“Right.”
“What are ye eatin’? Weetabix and lettuce? D’ye want a bite?” He held out his sandwich between his fingers.
“No, thank you.”
Ted then proceeded to peel open the two slices of white bread and peer carefully inside, as though he were Howard Carter uncovering the entrance to the tomb of Tutankhamen.
“They’re ham.”
“I know they’re ham. You have ham every day, Ted. You have eaten a ham sandwich every lunchtime ever since I’ve known you. You only eat ham sandwiches at lunch.”
“Aye, well, and I’m offering you a bite, seeing as the condition ye’re in, but it’s an offer I’ll not make again in all pobability, given your attitude.”
“Probability,” said Israel.
“Exactly,” said Ted.
“You’re offering me a bite of your ham sandwich?”
“Aye.”
“Well, I would accept, under normal circumstances,” said Israel wearily, “but as you well know, Ted, I’M A VEGETARIAN.”
The vegetarian conversation was another one of the conversations that Ted and Israel had had at least once a day every day since Israel had arrived in Tumdrum-along with the conversation about Israel resigning and why there were no longer any great Irish boxers-yet the memory of it seemed to leave no trace with Ted, like the taste of tofu, or Quorn. Ted took a long and very noisy slurp of tea from the plastic cup of his old tartan Thermos flask.
“Aye, well, the vegetenarianism’d be yer problem. Ye’ve the skitters, have ye?”
“What?”
“Aye, all them there fruit and vegetables, skittering the guts out of ye. It’s a wonder ye’re not on the po the whole time.”
“I have been vegetarian for many years, Ted. And my digestive system remains in good working order, thank you.”
Ted finished one sandwich and then slid another from under the firmly elastic-banded lid of his lunchbox.
“So ye’re just off yer food, are ye?”
“I suppose so.”
“Ye frettin’ about yer birthday, eh? And the girl?” Ted spoke with his mouth full, pointing at Israel with the sharp end of the sandwich.
“No. I am not fretting about my birthday. And no, I am not fretting about Gloria.”
“Well, it’s strange but, isn’t it, seeing as ye were a wee ball of lard when you were with her.”
“I was not a ‘wee ball of lard’ when I was with Gloria, thank you, Ted.”
“Wee bunty, so you were. Ye want to get back on the stew and the Guinness, boy. Get a good rozner in ye, ye’d be right as rain.”
“A rozner?”
“A good feed, boy, and ye’ll be out gropin’ the hens again.”
“Well. Thank you for your dietary and relationship advice, Ted. To the point, as ever.”
“I tell ye, ye’ll be playing the vibraphone on your ribs soon enough, ye keep this up.”
“Right.”
“It’s not healthy, so it’s not, losing all that weight like that. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll put it all back on again. Ye’re depressed, just.”
“I am not depressed, Ted.”
“Good.”
“I’ve just got things on my mind,” said Israel.
“Very dangerous,” said Ted, midmouthful.
Ted finished his sandwich in silence, screwed the cup back on the top of his Thermos, and looked at his watch.
“Books,” said Israel.
“Books?” said Ted.
“What are they?”
“Ach, knock it off,” said Ted.
“I mean a book is not a person, is it? Or an idea. Not just an idea.”
“No,” said Ted, disinterested.
“It’s not an issue or a theme.”
“No,” said Ted. “I’ll tell you what it is: a book is a blinkin’ book, for goodness’ sake. End of conversation.”
“But-” began Israel.
At which point a man entered the van.
“Hi!” he said.
“Hello,” said Israel.
“Saved by the bell,” said Ted. “I’m away for a smoke here. Think you can cope?”
“Yes, I think so?” said Israel.
“Not going to go crazy in my absence?”
“No, Ted. I am not going to go crazy.”
“Good,” said Ted. “Watch him,” he instructed the man. “He’s a bit”-he tapped a finger to the side of his head-“ye know.”
The man was wearing a navy crombie jacket, faded jeans, and cowboy boots, a look that was one part bohemian to one part gentleman farmer, to one part middle manager in corporate marketing. He also sported a goatee beard, which added to the overall effect and which gave him a rather sincere appearance, like he’d just made a decision and was mulling over the consequences, and he also had close-cropped hair that made him look as if the decision he’d just taken was a serious one, possibly related to the military or the sale of some new kind of social-networking software. Israel wondered if it might be an idea for him to have his hair cut short, to look as though he were making important decisions relating to weapons technology or new media. Unfortunately, when Israel had his hair cut short in the past, it made him look like he meant to commit a serious crime.
“Neil Gaiman,” said the man.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Israel. “I’m Israel Armstrong.”
“No, sorry,” said the man, laughing. “I mean, do you have any books by Neil Gaiman.”
“Ah,” said Israel. “Right. Yes! Of course. I think we’re all out actually. Sorry. We could always do an interlibrary loan request.”
“No, that’s OK, I’m not really in for borrowing,” said the man.
“Right,” said Israel. “You’re not one of our regulars?” And as he spoke these words Israel almost choked: he knew the regulars; he had become a local; he was mired, inured, and immersed in Tumdrum.
“No,” said the stranger. “My parents are originally from here. But I live in Belfast.”
“Well, nice to see a new face,” said Israel. Oh, god.
“My name’s Seamus,” said the man. “Seamus Fitzgibbons. I’m the Green Party candidate for the forthcoming election.”
Seamus stuck out a friendly hand.
“Oh. Hello. I’m Israel. Israel Armstrong.”
“Look, thanks for coming,” said Seamus.
“That’s OK,” said Israel. “I work here.”
“Oh, yes!” laughed Seamus. “I’m so busy at the moment with meetings and meet and greets it’s difficult to remember where I am.”
God. Israel would give anything to not know where he was. He knew exactly where he was: stuck. Seamus looked to be about Israel’s age, but while Israel had drifted and gone from job to job, aimlessly, Seamus had obviously set out with a goal and achieved a position of responsibility-prospective parliamentary candidate! A position where he wasn’t sure where he was, and conducted meetings and meet and greets! And he was a man who looked as though he enjoyed shouldering the responsibility; it was something in his eyes. If you looked closely in his eyes you could see Atlas with the world upon his shoulders.
“Let me come straight to the point, Israel,” said Seamus. Israel could never get to the point. That’s how people who shouldered responsibility spoke! They got straight to the point. “We in the Green Party don’t have a campaign bus.”
“Uh-huh,” said Israel.
“And so…”
“Yes?” said Israel, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Well, we were wondering if we could perhaps use the mobile library?”
“Ha!” said Israel.
“Is that a yes?”
“No!” said Israel instinctively. “I mean yes…No. I mean no.”
“Oh.”
“No. No. I don’t think so. No, Linda would go mad.”
“Who’s Linda?”
“Linda Wei, she’s responsible for the library provision in Tumdrum and-”
“Well, maybe I should speak to Linda directly, if you’re unable to make those sorts of decisions.”
“Well. I…It’s not that I…I mean, I am responsible for the mobile library.”
“But that sort of bigger decision would be out of your hands?”
“Not entirely,” said Israel, smarting rather from the implication that he was a powerless functionary. “I do have some…sway with these things.” He had no sway with anything: he didn’t even have sway with himself.