by Ian Sansom
'Indian fella?'
'I don't know. No. He was from here, I think.'
'He's Indian-looking, but?'
'Well, yes, him.'
'Aye. He's from Belfast. Top of his year at Queen's apparently. Billy swears by him. So?'
'Ted.' Israel stopped walking. 'I think they're trying to frame me.'
'Frame ye?'
'Yes! They're saying I carried out the robbery and the kidnap.'
'Kidnap?'
'Mr Dixon, he's gone missing.'
'Ach.'
'They're trying to blame me for it.'
'Aye. They're just trying to rile ye.'
'Well it certainly worked. Ted, you wouldn't believe the conditions they keep you in.'
'I think I would, boy. Come on, let's go.'
They got into Ted's cab.
Israel found he was shaking so much he couldn't do up his seat belt.
'Ye all right?' asked Ted.
'I don't feel well, Ted.'
'Aye, well, you'll be all right once we're out of here.'
'It's a violation of basic human rights.'
'Ach, Israel.'
'They're framing me, Ted. I really think they are.'
'You're getting carried away now.'
'I am not getting carried away, Ted!' There was a hoarseness to Israel's voice, as though he were about to cry.
'For goodness sake, you're not going to be blubbing now, are ye?'
'No, it was just…' Israel swallowed hard and tried to compose himself.
'Look, you're getting yerself all highsterical. Just calm down.'
'But I was in prison, Ted!'
'You were in a police cell. It's no' the same thing at all.'
'But, Ted, what if they manage to pin it on me?'
'Pin it on ye?' Ted laughed. 'What are ye blathering on about now? Pin it on ye? They're not going to pin it on you, son. You're just being silly. You're too sensitive altogether.'
'Too sensitive! Ted…' Israel took a deep breath. 'They've arrested me, released me on bail for a crime I didn't commit, and you're telling me I'm too sensitive!'
'Aye, that's exactly right. Get a grip of yerself.'
They drove out of the police compound and into the streets of Rathkeltair. Israel lapsed into silence.
'Linda wants to see you,' said Ted.
'What? Now? Oh, no. Ted, no.'
'Yes.'
'I can't, Ted. Not today. I don't even know what day it is. What day is it?'
'Saturday.'
'She wants to see me on Saturday?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'I can't, Ted. I need to…Not now. Not today.'
'You'll be all right.'
'Ted. No. I'm…I'm tired.'
'Aye, well. Get the name of rising early and you can lay on till dinnertime.'
'What?'
'It's just a saying.'
'Not now, Ted, please. I need a cup of coffee or something, and something to eat.'
'Aye, right. The old prison food not to your liking, eh?'
They stopped off at the garage and picked up an egg mayonnaise sandwich and a bottle of Coke for Israel, and drove on to Tumdrum.
The food and drink cheered him disproportionately: Israel had never been so glad to eat a triangular-pack egg sandwich and drink a bottle of Coke in his whole life. And as for Tumdrum…Tumdrum! The sight of Tumdrum, with its outlying loyalist housing estates, and its little central square, and the sea down the hill at the bottom of Main Street, with the car park and the big sewage outlet pipes spoiling the view, just the sight of it, and the smell…It was…
It was wonderful.
Tumdrum! What can you say about Tumdrum?
An impartial observer–and indeed Israel himself until this morning–might perhaps have said that the best thing you could say about Tumdrum was that it wasn't actually offensive, that it was quite neat, as though a large, plain grey linen tablecloth had been lain over it and set for an afternoon tea of bread and butter but no jam, and that it was plain, plain, plain: the bus stop with its concrete shelter and seating, the big, empty flowerbeds, the war memorial featuring the proverbial unknown soldier, whose rifle and plaque had long ago turned green, the many churches and the shops; Atchinson's the Chemist, with its window display of a plastic set of cancerous lungs; Byrant's Ladies and Gents Outfitters, which offered pastel nightgowns and cardigans protected from the non-existent glare of the sun by a sheet of wrinkled orange plastic; and T.M. McGrath's, the grocer, produce displayed on a small trestle table in its window.
Tumdrum was not really the kind of place that inspired you to want to stick around for too long; it was not the kind of place that threw its arms around visitors and offered you a hundred thousand welcomes: it was more the kind of place that made you want to check the bus timetable to find out when the next bus might be leaving and you might be able to wake up from your bad dream; and not until tomorrow, by the look of it.
But to Israel, now, this morning, Tumdrum was like Shangri-la.
'God, it's good to be back,' he said.
'Watch yerself,' said Ted. 'Don't be gettin' all misty-eyed on me now.'
'It's just…'
'Aye, all right,' said Ted, with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'Ye ready for Linda?'
'Aye,' said Israel, sighing. 'I suppose.'
'What did you say?' said Ted.
'I don't know,' said Israel. 'I suppose?'
'Ye said "Aye",' said Ted.
'I did not,' said Israel.
'So ye did,' said Ted.
'I did not!' said Israel.
'You're turnin',' said Ted. 'You want to watch yourself. You'll be singing "The Sash" next.'
'The sash!' shouted Israel, leaping up in his seat.
Ted braked. 'What?' he said. 'Holy God. What's the matter with you now?'
'The sash! They asked me about the sash, Ted. Where was the sash worn?'
'What? Who was asking ye?'
'The police were.'
'They were asking you where the sash was worn?'
'Yes. What is the sash?'
Ted cleared his throat.
'You all right?' said Israel.
'Just clearing the pipes,' said Ted, who then began to sing, "'It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne."'
'Right,' said Israel, none the wiser. 'And what is it?'
'What?'
'The sash? It's a song, is it?'
'Ach, Israel, you're having me on, are ye?'
'No. They were asking me about it.'
'You'll be asking me next if we're governed from Dublin.'
'No! What was the other thing?'
'Another question?'
'Yes. I know! How many counties are there in Ireland?'
'Counties?'
'Yes.'
'Well, what do ye think?'
'I don't know.'
'In the name of God, boy. We've six. The other lot have twenty-six. Wouldn't ye've thought they'd be satisfied?'
'Right. And can you name the three Glens of Antrim?'
'The three?'
'I think they said three. Are there not three?'
'How long have you been living here?'
'Too long,' said Israel.
'Or not long enough,' said Ted. 'The Green Glens of Antrim are calling to me?'
'Are they?'
'Glenarm, Glenaan, Glenariff.'
'Right.'
'Glencorp, Glenballyeamon, Glendun.'
'Is that it?'
'Glencloy, Glenshesk and Glentaisie.'
'How many's that?'
'Nine.'
'And they all begin with G?'
'Correct.'
'Oh, right.'
They were turning into the council car park.
'What in God's name are they asking you about the Glens for?' said Ted.
'I don't know. They thought I was an immigrant.'
'You are an immigrant, sure.'
'Yes, but not that sort of immigrant.'
'Aye, r
ight, what sort of immigrant are ye then?'
'I'm…Well, you know what I mean.'
'Aye, I know exactly what you mean. You think we're predujiced—'
'Prejudiced,' said Israel.
'Predujiced, aye,' said Ted. 'But you're no better yerself, ye know.'
'No, Ted, that's not what I meant.'
'You're still a foreigner to us, ye know.'
'Yes, thanks, I know I'm a foreigner. They kept going on about me being Jewish as well, the police, at this interview. And my name.'
'Why?'
'I don't know,' said Israel.
'It is a funny name,' said Ted.
'It's not a funny name.'
'Sure it is.'
'It's my name.'
'Aye, exactly,' said Ted.
He turned off the engine.
'I tell you what,' said Israel, 'if I was called Ali Akbar I'd probably still be in there now.'
'Don't be daft.'
'I would. I bet if your name wasn't Ted, but…Tedinski or…Muham…ted or something, they'd have you in for questioning.'
'Ach, give over, Israel.'
'Michael Caine, his real name is Maurice Micklewhite, d'you know that?'
'Fascinating,' said Ted. 'Good luck!' And he waved Israel out of the car. 'I'll be waiting.'
Israel went up to the second floor and knocked on Linda's door.
There was no answer, but just as he was about to leave Linda appeared in the corridor. She was wearing a billowing tiger-print blouse, with boot-cut black trousers and high-heeled boots which added at least three inches to her diminutive natural height, raising her to at least five feet tall. She was red-eyed and was clutching a paper tissue in one hand, a paper cup in the other. She looked as though she'd been crying.
'Linda,' said Israel. 'Are you all right?'
'Mr Armstrong,' sniffed Linda. 'Yes, thank you.'
'Er. Good. Well…' Israel couldn't think of the next logical supplementary question. He gestured at her paper cup. 'Cappuccino?'
'I wish,' said Linda, dabbing at her eyes. 'I'm on the herbals.'
'Right.'
Linda went into her office, Israel following.
'Peppermint,' she said. 'Did you ever try Atkins?'
'The diet?' said Israel.
'Aye, the diet,' said Linda.
'No,' said Israel.
'Tried it last year,' said Linda mournfully. 'It worked for me. But the wind, honestly.' She gave a little burp, as if in demonstration. 'I lost nearly two stone.'
'Right. Good.'
'Put it all back on again. Missed the scones. Trying this GI thing now.'
'OK.'
'Did you…?' said Linda. 'Sshh.'
Linda raised a finger for Israel to be silent and she gazed around the room suspiciously. Israel followed her gaze. The office was much messier than he remembered–papers and reports everywhere. The plants on the windowsill didn't seem to be thriving.
'Sshh. Did you…Can you…Can you hear anything?' said Linda.
'Like what?' said Israel nervously.
'Just, a wee noise?'
'No. I don't think so. Are you sure you're all right, Linda?'
'Yes. Thank you. The noise though. No noise? Definitely not?'
'No. I don't think so. What sort of noise?'
'A wee sort of squeaking?'
'No. Definitely no squeaking.'
'Hmm. Only, I think I've got a mouse in here.'
'A mouse?'
'Aye. The caretaker says it's because of all the crumbs, see. Haven't been able to catch him so far, the wee blighter. Haven't seen him even. He leaves his droppings, like, but otherwise you'd never know he was there. I can't decide if I can hear him or not.'
'Right.'
'Sending me demented so it is.'
She took a long indraw of breath and slowly got down on her knees and stared at the skirting board.
'Mr Mouse!' she called quietly. 'Mr Mousey! I know you're there!'
'Erm, Linda, shall I…'
'Ah,' sighed the crouching Linda. 'It's the mouse, you see, and the diet, and the…Honest to God. All these little things, they add up to—'
'Small changes in some variables can cause disproportionate results,' said Israel.
'What?'
'Chaos theory, isn't it? I read a book about it once.'
'Right, I'm sure,' said Linda, distracted.
'Butterfly wings and tornadoes.'
Linda stood up. 'He's a wee hole here somewhere, but I'm damned if I can find it.'
'Uh-huh. Should I perhaps go and come back later, Linda?'
'No! Not at all.' Linda threw back her shoulders and plumped down into her imitation leather swivel seat and took a sip of her herbal tea. 'Anyways,' she said. 'How can I help you?'
'You asked me to come and see you. Ted brought me.'
'Ah, yes. Course. Couple of things. First…' She rifled through a teetering pile of papers on her desk, and plucked out a plastic folder. 'Aha! Yes, there's the plan to relaunch all mobile learning centres as Ideas Centres and—'
'What?'
'The Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services have a plan to relaunch all mobile learning centres—'
'Mobile libraries,' said Israel.
'Yes, if you must.' Linda peered over her glasses. 'As Ideas Centres. So they're going to be much more ideas-focused.'
'Ideas-focused?'
'Yes.'
'OK. So when were you going to tell me about this?'
'I'm telling you now, Mr Armstrong.'
'Right. You're just going to repaint the sign on the vans, or…what?'
'No, no, no. You'll have to read the report,' said Linda, who seemed to be losing enthusiasm for what she was saying even as she was speaking. 'It's all still blue skies at the moment–we're just throwing things at the wall to see what sticks.'
'Throwing things at the wall?'
'That's right. To see what sticks. But I wanted you to have a glance at the report, see what you think, get your feedback.'
'I think I know what I think about an Ideas Centre, Linda.'
'Yes, well. Let's not rush to judgement, eh? If you wouldn't mind looking at the report and then…'
'Yes?'
'Reporting back.'
'OK. If you want me to. That's fine.'
Linda took a long thoughtful slug of her herbal tea.
'Anyway, that was one thing,' she said. 'Point one.'
'Yes?'
'And the other…Point two. Is…'
'Yes?'
'Is that a suit you're wearing, Mr Armstrong?'
'Yes.'
'Hmm. It's…It's smarter, certainly. But maybe a little long in the…'
'Yes.'
'Anyway. Where were we?'
'Point two.'
'Point two?' Linda stared at Israel. 'Egg on your chin?'
'Mmm. Yes. Sorry.' Israel wiped it away. 'That was Point two?'
'No! Silly. Point two? Ah, yes! You're in trouble again, I hear.'
'Ah, yes, well—' began Israel.
'Ah, yes, well,' interrupted Linda, who had developed an annoying habit of imitating the way Israel spoke. Ted did it as well, and George. It was like having gone to a new school in a new town and being bullied by the locals, but because Linda was a Chinese Northern Irish woman Israel didn't feel he could reciprocate; and besides, his only Northern Irish accent was a Gerry Adams, which was pretty wide of the mark for a Chinese Northern Irish woman from North Antrim. So he just smiled in response. 'Go on,' said Linda.
So, Israel explained to Linda what he knew about the theft at the department store and Mr Dixon's disappearance, and the fact that his fingerprints were on all the safes, and how they'd come to be there.
Between sips of her tea Linda fixed Israel with a hard stare.
'Well, Mr Armstrong, I'm afraid I do have to ask you this question.'
'Right. Yes.'
'As your line manager, you understand. I have a responsibility.'
'Yes. Fi
ne, Linda. Go ahead. Ask away.'
'Did you steal the money from Dixon and Pickering's?'
'No, Linda. Of course I didn't steal the bloody money from Dixon and f—'
'Mr Armstrong!'
'Sorry. No, of course I didn't steal the—'
'And you know nothing about the disappearance of Mr Dixon?'
'No! I'm a fu—'
Linda merely raised a finger at this threatened obscenity.
'Fun-loving librarian,' said Israel.
'Well, you understand that I had to ask.'
'Oh, yes. That's fine, you and everyone else assuming I did it because I'm—'
'I was simply asking, Mr Armstrong.'
'Yes, sure. Because you're Perry bloody Mason, aren't you?'
'I beg your—'
'You know, Linda, I have spent all morning with—'
'What did you say?'
'I was saying, I have spent all morning—'
'No. Before that.'
'What?'
'You said I was like Perry bloody Mason.'
'Well, yes, I—'
'I resent the implication, Mr Armstrong.'
'What implication?' said Israel.
'Clearly, I am not a man,' said Linda.
'No one said you were a man, Linda.'
'And I am certainly not a bearded man.'
'I didn't say you were a bearded man.'
'Or an overweight bearded man.'
'Linda, come on, it was a—'
'Joke?'
'Exactly.'
'Well, I'm afraid many of us here don't seem to share your fancy London sense of humour, Mr Armstrong.'
'No. That's right,' said Israel. 'You don't. Because everyone in this bloody country has had a sense of humour bypass.'
'Thank you, Mr Armstrong. Less of your racial stereotyping would be appreciated,' said Linda. 'But anyway.' She took another–unconvinced–sip of her herbal tea, and fixed Israel with a stare. 'I'm afraid given the seriousness of the charges we're going to have to suspend you from your duties.'
Israel was having trouble following Linda's logic: he wasn't guilty of anything, after all.
'But—'
'With immediate effect,' said Linda.
'From now?'
'That's correct. That's why I've had to call you in today. That's what immediate effect usually means over here, Mr Armstrong, in this bloody country. I don't know if it carries a different meaning over in England's green and pleasant land?'
'No. It doesn't. It means the same.'
'Well then.'
'Suspended with immediate effect.'
Linda waved a finger at him, in dismissal.
'But—'
