And so of course Israel automatically lifted a hand from the wheel to wave back.
At which point the steering slipped slightly-just ever so slightly.
And there was this almighty bam! and an unholy crunch! and a horrendous eeecchh!-horrible, huge sounds straight out of a Marvel comic, which is where they really belonged, not here and now in the real world, and the man who'd been striding across the playground was now running towards Israel, at cartoon speed, and Israel jerked on the handbrake.
Oh, God.
He'd managed to wedge the van tight into the entrance to the school, like a cork hammered into a bottle. He nervously wound down the window of the mobile library as the man approached.
It took him maybe a moment or two, but then Israel recognised that it was his old friend Tony Thompson-the man he'd met only the other night in the back of Ted Carson's cab, the man who had punched him so hard in the face that he'd given him a black eye that was still throbbing.
Tony Thompson did not look pleased to see him.
'Small world!' said Israel.
'You!'
'Yes. Sorry, about the…' said Israel, gesturing towards the collapsing gateposts, prodding his glasses.
'You!'
'Sorry.'
'You!'
'Sorry?' Israel smiled, wondering if Tony had perhaps developed some kind of Tourette's syndrome since the last time he'd met him.
'You!'
'Sorry? Sorry. Sorry?'
The two brick pillars were leaning pathetically, like two miniature council Towers of Pisa, buckling the rusty cast iron on either side. It didn't look good.
'Look, I'm really really sor-'
'I know you're sorry!'
'Sorry.'
'Well, apology not accepted!'
'Right. Sorry.'
'Stop saying sorry!'
'Sorry. No! I didn't mean sorry-sorry. I meant OK.'
'Did you not see me waving you down?'
'Yes.'
'So?'
'Sorry. I thought you were just waving at me.'
'Why? Do you think I'd be pleased to see you?'
'Erm.'
'Of course I'm not pleased to see you. What the hell are you doing here?'
'I was just…it's about books for the library. Linda Wei, up at the council, she said the school might have some. I'm trying to put the library back together, you see, and-'
'And destroying my school in the process?'
'Erm. Your school?' said Israel. 'Do you work here then?'
'I,' said Tony Thompson, flushing and stiffening, and staring Israel in the eye, 'am the headmaster of this school.'
Oh, Jesus.
It took most of the day to ease the mobile library from between the school gates. The children in the playground at their break-time and lunch-time had to be held back from all the pushing and squeezing and hammering and excitement by a cordon of mug-hugging and distinctly unimpressed-looking teachers. The children were playing a new game, which they'd just invented, which involved running into each other at high speed and falling down: they called the game 'Car Crash'. Some of the more imaginative children, pretending to be Israel, got up from the floor when they'd fallen, puffing their cheeks out and waddling, in imitation of a fat, injured person. It was a miracle that Israel hadn't been hurt, actually, and that the van wasn't worse damaged-bodywork only.
'Just a flesh wound,' joked Israel to the miserable school caretaker who'd been drafted in to oversee the rescue operation, as the two of them set about knocking down the school gates using a sledgehammer, a pickaxe and a large lump of sharpened steel that the caretaker referred to affectionately as his 'wrecking bar'.
'I feel like Samson Agonistes,' said Israel, as he set about the pillars with the pickaxe.
'Aye,' said the caretaker, digging in with the wrecking bar. 'And I feel like a cup of tea.'
After the van was eventually released Tony Thompson's secretary grudgingly arranged for Israel to visit the school library-which also served as the school's computer suite, its special needs resources room, and apparently as some kind of holding area for hundreds of small grey misshapen pottery vases-for him to pick up any of the old Tumdrum and District Library books that had been on loan to the school during the period of the library's closure.
Israel fingered his way confidently along the little shelves marked 'Poetry' and 'Easy Reads' and 'Information', plucking off books with the tell-tale Tumdrum and District Library purple sticker on the spine and their identifying Dewey decimal number.
'It's a bit like blackberrying, isn't it?' Israel said merrily to the woman watching him, who was either the librarian or the computer suite supervisor or the special needs tutor, or the keeper of the pots, or possibly all four at once: she had man's hands and wore a machine-knit jumper, slacks and sensible shoes; she looked like she was more than capable of multi-tasking. Israel, on the other hand, had borrowed another of Brownie's T-shirts-which read 'Smack My Bitch Up', and which was now covered in brick dust-and looked fit for nothing. The school librarian did not deign to reply.
'I said-' began Israel.
'Sshh!' said the machine-knit jumper woman.
'Sorry,' said Israel.
Once he'd gathered in the books from the library he went back to thank the secretary, but there was no sign of her in Tony Thompson's office, or of Tony himself, and as he stood hesitating for a minute, staring up at Tony's many certificates and awards for personal and professional excellence-including an award for competing in an Iron-Man triathlon and raising £5,000 for school funds-Israel noticed a shelf of books behind the big brown desk, with the tell-tale purple markings on their spines and he went over and sat down in Tony's purple plush swivel chair, and took down one of the books.
At exactly which point Tony Thompson entered the room.
'What?' spluttered Tony. Israel swivelled round, plushly. 'Are. You doing here?'
'Ah. Yes. Hello,' said Israel. 'I've finished getting the books from the library.' He held up the book in his hand. 'And then I noticed you had a few…'
'They're mine.'
'Ah. Well. I think you'll find actually they belong to Tumdrum and District Council. It's the-'
'They're my books.'
'No. Sorry. Look. They've got a little call number here, the Dewey, and-'
'Give me the book,' said Tony Thompson, approaching Israel.
'No. Now, don't be silly.'
'Give me the bloody book!' said Tony, as he moved round the desk and stood towering over Israel.
'Now, now,' said Israel. 'Let's not get carried away.'
Tony Thompson thrust out a fist then, and, given his previous form, Israel thought he was perhaps going to hit him again and give him a black eye to match the other, so he threw up his left arm in order to block the blow, an instinctive martial arts kind of a move that would have done Bruce Lee proud, if Bruce Lee had been a tousled, overweight librarian in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes and old brown brogues out collecting books in Tumdrum Primary School on a damp December afternoon.
Tony Thompson, though, was not about to punch Israel; he was in fact simply reaching forwards to grab the book from Israel's hand, and he grabbed, and Israel held on, and before either of them knew it there was a loud rip, rip, ripping, and suddenly Israel was standing there with the cover in his hands, and Tony Thompson with the pages.
'Oh,' said Israel.
'Ah!' said Tony.
'Sorry. 101 Poems To Get You Through the Night (And Day). Never read it myself. Is it any good?'
'Look!' said Tony Thompson, holding the coverless book on its side towards Israel.
'What?' said Israel.
'Look! Idiot!'
Stamped along the top edge of the book were the immortal words: WITHDRAWN FROM STOCK.
'Ah,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'
'Go!' said Tony Thompson.
'I really…'
'Go!'
Israel went.
So, as he was saying, it was easier said than done: on his first day as book-bailiff, amateur sleuth and driver of his very own mobile library, Israel Armstrong had managed to crash the library van, cause thousands of pounds of damage to school property, offend and upset just about everyone he'd met, get into a fist fight with a headteacher, and he had rounded up a grand total of just 27 books, leaving approximately 14,973 to go. If he kept it up at this rate he'd be lucky to make it back home safely in one piece to north London in time for his own retirement.