The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

'Come on,' said Ted.

Israel put the key in the ignition.

He'd once had a head-on collision with a skip on a wide, empty road during the hours of daylight. And had also accidentally brought down a Belisha beacon on a pedestrian crossing. And he'd driven his mother's car into a concrete wall in a multi-storey.

'Hitler,' he mumbled.

'What?' said Ted. 'What?'

'With the Volkswagen, you know. I think that's probably part of my problem with cars.'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Hitler. I'm sure.'

'The Italian Job,' said Israel. 'Did you ever see that?'

'They were Minis,' said Ted.

'I know, but I was just thinking about the meaning of driving.'

'The meaning of driving,' repeated Ted, to Muhammad. 'D'ye hear him?'

'Music. They're really about music, cars,' continued Israel, half-deliriously.

'Is that right?' said Ted.

Israel had listened to a lot of music in cars: he could chart his entire adolescence according to exactly where and when and who he was with in what car when he was listening to, say, Blur, or Oasis, or Portishead, or Pulp. At this moment, however, the most appropriate music would be a doomy Philip Glass film score, or some weepy thing by Arvo Pärt. Israel dry-belched.

'They're machines for listening to music in. Brian Eno said that.'

'Did he now?' said Ted. 'And what would he know?'

'Brian Eno?'

'Aye. What would he know?'

'How d'you mean?' said Israel.

'He. Know? It's a joke, Israel, for pity's sake.'

'Ah, right.'

'Anyhow, it's us,' said Ted. They were next in line to pull away and off and up the ramp and into England.

'You're sure you don't want to-' began Israel.

'Drive!' said Ted.

'Yes,' said Israel. 'Of course.'

He turned the key. The van didn't start.

He glanced across at Ted, who sat impassive, staring ahead, much as though he were in a film with a doomy Philip Glass score. Muhammad sat in his lap.

'Ted?'

Ted remained silent.

Israel turned the keys in the ignition again.

Israel felt his mouth and throat go dry.

There was an incident on the A40 once, with Gloria. He'd stalled. Couldn't get the car started again. A man had come out of his car and reached in, called Gloria a stupid bitch, and then punched Israel; he'd punched him only lightly, once, but it was in the face. It had hurt.

'Ted?'

'What?'

'She's not starting.'

'Well, try her again.'

'I've tried her again.'

'Well, try her again again.'

Israel could begin to feel the restlessness of the vehicles behind him.

He tried turning the ignition again.

'Turn the ignition and give it a shoggle!' said Ted.

'I am turning the ignition and giving it a…shoggle.'

'Ach!' said Ted, placing Muhammad down. 'Are ye totally useless, man? Can ye not do anything right? Let me there.'

Ted stood up and started pulling Israel out of the driver's seat.

'Out! Come on, out!'

'Ow! Get off! What are you doing?'

'I'm driving. Come on. Shove over. Get out of the seat, ye eejit. You can't even start a bloody vehicle, never mind drive her.'

'It's not my fault!' said Israel, slinking into the passenger seat. 'I don't feel well. It's this stupid van.'

'Don't blame the van. There's nothing wrong with this van.'

'There is.'

'There is not!'

* * *

By the time Ted had positioned himself in the driving seat and claimed the wheel, a number of other drivers had started to emerge out of their own vehicles and were approaching the van. There was a sharp tap on the window by Ted's head. Ted rolled down the window-with some slight difficulty. He hadn't got round to fixing the windows.

'Problem, mate?' said a shaven-headed man with a London accent.

'What?' said Ted.

'Problem?'

'No. Why? Have ye a problem?'

'Yeah. I do as it happens. I want to get my van off this ferry and get 'ome.'

'Well,' said Ted, turning the key in the ignition and hoping for the best, 'if you were to stop poking yer nose in here and get back in your ve-hicle'-and yes! yes! the van started-'you might be able to.' He loudly revved the van. The man walked away. '"Problem, mate,"' said Ted loudly, mimicking the man's accent.

'God,' said Ted, as they drove off the ferry and up the concrete ramp and into the blinding light and Liverpool docks. 'I hate the fucking English.'

'We're not all bad,' said Israel.

'No,' said Ted, casting Israel a pitiful glance. 'Some of youse are worse.'

* * *

They drove in a long snaking queue through the docks, past multi-coloured containers stacked high one upon the other, and huge lorry trailer-loads and cranes and cargo ships and freighters and they could have been anywhere in the world, until Israel saw a WELCOME TO LIVERPOOL sign that had been spray-painted to read WELCOME TO POO, and he knew he was back in England.

'Hello, England!' he said.

Muhammad barked in approval.

Israel wound down his window and breathed in the fresh air, and he couldn't explain it: it felt like a huge weight was being lifted from his shoulders. He felt instantly refreshed and renewed, as though he'd slept for a long long time and awoken with renewed vigour.

'England!' he shouted, through his nausea and over his headache. 'In-ger-lund!'

'All right,' said Ted. 'That's enough now.'

'Do you want me to take over the driving?' offered Israel.

'I thought you hated driving,' said Ted.

'Well, you know. Like you say, we're on my manor now.'

'We're what?'

'On my manor.'

'Aye, and ye're one of the Kray twins all of a sudden, are ye?'

'No. Just. Home, I mean. This is my home.'

'Is it?'

'Yes.'

'What? You live in Liverpool?'

'No.'

'So you don't live in Liverpool?'

'No, I don't.'

'So this isn't your home?'

'No! I live in…I just mean, England. Oh, never mind. You drive, and I'll…' Muhammad looked up at him reproachfully from the floor. 'Just sit quietly here, shall I?'

Just as Israel spoke these words they were waved over towards a set of Portakabins by two armed policemen.

'Ach, no,' said Ted. 'I don't believe it.'

'What?' said Israel. 'What's happening?'

'Just don't say anything,' said Ted, as he swung the van over.

One policeman approached Ted's side of the van. Another approached Israel's. Ted wound down his window.

'Morning, gents,' said Ted's policeman, breathing coffee fumes into the van. 'Any form of identification at all?'

'Me?' said Israel, shocked.

'Yes, you,' said Israel's policeman, who'd perhaps had a meal with garlic in it the night before.

The policemen examined the passports. Israel's garlicky policeman seemed satisfied with his. Ted's coffee policeman was not so sure.

'Can we have a word, Mr Carson?'

Ted got out of the van.

Israel started to get out of the van too.

'Ted?'

'You stay there,' said Israel's policeman.

'But-'

'Get in the van, and stay in the van, sir,' said the policeman.

Israel stayed in the van and waited. And waited. He needed to go to the toilet. He wasn't sure he'd be allowed to go to the toilet. He took some Nurofen. They made him feel sick. You shouldn't take Nurofen on an empty stomach. Israel always took Nurofen on an empty stomach. He'd probably die of a stomach ulcer before he was thirty. Or internal bleeding. Multiple organ failure. Muhammad sat silently, occasionally scratching at himself.