The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

11

The address they'd been given was just by Wandsworth Bridge. They drove there in Israel's mother's new car; she'd traded up since Israel had gone to Tumdrum, to a shiny black Mini with a cream leather interior, the middle-aged woman's Harley-Davidson: the perfect post-menopause vehicle.

'Now we're just like The Italian Job,' enthused Israel, behind the wheel.

Ted, in the passenger seat, looked at him pitilessly.

Muhammad, in Ted's lap, remained silent.

It was a small industrial estate surrounded by high fences and barbed-wire decorated with several generations of windblown rubbish, and crisscrossed by a warren of potholed roads lined with dilapidated warehouse units and fenced-in areas in which Alsatian dogs barked and loud music played, and firms specialised in the manufacture of PVC products.

Israel and Ted drove around for fifteen minutes up and down the pavement-less streets, white vans everywhere going about their honest-to-God business, and not a soul around, and eventually, down past Worldwide Refrigeration Services and KGB Engineering-what was that?-and edging right up to the side of the Thames itself, there it was: Britton's Second Hand Van Sales, Lease and Hire.

'Ted?' said Israel. 'We're here.'

Ted had been entirely silent on the journey.

'Ted?'

'What?' said Ted.

'I said we're here.'

When they'd arrived back at Israel's mother's the night before, after their long afternoon in the Prince Albert, Ted had excused himself and spent the evening alone in the spare room.

'Is he all right?' Israel's mother kept asking Israel. 'Do you think he's okay? Is it something I said?'

'He's fine,' said Israel. 'It's just been a shock, I think, with the van, you know, and seeing his cousin after all these years.'

'Oy!' said Israel's mother. 'People change. You remember your aunt Sarah? She was a brunette growing up in Finchley; now, twenty-five years later, she's a blonde in South Africa.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'And she's had a boob job.'

'Yeah, but-'

'And a nose job.'

'It's not quite the same, Mum. It's-'

Her mobile rang.

'I've got to take this call,' said his mother. 'It could be a lead.'

Israel's mother was taking the hunt for the van seriously. She'd always been ambitious and organised, but her ambition and organisation had been focused largely on making packed lunches and arranging school concerts for the PTA. Now that she was faced with a bona fide challenge, she'd turned into Hillary Clinton. It had given her a new lease of life.

Israel's mobile hadn't rung.

He still hadn't heard from Gloria.

She was busy. Maybe she was away. Business.

Yes. That was it. She was definitely away.

'You can talk to me about it, if you want,' said Israel.

Ted remained silent.

'Or not. "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent."'

'All right, Buddha,' said Ted.

'Actually, that's Wittgenstein.'

'Who?'

'Wittgenstein, Ludwig, famous Austrian philosopher.'

'Aye,' said Ted, 'we had one of them, but the wheels fell off.'

'Are you all right, though, seriously?' said Israel, as he parked the car.

'What?' said Ted, stroking the dog.

'Well, it's just, you've not said anything all morning,' said Israel. 'I was just wondering, you know, if you're all right?'

'Am I all right?' said Ted irritably. 'Am I all right?'

'It's a straightforward question,' said Israel.

Ted shook his head, either in rage or despair, it was difficult to tell which. Muhammad barked in sympathy.

'There's nothing wrong with me,' said Ted, with implication.

'Are you thinking about your cousin?' said Israel.

Ted huffed.

'I know it was a shock, but…You can't know everything about people, Ted, not even your own family. Everybody has to lead their life the way they see fit. And it's just…something we all have to face, one day or another. Sometimes you just have to embrace difference and change and try to move forward.'

'Israel?' said Ted.

'What?'

'I'll tell you what would make me feel better.'

'What?'

'If you shut up.'

'Right.'

'Completely.'

'All right. Okay.'

'Which means not speaking.'

'Okay, sorry.'

'Ever.'

'I-'

'At all.'

They got out of the car and walked in through the gates of Britton's Second Hand Van Sales into a forecourt filled with white vans, a vast drift of vehicles looking as though they were floating upon the brimming Thames behind them and beyond: Citroën, Fiat, Mazda, Mercedes, Toyota, Vauxhall, like big wheeled swans ready to fly up and away and soar over the capital.

'Wow,' said Israel. 'Looks like they've got them all here.'

'Except ours,' said Ted.

'Come on, let's think positive,' said Israel.

'I thought you were staying silent?' said Ted.

A man came down a flight of steps from a Portakabin office raised on stilts and approached them.

'Right,' said Israel.

'Do not speak,' said Ted. 'Leave the ba-flum to me.'

'The what?' said Israel.

'Leave it to me,' repeated Ted. 'The ba-flum.'

'All right, I will,' whispered Israel, as the man approached. 'Even though I have no idea what bum-flum-'

'Ba-flum,' said Ted.

'-ba-flum might be,' said Israel.

'Hello, gents!' said the man. He had thinning, slicked-back hair. He wore a cheap-looking suit with an expensive-looking purple lining, and he was finishing off a bacon sandwich, licking his fingers clean of grease and crumbs. He'd had acne. He couldn't have been much older than Israel but he looked like a bloated, out-of-condition Bill Clinton. He was, definitively, a second-hand car salesman.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen. Lovely to see you.'

They all shook hands. Israel wiped his hands on his trousers.

'Barry Britton,' said the man. 'How can I help you?'

'Great view,' said Israel, nodding towards the River Thames, out past the high wire fencing.

'Yeah, well. It's okay,' said Barry. 'You get used to it. It's like looking up a bit of skirt I always think. D'you know what I mean?' He had a long, lop-sided smile-a smile so big and so false, so gaping, that it looked as though if he smiled a little longer the top of his head would fall off.

'Erm…' said Israel.

'We're looking for a van,' said Ted.

'You're looking for a van?' said Barry, pointing finger and thumb at Ted, as though cocking a gun.

'That's right,' said Ted.

'You are lookin' for a van?' repeated Barry, amused, almost singing the words, cocking both hands at Ted.

'Yes,' said Ted mirthlessly.

'Well, my friend,' said Barry, slapping Ted on the back. 'You have come to the right place! This is where you're going to find your van. What did you say your name was?'

'I didn't,' said Ted.

'Ha!' said Barry. 'You're good! You're not giving anything away, right?'

Ted looked at him silently.

'Yeah. Good! Now, my friend, what sort of a van are you looking for? We specialise in light commercial and fittings, as you know. And you are looking for…No. Don't tell me…' He stood back and eyed Ted and Israel up and down. 'You're plumbers? Am I right, or am I right?'

'No,' said Ted.

'No? We get a lot of plumbers,' said Barry. 'Roof racks for the pipes, you know, and racking and what have you. Super racking. We've got a deal on that at the moment, if you're interested.'

'We don't want a plumber's van,' said Ted.

'That's fine,' said Barry. 'Not a problem. What is it then? Erm. You are…No, don't tell me…Chippies, are you?'

'No,' said Israel.

'We're not chippies,' said Ted.

'That's all right,' said Barry. 'Just guessing. You can't always judge a book by its cover, eh! Doesn't matter what you are, or what you do. Whatever it is, I can guarantee you, Britton's has the van for you.' When he spoke Barry sounded like he was rapping; Israel suspected a fondness for Eminem.

'It's a very particular sort of van we're looking for,' said Ted.

'Good!' said Barry. 'Excellent! You know what you want. That's good. I like a man who knows his own mind. I'm the same myself. A man's got to know what he wants in this life, and go get it, if you know what I mean. Eh?'

'The van,' said Ted, 'we're looking for-'

'Yeah. Okay. Let me tell you this. You just name your vehicle and spec, and if by some fluke we haven't got it-you're not going to believe this, but it's true-we'll get it; week, two weeks max, no problem. But first look. Look. Look at that. Little Citroën C15 over there. Lovely vehicle.' He gestured towards a small white van. 'And then we go all the way right up to the big Mercedes.' He gestured towards a big white van. 'I'm guessing there's going to be something here that's gonna suit you but if not, like I say, if we haven't got what you're looking for today, right here, right now on the forecourt, we'll source it. At Britton's we're all about customer service.'

'We're looking for a Bedford,' said Ted.

'Ha! Right, now,' said Barry. 'A Bedford? Well. Now…Phew! Don't take this the wrong way, all right, but I'm afraid you might be showing your age a little bit there. Yeah.' He patted Ted on the arm.

Ted looked for a moment as though he might knock him out.

'Only joking!' said Barry, sensing danger, stepping back. 'But the Bedford-okay?-that's more of a collector's item these days. We've not had a Bedford in for…Phew! I don't know how long. More of my dad's generation of vehicle, d'you know what I mean? No offence, like.' He pointed at him again with two fingers. 'If you're thinking Bedford, I don't know, let me think…You'd probably be better off these days with a Fiat. Depending on what you're after.'

Ted did not look amused.

'I say Fiat. Toyota might do you just as well. Nice little Ducato maybe?' He pointed over to another white van.

'It's got to be a Bedford,' said Ted.

'Right. You sure?'

'I'm sure,' said Ted.

'Well, now. I'm not saying here that we couldn't get you a Bedford. But just at the moment…You collectors or what?' said Barry.

'We're librarians actually,' said Israel.

'Come again?'

'Librarians.'

Israel thought that Barry's face coloured slightly at the mention of the word 'librarian' and that perhaps he twitched nervously inside his cheap suit with its expensive-looking lining. But then twitching nervously in the presence of a librarian wasn't an uncommon response-librarians, like ministers of religion, and poets, and people with serious mental health disorders, can make people nervous. Librarians possess a kind of occult power, an aura. They could silence people with just a glance. At least, they did in Israel's fantasies. In Israel's fantasies, librarians were mild-mannered superheroes, with extrasensory perceptions and shape-shifting capacities and a highly developed sense of responsibility who demanded respect from everyone they met. In reality, Israel couldn't silence even Mrs Onions on her mobile phone when she was disturbing other readers on the van.

'Librarians?' Barry was saying. 'Librarians. Well. I've got to hand it to you, on that one you might just have caught me out. That may be a Britton no-can-do, boys. Library vans. No. I don't think we've had a library van at all. We do commercial, that's it.'

'We didn't say we were looking for a library van,' said Ted.

'No?' said Barry. 'I thought your mate here said-'

'I said we were librarians,' said Israel.

'Right,' said Barry, whose face was beginning to resemble the colour of his expensive lining. 'Yeah. Well, you know, I just put two and two together?'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Right. And what d'ye come up with?'

'Four,' said Barry, hesitating for a moment.

'Correct,' said Ted. 'So the thing is, we heard you did have a library van.'

Barry shook his head. 'No. I don't know who you heard that from.'

'A mutual acquaintance,' said Ted.

'Oh, right! I see,' said Barry, seizing back the opportunity to be smart. 'Mutual acquaintance, is it?' He gestured with his thumb at Ted and spoke to Israel. 'He's hilarious, isn't he, your mate?'

'Is he?' said Israel.

'Now, not being funny, right, but I doubt very much we have any mutual acquaintances: I am very choosy, acquaintance-wise.'

'Me too,' said Ted.

'Ha!' Barry laughed, patting Ted on the back. 'So, anyways, gents, there's plenty of other vans for you to look at, if you're interested, otherwise you'll understand I've got a-'

'We want the library van,' said Ted.

'Ah! He's a joker, isn't he?' Barry said to Israel. 'Sorry. I explained. We haven't got a library van.'

'We want the library van,' repeated Ted.

'Right. Hello? Sorry,' said Barry, gesturing to Israel and tapping his finger against his forehead. 'I don't mean to be rude here, Grandad, I don't know if your hearing's right. Is his hearing right?'

Israel nodded in confirmation.

'Is it?' continued Barry. 'Because what I just said was, we don't have a library van, all right?' Barry wasn't smiling now. Barry was frowning. 'I don't know how you've ended up here, boys, but I think someone's been winding you up.' He turned to Israel. 'I think you need to take your old man home here, before he-'

'Come on, Ted,' said Israel, turning to leave.

Barry Britton was already walking away.

'Hughie Jones sent us,' said Ted.

Barry turned back.

'DCI Hughie Jones?'

'Aye.'

'Really? How do I know Hughie sent you?'

'He said to remind your father not to miss the Masonic meeting next week.'

'Right,' said Barry, eyeing Ted and Israel up and down. 'You do know Hughie then? Are you police?'

'We're friends,' said Ted.

Barry hesitated. 'All right,' he said. 'So what's your interest in the van?'

'It's our library van. And we want it back.'

'Ah!' said Barry. 'We'd better go and speak in private.'

They went up some steps to Barry's Portakabin on stilts. Inside, Barry settled himself down behind a large wood-laminate desk. The window behind him showed blue sky.

'So how do you know Hugh?' said Barry, rocking back on his chair.

'He's a friend of a friend,' said Ted.

'All right,' said Barry. 'Friend of a friend. So what do you know?'

'You and Hugh have an understanding.'

'That's right. We have an understanding. I scratch his, and he-'

'Scratches yours?' said Israel.

'Correct,' said Barry nervously. 'And I know Hugh wouldn't send me any time-wasters.'

'Good,' said Ted. 'We won't waste your time then. Where's our van?'

'Hold on,' said Barry, leaning forward.

'We know you've got the van,' said Ted.

'I don't actually,' said Barry.

'Oh, really?' said Ted.

'Yes. Really.'

'Where d'you get it from?'

'Ha!' Barry spoke again to Israel. 'He's hilarious, your mate, isn't he? I'm running a business here. I don't go around telling everyone where we source our vehicles.'

'Who stole our van? Did you steal it?'

'Steal it? Stole it? No, no. I don't know what Hugh told you. I wouldn't be dealing with stolen vehicles. That'd be illegal. We source vehicles for people. Like special acquisitions.'

'I want to know who stole our van,' said Ted.

'I can't tell you, mate, sorry. I don't have that sort of information.'

'So what can you tell us?' said Israel.

'About the library van?'

'Yes.'

'Well, look, because you're friends of Hugh's, I can confirm that we were recently in possession of an ex-library van.'

'Great!' said Israel.

'But,' said Barry, 'it's been sold.'

'Sold? It couldn't have been sold,' said Israel.

'Why not?' said Barry. 'They're very popular, PSVs. Paki wagons, we call 'em.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'All these immigrants, they love 'em. Get the whole family in there, you know, or the mosque, whatever.'

Israel tutted.

'I speak as I find, mate,' said Barry.

'Who'd ye sell it to?' said Ted.

'To whom did I sell it?' said Barry.

'Yes,' said Ted.

'Look, I'm sorry, Grandad, I can't tell you that.'

'Why not?' said Israel.

'Well. Put it this way-that is what you might call commercially sensitive information.'

At which point Ted calmly reached a hand into his pocket-Israel winced, foreseeing violence-and took out his wallet. Ted took a wad of notes from the wallet and placed them carefully on the desk in front of Barry Britton.

'We'd like to buy some of your commercially sensitive information,' said Ted.

'Well, well,' said Barry. 'Let's have a little look here, shall we?'

Barry began counting the money: five hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes.

'You know this is more than the van's worth, do you? I mean, it's scrap, basically.'

'It has sentimental value,' said Ted.

'There's very little room for sentiment in this life, my friend,' said Barry, wagging his finger at Ted, and patting the pile of notes with the other. 'That's one of the lessons you learn in business.'

'Who bought the van?' said Ted.

'All right, I'm just getting to that. Let me think…Er…Ah, yes!' he said. 'The library van! Now I remember. It was some travellers what bought it.'

'Travellers?' said Ted.

'Yeah. I've done a few bits of business with 'em. They're all right, actually. Once you get over the smell and that: women more disgusting than the blokes really. They're not badlookin', some of 'em. But the state of 'em, you know. They'd have to pay you, if you know what I mean.'

'Where are they?' said Ted.

'The old dreadlocks and that. Dogs on string.'

'Where are they?'

'The travellers? They're based out in Essex somewhere. Out round Harlow, I think. Epping. I don't know.'

'Where's that?' said Ted.

'I know where that is,' said Israel.

'Good, well. There you are then, boys, that's you sorted. Thank you very much.' Barry got up to usher them out.

'Essex is quite a big county,' said Israel. 'Could you be a bit more specific?'

Barry sighed. 'Look, boys, I can understand you're keen to get a hold of your van, but these characters are not the sort of people who leave behind their business card, if you know what I mean.'

'So you can't be any more specific?' said Israel.

'Well, I dunno. I probably could…Under the right circumstances.'

'Can't you just tell us where they are?' said Israel.

'That sort of information might cost extra, mightn't it?' said Barry, sitting back down expectantly at his desk.

'Extra?' said Israel.

'Knowledge is power, gents, as I'm sure, you know, you librarians can appreciate. Power, you see. Knowledge. Two things. And you don't get the one…without the other. So it's got to be worth it to me.'

Ted had made his way slowly round Barry's desk, to where he was sitting.

'Is it information worth me not breaking your fucking neck for, you piece of shit?'

'Yeah, ha! All right, Paddy, calm down,' said Barry.

If he'd had the good sense to ask, Israel would have been able to tell Barry not to use the 'P' word, but it was too late.

Ted had grabbed Barry Britton by the lapels of his cheap suit and had jerked him up violently out of his seat.

'What did you call me?' he said.

'Get off! You fucking-'

'I said, what did you call me?'

'Oi!'

Barry was struggling to break free from Ted's enormous grip.

'Nothing!' said Barry. 'I didn't call you-'

'You said something.'

'Fuck off!' said Barry, spitting his words into Ted's face.

Before Israel could intervene Ted had leaned forward and head-butted Barry, and there was a crunch like the sound of a hammer cracking a sheet of nutty slack.

Israel leaped round the desk.

'Ted! What the hell are you doing!' he said, grabbing hold of Ted's arms and pulling him back.

'Ah! Fuck!' yelled Barry, cupping his hands under his nose, as blood poured down his face. 'Fuck! You've broken my fuckin' nose!'

'Good,' said Ted, straining to release himself from Israel's grasp. 'And I'm going to break yer fuckin' arm next, ye gobshite. So what did ye call me?'

'Nothing!'

Ted freed an arm from Israel's grip and gave Barry an open-handed slap around the head, with force so strong it might have made him deaf.

'Ted!' yelled Israel. 'Stop it! Leave him alone, for God's sake. Come on.'

But Ted was in no mood to be pacified. He had his other arm free now and both hands round Barry's throat.

Israel was attempting to prise the two men apart.

'Stop it!' screamed Israel.

'What did you call me?' said Ted.

'Paddy!' whispered Barry, his eyes bulging.

'Ted!' said Israel. 'Leave him!'

'Sorry?' said Ted, speaking to Barry, relaxing his grip slightly. 'I can't hear ye?'

'Paddy!' said Barry again weakly.

'That's right,' said Ted. 'You called me Paddy.'

'Ted!'

'This doesn't concern you,' said Ted to Israel. 'So what do you say?'

'What?' said Barry.

'What do you say?'

'Sorry?' said Barry, starting to cry.

'Was that a sorry?' said Ted.

'Yes,' said Barry.

'Good, thank you,' said Ted, releasing his grip on Barry Britton, and picking up his own money from the table. 'Next time, I'll punch your fucking teeth down the back of your fucking throat, you fucking English racist bastard.'

Barry Britton was sobbing now.

'You're crazy,' he said to Israel. 'You bastards. You're both…'

'Look,' said Israel, 'I'm really, really sorry.' He put an arm round Barry's shoulder. 'Do you want me to get you some tissue or-'

'Fuck off!' said Barry.

'Where are they?' said Ted.

'Who?' said Barry.

'The people who've stolen my van!'

'I don't know,' said Barry.

Ted went to kick him.

'Ted!' yelled Israel.

'Ongar!' said Barry. 'Somewhere near Ongar!'

'Whatter?'

'Ongar! Near Harlow!'

'You ever heard of it?' said Ted.

'No,' said Israel.

'Are you lying to me, you wee shite?'

'No!' said Barry.

'You'd better not be,' said Ted. 'Because I'll be back.'

'Ted! Leave him!' said Israel. 'Come on.'

It was then, on the way back to Israel's mum's car, that the real argument began.

'What the hell was that about?' said Israel. 'Are you completely out of your fucking mind?'

'Don't you dare use that sort of language with me!' said Ted.

'Don't you dare correct my fucking language! You nearly killed a bloke back there!'

'I did not nearly kill him.'

'Yes, you bloody did! You broke his fucking nose, and if I hadn't pulled you off God knows what would have happened.'

'I just don't like people calling me Paddy,' said Ted.

'Paddy! He just called you a name, that was all.'

'Yeah, but not Paddy.'

'Why not?'

'I don't like it, that's all.'

'You're a fucking grown man, Ted! You're not a kid.'

'I just don't like it.'

'Oh, grow up!' said Israel.

'No, you grow up,' said Ted.

'I'm not going to be doing this with you if you're going to be throwing your weight around,' said Israel.

'So how else are you going to do it?'

'I don't know. By our…Powers of…We just…Not by punching people!'

'I didn't hurt him,' said Ted.

'You broke his bloody nose!'

'That'll mend.'

'I'm serious, Ted. You're going to end up putting someone in hospital, or ending up in hospital yourself if you carry on like this. And I'll report you to the police.'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'And then how would we get the van back. Huh?'

'I don't know,' said Ted. 'But I do know we're out in the big bad world now, and I want my van back, and I will do whatever I need to do to get it back.'

'Well, all right, Arnold Schwarzenegger, I want the van back as well, but next time don't be getting carried away like that. Jesus! You're a fucking embarrassment. I've never seen anything like it…'

'Yeah? Well, mebbe ye need to get out more in the real world, and mebbe next time, ye'll keep yer mouth shut and don't be entermeddling.'

'Entermeddling?'

'Aye.'

'God! Believe me, Ted, I have no intention of entermeddling with you.'

'Good.'

'Right then.'

'Aye.'

'Oh, yes, actually, and while we're at it, you can stop entermeddling with my mother, all right?'

'What?' said Ted.

'Keep your hands off my mother,' said Israel.

'I wouldn't lay a finger on yer mother.'

'I'm serious, Ted. You mess around with my mother, and you will…have me to answer to.'

'Is that a threat?' said Ted, as Israel unlocked the car and they opened the doors to climb in.

'Yes,' said Israel hesitantly.

'Now I'm scared,' said Ted.

'Well, so you should be,' said Israel, and then, 'Aaggh!' he said. 'What's that smell? Ugh. That bloody dog!'

Muhammad sat innocently on the white leather interior.