The Case of the Missing Books

5

Israel had never before been woken by the sound of a cock. And certainly not by the sound of a cock in the same room, perched like the Owl of Minerva on the end of his bed.

His eye hurt. His head hurt. His back hurt. It'd be easier in fact to say what didn't hurt: his toes, they seemed fine, but that was because they were so cold he couldn't even feel his toes. He was just assuming his toes were fine. His nose, also. He felt for his nose-it was fine. But where were his glasses? He needed his glasses.

He was feeling around frantically for his glasses when the cock crowed again and started strutting boldly up the bed towards him. Any chickens he'd ever met before had tended to be already either safely roasted with their cavities loosely stuffed and their juices running clear, or well boiled in soups with carrot and onions, so this living, breathing, full-throated, fully feathered chicken was something of a shock to his already shell-shocked system. It looked bigger than the chickens he was familiar with: you certainly couldn't have fitted it comfortably into the average-sized roasting tin or casserole. Maybe it was the feathers that did it.

He tried shooing the fat clucking chicken by flapping his hands, but it wasn't until he wobbled his tired, cold, beaten body up out of bed and turned nasty, throwing stuff from his suitcase-books, mostly, including his hardback Brick Lane, which he'd lugged around for years, trying to wade through-that he managed to chase the damned thing to the door and escort it outside. In the end it was his paperback edition of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time that did the trick. He knew that'd come in useful one day.

Outside it was drizzling rain and whipping winds again, and there were lights on in some of the outbuildings around the farmyard, and the sound of unoiled machinery, and thrumping motors, and animal noises, and Israel peered at his watch and it was six o'clock in the morning: 6 a.m.

Oh, bloody hell.

Israel had never exactly been renowned as an early riser-it was always Gloria who'd been quickest off the starting block, showered and hair-washed and away to work by the time Israel had surfaced usually-and by his own calculation he had enjoyed only four hours' uninterrupted sleep during the past forty-eight hours, which was not good. Which was torture, in fact, probably, under the UN Convention of Human Rights-he could check that with Gloria.

He needed a lot of things right now: something good to eat, a bath, more Nurofen, a new job, a plane ticket out. But above all he needed more sleep. Lots more. Lashings of sleep.

He'd been so cold in the night that he'd got up and unpacked all his clothes from his old brown case and piled them in layers on top of himself, a kind of clothes sandwich, but that hadn't worked: the clothes had all just slid off, leaving him cold again, so in the end he'd got dressed again; shirt and jumper and his best brown corduroy suit, including the trousers ankle-deep in shit which he'd had to roll up past his knees, two pairs of socks, and the duffle coat to weigh him down. He'd used his pyjamas rolled up as a pillow-the pillow had got soaked through with melted choc-ice.

So now he was lying there again, fully dressed, warm and comfortably immobilised, and just beginning to drop off when he heard what sounded like an explosion outside.

And there was then what sounded like licking flames-that pffung! and whoosh! of flames-and so he had to raise himself again-bloody hell!-and quickly put on his shoes and…

Bloody hell! That's where his glasses were; he'd tucked his glasses inside his shoes last night before he fell asleep, he remembered it now, as he felt a snap underfoot.

'Aaggh!' he yelled, and, 'Oh shit!'

And then he remembered that the building he was unfortunate enough to be staying in was now possibly on fire, so he wrenched open the door and hobbled outside, half-crippled, into the darkness.

There was no fire.

The lashing sound of the flames was in fact coming from a man with his back to him, dressed in yellow all-weather jacket and trousers, who was using a big humming power hose to clean the farmyard, not taking care to miss wooden doors, metal milk urns and other unsecured items, hence the clatter and the whoosh.

'Aaggh!' said Israel, hopping slightly on his foot. 'Hello?'

And 'Uh?' said the man, surprised, turning round suddenly with the hose, and completely soaking Israel from the waist down.

'Aaggh! No!' screamed Israel. 'I'm! You've! Aaggh! I'm soaking!'

'Sorry,' laughed the man, who wasn't in fact a man. It was George, scrubbed clean, looking quite unlike she had done the previous night-she was smiling now, for example.

'I'm soaking!'

'All right, Armstrong,' she said. 'Dry your eyes.'

'What do you mean, dry my eyes? Dry my eyes? I am soaking wet. And…Ooowww!'

'What's the matter with you?'

'My glasses! They were in my shoes!'

'In your shoes?'

'Yes! My! Shoes!'

He bent over and carefully took his left shoe off-his thin-soled, one and only best left brogue-and shook two separate pieces of what had been his glasses onto the concrete yard.

'Look! My glasses! You've broken my glasses!'

'I haven't broken your glasses.'

'You have broken my glasses! If you hadn't been doing your…spraying thing, I wouldn't have had to rush outside and…' Israel was hopping and shaking his head in rage. 'For Christ's sake! What is this bloody place?'

'What do you think it is? It's a farm.'

'Right. Yes. I noticed. And are you all totally stark raving mad?'

'No.'

'Right! Well, if you think I'm going to settle for this, this, chicken shed-'

'Coop,' corrected George.

'Whatever! This coop as accommodation, you have got another think coming. I'll be complaining to the council about this.'

'Right you are.'

'Fine.'

'Good.'

'And now, if you'll excuse me, I had a rather long journey yesterday and I am sick and tired of you…people, and I would like to go back to sleep for an hour or two. If you wouldn't mind'-he gestured towards the machines-'keeping the noise down a little…'

Israel turned away and began walking back to his room and immediately George turned the power hose back on again. Israel strode over to her and attempted to wrest the power hose from her hands. They struggled for a moment, cheek to cheek, hands clasped, staring at each other, like ancient warriors engaged in combat, except with a hose rather than broadswords, and in a farmyard, at six o'clock in the morning.

And in the end Israel simply let go and followed the power hose to where it met the wall, and turned off the tap.

And George marched over and switched the tap back on again. And now she was brandishing the nozzle of the hose like a gun at Israel.

'This, Mr Armstrong,' she said, 'is the sound of work-not a sound you're familiar with, clearly, although I dare say even librarians have to do something with their time to justify their wages. And if you don't like it here, I suggest by all means that you start looking for somewhere else to stay.'

'Well. Yes. I shall.'

'Good.'

'Today.'

'Fine.'

'Immediately.'

'Good.'

'Goodnight!'

'Goodnight to you. And when you're done with your carrying on,' shouted George after his retreating figure, 'if you go on into the house Brownie'll help get your clothes dried off.'

'Thank. You!' said Israel. And he slammed the door of his room-his coop-behind him.

He hated losing his temper. He never usually lost his temper. He never usually had anything to lose his temper about. But this, this place was different: it made you lose your temper.

He surveyed his surroundings: a small broken-down chest of drawers, an old sink plumbed into one corner, attached to the brick wall with wooden battens. The rug on the concrete floor. The big rusty cast-iron bed…

And on the centre of the bed, four chickens, looking at him accusingly.

He slammed back out of the door, past George, who simply pointed at a door in a building on the other side of the farmyard.

Israel walked in.

'Right!' he called furiously. 'Hello! Hello!! Good morning? Anyone about here? Anyone up in this nuthouse?'

He walked through to the kitchen, where there was a young man reading a newspaper, sitting at a scrubbed-pine table next to a dirty white Rayburn solid-fuel stove.

'Hi,' the young man said, in a disarmingly friendly manner, as Israel stormed in. 'You must be Mr Armstrong.'

'Yes. That's right.'

'Pleased to meet you,' said the young man, holding out his hand towards the sopping wet, brown-corduroy mess of Israel. 'Nice suit. I'm Brian. But everyone calls me Brownie. Hey, Granda?' he continued, apparently shouting to a heap of filthy rags piled on a ratty old armchair on the other side of the Rayburn, and which turned out to be a stubbly old man wrapped up in pyjamas and jumpers. 'This is Mr Armstrong. This is my granda, Israel. Granda, this is the fella who's going to be staying with us…'

Israel was now regretting his rudeness-old people and polite people can do that to you, if you're not careful.

'It's really very kind of you-' he began.

The stubbly old man stared at Israel with beady, watery blue eyes for a moment before speaking.

'Surely, doesn't the Good Lord tell us that if you entertain a stranger you entertain Me.'

'Right,' said Israel. Oh, God.

'And we're being paid for it, Granda.'

'Aye, well.'

'He's the librarian, Granda. Do you remember?'

'He doesn't look like a librarian. He looks as if he's the blavers.'

'Blavers?' said Israel.

'Ach, Granda,' said Brownie scoldingly. 'Can I get you some coffee, Israel?'

'Erm, yes, thanks,' said Israel, disarmed by the boy's easy-going manner. 'A cup of coffee would be great.'

'Espresso? Cappuccino?'

'Young people today,' mumbled the old man, to no one in particular.

'I'll take an espresso if you have one-' began Israel.

'No, I'm joking,' said Brownie. 'It's instant.'

'Right. Well, whatever.' He became conscious of his dripping onto the floor. 'And I…erm. If you don't mind, while you're…The lady-erm-George?'

'Yes.'

'Right. Yes. George said you'd be able to dry off these clothes for me? They got a bit wet. Out in the farmyard there?'

'Spot of rain?'

'Yes,' said Israel, abashed. 'You could say that.'

'No problem. We'll just put them on the Rayburn here. That'll do it. And what happened to your eye?'

'It was just an…accident,' said Israel, remembering now why his whole head hurt, and why he couldn't see properly.

'You've a rare 'un there,' said Brownie. 'Should have seen the other fella though, eh?'

'Yes.'

'It's an absolute beauty.'

'Right.'

'Like a big ripe plum so it is.'

'Yes.'

'Does it hurt?'

'Yes. Thanks. Well. I'll just pop and get some spare trousers and what have you.'

'It's all right,' said Brownie. 'I'll lend you some of mine, sure. You'll starve of the cold out there. You warm yourself by the stove. I'll only be a wee minute.'

Brownie left the room, leaving Israel alone with the old man.

'So,' Israel ventured, struggling to think of some useful conversational gambit to get things going. 'Is it your farm, then, Mr…?'

'My farm?' said the old man, fixing Israel with a suspicious stare.

'Yes.'

'Of course it's my farm.'

'Right.' That was the end of that conversation then.

'It was my farm,' continued the old man, as if Israel was in some way to blame for this apparently sudden and parlous state of affairs.

'Right. It's a lovely…' Israel tried to think of the right adjective to describe a farm. 'Erm. Big farm.'

'Not really.'

'No,' agreed Israel. 'Of course. It's not that big.'

'Fifty acres.'

'Fifty? That's quite a lot, isn't it. I mean an acre is…' He had no idea how big an acre is. 'Quite a size.'

'We had five hundred at one time.'

'I see.'

'Had to sell ' em all. To survive.'

Israel nodded.

'Developers,' said the old man. 'From down south. And the mainland.' He spoke this last word with some menace. 'Now we've just the fifty. Far barn's gone.'

'Well, I suppose fifty's better than nothing,' said Israel nonsensically.

'Hmm. All George's now. Signed over to her.'

'I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?'

'Since 1698.'

At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.

'The boy here prefers his books to proper work,' said the old man, nodding at Brownie.

'Right,' said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. 'Are you a student then?'

'Yep,' agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.

'Thanks. What are you studying?'

'Philosophy actually.'

'Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?'

'Cambridge.'

'Oh really? I was at Oxford.'

'Wow. What college?'

'It was the, er, other place actually.'

'What?'

'Oxford Brookes.'

'Oh, right. Is that the old poly?'

'Yes. Yes, it is…'

'It's got a very good reputation, hasn't it?'

'Yes…'

Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.

'Can I change into these somewhere?'

'Aye. Come on.'

'And I wondered if you had a telephone I could use at all. My mobile…'

'Ach, aye, the coverage here is terrible.'

'Yes.'

'No problem.'

'And, er, sorry to be a bother and everything…'

'Yes?'

'But you wouldn't have any headache tablets at all, would you?'

'Granda?' said Brownie.

'What?'

'Headache tablets, for Israel here. Do we have any?'

'What for?'

'For a headache?'

'I wouldna thought so. We've TCP and some bandages just in the first-aid box.'

'That's no good.'

'It's OK,' said Israel, wishing he'd never brought it up in the first place. 'It's fine.'

'You sure?'

'Syrup of figs?' offered the old man.

'No, thanks. I'll be fine.'

'What's yon other stuff called?'

'What stuff?' said Brownie.

'Collis-Brown. That's it. Bind you rightly.'

'No. It's really OK,' said Israel.

'It'd not do you a button o' harm.'

'He's fine, Granda. Are you sure, Israel?'

'Yes. I'll be fine. And you've not got any-I really don't want to be a pain or anything-but you've not got any Sellotape, have you, by any chance? Just to fix my glasses?'

Israel took out the two halves of his spectacles from his pocket.

'Och dear. What happened there?'

'Well. It's a-'

'I'm sure we could fix them up, Granda, couldn't we? Sellotape or soldering iron or something?'

'Aye. P'rhaps.'

'And after that we'll maybe have some breakfast, Granda? No chance of a fry?'

'Aye.'

'Lovely. And you'll join us for breakfast, Israel, won't you? Room at the trough, Granda?'

'Aye.'

'Well, yes, thank you. That's very kind of you.'

Brownie then showed Israel into a dining room full of dark, miserable, heavy furniture, hung with cobwebs and family pictures, and with a large black Bible on the sideboard, open at the Book of Revelation, and an ancient grey dial telephone next to it. Israel slowly, painfully got changed out of his wet clothes and dried himself off underneath a photograph of men in robes and with drums outside an Orange Hall, looking for all the world as if they were fresh back from a lynching, and then he rang Gloria at home in London.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Israel imagined the sound of it ringing in Gloria's lovely pale satinwood, soft-furnished, little-bit-of-the-Mediterranean-in-the-heart-of-the-city, inspired-by-the-World of Interiors-but-not-slavish-in-the-pursuit-of-fashion flat near Borough Market. He could almost smell the fresh bagels and orange juice.

'Hey!' shouted Israel, relieved and excited when Gloria finally picked up.

'__,' said Gloria indistinctly. It was a bad line.

'It's me,' explained Israel, his voice echoing round the room like a condemned man's in a prison cell.

'__.'

'Israel.'

'__.'

'Shit.'

'__.'

'Sorry. I forgot what time it was-'

'__.'

'I'm sorry.'

'__.'

'I said I was sorry.'

'__.'

'Sorry.'

'__.'

'I know. I tried. There's no coverage here.'

'__.'

'Oh. It was unbelievable.'

'__.'

'It's some farm in the middle of nowhere.'

'__.'

'No, not exactly.'

'__.'

'No. It's not a joke. It's terrible. There are chickens in my bed.'

'__.'

'Right. Yes. Ha, ha.'

'__.'

'No. But that's not the worst of it. You're not going to believe this…'

'__.'

'No, not that. I'm serious. There's no library.'

'__.'

'It's been shut.'

'__.'

'I know they can't.'

'__.'

'They want me to drive a mobile library instead.'

'__.'

'I'm glad you think it's funny.'

'__.'

'Yes, as a replacement.'

'__.'

'No, I told her I wouldn't accept it.'

'__.'

'It's not an opportunity.'

'__.'

'What do you mean? I can hold down a proper job.'

'__.'

'Anyway. I'm coming back in a couple of weeks' time.'

'__.'

'I can.'

'__.'

'No. You don't understand. This isn't a stepping stone. You haven't seen this place.'

'__.'

'Oh. You're not?'

'__.'

'I see. Why, where are you going?'

'__.'

'Right. Well, I'm sure you'll have a great time.'

'__.'

'No, of course not.'

'__.'

'Yes.'

'__.'

'Anyway, what else is happening there?'

'__.'

'Oh, really?'

'__.'

'No. That's great. No, you deserve it.'

'__.'

'Yeah, sure.'

'__.'

'But…'

'__.'

'Yeah, I'll try and ring you later.'

'__.'

'Yep. OK.'

'__.'

'No. I understand.'

'__.'

'Love you.'

'__.'

'OK, yeah. Bye.'

'__.'

'Bye.'

His head hurt.

It was not the most cheering and successful conversation Israel had ever had: discovering that his girlfriend was going skiing with friends on the proceeds of her more-than-generous Christmas bonus, and that there was a possibility she was about to get an unlooked-for but richly deserved promotion, while he was stood listening, shivering in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, staring at photographs of men in bowler hats and sashes with peculiar moustaches and glints in their eyes, while wearing someone else's combat trousers which were too tight and too short, and a hoodie, and a T-shirt saying 'Niggers With Attitude'.

He returned to the kitchen even more depressed than before.

Breakfast was on the table, Brownie and the old man patiently waiting-the old man now decked out in a festive-looking, fat-flecked Union Jack apron.

Israel was starving.

'Sorry I was so long. I…Something smells good.'

'Yep,' said Brownie. 'Clothes all right?'

'Thanks. Yes.'

'Good. Sit down.'

'Here,' said the old man, passing Israel his glasses, which had been fixed with masking tape.

'Thanks,' said Israel politely, putting them back on. 'How do they look?' he asked Brownie.

'Fine,' said Brownie hesitantly.

'They feel a bit…'

'Let's eat,' said Brownie.

Israel adjusted his wonky glasses as best he could.

The plate of food in front of Israel was of such extraordinary, all-encompassing shapes and sizes that it could have fed about a dozen deeply curious meat-eating men-although a vegetarian, alas, might have struggled to find much to interest and sustain him.

'Knock it into you,' said the old man, pouring out mugs of tea.

'Mmm,' said Brownie, tucking in. 'Thanks, Granda.'

'Yes, thank you,' said Israel. 'This looks…lovely.'

Brownie was already eating.

'Grace!' said the old man.

'Sorry, Granda.'

'May the Lord Bless This Food to Us.'

'Amen,' said Brownie.

'Amen,' said Israel.

The two Irishmen tucked in.

'Erm. Could you just give me a guide here?'

'Mmm,' said Brownie, his mouth full. 'Yes, sorry. Pork chop.'

'Right.'

'Sausages.'

'Yep.'

'Bacon. Black pudding.'

'White pudding,' added the old man.

Israel had forgotten to mention that he was a vegetarian: maybe now was not the time.

'And that's potato bread,' said Brownie, pointing out a cardboardy squarey thing.

'Ah, right,' said Israel, delighted-something he could eat. 'Yes, I know potato bread. Lovely. My father'd call it boxty.'

'Really?'

'Yes. He was Irish, my dad.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Wow,' said Brownie, in between mouthfuls. 'So it's like coming home for you really?'

'Erm. Yes. Kind of. I never made it over with him when he was alive-'

'Ah,' said the old man, as if this explained something. 'Boxty, is it? The auld Free State,' he said, to himself.

'And this,' continued Brownie, 'is soda bread.'

'Yes, of course,' said Israel, his fork poised over a hard, pointy, blackened, fat-soaked triangle.

'And where would your late father have hung his hat on a Sunday, if you wouldn't mind me asking?' said the old man, with an apparent lick of the lips.

'Sorry?' said Israel.

'Would he have been of the Catholic persuasion?'

'Well,' said Israel, hovering over a bursting pork sausage. 'You see, my mother's Jewish so-'

'Ah,' said the old man again, as if all the pieces were falling into place. 'Consider Abraham.'

'Sorry?' said Israel. The bacon looked pretty good too actually.

'He believed God and it was credited to him as righteousness.'

'I see.'

'Galatians.'

'Leave him alone, Granda. It's only seven o'clock in the morning.'

'Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.'

Israel pushed the bacon and sausage around on his plate, warding off temptation and damnation and started in on the soda bread and potato bread.

'So how are you finding things so far?' asked Brownie, polishing off a wide, glistening disc of black pudding.

'Erm.'

'You can be honest. It's a culture shock. I get it every time I come home. You're probably already missing good coffee and cinemas and-'

'Bagels.'

'Precisely.'

'Bookshops.'

'There you are. But you get used to it.'

'Do you?'

'Sure. Of course.'

'I don't think I want to get used to it.'

'It has its advantages.'

'Really? Like what?'

Israel was having to mash the soda bread in brown sauce in order to soften it enough to be edible.

'It's quiet. You can get a lot of reading done.'

'Well. Yes. That's one good thing, I suppose.' He took a mouthful of brown and black mush: it wasn't bad. 'I'm only going to be here a few weeks anyway, just to get things up and running and what have you.'

'Oh,' said Brownie, finishing off a pale fried egg. 'I thought you were a permanent appointment.'

'Well. You know,' said Israel, tapping his nose. 'I've got a few things lined up back home in London.'

'Yes. Of course. It'll be more like a wee holiday for you really then.'

'Yes. That's what people keep telling me.'

The old man scowled in his Union Jack apron at his end of the table. 'When are yous reopening up the library then?' he asked, mopping up brown sauce with a slice of wheaten bread.

'Well,' said Israel automatically. 'The actual library has closed, I'm afraid, sir. We are, though, shortly going to be relaunching the mobile library…'

Israel was amazed to find himself suddenly speaking on behalf of the Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services: proof, he realised, if it were needed, of the thesis of Daniel Goldhagen's Hitler's Willing Executioners.

'Disgrace,' said the old man. 'Young people today-'

'That's fantastic,' interrupted Brownie.

'I'm glad you're excited about it,' said Israel. 'There's not any more of the soda bread, by any chance, is there?'

'No,' said the old man.

'Right. Never mind.'

'I'd never have managed my exams without the old mobile library,' said Brownie. 'They should never have got rid of it. It was a lifeline. I was stuck up here all the time with my sister.'

'George?'

'That's right.'

'So she basically runs the farm then?'

'Yep. That's her idea of fun.'

'Right.'

'Not mine though,' said Brownie, finishing his final sausage.

There was a funny smell permeating the kitchen, Israel noticed. Animals, no doubt: he sensed dogs.

'D'you not want that?' asked the old man, pointing to Israel's uneaten pile of black-fried pig parts.

'No. I'm absolutely-' Israel patted his 'Niggers With Attitude' T-shirted stomach, and before he could finish his sentence the old man had whipped the plate away from him and was scraping Israel's leftovers onto his own.

'That was great, thanks, Granda,' said Brownie.

'Keep us going another half hour,' agreed the old man.

'What have you got planned for today then, Israel?'

'That's a good question. I've…Sorry, can you smell something?'

Brownie and Israel both glanced then simultaneously at the Rayburn, where Israel's trousers were quietly scorching on a hotplate.

'Oh shit!' shouted Israel.

'Excuse me!' said the old man.

'My!…'

Brownie had already whipped the trousers off the hotplate and thrown them in the sink.

'…Trousers.'

'Sorry,' said Brownie.

'That's…OK,' said Israel. He fished inside the pockets of his burnt, soaking, manured trousers and took out a couple of handfuls of slightly crinkled credit and debit cards and some wet paper and started to separate them out on the table-top.

'My cards,' said Israel.

'You'll have to get new ones,' agreed Brownie, as Israel held up a far too flexible credit card.

'Oh, God.' He paused then for a moment and took a large gulp of his cold tea. 'All my instructions from Linda.'

'Oh dear. Can you remember what it is you're supposed to be doing today?'

'Erm. I'm supposed to be meeting Ted, I think, at the library.'

'Ted Carson?' said Brownie.

'The Big Wee Man,' said the old man.

'Yeah.'

'Yeah, of course, right,' said Brownie. 'He used to be the driver of the library, didn't he, Granda, do you remember, until they stopped the service?'

'Aye.'

'Have you met Ted then, Israel?'

'Yes,' said Israel, restraining his 'alas'. 'He gave me a lift here last night.'

'Aye. He was a tight wee fighter in his time,' said the old man. 'Rough enough and damn the scars. Terrible temper on him.'

'I guess he'll be showing you the ropes,' said Brownie.

'I guess so,' said Israel, wishing now he'd had a sausage.

'Mind his left hook now,' said the old man.

'Right. Thanks,' said Israel weakly. 'I'll do my best.'