by Ian Sansom
Library users were exactly the same as everyone else, it seemed, and this came as a terrible shock to Israel. He had always believed that reading was good for you, that the more books you read somehow the better you were, the closer to some ideal of human perfection you came, yet if anything his own experience at the library suggested the exact opposite: that reading didn't make you a better person, that it just made you short-sighted, and even less likely than your fellow man or woman to be able to hold a conversation about anything that did not centre around you and your ailments and the state of the weather.
He shivered.
Could all that really be true? Did it matter? That the striving after knowledge, the attempt to understand human minds and human nature, and stories, and narrative shapes and patterns, made you no better a person? That the whole thing was an illusion? That books were not a mirror of nature or a mark of civilisation, but a chimera? That the reading of books was in fact nothing more than a kind of mental knitting, or like the monotonous eating of biscuits, a pleasant way of passing time before you died? All those words about words, and texts about texts, and all nothing more than tiny splashes of ink…
Nothing to read: nothing to be read.
His mind was racing in the confined spaces and rotations of the cell; Israel was dizzying himself. The whole world seemed to be wobbling around him. He felt like The Scream. He felt like crying. Again. He suddenly thought of his mother looking down at him from a great height.
Oh, God.
And the next thing he knew there was a young Asian man standing over him, shaking him, looking down at him. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming or if this was real. It certainly wasn't his mother.
'Mr Armstrong?'
He rubbed his eyes. His shoulders ached.
This was real. The man was standing with his hands behind his back. He had the beginnings of a beard.
'Hello,' said the man. 'I'm Hussain. From Biggs and Short.'
'What?'
'Your solicitors.'
'I don't have a solicitor.'
'No. Well, I'm your legal representative.'
'No. My girlfriend's going to be helping me out with all that.'
'Is that Gloria Cohen?'
'Yes, that's her.'
'The police were unable to contact her, I'm afraid, sir.'
He knew exactly what he meant: Gloria was always too busy to answer her phone. They might have more luck texting her, but even then they wouldn't be guaranteed a response: 'SPK,' would come the reply, but she wouldn't.
'Well,' continued Mr Hussain, 'anyway, I have been appointed your legal representative. I work for Biggs and Short. Mr Billy Biggs is a cousin of Ted Carson, Mr Armstrong, who I believe you know?'
'Oh, no.' That did not augur well. 'Look,' he continued, 'I really don't want to talk to you about this…nonsense.'
'I suggest very strongly that you do, Mr Armstrong. This is really a very serious matter.'
Israel held his head in his hands.
The man was looking down at Israel intently. Israel could feel him looking at him. It was unnerving, like the sense he'd had as a child of God right above his head, being able to see him. The man said, 'Did you do it, Mr Armstrong?'
'What? Did I do what?'
'The police say they've got rather a lot of evidence against you.'
'What evidence?'
'Your prints are all over the safe.'
'My prints? No. No. They're…I touched the safes when I arrived because…I've explained this to them already. I didn't do it. Of course I didn't do it. I'm a librarian.'
Mr Hussain perched sympathetically on the plinth next to Israel.
'Well,' he said, 'how do you explain it?'
'What?'
'If you didn't do it, why have they arrested you?'
'Because I was there.'
'Why?'
'Because of the five-panel touring exhibition of the history of Dixon and Pickering's.'
Israel then told Hussain everything about what had happened that morning and Hussain listened.
'I see,' he said, when Israel had finished talking.
'Do you?' asked Israel, who suddenly found he needed someone to believe in him.
'I understand what you're saying,' said Hussain.
'That's not the same thing as believing me though, is it?'
'Would you—'
'Do you believe me?'
'It's—'
'You don't believe me, do you? You're supposed to be my bloody solicitor and you don't believe me!'
'Would you like me to accompany you to the interview, Mr Armstrong?'
'What interview?'
'You're going to be interviewed by the police shortly, Mr Armstrong, in connection with the robbery, and you have the right to have your solicitor with you.'
'Oh, God.'
As they were talking, there was a bang at the door and a small window opened and a tray was handed in.
'I took the liberty' said Hussain, gesturing towards the tray.
'What is it?' said Israel.
'It's food and drink,' said Hussain, getting up.
'I'm not hungry,' said Israel. He was hungry. He was starving. But he couldn't eat.
'It's coffee,' said Hussain, offering Israel the tray. 'And scones.'
Scones. Scones. Always bloody scones. Around Tumdrum the scone was regarded not as a snack item or as a luxury, but pretty much as an essential food item; around Tumdrum the scone was a sine qua non. And this morning of all mornings Israel could have done with a cup of coffee and a scone.
But even Israel couldn't manage a coffee and a scone this morning: things were really that bad.
So, after Hussain had eaten the scones and drunk the two coffees–'Are you sure?' he said, starting in on scone two. 'They're really good. They're cinnamon. You're absolutely sure?'–he and Israel were taken into the interview room. Two police officers were present: Sergeant Friel and someone Israel didn't recognise.
The policeman Israel didn't recognise switched on a tape recorder, said his name–Israel didn't quite catch it, was it Doggart? Hoggart?–the date, time and place and then he spoke to Israel. 'Can you introduce yourself for the benefit of the tape?'
Israel said nothing.
Hussain gave Israel a little nudge. Back in the cell, he'd explained to Israel that he needed to cooperate. Any questions he wasn't sure about, Israel was supposed to say, 'No comment.'
But instead Israel said nothing. And so Hussain nudged him again. And still Israel said nothing. So Hussain spoke on his behalf, saying his name. And the police officer told the tape that Israel had refused to speak. There was a chorus of huffing and puffing around the room.
'Where'd he get the name, Israel?' Doggart/Hoggart muttered to Sergeant Friel.
'I don't know.'
'What's that?' said Israel.
'Ah! It speaks!' said Doggart/Hoggart. 'Your name. Where'd you get it?'
'My name?'
'Aye. You didn't get it off a bush, did you?'
'What do you mean, I didn't get it off a bush?'
'Why are you called Israel?'
'Why do you think?'
'I'm asking you.'
'I'm called Israel after Israel, the people of Israel, in the Bible. You've heard of that, I suppose?'
'We have to ask,' said Sergeant Friel, whose mock emollience now seemed like true balm compared to Doggart/Hoggart.
'You are named after the state of Israel in the Middle East?' asked Doggart/Hoggart.
'Yes, that too, I suppose.'
'And what's your connection with the state of Israel, Mr Armstrong?'
'What? I don't have any connection with the state of Israel!'
'You're called Israel and you have no connections with the state of Israel or with the Middle East?'
'No. I don't.'
'So why are you called Israel?'
'I thought I'd just explained! My mother's Jewish, and she thought it was a good idea at the time. It was the 1970s. We had family there.
It was all the rage.'
'So, you claim you have no contact with the Middle East and yet you have family there?'
'Yes. Look, what has this got to do with anything? I'm from north London. I'm just called Israel: I'm not an Israeli.'
'I see. And what's the nature of your business here in Northern Ireland?'
'I live here. You know I live here. I work here. I'm the librarian!'
'So, you're an immigrant?'
'What? Well, yes. No. No, I'm not an immigrant. I'm English. I just happen to be here. I've got a job here.'
'And your job of work here?'
'I just told you! I'm the librarian! On the mobile library. Ask Sergeant Friel there, he gets his books out from the library once a month. Do you never get books out of the library?'
Doggart/Hoggart did not look as though he got a lot of books out of the library.
There was a malevolent kind of a pause for a moment then–a pause in which Israel looked pleadingly from the downcast eyes of his solicitor to the downcast eyes of Sergeant Friel and then back again to the hard stare of Doggart/Hoggart, who raised his shoulders and rearranged himself in his chair, clearly preparing for another line of questioning.
'How many counties are there in Ireland, Mr Armstrong?'
'Sorry?'
'I said, how many counties are there in Ireland?'
'Erm…I don't know. What's this got to do with anything?'
'Can you name three Glens of Antrim?'
'What?'
'It's funny: you claim you're not an immigrant here, Mr Armstrong, and yet you don't seem to know very much about the country in which you're living.'
'I've only been here—'
'Where was the sash worn?'
'What?'
'I said, where was the sash worn?'
'I have no idea what you're talking about. What is this, twenty questions?'
'Do you speak any Israeli languages, Mr Armstrong?'
'Israeli languages? What are you talking about? What do you mean, Hebrew?'
'Arabic?'
'No, I don't speak Arabic. Or Hebrew. I know about two dozen phrases of Yiddish, and that's it.'
'Yiddish?'
'That's right.'
'What's that, a Jewish language?'
'Oh, God.'
Doggart/Hoggart then reminded Israel the interview was being tape-recorded and might be used in evidence in a court of law.
He went on, 'For the benefit of the tape, do you understand why you have been arrested, Mr Armstrong?'
Israel had had enough. He decided to give up on the conversation and returned to his earlier tactic and remained silent.
Doggart/Hoggart asked again.
And Israel remained silent.
Doggart/Hoggart said, 'If you refuse to make any comment, an inference may be drawn at court.'
This became the pattern for the rest of the interview: Israel silent, Doggart/Hoggart repeating, 'If you refuse to make any comment, an inference may be drawn at court.'
Then Sergeant Friel had a go. 'Tell me what happened, Israel.'
Israel said nothing.
'If you refuse to make any comment, an inference may be drawn at court.'
At which point Hussain had had enough. He asked permission to halt the interview to confer with his client. The interview was duly halted and Israel was taken to the cell with Hussain to confer.
'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?' said Hussain.
'I didn't do it!' said Israel. 'And I'm not going to allow them to twist what I say to make it appear as though I did.'
'You need to cooperate with the police, Mr Armstrong.'
'Yeah. Right. I know how these things work.'
'What things?'
'False accusations. Conspiracies.'
'This is not a conspiracy!'
'It is a bloody conspiracy! It's like…Princess Diana, and the…Kennedy assassination!'
'Mr Armstrong—'
'I'm a librarian! I'm not…Lee Harvey Oswald!'
'Mr Armstrong, please. No one's saying you are Lee Harvey Oswald. Whoever you are,' said Hussain, 'if you haven't done it, you have nothing to fear from speaking to the police.'
They returned to the interview room.
The interview recommenced.
'Have you had sufficient time to advise your client?' asked Sergeant Friel. Hussain said that he had. And Doggart/Hoggart started in again.
Israel still said nothing. For five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.
The interview was abandoned. The tapes were sealed. Two copies. Israel and Hussain were asked to sign the seal of one copy. Israel refused. A note was made in a notebook: 'Refused to sign.'
Israel was returned to the cell, and he buried his face in the mattress. His mind was in turmoil. Why did they keep asking him about being Jewish? Israel didn't even feel Jewish. He was just…Israel. And all that stuff about Ireland? How the hell was he supposed to know anything about Ireland? He only lived here.
Hussain reappeared.
'Good news.'
Israel looked at him.
'The DNA's going to take about a week to process.'
'So?'
'I think we can get you bail. There's no other evidence at the moment to link you to the crime.'
'Oh.'
'This is what you want?'
Israel nodded.
Hussain left and then returned half an hour later with a plain-clothes policeman. Israel was escorted back to another policeman sitting at a desk.
A debate ensued between Hussain, the desk policeman, and the plain-clothes policeman, who expressed a concern as to whether Israel should be granted bail.
'It is my belief that Mr Armstrong would fail to return, due to the seriousness of the offence.'
'My client,' said Hussain, 'has a job. He has ties to the community.'
Israel snorted. Ties to the community! He didn't have ties to this community. Shackles, maybe. But ties? Nothing apart from the bloody library. He had nothing in common with these people. He certainly didn't share a common past with them, nor did he want to. He didn't share their feelings, or their language, apparently, or common assumptions, and he definitely did not share their so-called sense of humour. Ties to the community! For goodness sake.
Hussain continued. 'He has a home.'
Israel snorted again. A home! A chicken coop! That's where he'd bloody ended up here. A chicken coop.
'He is of previous good character.'
Hussain had never met Israel before.
'Also, you have his passport.'
What? Israel didn't know they had his passport. How the hell did they get hold of his passport?
The man behind the desk wrote all this down.
'It is my belief that Mr Armstrong could be a danger to the public,' said the plain-clothes policeman. 'He could commit further offences.'
'My client is prepared to reside at his home, to sign in weekly at the station and to keep a curfew.'
There was a huddle then, and hushed talking between the plain-clothes policeman and the desk policeman, and the next thing Israel knew he was signing forms in triplicate. He glanced at the words. It was an offence, apparently, for him to fail to appear back at the police station in one week. It was an offence for which he could be fined or imprisoned or both.
Then suddenly he was in another room being kitted out in someone else's old clothes and being escorted out past the front counter with Hussain.
'Well, we've got a week,' said Hussain, walking with him down a long grey corridor.
'For what?' said Israel.
'For us to sort all this out,' said Hussain.
'It's not very long,' said Israel.
'Well, how long do you need?'
'I don't know.'
'Well, you've got a week. They'll be doing stuff at the forensic science lab. And the DNA database in Birmingham.' Hussain looked at Israel suspiciously. 'They'll also need to prove intent.'
'I didn't have anything to do
with it.'
'Fine,' said Hussain. 'You'll be OK then. Here's my card. You understand the bail conditions?'
Israel nodded.
'OK. Well, let's talk tonight. I'll ring you. You can let me know what our next move is.'
Hussain's words rattled in his ear. His next move? His next move?
Israel didn't have a next move.
He had a terrible headache.
6
Ted had been waiting for Israel in the police station. He was working his way through a giant book of Sudoku puzzles.
'Blinking things,' he said, as Israel shuffled towards him in his borrowed clothes.
'Oh, Ted! God, am I glad to see you.'
'Aye. Well, fancied I'd run into ye–you look like somethin' shot at an' missed, mind.'
'What?'
'And fancy dress, was it?' asked Ted: Israel was dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit, with a pair of size 11 shoes.
'No.'
'You swap with Coco the Clown?'
Israel was too tired for repartee.
'Aye, well,' continued Ted, 'you look smarter than usual.'
'Thanks.'
'Not that it'd be difficult. Come on, let's get out of here.'
Ted strode quickly towards the doors, Israel following.
'They treat you right?' asked Ted, as they hurried down the ramp.
'God, Ted. No,' said Israel. 'It was awful. It was—' Israel broke off. He found his hands were shaking.
'Aye, all right, son.'
They made it across the yard to Ted's cab.
'D'you get Billy?'
'What?'
'Your brief? My cousin, Billy Biggs, he saw you right?'
'No, no. I got some young bloke called…Hussain.'
