The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

'I know, Ted, I know, I know.'

  Ted shook his head. 'You might have expected to have gone, ye know, a wee bit Englishified over here,' he said. 'That'd be understandable, like. But to have gone…Irish on us…'

  'Ach, Ted!'

  'I'm just finding it hard to understand, Michael, that's all.'

  'Look, Ted, come on. It's a big wide world out there. You know as well as meself, you come over here, ye're just a Mick to people. It doesn't matter whether you're from the north or the south or orange or green or whatever. Ye play along with it a wee bit, ye're fine.'

  'Aye, but the tricolours, Michael. The tricolours! The Republican flag, but.'

  'Ach, for feck's sake, Ted, people wouldn't know we were an Irish pub otherwise, would they?'

  'What about a red hand?' suggested Ted.

  'Ach, Ted, wise up. A red hand!'

  'Symbol of Ulster,' said Ted.

  'You're having me on now, are ye? We're a business here, Ted, we're not into making sectarian—'

  'The red hand is not a sectarian symbol!' said Ted. 'Was it not O'Neill who cut off his hand to claim the kingdom of Ulster?'

  'I don't know, Ted. I'm not into the history, like. But I tell you what I do know: that you might as well put a swastika on the front of the pub if you're going to put the red hand up.'

  'A swastika?' said Israel. 'Erm. Ahem. I'm not sure the red hand of Ulster is quite the same as a swastika—'

  'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

  'You've got to give people what they want, Ted. And a wee touch of the Irish doesn't do any harm. I tell you, we have the auld diddly-aye music in here once a week, and it's a coupla wee fellas from East Belfast. One of them was in a feckin' flute band, for goodness sake!'

  'Ach.'

  'It's a wee bit of craic, just.'

  'Postmodern identities,' said Israel.

  'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

  'Anyway,' said Michael. 'Are ye's here on holiday, or what?'

  'Well,' said Israel. 'Actually we were wondering if you could help us?'

  'Really?' said Michael. 'And there was me thinking it was a social call!'

  'Ach, it is, Michael, I've been meaning to look you up for years, like. It's just, with work, and—'

  'Aye, all right, Ted, I'm only keepin' ye going. Now what sort of help was it ye were looking for?'

  'We're in a wee spot of bother, Michael,' said Ted.

  'Taxman is it?' said Michael, leaning back in his seat. 'Bloody bastards.'

  'Ach, no. It's not the taxman. I pay my taxes, and glad to pay them.'

  'That's your prerogative, Ted, your prerogative. So what sort of help would it be that you're looking for?'

  'We've had our van stolen.'

  'Van?'

  'Mobile library van,' said Israel.

  'Your what?' said Michael.

  'We're librarians,' said Israel.

  'Is that the word for it then?' said Michael, laughing. 'Librarian! I've not heard that one before.'

  'What?' said Ted.

  'Librarians!' said Michael. 'Ah, you're an auld old queen, Ted.'

  'What?' said Ted.

  'You and your young man here. Librarians! Very cute!'

  A few of the things Michael had said now suddenly started to make sense in Israel's mind.

  'Hold on,' he said. 'You don't think…You're not implying that we're—'

  'Young man?' said Michael.

  'We're what?' said Ted.

  'Shaved head,' said Michael. 'Leather jacket. And your friend the bear here.'

  Ted looked to Israel, who looked to Michael.

  'Ye do know what sort of bar this is, don't you?' said Michael.

  'Aye, an Irish bar,' said Ted.

  'Ha!' said Michael. 'We, Ted, are London's premier Irish gay bar.'

  'As in?' began Israel.

  'Homosexual?' said Michael.

  'Homo…Homo?' said Ted.

  Michael raised his eyebrows—which, it suddenly occurred to Israel, were plucked eyebrows—and fingered the ends of his black-and-white polka-dotted silk scarf.

  Ted's eyes looked as though they might pop out of his head. Israel glanced around again: the rainbow flags with the tricolours. The poster of ABBA. Barbra Streisand.

  'Some of my best friends are homosexual,' he said, trying to think of something to say. 'And I really like Alan Hollinghurst. Queer as Folk? Do you remember that? Tales of the City? I've got a girlfriend though, called Gloria…'

  'Ted?' said Michael. 'Are you all right?'

  Ted looked as though someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. He shook his head. He'd flushed a deep red.

  'Ted?'

  'I…Michael?…Ye're not…I mean…'

  'I thought everybody knew!' said Michael. 'That was the reason I left back in '69.'

  'But…I thought it was because of the Troubles,' said Ted.

  'Well, there was that too, of course.'

  'I…But…'

  'You could have come with me, Ted. You could have made a new life for yerself.'

  'I…You're not…'

  'I think he maybe needs a drink,' said Michael to Israel.

  'Right,' said Israel, pushing one of his three as yet undrunk Guinnesses towards Ted. 'He could have one my—'

  'Actually, I think a wee drop of the craythur,' said Michael. 'That'd see you right, Ted, wouldn't it? A wee drop of the craythur?'

  'I…' said Ted, who was struggling.

  'Let's have a wee look here.'

  Michael got up and hobbled over to the bar.

  'Ted!' whispered Israel.

  'What?'

  'Snap out of it. Don't be so rude.'

  'Ach. I…'

  'Get a grip, Ted.'

  'I just can't…He's a…'

  'It's fine. He's still your cousin.'

  'Yes, but a…'

  'There are no buts.'

  'I wouldn't have come if I'd have known he was…'

  'Sshh!'

  * * *

  Michael came back over to the table with a bottle of clear liquid gripped under his armpit, and three glasses.

  'Fella from Dagenham gets it over from Cork, so he does.'

  'What is that?' asked Israel.

  'Poteen,' said Michael.

  'Isn't that illegal?' said Israel.

  'Ha!' said Michael, uncorking the bottle, and offering the bottle to Ted and Israel to smell. 'Where'd ye get him, Ted, eh?'

  'I…' said Ted.

  'Smell all right?' said Michael.

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'It is illegal, isn't it?' said Israel.

  Michael called over to the man in the suit and hat drinking by himself.

  'He says the poteen, Hugh, is it illegal?'

  'As far as I know.'

  'Hughie says it's definitely illegal.'

  'He's your poteen expert then, is he?' said Israel jokingly.

  'Aye,' said Michael. 'You could say that. He's…Hold on, what's your official title, Hugh?'

  'DCI.'

  'The police?' said Israel.

  'There you are now,' said Michael. 'You're not going to take us in for the poteen are ye, Hugh?'

  'What day of the week is it?' said Hugh.

  'It's a Wednesday,' said Michael.

  'You're all right, then, Michael. I'll turn a blind eye. But mind you've it drunk by tomorrow.'

  'There we are now,' said Michael. 'So, a wee drop of the craythur?'

  'No, I don't think so,' said Israel. 'Not for me, thanks.'

  'Ye big drink a water. Come on now and have a wee try.'

  Michael poured three generous measures of colourless liquid into the glasses.

  'Cheers!' he said to Ted.

  Ted remained silent and motionless until Israel jogged his arm.

  'Ted, cheers!'

  'Cheers,' said Ted mournfully, looking down at the table.

  Since living in Tumdrum, Israel's taste buds had become accustomed to strong alcoholic beverages. He knocked it back.

  'Good, isn't she
?' said Michael.

  'Not bad,' said Israel, gasping. It tasted like fermented beaver piss. 'You know the policeman there,' he said to Michael. 'Do you think he might be able to pull a few strings and find out who's stolen our van?'

  'Hugh?' said Michael, calling over. 'Could you do me a wee favour?'

  'Any time,' said Hugh.

  'Tracing a stolen van?'

  'No problem at all,' said Hugh.

  'Thank you, darling,' said Michael. 'There,' he said to Israel and Ted. 'That's you all sorted now, Ted, isn't it?'

  'Ach, Michael,' said Ted.

  'That went well,' said Israel, when they left.

  'We'll never hear any more of it,' said Ted. 'A bunch of homo…' He struggled to say the word.

  They got the call the next morning.

  11

  The address they'd been given was just by Wandsworth Bridge. They drove there in Israel's mother's new car; she'd traded up since Israel had gone to Tumdrum, to a shiny black Mini with a cream leather interior, the middle-aged woman's Harley-Davidson: the perfect post-menopause vehicle.

  'Now we're just like The Italian Job,' enthused Israel, behind the wheel.

  Ted, in the passenger seat, looked at him pitilessly.

  Muhammad, in Ted's lap, remained silent.

  It was a small industrial estate surrounded by high fences and barbed-wire decorated with several generations of windblown rubbish, and crisscrossed by a warren of potholed roads lined with dilapidated warehouse units and fenced-in areas in which Alsatian dogs barked and loud music played, and firms specialised in the manufacture of PVC products.

  Israel and Ted drove around for fifteen minutes up and down the pavement-less streets, white vans everywhere going about their honest-to-God business, and not a soul around, and eventually, down past Worldwide Refrigeration Services and KGB Engineering—what was that?—and edging right up to the side of the Thames itself, there it was: Britton's Second Hand Van Sales, Lease and Hire.

  'Ted?' said Israel. 'We're here.'

  Ted had been entirely silent on the journey.

  'Ted?'

  'What?' said Ted.

  'I said we're here.'

  When they'd arrived back at Israel's mother's the night before, after their long afternoon in the Prince Albert, Ted had excused himself and spent the evening alone in the spare room.

  'Is he all right?' Israel's mother kept asking Israel. 'Do you think he's okay? Is it something I said?'

  'He's fine,' said Israel. 'It's just been a shock, I think, with the van, you know, and seeing his cousin after all these years.'

  'Oy!' said Israel's mother. 'People change. You remember your aunt Sarah? She was a brunette growing up in Finchley; now, twenty-five years later, she's a blonde in South Africa.'

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'And she's had a boob job.'

  'Yeah, but—'

  'And a nose job.'

  'It's not quite the same, Mum. It's—'

  Her mobile rang.

  'I've got to take this call,' said his mother. 'It could be a lead.'

  Israel's mother was taking the hunt for the van seriously. She'd always been ambitious and organised, but her ambition and organisation had been focused largely on making packed lunches and arranging school concerts for the PTA. Now that she was faced with a bona fide challenge, she'd turned into Hillary Clinton. It had given her a new lease of life.

  Israel's mobile hadn't rung.

  He still hadn't heard from Gloria.

  She was busy. Maybe she was away. Business.

  Yes. That was it. She was definitely away.

  'You can talk to me about it, if you want,' said Israel.

  Ted remained silent.

  'Or not. "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent."'

  'All right, Buddha,' said Ted.

  'Actually, that's Wittgenstein.'

  'Who?'

  'Wittgenstein, Ludwig, famous Austrian philosopher.'

  'Aye,' said Ted, 'we had one of them, but the wheels fell off.'

  'Are you all right, though, seriously?' said Israel, as he parked the car.

  'What?' said Ted, stroking the dog.

  'Well, it's just, you've not said anything all morning,' said Israel. 'I was just wondering, you know, if you're all right?'

  'Am I all right?' said Ted irritably. 'Am I all right?'

  'It's a straightforward question,' said Israel.

  Ted shook his head, either in rage or despair, it was difficult to tell which. Muhammad barked in sympathy.

  'There's nothing wrong with me,' said Ted, with implication.

  'Are you thinking about your cousin?' said Israel.

  Ted huffed.

  'I know it was a shock, but…You can't know everything about people, Ted, not even your own family. Everybody has to lead their life the way they see fit. And it's just…something we all have to face, one day or another. Sometimes you just have to embrace difference and change and try to move forward.'

  'Israel?' said Ted.

  'What?'

  'I'll tell you what would make me feel better.'

  'What?'

  'If you shut up.'

  'Right.'

  'Completely.'

  'All right. Okay.'

  'Which means not speaking.'

  'Okay, sorry.'

  'Ever.'

  'I—'

  'At all.'

  They got out of the car and walked in through the gates of Britton's Second Hand Van Sales into a forecourt filled with white vans, a vast drift of vehicles looking as though they were floating upon the brimming Thames behind them and beyond: Citroën, Fiat, Mazda, Mercedes, Toyota, Vauxhall, like big wheeled swans ready to fly up and away and soar over the capital.

  'Wow,' said Israel. 'Looks like they've got them all here.'

  'Except ours,' said Ted.

  'Come on, let's think positive,' said Israel.

  'I thought you were staying silent?' said Ted.

  A man came down a flight of steps from a Portakabin office raised on stilts and approached them.

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'Do not speak,' said Ted. 'Leave the ba-flum to me.'

  'The what?' said Israel.

  'Leave it to me,' repeated Ted. 'The ba-flum.'

  'All right, I will,' whispered Israel, as the man approached. 'Even though I have no idea what bum-flum—'

  'Ba-flum,' said Ted.

  '—ba-flum might be,' said Israel.

  'Hello, gents!' said the man. He had thinning, slicked-back hair. He wore a cheap-looking suit with an expensive-looking purple lining, and he was finishing off a bacon sandwich, licking his fingers clean of grease and crumbs. He'd had acne. He couldn't have been much older than Israel but he looked like a bloated, out-of-condition Bill Clinton. He was, definitively, a second-hand car salesman.

  'Gentlemen, gentlemen. Lovely to see you.'

  They all shook hands. Israel wiped his hands on his trousers.

  'Barry Britton,' said the man. 'How can I help you?'

  'Great view,' said Israel, nodding towards the River Thames, out past the high wire fencing.

  'Yeah, well. It's okay,' said Barry. 'You get used to it. It's like looking up a bit of skirt I always think. D'you know what I mean?' He had a long, lop-sided smile—a smile so big and so false, so gaping, that it looked as though if he smiled a little longer the top of his head would fall off.

  'Erm…' said Israel.

  'We're looking for a van,' said Ted.

  'You're looking for a van?' said Barry, pointing finger and thumb at Ted, as though cocking a gun.

  'That's right,' said Ted.

  'You are lookin' for a van?' repeated Barry, amused, almost singing the words, cocking both hands at Ted.

  'Yes,' said Ted mirthlessly.

  'Well, my friend,' said Barry, slapping Ted on the back. 'You have come to the right place! This is where you're going to find your van. What did you say your name was?'

  'I didn't,' said Ted.
>
  'Ha!' said Barry. 'You're good! You're not giving anything away, right?'

  Ted looked at him silently.

  'Yeah. Good! Now, my friend, what sort of a van are you looking for? We specialise in light commercial and fittings, as you know. And you are looking for…No. Don't tell me…' He stood back and eyed Ted and Israel up and down. 'You're plumbers? Am I right, or am I right?'

  'No,' said Ted.

  'No? We get a lot of plumbers,' said Barry. 'Roof racks for the pipes, you know, and racking and what have you. Super racking. We've got a deal on that at the moment, if you're interested.'

  'We don't want a plumber's van,' said Ted.

  'That's fine,' said Barry. 'Not a problem. What is it then? Erm. You are…No, don't tell me…Chippies, are you?'

  'No,' said Israel.

  'We're not chippies,' said Ted.

  'That's all right,' said Barry. 'Just guessing. You can't always judge a book by its cover, eh! Doesn't matter what you are, or what you do. Whatever it is, I can guarantee you, Britton's has the van for you.' When he spoke Barry sounded like he was rapping; Israel suspected a fondness for Eminem.

  'It's a very particular sort of van we're looking for,' said Ted.

  'Good!' said Barry. 'Excellent! You know what you want. That's good. I like a man who knows his own mind. I'm the same myself. A man's got to know what he wants in this life, and go get it, if you know what I mean. Eh?'

  'The van,' said Ted, 'we're looking for—'

  'Yeah. Okay. Let me tell you this. You just name your vehicle and spec, and if by some fluke we haven't got it—you're not going to believe this, but it's true—we'll get it; week, two weeks max, no problem. But first look. Look. Look at that. Little Citroën C15 over there. Lovely vehicle.' He gestured towards a small white van. 'And then we go all the way right up to the big Mercedes.' He gestured towards a big white van. 'I'm guessing there's going to be something here that's gonna suit you but if not, like I say, if we haven't got what you're looking for today, right here, right now on the forecourt, we'll source it. At Britton's we're all about customer service.'

  'We're looking for a Bedford,' said Ted.

  'Ha! Right, now,' said Barry. 'A Bedford? Well. Now…Phew! Don't take this the wrong way, all right, but I'm afraid you might be showing your age a little bit there. Yeah.' He patted Ted on the arm.

  Ted looked for a moment as though he might knock him out.

  'Only joking!' said Barry, sensing danger, stepping back. 'But the Bedford—okay?—that's more of a collector's item these days. We've not had a Bedford in for…Phew! I don't know how long. More of my dad's generation of vehicle, d'you know what I mean? No offence, like.' He pointed at him again with two fingers. 'If you're thinking Bedford, I don't know, let me think…You'd probably be better off these days with a Fiat. Depending on what you're after.'