Right,' laughed Israel, mistaking Ted's statement for a joke. 'And so what's the difference exactly between a caravan and a mobile home? Is there a difference?'

'People live in mobile homes, Israel,' said Ted. 'This isn't a holiday for them. This is their life.'

Israel looked shamefaced, as they tramped over scrubland and grey gravel paths, towards sand-dunes in the distance: it was like approaching the edge of the world.

Rosie's home was one of the last on the site, at the very edge of the dunes-a long, creamy-brown, flat-roofed mobile home which had not been maintained to the highest of standards. There was a rusted barbecue outside, and rusted children's bicycles, rusted chairs, a washing-line and a rusted bin: the sand and wind and the sea air seemed to be gnawing everything down to stumps and bare bones. Ted knocked on the twisted aluminium door. A woman opened, with a beaming smile.

'Ach, Ted!' she said. 'There you are now! Come on in! Isn't that desperate weather altogether?'

Rosie Hart, it turned out, was the barmaid at the First and Last, the woman who had served Israel enough drink the night before to knock him down and lay him out flat. Today her dark black hair was tied back, and she was barefoot and she was wearing the kind of happy, slightly Scandinavian-looking clothes that one might at one time have associated with hippies, before hippy clothes became sanitised boho chic, and which Rosie seemed now to be successfully reclaiming for genuine dirty hippiness, and she ushered them into her caravan-her mobile home, rather-where four fat babies were rolling around on a play mat. In the background there was the unmistakable sound of Enya.

'This is Israel, Rosie,' said Ted. 'He's the new mobile librarian.'

'We've met,' she said teasingly. 'Last night.'

'Yes,' said Israel, ashamed.

'Of course,' said Ted, gloating. 'I almost forgot.'

'How are you feeling then?'

'OK,' said Israel, not feeling well at all.

'Good,' said Rosie. 'Now, you must have known I'd had the kettle on, Ted-it's only just boiled. What'll you have, fellas, tea or coffee?'

Israel looked at Ted, looking for a cue.

'Tea, please,' said Ted, who then got down on his stomach on the floor and started playing with the babies. 'OK, you wee rascals, who's for sparring?'

'Israel?' asked Rosie.

'Erm. I'll have a cup of coffee, thanks, if that's OK.'

'Who have we got here?' asked Ted.

'That's Liam with the hair. And Joel there with the cheeky grin. Charlotte in pink there. And Charlie with the bogeys-he's a wee dote, isn't he?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'Sorry, Israel, what was it you wanted?'

'Coffee?'

'Now it's only instant, I'm afraid,' said Rosie, going down towards the kitchen area, Israel following.

'That's fine.'

'And it's mugs.'

'Fine.'

'Probably not what you're used to, though, eh?'

'Well…'

'Roasted coffee beans where you're from, I'll bet.' She took a few mugs from a mug-stand. 'And nice white china?'

'Well, I don't know about that exactly…'

'So?' she said, turning to Israel, hands on hips, having set out the mugs and put the kettle on to reboil, and fixing him with a quizzical gaze. 'How have you found it here so far?'

'It's been…'

Rosie crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

'It's been…' continued Israel, embarrassed.

'Och, I know, pet, don't worry. It's a dump, isn't it?' said Rosie, waving a hand in dismissal. 'It's all right. You can be honest.'

'Well…I don't know if I'd…'

'Not like what you're used to, I bet.'

'No, not exactly.'

'London, isn't it, you're from?'

'Yes.'

'You know, I'd love to live in London. Or New York. I've got a cousin in Hackensack.'

Israel had never heard of it.

'He went to Fairleigh Dickinson University?'

'Right. I'm afraid I'm not…'

'And one of my aunts lives in Greenford.'

'Really? In America?'

'Och, no. Greenford, in London. D'you not know it?'

'No. I'm afraid not.'

'Well. I've never been to visit her even.'

'That's a shame.'

'I'd love to live over there,' said Rosie, quietly and thoughtfully, pausing as she poured boiling water into the mugs.

'Well, why don't you?' asked Israel.

Rosie laughed, stirring tea bag and granules.

'This is where I live,' she said, gesturing at the four walls of the mobile home.

It was one room, with a stained and sagging red sofa dividing the living area from the kitchen, and the kitchen units were chipped and scratched and the brown carpet was worn and there were damp patches on the walls, but you didn't really notice any of that, or only for a moment, you didn't notice what was inside, because on three sides of the room were these huge windows, looking directly out to sea, which was all breaking waves under a slate-grey sky, headlands either side.

'That's quite a view you've got.'

'Aye,' said Rosie. 'The strand. Three miles, isn't it, Ted? Joel, don't do that.' Joel was punching Ted on the nose.

'He's all right,' said Ted.

'You sit here and it feels like being on a ship,' said Rosie. 'I could sit here all day, you know, just looking out, dreaming and that.'

In one corner of the room, under a window, by the television, was a table with a Star Wars chess set. 'Do you play chess?' asked Israel.

'No. That's my son. Conor!' she shouted. 'He loves chess.'

'Great game.'

'Is it?' said Rosie. 'God. I can't stand it myself. Conor!'

Ted was still wrestling with children on the floor. Rosie brought him his mug of tea.

'Thanks, Rosie,' said Ted. 'We've come about the books actually,' he continued, holding a baby up in the air. 'Lagalagalagalaa! Snaggleaggleuppaluss!'

'Oh, I'm sorry, Ted. I haven't collected them all in yet. I've only got ours.'

'It's all right,' said Ted. 'Weeee!' he called.

'We'll take whatever you've got,' said Israel.

'OK,' said Rosie. 'Conor!' she said. 'Conor! I'll go and get him. Are you all right with the wee ones there, Ted?'

'Aye. We'll manage. Here's one for you, Armstrong,' said Ted, trying to hand Israel a child.

'Erm. No, I'm all right thanks, Ted,' said Israel, clutching his mug of coffee tighter and backing away: he wasn't what you'd call a natural with children.

The baby started crying.

Rosie returned. 'Conor's there in his room-he's a wee bit shy of strangers, you know. I'd better deal with this one.' She picked up the crying baby and smelt its bottom. 'No, all right down that end. Let's get you something then, little man. Just pop your head round the door there, Israel, he'll let you in. Tell him I sent you. All the books are in there with him.'

Israel went to knock on the plyboard door at the end of the room. There was no answer.

'Hello?' said Israel, and he pushed open the door.

There was a boy sitting upright on his bed. He was about eight years old-but he had the face of an old man. The room was in most respects a typical boy's room-posters Blu-Tacked to the walls, clothes and toys everywhere. But it was also full, from floor to ceiling, with books. Towers and towers of books. A miniature New York skyline of books.

'Wow!' said Israel, taken aback at what must have been at the very least the entire children's non-fiction section of Tumdrum Library. 'Hello? Conor? I'm Israel. Your mum said I could come in. I'm a librarian.'

The boy stared at Israel in silence.

'You've got a few books here, mate.'

'You've got a few books here, mate!' repeated Conor, mimicking Israel.

'Conor!' said Rosie, appearing next to Israel, sensing trouble, the now pacified baby in her arms chewing a biscuit. 'Behave!'

'Sorry, Mum,' said Conor. 'That's not fair, he's a biscuit!'

'Conor!'

'Erm. Are these all library books?' asked Israel politely.

'I'm afraid so,' said Rosie.

'How did you…?'

'He loves reading, you see. And so, they…'

Israel sensed that Rosie was searching for an explanation.

'They?'

'They…the old librarian.'

'Norman?'

'Yes, yes, that's right. He…Er. He let Conor take them all out.'

'All these books?'

'Yes, that's right!'

Having met Norman Canning, Israel doubted that very much.

'Conor?' said Israel.

Conor remained silent and looked at the floor.

'Well, we'll have to return all these to the library, I'm afraid.'

'But we'll not be fined, will we?' said Rosie. 'I mean, we couldn't possibly afford to pay the fines on all these.'

'No. We're having a fines amnesty.'

'What's an amnesty?' asked Conor.

'Amnesty?' said Israel. 'Good question. An amnesty is when there's a sort of pardon for some crime or-'

'Like in a war,' explained Rosie. 'When you decide to forgive the other side.'

'Couldn't you and Dad have an amnesty, Mum?'

'Conor!'

'Right,' said Israel, embarrassed. 'Perhaps if we could just gather these up and we'll be out of your hair?'

'Aye, right, of course. I'll get you some bags and Conor can help you.'

'Mum!'

'Conor!'

Rosie went to get some bags.

'Do you like reading, Conor?' asked Israel, with Rosie out of the room.

Conor didn't answer.

'Did you get these books from the library, Conor?'

'"Did you get these books from the library, Conor?"' repeated Conor, speaking with his tongue in his bottom lip, like a monkey.

Israel didn't seem to be getting very far with his line of questioning, but then he remembered the chess.

'Do you play chess, mate?'

'"Do you play chess, mate?"'

'Do you though? And without the funny voices, eh. The novelty sort of wears off, you know, and I've got a terrible headache.'

'Are you drunk?'

'No, I'm not drunk.'

'Are you hung over then?'

'No.'

'Are you an alcoholic?'

'No.'

'You look like an alcoholic.'

'Do you play chess with your mum, Conor?'

'She's rubbish.'

'I'm sure she's not rubbish. I like chess.'

'Are you any good?'

'I'm not bad.'

'I bet I could beat you.'

'Well, I'll tell you what. I'll give you a game if you tell me where you got the books.'

'Here we are, now,' said Rosie, reappearing with bin bags.

'Come on, Conor, you give Israel a hand here, please.'

'I'm going out to play,' said Conor, leaping out of bed and running out of the bedroom.

'Conor!'

There was the sound of the slamming of the front door.

'He's certainly a…boisterous little chap,' said Israel.

'Yes,' agreed Rosie.

'You must be very…proud.'

'Well. Would you mind just collecting them up yourself?'

'Sure.'

Rosie went outside.

'Ted,' she called, 'can you watch those wee ones for me a minute, OK?'

'Sure,' said Ted.

Israel could hear her shouting.

'Conor!' she called. 'Come here, this minute!'

Which left Israel to pack a couple of hundred books into plastic bin bags.

He did half a dozen trips to and from Rosie's home and through the mobile home park and to the Visitors' Car Park and the van, the plastic carrier bags sometimes spilling and splitting, and in the end Ted joined him and they said goodbye to Rosie-although there was still no sign of Conor.

'Where d'you think he got the books, Ted?'

'He's a great reader, the wee fella.'

'He's got enough books to keep him going until he's at university, though.'

'Aye, Rosie'd love him to go to university.'

'I'm sure she would, but the books, Ted-Rosie said Norman had let him have them all from the library?'

'Aye.'

'Well, you know Norman, Ted.'

'I do.'

'And he's not likely to have given an eight-year-old boy unrestricted borrowing rights, is he?'

'I don't rightly know, Israel.'

'Maybe he stole them?'

'Ach, give over, Israel. Wasn't it last week I was your criminal mastermind?'

'Yes, but-'

'And then this week it's a big conspiracy involving the council and the Shinners and the Orange Order and the Ancient Order of Hibernians?'

'No, Ted.'

'Aye, well, the wee fella's probably behind it all, isn't he, I would have thought. He's your Mr Big? D'you want to try a citizen's arrest?'

As they trudged along the grey gravel path towards the reception a man approached them, running steadily, in running shorts and windcheater.

'John!' called Ted to the runner. 'John! Hey! Over here!'

The man stopped in his tracks.

'John, it's me, Ted.'

'Ach, what about ye, Ted?'

'This is Israel, John, the new mobile librarian. Israel, John Boyd.'

'Hello, Israel,' said John, 'pleased to meet you. People call me Feely.'

'Right, well, hello, erm, Feely,' said Israel, who was about to ask the man why people called him Feely as he went to shake his hand, and found his hand engulfed by a massive muscular shake: John was over six foot tall, had a shaven head, and was built like a boxer. He looked like a younger, fitter version of Ted: the only real difference was, John was completely blind.

'What brings you out here then, Ted?'

'We're getting the mobile library up and running. Israel here's rounding up all the overdue books.'

'Right.'

'Have you any, John?'

John hesitated.

'There's a fines amnesty, but, so you're all right.'

'Great, Ted,' said John with relief. 'They were months overdue. Would have cost me a fortune returning them.'

'That's all right,' said Israel magnanimously. 'Happens all the time.'

'I've got audio books mostly.'

'That's OK. An audio book's still a book, in my book,' said Israel jocularly.

'Right.'

'Don't mind him, John,' said Ted. 'He's from England.'

'Oh, aye.'

John led them to his mobile home.

From outside it looked exactly the same as Rosie's, but inside it was done out entirely as a gym: where Rosie had her sofa and her coffee table and the Star Wars chess set, John had a rowing machine, a running machine, racks of free weights, a weights station and a huge contraption like a gibbet hung with punch bags.

'This new, John?' said Ted, patting the big metal contraption.

'The UBS?' said John.

'The what?'

'Universal Boxing System.'

'Aye.'

'Yeah.'

'Speed bag, heavy bag, and double-end striking bag all in one, eh,' said Ted, walking round, admiring the kit.

'Nice, isn't she.'

Ted took a boxing stance and threw a succession of punches into the centre of a heavy bag. There was a lovely soft sound of oofs.

'I've got spare gloves and wraps if you want them, Ted.'

'No,' said Ted, laughing, throwing another couple of punches at the bag. 'I'm too old for that game-beaten docket, me. It's not canvas then?'

'No, it's all this plastic these days.'

'I wish we'd had these little double-end bags when I was younger,' said Ted, moving round to another small bag, suspended between two plastic cords. He threw a punch at it and it sprang back and forwards as he leant his body to the side, ducking and bobbing.

'Good for coordination,' said John.

'Aye.'

'Cost a few pound, eh?'

'Well, got it on eBay.'

'Oh, right.'

'Got my medicine ball as well,' said John.

'God, I haven't seen one of them in a few years,' said Ted, going over and picking up a big black leather ball.

'Great for the old abdominals,' said John.

'Aye,' said Ted, and then, 'Here, Israel, catch!' and threw the ball to Israel.

Israel saw the ball coming towards him as if in slow motion, and he had a flashback, of gym at school, of being unable to climb ropes, of panicking in the swimming pool, of getting pounded in rugby, and collapsing in cross-country, flailing in tennis, as the medicine ball hit him in the stomach.

'Steady, Ted,' said John.

'Ach, get him in shape,' said Ted. 'Look at him, he's a belly like a drowned pup.'

'Aaggh.'

'Anyway,' said Ted, turning to John. 'It was about the books we came.'

'Yes.'

'What have you got?'

'Here we go,' said John, going over to a state-of-the-art sound system, which had CDs and tape cassettes piled around.

'Israel?' said Ted. Israel remained doubled over. 'Ach, come on. Stop clowning about. What have we got here then, John? The Odyssey, read by Ian McKellen. Any good?'

'Not bad.'

'Have you heard that one of him doing Les Misérables though?'

'No. I must get that out.'

Israel had staggered over. 'God, you've got most of the history of English literature on tape here,' he said.

'Aye. Well, makes a break during training: I need to cool off actually, now. Do my stretching. D'you mind?'

'No, go ahead.'

Ted and Israel left John Boyd's caravan with a bag full of audio books and John doing some hamstring stretches.

'Was he blind since birth?' asked Israel, as they piled the books into the van.

'No. He was caught in a bomb blast, up in Belfast.'

'That's terrible.'

'Yeah, it was. His wife died.'

'God.'

'Don't take the Lord's name in vain.'

'Sorry.'

'Thank you. Now you get in the back there,' said Ted, pointing to the dark interior of the van.

'What?'

'To count the books.'

'Oh.'

Israel counted, all the way back to Tumdrum, and with some allowance for bumps in the road he made a total of 284 books and 75 audio books.

'Well?' said Ted, as they pulled up outside Tumdrum Library.

'What's seventy-five plus two hundred and eighty-four?' said Israel. 'Three hundred and fifty-nine?'

'I don't know.'

'Anyway, so what's fifteen thousand take away three hundred and fifty-nine?'

'Ach, Israel,' said Ted, 'my mental arithmetic's not what it was.'

'Fourteen thousand, six hundred and forty-one?'

'Sounds about right,' said Ted.

'So that's it: we've got approximately fourteen thousand, six hundred and forty-one books left to find.'

'Not bad then.'

'That's terrible,' said Israel. 'It'll take us years.'

'You know what they say?' said Ted.

'No.'

'Patience and perseverance would take a snail to Jerusalem.'

'What?'

'We'll have this all rightened out before Christmas.'

'Hanukkah.'

'Bless you.'