The Case of the Missing Books

'Well, old girl,' he said to no one except himself and the van. 'Here we go.'

He drove out past the edge of town then, past Ted's Cabs and the First and Last, and up round onto the coast road, past the sign that said WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS, past the grey exposed cliff face on the one side and the dark black sea on the other, following the coil of the road, sometimes high above the sea and sometimes right alongside, through the thin little patches of wood, dipping down and along through the pools of leaves and the run-off from the little gullies and streams that flowed down into all the blackness and nothingness below.

He drove over the bridge up by the Devines', and as he hit the bump and came down the van felt different; it felt heavier somehow. Israel reasoned it was maybe heaviness of heart. He couldn't honestly say that he'd come to love this place, and he couldn't honestly say he'd come to love the people, but…well, maybe it was just because he was leaving; he was the sort of person, after all, who could get nostalgic about yesterday's breakfast.

He thought he'd better check though, just in case it was a real rather than a merely sentimental or imaginary problem with the van, and he pulled over just by the second furze, where he'd made his first pick-up, and glanced around.

The shelves were in now: Dennis had fitted them the past few days, and they were beautiful; you could see the grain even in the moonlight. Linda Wei had gone absolutely mad at first when Israel had told her about the cost of the shelves-she had exploded, a quake of Pringles and Diet Coke-but then soon after he'd been hailed as a local hero and she'd calmed down. So the shelves were a success; the shelves looked great.

And now, tonight, on every one of those beautiful grainy shelves there were books-hardbacks, paperbacks, sitting like old friends gazing down at him in silent amusement.

They were back.

Israel pushed his glasses up high onto his forehead and swallowed hard.

Someone…Someone must have stocked the van while he was in Zelda's saying his goodbyes. The library was full. It was…It was…Well, it was unbelievable.

By the time he drove back to Zelda's the party was over. The last of the parked cars had gone. There was no one around. The door was still open though and he went through the restaurant, calling out-'Zelda! Minnie!'-past the tables-'Zelda! Minnie!'-past the counter-'Zelda! Minnie!'-past boxes in the hallway and on into the parlour. His voice died out. There was no one around.

He went back into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out, more quietly. 'Zelda? Minnie?'

There was still no reply.

Something seemed to compel him to walk up the stairs-either instinct or inspiration, or a growing sense of terror, but whatever it was it kept on compelling him so that when he reached the landing he stepped through the open door to the left, which led into a huge room which stretched the entire length of the building, overlooking the town square. There was an orangey glow from the street lights.

And all along the walls of this vast orangey empty room were bookshelves-row upon row of bookshelves. Empty bookshelves.

He walked back out into the hallway and took a deep breath. He didn't know what to think. He fumbled in his pocket for some Nurofen: he had none left.

He stared for a moment at the photos on the walls: photos of a younger Zelda wearing a fox stole with the head attached, the jaw as a clasp; Zelda again in another photo with a hockey stick; another of her in a car with her hair in a tight scarf; Zelda wearing a fur coat.

'That was my first fur coat.'

Israel nearly leapt out of his skin.

Zelda stood at the top of the landing. She was looking tired. She was removing her make-up.

'Zelda!'

'Sshh,' she said. 'Minnie's asleep.'

She gestured for Israel to move back into the vast empty room.

'Zelda…'

'Yes?'

'The books.'

'Yes?'

'They're all back, in the van.'

'Yes. That's right.' She wiped creamy cotton-wool pads across her cheeks.

'But…' And now finally it clicked. 'Hang on. It was you? Who stole the books?'

'Well, they're back now.'

'Wait. Why? I mean…You were North Coast Books?'

The computer downstairs. The boxes in the hall. Oh, good grief.

'You?'

'Not just me.' Zelda's pale face shone in the glow of the street lights.

'Who? Who put the books back?'

'Everyone.' She was picking at her false nails, plucking them off, one by one.

'Everyone? What do you mean everyone?'

'Everyone. Everyone here tonight.'

'What? All of you?'

'Yes.'

'Minnie. And…?'

'Ted?'

'Not Ted! No!' laughed Zelda. 'He wouldn't have anything to do with it: he's not half the man he was.'

'Linda? The council?'

'No, of course not.'

'But. The Devines?'

'No, not them either, they wouldn't have anything to do with us. But everyone else.'

'Everyone with the overdue books and…'

'Yes. Of course.'

Israel couldn't believe it.

Zelda stared at him, unmade up, her fingernails bare.

'Why?' said Israel.

'Why do you think? The council robbed us of the library. We weren't going to let them rob us of the books as well. We've all lost enough round here already.'

'But…'

'When they announced they were closing the library we just took the books and set up our own-the people's library.'

'Here?' said Israel, glancing around.

'Yes, here,' said Zelda. 'That's right.'

'You stole the books and kept them here, above the café?'

'We ran it as a proper library. The books were in safekeeping.'

'But you were selling stuff on the Internet?'

'Out-of-date books and duplicates just, I think you'll find, to replenish our stock.'

'Right. I see.'

'No, I don't think you do see. I don't think you have any idea.'

'But-'

'No. No more buts now, thank you. I would love to stay and chat but I'm very tired, I'm afraid: I'm not as young as I was. I suggest you go home and get some rest.'

'But I have to-'

'What?' Zelda arched an already highly pluck-arched eyebrow. 'Tell the police?'

'Yes.'

'That's your decision. The books are all back. No one's been hurt.'

'Yes. But. Why have you given them back now? Why have you told me?'

'I don't know. Because. We decided to trust you. That you'd look after them.'

'But I'm going back now. I'm not staying. I can't stay here. I have to go back to London. My life's in London.'

'Is it?'

'Yes.'

'Your life is wherever you're living, I think you'll find, young man.'

'What?'

'Never mind. But anyway. You have to do what you think is right. Just the same as us.'

'Zelda. I-'

'Goodnight now. And close the door after you please. Quietly now.'

'Zelda…'

And with that, Zelda disappeared into the darkness of the house.

If a man in a van could ever properly be said to be experiencing a long dark night of the soul, a glimpse of the infinitude of the self, and if he could be understood, in at least some small way, to be undergoing a process of being and becoming, then Israel Armstrong on his last night in Northern Ireland most certainly was. He drove in the van until dawn, until his mind was clear-down the coast road, and along the dual-carriageways, and the ring roads, and the single-track roads of County Antrim-and he parked up eventually back at the strand to watch the sun come up, the books behind him, the vast sea before him.

And when he rang Gloria back in London there was no reply.

The signs went up around town later that day.

This was not what was supposed to happen at all.

Acknowledgements

For previous acknowledgements see The Truth About Babies (Granta Books, 2002) and Ring Road (Fourth Estate, 2004). These stand, with exceptions. In addition I would like to thank the following. (The previous terms and conditions apply: some of them are dead; most of them are strangers; the famous are not friends; none of them bears any responsibility.) I remain extremely grateful to the editors of The Enthusiast.