The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'Did I ever tell you the story of the rabbi and the priest?'

  'No,' said Israel hesitantly. He'd never met Michael before, so exactly how he might have told him the story before…

  'All right,' said Michael, leaning across towards Israel. 'Come here.' Israel stepped reluctantly a little closer. He'd never really warmed to men who wore chunky gold jewellery. Michael grabbed hold of his elbow. 'So,' he said, breathing cigarette fumes over Israel. 'There's a rabbi and a priest, and the priest says to the rabbi, "Tell me, you're not allowed to eat bacon. Is that right?" And the rabbi says, "Yes, that's right."' Michael looked at Israel for confirmation of this fact of Jewish dietary law; Israel smiled weakly.

  'Anyway, "Just between ourselves," says the priest, "just out of interest, have you ever tried it?" Well, "I must admit," says the rabbi, "many years ago, I did taste bacon." "It's pretty good, isn't it?" says the priest. And, "Yes," says the rabbi, "I have to agree, it's pretty good."'

  Israel continued to smile uncertainly.

  '"But tell me," says the rabbi—now listen,' said Michael to Israel, '"priests are not allowed to have sex, is that right?"'

  Israel grimaced slightly.

  '"Yes, that's right," agrees the priest. "We're not allowed to have sex." They're celibate, right, Catholic priests?' said Michael.

  'Yes,' said Israel.

  'So, "Between ourselves," says the rabbi, "have you ever tried it?" Sex? Right? "No," says the priest, "I must admit, I have never tried it." Never had sex. "Not even once?" asks the rabbi. "No," says the priest, "I've not had sex even once." Now listen,' said Michael, drawing Israel closer, 'this is the punch line. "That's a shame," says the rabbi, "because it's a hell of a lot better than bacon!"'

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'Sex, you see!' said Michael, 'better than bacon!'

  Ted was roaring with laughter.

  'Ah, that's a good one,' he said, wiping his eyes.

  'It's the way I tell 'em!' said Michael, which sent Ted into further paroxysms of laughter.

  'That's it?' said Israel. 'That's the end of the joke?'

  'It's the way he tells them!' said Ted.

  'Clearly,' said Israel.

  'Come on, fellas,' said Michael, 'enough joking around. Come and have a seat here. Come on, come on. Look. I've reserved the best table in the house.'

  Michael ushered them over to a table, a table that hadn't had a wipe in some time—years, possibly. The surface was tacky and crusty, as though covered in a thick film of mucus. Israel thought about putting his mobile down on the table, and then thought better of it. He checked again to see if he'd missed any messages. Nothing.

  'You're getting drinks now, are ye?' said Michael.

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'Guinness.'

  The barman looked up and across at the word 'Guinness' and nodded.

  'So, you all right?' said Ted.

  'Not so bad,' said Michael. 'Few troubles with the old leg, but.' And he slapped his leg.

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'What's that all about then?'

  'Bone cancer,' said Michael. 'It was me or the leg, they said, so that was it, away.'

  'What!' said Ted.

  'The leg,' repeated Michael. 'Got the chop.'

  'Almighty God!' said Ted. 'That's awful, sure. You mean you've only got the one…'

  'Aye,' said Michael.

  'Well. I'm…sorry for your loss,' said Ted.

  'Ah!' said Michael. 'That's very good. "Sorry for your loss!" I like that. God, it's good to speak to someone from back home. The English, ye know…' He smiled a dirty-toothed smile at Israel. 'No sense of fucking humour. Present company excepted.'

  'When did ye? Ye know? Lose the…' said Ted.

  'That'd be, what? A year ago?' said Michael.

  'And ye've the all-clear now, like, from the cancer?'

  'Touch wood,' said Michael. 'Touch wood.' He slapped his leg. It gave a dull thud.

  'It's a wooden leg?' said Ted.

  'Ach, no!' said Michael. 'Wooden leg, Ted! Ye've got to get with it. This is the twenty-first century. I'm not a feckin' pirate, am I? Eh?'

  'Ooh-aar, shipmates,' said Israel.

  'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

  'It's plastic,' said Michael. 'Ye can feel it if you want.'

  'I'll not, thanks, Michael, no,' said Ted.

  'Ye want to feel it?' said Michael, laughing, addressing Israel.

  'No, thanks…'

  'Me leg, I mean. She'll not bite,' said Michael.

  'No, I'll skip on the…Thanks, anyway.'

  At which point, thankfully, the barman came and set drinks down before them, three pints.

  'Now that's a pint of Guinness,' said Ted, admiring the pint, as though it were Athena in the Parthenon.

  'Aye,' said Michael. 'Ye could trot a mouse across her.' Michael demonstrated this possibility, by walking his fingers daintily across the top of his pint. 'It's the training. See yer man there now?' He gestured towards the barman while he licked the froth from his fingers. 'Months, it took me to get him to do what I wanted. Honest to God, Ted. Months.'

  'Where's he from?' said Israel.

  'Poland,' said Michael. 'Boleslaw.'

  'Whatterslaw?'

  'Like coleslaw,' said Michael.

  'That his name, or where he's from?' said Ted.

  'That's his name,' said Michael. 'Studying for a…what do you call it?'

  'Don't know,' said Ted.

  'One of those…'

  'An exam?' said Israel. 'English as a foreign language? TEFL?'

  'PhD,' said Michael. He shouted across to Boleslaw. 'Boles? Hey! What is it you're studying at?'

  'Sublinear algorithms?' said Boleslaw, grinning behind the bar. 'King's College.'

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'Immigrants,' said Ted, stroking his pint glass as though it were a Jack Russell terrier. 'Pulls a good pint, mind. What, ye share the shifts, do ye?'

  'What!' said Michael. 'Share shifts! Not at all. I'm not a barman anymore, Ted.'

  'Are ye not?'

  'Not at all. Jesus! Did ye not know? I though ye knew? I bought the place off the auld fella that owned it back in '73, when he was away over to America.'

  'I didn't know that,' said Ted.

  'Aye. I'm what they call an owner slash manager,' said Michael, prodding a finger at himself. 'Have been for years.'

  'Well…' said Ted thoughtfully. 'Ye're the boss class now then?'

  'Indeed!' said Michael, raising his glass. 'And who's not for us is a Guinness!' he said.

  'Cheers,' said Ted.

  'Sláinte,' said Michael.

  'Sláinte!' said Ted, laughing. 'Sláinte! Ach, that's a good one, Michael.' He sipped his pint. 'Ye've done all right for yerself then?'

  'Aye. True enough. Ye remember, I came over and I hadn't a fluke.'

  'Aye.'

  'But look at me now.' He gestured round the bar.

  'Aye,' said Ted doubtfully.

  Israel noted a group of small plastic model leprechauns posed with fiddles around a plastic crock of gold behind the bar, their green waistcoats rotting onto their chubby little plastic bodies.

  'Retiring soon, though,' said Michael.

  'Never?' said Ted.

  'Absofuckinglutely. You know what it's like. You get to this age, ye want to get in some golf.'

  'Golf?' said Ted.

  'Aye. So, I'm selling up.'

  'Ye'll get a few pounds for this place then?' said Ted.

  'Ha!' Michael laughed and slurped at his pint like a hungry dog. 'The price of the places these days, Ted, if I told you, you wouldn't believe me. Honestly. Godsamount of money.'

  'Really?'

  'I've been beating them off with a big stick, sure. London property prices, you could name a figure almost.'

  'No?'

  'Of course.' Michael set down his pint glass and leaned in close over the table to speak more quietly. 'I bought this place in 1973, with the money I'd saved from working on the roads,
ye know, and a loan from the bank.' He took another sip of his pint. 'Four thousand pounds I bought the place for. Four thousand pounds.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'Ye'll not believe me when I tell ye how much it's on the market for now.'

  'How much?'

  'Have a wee guess.'

  'I don't know. I'm not good on the auld property prices.'

  'Have a guess though,' said Michael. 'Bear in mind the London property prices.'

  'London? Property prices? They've gone up rightly. I don't know. A hundred thousand?'

  Michael smiled into his Guinness.

  'Come on, Ted, ye couldn't even get yerself a wee one-bedroom flat in London now for a hundred thousand.'

  'Would ye not?'

  'Not at all,' said Michael.

  'I don't know then,' said Ted. 'A couple of hundred thousand?'

  'Ted! Come on!'

  'No, you'll have to tell me.'

  'Two and a half,' said Michael.

  'Aye?' said Ted. 'Two and a half what?'

  'What do ye think?' said Michael. 'Two and a half million!'

  Both Ted and Israel spluttered—actually spluttered, spraying Guinness down and out and across the crusty tabletop.

  'How much?' said Ted.

  'Two and a half million of yer English pounds, Ted. That's how much she's worth.' Michael leaned far back in his seat. Israel gazed up at the yellowy ceiling with its architraves. The cracked, frosted, filthy windows. The peeling floor, the splitting vinyl banquettes.

  'Holy God,' said Ted.

  'Unbelievable, eh? Ye should have come over with me when you had the chance back then, Ted.'

  There was a long silence, during which Michael licked his lips and Ted looked mournfully down at his pint.

  'The road not travelled?' said Israel.

  'Shut up,' said Ted.

  'Two and a half million,' repeated Michael.

  'Are you sure?' said Ted.

  'Of course I'm feckin' sure,' said Michael.

  'Two and half million,' said Israel. 'That's a lot of money. What are you going to do with two and a half million?'

  'I'm buying a wee bit of land up in Antrim,' said Michael.

  'A wee bit?' said Israel.

  'Aye. Round Bushmills. Here.' Michael fished into his pocket and produced a wallet and a folded-up photograph showing what appeared to be a huge half-constructed hacienda in Spain, or Mexico, the sort of tasteless rural-bourgeois palace inhabited by some land-owning enemy of Zorro.

  'That's a quare lump of house,' said Ted.

  'Aye. Well, I want to keep myself in the manner to which I've become accustomed,' said Michael.

  'Fair play to ye, Michael,' said Ted, raising his pint glass. 'Ye must have missed it sorely but, all these years away? The auld home country, like?'

  'Ach, not really, Ted, to be honest with ye. A nice sliced pan maybe.'

  'A what?' said Israel.

  'A nice loaf,' said Michael, 'or a nice soda farl.'

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'That's it?' said Israel. 'That's all you missed? The bread?'

  'You're always going on about the bagels and croissants,' said Ted.

  'Well, that's different,' said Israel. 'It's—'

  'Apart from that, Ted,' said Michael, 'no, I haven't missed it. First couple of years mebbe. But hardly given the place a second thought since. Not till I thought of retiring, like. Nothing much changed, I'll bet, has it?'

  'Well, ye know,' said Ted.

  'First and Last still there?'

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'What was yer man's name? The owner?'

  'Elder? Elder Agnew.'

  'That's him. He still there?'

  'Ach, no, not any more. He passed on. The son's the business now.'

  'And how's the Guinness?'

  'Ach. You'd read a paper through it to be honest, Michael.'

  As Ted and Michael solemnly finished their pints the barman, with an uncanny sense of timing, appeared with three more pints. Israel had barely started on his first.

  'There's you,' said Michael.

  'Cheers,' said Ted. 'I'll tell you what, Michael, I'd take a sandwich and all, if it's not too much trouble, just to chase down the Guinness, like.'

  'Me too,' agreed Israel.

  'You'll start a run on the sandwiches,' said Michael, winking. 'The missis won't be pleased.'

  'You married then, Michael?' said Ted.

  'Ach, Ted!' said Michael. 'Confirmed bachelor. Yerself?'

  'Aye, the same,' said Ted.

  'Well,' said Michael. 'That's what I thought! Boles! We'll take some sandwiches here please?'

  The barman nodded, and disappeared behind the beaded curtain.

  'Anyway,' said Michael. 'That's enough about me, Ted. What about yerself?'

  Ted was silent. It can be difficult following up someone's good news with no news of your own.

  'Ye keepin' all right, though?'

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'Ye're not still boxing?' said Michael.

  'Ach, no,' said Ted. 'Look at me.' He patted his considerable stomach. 'I gave that all up years ago.'

  'Shame. Shame,' said Michael. 'I'll tell ye what though, Ted, look at ye here then.' He pointed above their heads with his crutch. 'These'll take you back.'

  Ted and Israel swivelled round in their greasy, worn, tub-bottomed seats. The wall above them was filled with photos of boxers, black-and-white photos, mostly, of thick-set, flat-nosed men in long shorts, and bare-chested, all standing slightly sideways, shyly almost, up on the balls of their feet, in lace-up boots, gloved fists held aloft, elbows in, as though protecting themselves from the camera. Ted stood gazing up at them all, cradling his pint.

  'Ach, Michael.'

  'Rogues gallery, eh?' said Michael.

  'Who's that now?' said Ted, pointing up at a photo. 'Is that wee Jim McCann?'

  'That it is,' said Michael.

  'Ach, wee Jimmy. Whatever happened to him?'

  'God only knows, Ted,' said Michael. 'Long time ago.'

  'Ach, seems like yesterday,' said Ted. 'God bless him.'

  'Aye. Paddy Maguire,' said Michael, pointing at another photo. 'The great Belfast bantamweights. Hughie Russell. Davy Larmour.'

  * * *

  At that point, Israel successfully zoned out of the conversation—all he could hear were names that meant nothing to him, like the declension of foreign nouns, or the lists in Leviticus, or the place names in an Irish poem: Fra McCullagh, and Bunty Doran, and Kelly, and Rooney, and Cowan—and he stared down at his pint, as though he might be able to divine the secrets of the universe therein; as though the deep dark depths of Guinness might be able to reveal to him the meaning of existence, and the exact reason how and why he had washed up here with Ted on yet another wild-goose chase, and where was the bloody mobile library anyway, and why Gloria wasn't answering his calls, and why anyone was interested in boxing, when it's just men trying to knock each other down, because, really, what did that have to do with real life?

  'Hey, you!' said Michael, jogging Israel's elbow as he was checking his phone for messages again and almost knocking him out on the table.

  'Who? Me?' said Israel. Nothing from Gloria.

  'Yes, you, young man. Now who do you think this wee fella is?' Michael pointed to a photo showing a bulky young boxer with a crew cut.

  'I have no idea,' said Israel wearily. 'Not a clue.'

  'Do you want to guess?' said Michael.

  'Not really,' said Israel. 'No.'

  'Go on,' said Michael. 'Who do you think that is?'

  'I don't know,' said Israel. 'I'm not good on boxers.'

  'Go on,' said Michael.

  'Muhammad Ali?' said Israel.

  'Muhammad Ali!' said Michael. 'You've a quare one here, Ted!'

  Ted shook his head, as though contemplating the meaning of utter stupidity.

  'Muhammad Ali was a black man, son!' said Michael.

  'Oh, yes,' said Israel, attempting to communicate disinterest.

&nb
sp; 'Think of another one.'

  'Erm…'

  'That!' said Michael, without waiting for Israel to answer. 'Is! Yer man here!'

  'Ted?' said Israel. 'It's you? Really?'

  'Aye. He could have been a contender,' said Michael.

  'Ach, Michael.'

  'He could. He was one hell of a specimen when he was young, let me tell ye. Adonis, so he was.'

  'Michael!' said Ted.

  'He was a wee bunty one when he was a wean, but.'

  'I was that,' said Ted.

  'But that was before he got into the sports, like. You were on the same bill as Paddy Graham once, were ye not?'

  'I was,' said Ted. 'Fiesta Ballroom. Fighting Sam Kelly.'

  'That was a close fight,' said Michael.

  'He cut me open like a butcher, so he did,' corrected Ted. 'Referee stopped it in the seventh.'

  'You weren't far off,' said Michael.

  'Aye, half a yard and a million miles away,' said Ted.

  Israel was looking at the photograph showing Ted in regulation boxer's stance. He looked younger, of course, and about half his current body weight, but there was a look in his eyes that Israel recognised, a look that could have been defiance. Or it could have been fear.

  * * *

  The sandwiches—white bread, margarine and ham—and three more pints arrived. Ted and Michael seemed to be engaged in some kind of unspoken but deeply acknowledged drinking competition.

  'Sláinte,' said Michael, as was his custom, tucking into the Guinness. Israel saw Ted wince again.

  'Now, just…' said Ted, putting up his hand. 'Hold on there now, Michael. You are having me on, are ye?'

  'With what?' said Michael. 'Having ye on with what, Ted?'

  'With this auld "Sláinte" nonsense.'

  'Sláinte?'

  'Aye. We don't say "Sláinte", do we.'

  'What do ye mean, "we", Ted?'

  'In the north, I mean. It's…ye know.'

  'Ach, Ted. It's just habit,' said Michael, picking up his pint again. 'I've been here that long.'

  'Habit?' said Ted. 'Holy God, man.'

  'Keeps the customers happy, you know,' said Michael. 'A touch of the blarney.'

  'Aye, right, and the tricolours and all?'

  'And leprechauns,' added Israel for good measure, pointing to the rotting plastic figurines gathered behind the bar. 'They're a nice touch.'

  'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted. 'Yer father was staunch, but,' he said to Michael.