The Case of the Missing Books

'Coffee?'

'Now it's only instant, I'm afraid,' said Rosie, going down towards the kitchen area, Israel following.

'That's fine.'

'And it's mugs.'

'Fine.'

'Probably not what you're used to, though, eh?'

'Well…'

'Roasted coffee beans where you're from, I'll bet.' She took a few mugs from a mug-stand. 'And nice white china?'

'Well, I don't know about that exactly…'

'So?' she said, turning to Israel, hands on hips, having set out the mugs and put the kettle on to reboil, and fixing him with a quizzical gaze. 'How have you found it here so far?'

'It's been…'

Rosie crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

'It's been…' continued Israel, embarrassed.

'Och, I know, pet, don't worry. It's a dump, isn't it?' said Rosie, waving a hand in dismissal. 'It's all right. You can be honest.'

'Well…I don't know if I'd…'

'Not like what you're used to, I bet.'

'No, not exactly.'

'London, isn't it, you're from?'

'Yes.'

'You know, I'd love to live in London. Or New York. I've got a cousin in Hackensack.'

Israel had never heard of it.

'He went to Fairleigh Dickinson University?'

'Right. I'm afraid I'm not…'

'And one of my aunts lives in Greenford.'

'Really? In America?'

'Och, no. Greenford, in London. D'you not know it?'

'No. I'm afraid not.'

'Well. I've never been to visit her even.'

'That's a shame.'

'I'd love to live over there,' said Rosie, quietly and thoughtfully, pausing as she poured boiling water into the mugs.

'Well, why don't you?' asked Israel.

Rosie laughed, stirring tea bag and granules.

'This is where I live,' she said, gesturing at the four walls of the mobile home.

It was one room, with a stained and sagging red sofa dividing the living area from the kitchen, and the kitchen units were chipped and scratched and the brown carpet was worn and there were damp patches on the walls, but you didn't really notice any of that, or only for a moment, you didn't notice what was inside, because on three sides of the room were these huge windows, looking directly out to sea, which was all breaking waves under a slate-grey sky, headlands either side.

'That's quite a view you've got.'

'Aye,' said Rosie. 'The strand. Three miles, isn't it, Ted? Joel, don't do that.' Joel was punching Ted on the nose.

'He's all right,' said Ted.

'You sit here and it feels like being on a ship,' said Rosie. 'I could sit here all day, you know, just looking out, dreaming and that.'

In one corner of the room, under a window, by the television, was a table with a Star Wars chess set. 'Do you play chess?' asked Israel.

'No. That's my son. Conor!' she shouted. 'He loves chess.'

'Great game.'

'Is it?' said Rosie. 'God. I can't stand it myself. Conor!'

Ted was still wrestling with children on the floor. Rosie brought him his mug of tea.

'Thanks, Rosie,' said Ted. 'We've come about the books actually,' he continued, holding a baby up in the air. 'Lagalagalagalaa! Snaggleaggleuppaluss!'

'Oh, I'm sorry, Ted. I haven't collected them all in yet. I've only got ours.'

'It's all right,' said Ted. 'Weeee!' he called.

'We'll take whatever you've got,' said Israel.

'OK,' said Rosie. 'Conor!' she said. 'Conor! I'll go and get him. Are you all right with the wee ones there, Ted?'

'Aye. We'll manage. Here's one for you, Armstrong,' said Ted, trying to hand Israel a child.

'Erm. No, I'm all right thanks, Ted,' said Israel, clutching his mug of coffee tighter and backing away: he wasn't what you'd call a natural with children.

The baby started crying.

Rosie returned. 'Conor's there in his room-he's a wee bit shy of strangers, you know. I'd better deal with this one.' She picked up the crying baby and smelt its bottom. 'No, all right down that end. Let's get you something then, little man. Just pop your head round the door there, Israel, he'll let you in. Tell him I sent you. All the books are in there with him.'

Israel went to knock on the plyboard door at the end of the room. There was no answer.

'Hello?' said Israel, and he pushed open the door.

There was a boy sitting upright on his bed. He was about eight years old-but he had the face of an old man. The room was in most respects a typical boy's room-posters Blu-Tacked to the walls, clothes and toys everywhere. But it was also full, from floor to ceiling, with books. Towers and towers of books. A miniature New York skyline of books.

'Wow!' said Israel, taken aback at what must have been at the very least the entire children's non-fiction section of Tumdrum Library. 'Hello? Conor? I'm Israel. Your mum said I could come in. I'm a librarian.'

The boy stared at Israel in silence.

'You've got a few books here, mate.'

'You've got a few books here, mate!' repeated Conor, mimicking Israel.

'Conor!' said Rosie, appearing next to Israel, sensing trouble, the now pacified baby in her arms chewing a biscuit. 'Behave!'

'Sorry, Mum,' said Conor. 'That's not fair, he's a biscuit!'

'Conor!'

'Erm. Are these all library books?' asked Israel politely.

'I'm afraid so,' said Rosie.

'How did you…?'

'He loves reading, you see. And so, they…'

Israel sensed that Rosie was searching for an explanation.

'They?'

'They…the old librarian.'

'Norman?'

'Yes, yes, that's right. He…Er. He let Conor take them all out.'

'All these books?'

'Yes, that's right!'

Having met Norman Canning, Israel doubted that very much.

'Conor?' said Israel.

Conor remained silent and looked at the floor.

'Well, we'll have to return all these to the library, I'm afraid.'

'But we'll not be fined, will we?' said Rosie. 'I mean, we couldn't possibly afford to pay the fines on all these.'

'No. We're having a fines amnesty.'

'What's an amnesty?' asked Conor.

'Amnesty?' said Israel. 'Good question. An amnesty is when there's a sort of pardon for some crime or-'

'Like in a war,' explained Rosie. 'When you decide to forgive the other side.'

'Couldn't you and Dad have an amnesty, Mum?'

'Conor!'

'Right,' said Israel, embarrassed. 'Perhaps if we could just gather these up and we'll be out of your hair?'

'Aye, right, of course. I'll get you some bags and Conor can help you.'

'Mum!'

'Conor!'

Rosie went to get some bags.

'Do you like reading, Conor?' asked Israel, with Rosie out of the room.

Conor didn't answer.

'Did you get these books from the library, Conor?'

'"Did you get these books from the library, Conor?"' repeated Conor, speaking with his tongue in his bottom lip, like a monkey.

Israel didn't seem to be getting very far with his line of questioning, but then he remembered the chess.

'Do you play chess, mate?'

'"Do you play chess, mate?"'

'Do you though? And without the funny voices, eh. The novelty sort of wears off, you know, and I've got a terrible headache.'

'Are you drunk?'

'No, I'm not drunk.'

'Are you hung over then?'

'No.'

'Are you an alcoholic?'

'No.'

'You look like an alcoholic.'

'Do you play chess with your mum, Conor?'

'She's rubbish.'

'I'm sure she's not rubbish. I like chess.'

'Are you any good?'

'I'm not bad.'

'I bet I could beat you.'

'Well, I'll tell you what. I'll give you a game if you tell me where you got the books.'

'Here we are, now,' said Rosie, reappearing with bin bags.

'Come on, Conor, you give Israel a hand here, please.'

'I'm going out to play,' said Conor, leaping out of bed and running out of the bedroom.

'Conor!'

There was the sound of the slamming of the front door.

'He's certainly a…boisterous little chap,' said Israel.

'Yes,' agreed Rosie.

'You must be very…proud.'

'Well. Would you mind just collecting them up yourself?'