The Case of the Missing Books

'Well, look at it like this, son,' said Ted, as if nothing had happened, 'if you're not wearing a tie, I mightn't be pulling over at your convenience.'

Given Israel's track record of working without Ted, this did not appeal to him as a pleasing prospect.

'We're doing things my way now,' continued Ted, who was warming to his theme, 'since you've made such an outstanding success of things on your own. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Ted.'

'Which means wearing the tie.'

'I'm wearing a T-shirt though, Ted.'

'I don't care if you're wearing nothing but a vest and pants, if you're out with me in the library, you wear a tie.'

'All right, I'll wear the tie.' Israel laid the long thick purple tie in his lap. He felt as though someone had hoovered out his stomach lining.

There was a pause at the lights and in the conversation, as Ted waited for the green and for Israel to put on the tie, and Israel attempted to overcome his feelings of nausea.

'It's not really my colour though.'

'Aye, well, next time bring your own tie. If you're out in the mobile library with me, you're representing the library, which represents the council…which represents the…' Ted was struggling a little with his extended metaphor here, but he ploughed on. 'Government…which represents the…'

'People?' offered Israel.

'That's it,' said Ted. 'So put on the tie.'

Israel slowly and carefully knotted the tie round his neck and looked at himself in the wing mirror. If he said so himself, he was looking pretty bloody rough.

'And you'll need to get a haircut,' said Ted.

'Ted, I'm not feeling well.'

'D'you want me to stop again?'

'No.'

'I don't want you bokin' in here.'

'No. I'm not going to.'

'Sure?'

'Yep.'

'Good. So, what's that supposed to be, your hair?'

'It's my hair.'

'Aye, right. It looks like a bird's nest.'

'Thanks.'

'If it touches the ears it's too long. You're a librarian, you know, not a pop star.'

'Yeah.'

'There's a place in town.'

'All right. I'll get it cut. OK?'

'Good.'

Ted was picking up speed now on the outskirts of Tumdrum.

'So, where are we heading exactly?'

'Listen. I'm telling you. We're doing a service run. We're doing it all methodo…Methododo…'

'Methodically?'

'That's it.'

'OK.'

'So we're collecting in all the books that are overdue first, to try and establish exactly how many are missing.'

'Right.'

'Rather than just running around accusing people willy-nilly and at the drop of a hat. You've got to be disciplined with this sort of thing. You've got to think…'

'Methodically?'

'Logically.'

'Of course.'

'You can add up, can you?' said Ted.

'Yes. Of course I can.'

'Aye, right. Because you're keeping the tally. As far as I can work it out, currently we're missing…See that notebook there, on the dash? Open her up. What's the figure there on the first page, where I've written it?'

'Fifteen thousand.'

'Aye.'

'But I've found some already.'

'Aye. How many?'

'Not many.'

'Well, let's say fifteen thousand, then. That's our starting figure, give or take a few. Let's go round 'em up.'

The further they drove out of town the more exotic the housing became-the whole landscape becoming freer, and wider, and looser, taller, stretching itself out and slipping off the grey render and the pebble-dash and stripping down and relaxing until you might actually have been driving through southern Spain, there were so many fine, bright, hacienda-style bungalows, with spreading palm trees standing tall against the pale sea. If it wasn't for the cloud and the drizzle and the signposts for places like Brablagh and Ballycleagh and Doomore you might have thought you were gazing at time-shares along the Mediterranean.

Out on a stretch of road with no one coming and nothing around Ted slowed the van and pulled over.

'Are we stopping?'

'We're stopping.'

'Here?' Israel looked around.

There was nothing around: just road and hedge and cliff and sea.

'Aye.'

'Are you all right?' said Israel. 'Is there something wrong with the van?'

'The van's fine. It's a pick-up,' explained Ted. 'This is a service point. You know what I told you about service points?'

'Erm. What? The stops? The places where the mobile library stops?'

'There you have it.'

'What? This is one?'

'Aye. You're a fast learner.'

'The side of a road?'

'That'd be it. Second furze on the left afore the bridge there.'

'But I thought a service point was a timetabled stopping point where members of the public can safely gather to meet the mobile library.'

'Strictly speaking. But some service points are by private arrangement.'

'I see.'

'So, by the bridge, second furze on the left.'

'People are meeting us there?'

'No, you eejit. Someyin's left their books there.'

'What? Someone's left their books by the side of the road?'

'Yes! For pity's sake, man.'

Israel looked outside nervously: hedges, sea, nothing, Irish skies.

'Is it safe?'

'What are you talking about, is it safe?'

'I don't know. I mean, you know, safe.'

'There's no book-rustlers out here, as far as I'm aware.'

'What about…I don't know. The IRA?'

'The IRA?'

'The IRA.'

'The IRA?'

'Yes, the IRA! You know, like booby-traps or something?'

Ted took a deep breath. 'D'you get the news over there on the mainland, do you?'

'Yes.'

'So you'll be knowing there's a ceasefire on.'

'I know, but…'

'Since 1994. And there's no longer a British Empire. You're up to date with all that, are you?'

'Yes. Of course I am.'

'Good, well, I wouldn't worry too much about it then, if I was you. I don't think the Tumdrum and District mobile library is currently a prime target for dissident republicans.'

'No. I didn't mean that.'

'Aye, right. I don't know why we bother, to be honest.'

'Who?'

'We, us, the loyal people of Ulster. I think we should maybe set up our own republic or something.'

'Well, I'm sure-'

'Aye, right. That'd suit you, wouldn't it? Get rid of us all.'

'Erm. I've got a terrible headache actually, Ted, and I would love to discuss the…'

'Aye.'

'Shall we just get back to the books?'

'You brought the subject up.'

'Right. Well, why have they left their books there, at the side of the road?'

'Who? The IRA?'

'No. Whoever's left their books there.'

'Mr Onions.'

'Mr Onions?'

'That's right.'

'Is that his real name?'

'What do you think?'

'I would, er, I'd guess not, no.'

'Aye, well, all that education didn't go to waste then, did it. He's a farmer.'

'And he grows onions?'

'No, he grows mangoes and oranges.'

'Right.' Israel caught himself on. 'No…Hang on…Well, why's he left his books here?'

'When he's too busy on the farm he leaves them. I pick 'em up, and then leave him some more. It's a private sort of arrangement. It's traditional.'

'Right.'

'Go on then.'

'What?'

'Go and get 'em.'

'But it's raining.'

'Aye, hardly but. It'll not melt you.'

'I'm still feeling a bit-'

'Well, you've only yourself to blame there, haven't ye. Go on.'

Israel got out of the van, turning up the hood on his old brown duffle coat.

'And Israel,' called Ted.

'What?'

'Mind the land-mines.'

Israel went over to the bridge. It was another harsh, wet winter's morning: the trees were bare, shivering in the wind; and the stream was flowing fast; and Israel's head felt like it was splitting in two, and the fresh air hit him so hard in the face he felt even more sick than he'd been feeling in the van. He didn't know where he was supposed to be looking. He turned around and gestured to Ted. Ted wound down the window.