The Case of the Missing Books

'Lovely big bird,' said Mr Devine.

'I'll take a thigh, Granda,' said Brownie.

'And breast for me,' said George.

'I…' began Israel, who suddenly had an image of the poor, sick, injured chicken tucked up tight in bed with him, wearing stripey pyjamas, sipping chicken soup. 'Er. Actually. No. I'm not that hungry, thanks.'

Mr Devine said grace and then they started in on the champ and chicken.

'Mmm,' said Israel, politely tucking in to the champ.

'Hmm,' he then said, as the scalding hot white mush hit the roof of his mouth.

Then, 'Ah!' he said, and 'Ergh!' and 'Ah, yes, I almost forgot,' and he got up, fanning his mouth, and hurried over to his duffle coat, which was hanging by the door.

'Are you all right, Armstrong? Not leaving us already?'

'No. Yes. I'm fine. I…Ah. I bought us some…ho, ho, ho, some…wine. To…thank you for your…hospitality.'

George and Brownie and Mr Devine looked at Israel in deep congregational silence.

'So,' he said, smiling, returning to the table, turning the bottle reverently in his hand. 'Merlot just, I'm afraid. Not a lot of choice in town.' He'd found a £10 note tucked in the corner of the pocket of his old brown corduroy jacket and had decided to invest it all in wine and Nurofen.

George and Brownie and Mr Devine continued to gaze in hush.

'Ah, yes, right. I know what you're thinking.'

He quickly darted back over to his duffle coat and with a flourish reached into his other pocket and produced a bottle of white.

'Ta-daa! A white for those who prefer.'

The gathered Devines remained silent. Israel looked at the label.

'Mmm. Chardonnay was all they had, I'm afraid.' He now had exactly seven pence to his name. 'Still. I think we have a sufficiency. Do you have a corkscrew?

'Corkscrew?'

'Erm. No. 'Fraid not,' said Brownie, breaking the solemn silence.

'You don't have a corkscrew? Well, OK. That's, erm…What about a Swiss army knife or something?'

'No.'

'We don't drink, Armstrong.'

'You don't drink?'

'No.'

'Not at all? But what about…'

Israel was about to point out that the other evening George seemed to have been more than happy to drink, if her exploits with Tony Thompson on the back seat of Ted Carson's cab were anything to go by, unless it was perhaps just the spare ribs at the Pork Producers' Annual Dinner that had done it, in which case Israel wished he'd known about that growing up in north London. But George was looking at Israel at that moment much in the same way she might look at a chicken she was about to pick up by the legs and swing at with an axe.

'I see. So.'

The Devines remained silent.

'Not even half a glass?'

'We've all signed the pledge,' said Mr Devine proudly.

George and Brownie were staring down at their plates.

The irony was, of course, that he didn't really drink as such himself. He and Gloria would sometimes share a bottle of wine in the evenings, if they were together, and Gloria was partial to the various liqueurs that she brought back with her from business trips, and Israel, who liked to keep a few boiled sweets about his person and whose already sweet tooth had been getting a whole lot sweeter over the years, was not averse to trying the odd liqueur with her: a nice flaming sambucca, perhaps, now and again, or an insanely sweet amaretto. And he'd occasionally go drinking with old college friends in London-a few beers-but he was a lightweight by any normal standards. Compared to the Devines, though, Israel was virtually an alcoholic.

Certainly, at this moment he needed a drink.

'Well,' he said, gingerly setting the bottles of wine down on the floor at his feet. 'I'll save them for my own…er…personal use, then.'

The wine went unmentioned for the rest of the rather strained meal and when everyone had eaten their fill of chicken and champ, Israel helped Mr Devine with the dishes while George and Brownie did various farm-type things, and then he made his excuses and went across the farmyard to his room.

Reconciled to the fact that he was going to be spending at least a few days in his whitewashed chicken shed in this mad teetotal wasteland, Israel decided to try and make the place feel a little more like home. He began properly unpacking the rest of his belongings from his old brown suitcase, or at least those that hadn't already been ruined by the wayward shitting chickens: it was books mostly, some clean underwear, and then more books, and books and books and books, the ratio of books to underwear being about 20:1, books being really the great constant and companion in Israel's life; they were always there for you, books, like a small pet dog that doesn't die; they weren't like people; they weren't treacherous or unreliable and they didn't work late at the office on important projects or go skiing with their friends at Christmas. Since childhood Israel had been tormented by a terrible fear of being caught somewhere and having no books with him to read, a terrible prospect which had been realised on only two occasions: once, when he was about nine years old and he'd had to go into hospital to have his tonsils removed, and he'd woken up in an adult ward with dried blood on his face and not even a Beano or a Dandy annual to hand; and again, years later, when his father had had the heart attack and had been rushed to hospital, and Israel had rushed there with his mother, and there was that long period of waiting while the doctors did everything they could for him…and always since then Israel had associated the bookless state with trolley-beds and tears, that demi-world of looming horror and despair, familiar to anyone who's ever sat for long in a hospital corridor with only their thoughts for company.

Israel piled the books onto the bed, erecting a kind of wall or a tower that might protect him from marauders, or the evil eye, or any remaining sneaky chickens, and then he changed into his holey pyjamas, and his jumper, and an extra pair of socks, and he prodded his glasses and snuggled down under the duvet-this was more like home now-and reached for the first book on the top of his pile…

A loud tap rattled the door.

'Hello?' he said, a little scared.

'Only me,' said Brownie from outside.

'Oh, right. Come in,' said Israel. 'God, you gave me a fright. I'm not used to receiving visitors.'

'Sorry,' said Brownie, entering. When he saw Israel in bed in his pyjamas he started walking straight back out again.

'No, it's fine,' said Israel. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o'clock. It felt like midnight. 'Come in. Have a…' He jumped down out of bed. There were no seats to offer. 'Ah.'

'No. It's OK,' said Brownie. 'I won't stay. I just brought you…' and he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small, half-full bottle of Bushmills whiskey.

'For me? Really?' said Israel.

Brownie handed over the bottle. 'I felt a wee bit sorry for you back there, you know, with the wine and all, and I thought you might like a…you know, a nightcap.'

'Well, thank you, that's very kind. Do you want to-'

'No, you're all right. I've got all this reading to do for an essay on epistemology for when I get back to college.'

'Right. Sounds like fun.'

'It is, actually.'

'Good. Well, good luck with it.' Israel raised the bottle of Bushmills aloft, admiring the golden liquid. 'Is this yours, then?'

'Aye,' said Brownie, ashamed. 'Just occasionally me and George have a wee swally, you know.'

'A whatty?'

'A wee dram just.'

'Right.'

'You won't mention it to Granda will you?'

'No. Of course not, no.'

'Because he's dead against the drink.'

'Yes. I noticed. Well. It can be our secret, eh?'

'Aye. Well,' said Brownie. 'Any inspiration yet about finding the books?'

'God. No. Not so far,' said Israel.

'Two-pipe problem?'

'At the very least.'

'Actually, I've been thinking about what I said at the dinner table,' said Brownie.

'Have you?'