He could hear the dog howling outside. He didn't have long. He started moving quickly through the warren of rooms, rushing past bedsteads and chaise-longues and stuffed birds and desks and tables and cabinets.
But no books. There was absolutely no sign of the bloody books! The only books he could find were tooled leather volumes sitting on a little mahogany book carrel; a snip at £300. But no Hayes car manuals. No Dorling Kindersleys. No Catherine Cooksons. No little purple stickers and the Dewey number. No sign of the Tumdrum and District Library books.
He thought he heard a noise-someone approaching. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
His breathing was heavy-his blood seemed to be pumping round his body at twice its normal speed. He was shaking. His broken nose throbbed. He opened up the nearest door to him and climbed through and wedged himself inside a nice double pine wardrobe: it would have done him and Gloria actually, the wardrobe. He could hear his heart echoing round the wooden space. For a moment he thought his heart might explode. The footsteps approached nearer and nearer.
As the sound of footsteps passed the wardrobe Israel took courage, pushed open the doors and leapt out, shouting and slinging a punch.
The dark figure in front of him turned as Israel swung, blocked the blow, struck him under the chin, hit him in the face, and kneed him in the groin. Israel fell to the floor.
'Aaggh.'
'Get up.'
'Aaggh,' continued Israel.
'Get up, you eejit.'
It was Ted.
'Ted? Ted, what are you doing here?' groaned Israel.
'I couldn't let you come here on your own, you bloody fool.'
'Right. Aaggh. I think you've broken my jaw, but-aaggh-thanks anyway.'
'Don't thank me. I haven't broke your jaw. We're getting you out of here.'
'Right. Yeah,' said Israel, raising himself up to his feet.
'You never go anywhere without back-up. D'you find them though?'
'What?'
'The books, boy!'
'No.'
'Ach, Israel.'
'Ah, but I haven't quite finished my search yet.'
There was a sudden flash of light-like the director of Israel's little film noir had suddenly called 'Cut!' and thrown the switch. It was P. J. Bullimore standing in front of them with a huge torch and dressed in pyjamas, a nasty pink golfing jumper and monogrammed slippers.
'I think your search is over, gents.'
'Ah,' said Israel-in a tone that conveyed all at once anger, surprise, and complete and utter despair.
'Where are the books, Bullimore?' said Ted, rather more evenly.
'Ted. I might have guessed you'd be involved,' said Bullimore.
'The books, Bullimore?'
'The books? I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.'
'The missing library books?'
Bullimore laughed. 'I think the police might have something to say about this,' he said. 'In the meantime…'
And then he grabbed a shade-less standard lamp and started advancing towards them.
'Steady!' said Ted.
'Reasonable force,' said Bullimore, moving slowly towards them, enraged, his face flushed, 'in the protection of myself and my property.'
At which point big blind John Feely Boyd came blundering out of the dark towards them.
'Ted!' he called. 'Ted!'
'John!' called Ted. 'Look out!'
Bullimore turned with the standard lamp, wielding it in front of him like a sword, but because John couldn't see he just kept coming forward, which unnerved Bullimore, who hesitated in his thrust and John quickly disarmed him, grabbed him and got him in a head-lock.
'That's the relief o' Derry, John, I tell you,' said Ted.
'Come on! Let's go,' said Israel, adrenaline pumping. 'Before the police get here.'
'Wise up,' said Ted.
'We called the police,' said John.
'Oh,' said Israel.
'You're going to have some explaining to do, boyo,' said Ted.
20
People afterwards liked to talk about what really happened, but no one really knows apart from those who were there, and those who were involved.
It was the farewell dinner at Zelda's. Linda Wei was there in her middle-management evening wear of trouser suit and character scarf. Ted was there in a black suit and a black shirt and a black tie, and he seemed also to have shaved his head specially, which doubled the usual menace: classic henchman chic. Minnie was there, in a sparkly cardigan. And George, with her red hair down; Brownie; Mr Devine; the Reverend Roberts; Rosie; the cream of Tumdrum society. Mayoress Minty had been invited but had had to decline; she was at the launch of the council's nude charity calendar, which featured photographs of dinner ladies with strategically placed Yorkshire puddings and lollipop men with their giant lollipops; the Impartial Recorder had run a full-colour centre-spread preview the week before and it had caused uproar. Mayoress Minty had come out strongly in support: if Northern Ireland had had more nude charity calendars, she'd told the paper, maybe it wouldn't be in the state it was in today, a characteristically provocative and utterly nonsensical statement which had caused more uproar, but the mayoress was sticking to her guns; she'd ordered a hundred copies of the calendar to send out to friends and family; and her own personal favourite, she was telling anyone and everyone who cared to listen, was March, which featured the council caretakers with mops atop their dignity.
The real star of the show at Zelda's meanwhile was the food-they had really pushed the boat out with the food. There wasn't a drop of coronation chicken in sight. It was a meat- and poultry-free feast that would have warmed the heart of even the most red-in-tooth-and-claw of carnivores, let alone a short, chubby, vegetarian librarian from north London.
Israel was seated, broken-nosed and puffy-eyed, at the head table overlooking the vegetarian proceedings, Minnie on his left, George on his right. He'd polished his brown brogues and had borrowed Mr Devine's three-piece tweed suit again, and he was wearing Ted's purple tie. He liked to think he had a certain rakish charm. He didn't, in fact, but he had the glow of someone who knew that the end was near. His old brown suitcase was already packed.
Dishes kept arriving before them, as if by magic, although actually served up by the raggedy-nailed and not entirely clean hands of a troop of fat and miserable-looking schoolchildren in their white school shirts and blouses, employed specially for the evening by Zelda. There was more couscous and fried aubergine than Israel had ever seen.
'It's like the Satyricon,' he said jokingly.
'Surely,' said Minnie. 'Wasn't that on the telly? We had to send to Belfast for those,' she said, indicating a plate of deep-fried sweet potatoes. 'And the…Och, what do you call this stuff?' she asked George.
'What stuff?' said George irritably.
'Och, the whitey stuff there that looks a wee bit like tripe?'
'I don't know.'
'Come here, Israel,' said Minnie, even though Israel was already there. 'What's those sort of wee lardy lumps?'
'Tofu?'
'Aye, right. That's from Derry, that is.'
'Londonderry,' said George.
'Och, don't be so silly,' said Minnie. 'One of them healthy food shops up there.'
'Right,' said Israel, heading off an argument. 'Well, thank you anyway.'
'Don't thank me. Thank Zelda,' said Minnie. 'It was her idea. She wanted to give you a big send-off. Sure, it's not been easy for you.'
'I'm sure he can't wait to get back home,' said George, grinning unpleasantly at Israel.
Well, yes, Israel had to admit…It had been a busy couple of days.
Unfortunately it had turned out that P. J. Bullimore was not responsible for the theft of the missing library books: the police had searched his premises thoroughly but to no avail, so Israel's hunch, like just about all his other notions, had turned out to be entirely wrong. But then again it appeared that Bullimore was responsible for having stolen numerous items of furniture from Pearce Pyper and other locals: his Antiques and Collectables Treasure Trove was a trove of other people's treasure. Bullimore was currently helping police with their enquiries.