The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  “Who?”

  “All done in, weren’t they, by thirty?”

  “Who?”

  “Kates and—” Ted attacked the scone again.

  “Keats?”

  “Aye. All hanged themselves, didn’t they, by the time they were—”

  “No, they did not all hang themselves,” said Israel factually. “And I think Wordsworth lived till—”

  “Exception that proves the rule,” said Ted. “Like Johnny Cash.”

  “What?”

  “Oldest swinger in town.”

  “You’re losing me, Ted.”

  “That’s why you’re depressed. The birthday and breaking up with the girl—”

  “I am not—” said Israel.

  “The beard. The diet.”

  “I’m not on a diet!”

  “Have it your way.”

  “I will. Thank you. I think thirty is a fine age.”

  Ted finished his scone. Israel looked around Zelda’s.

  Thirty was an absolute disaster.

  At thirty you could no longer pretend that you might have lived a different, more extraordinary life, because you’d already lived a large part of your life—thirty useless years, for goodness’ sake!—and it was utterly ordinary and straightforward and dull, dull, dull. Ted was right. At thirty you have lost touch forever with the great and the good and the rich and the famous—the simple fact is, you do not move and you do not shake. At thirty there’s no way you’re going to start behaving like…whoever the hell it was, it didn’t matter, because in fact you’re just a half-decent butcher or a baker or a candlestick-maker, or even a librarian, let’s say, for the sake of argument, a mobile librarian named Israel Armstrong, on the northernmost coast of the north of the north of Ireland, and your whole life—let’s just pretend, for who could possibly imagine a life of such inanity and nullity?—is preoccupied with cataloguing, and shelving, and making sure you remember to switch off the lights before you go home to the pathetic little converted chicken coop—imagine!—where you live on a farm—oh god—in the middle of the middle of nowhere around the back of beyond, and your idea of a good time is coming here to Zelda’s to drink ersatz coffee with elderly men and women in car coats…

  Basically, his life was over.

  “Israel?” said Ted.

  Israel did not answer.

  “Hey?” Ted clicked his fingers in front of Israel’s face. “Wakey wakey.”

  “What?” said Israel.

  “Ye eatin’ your scone?” said Ted.

  “I suppose,” said Israel, as though a scone were all he deserved in life. “What is it today?”

  “Bacon and cheese,” said Ted.

  “Oh god. Not again. Why do they do that? That’s not a scone!”

  “That’s a scone and a half,” said Ted.

  “Exactly: that’s lunch,” said Israel.

  “Ye not having it then?”

  “I’m a vegetarian! How many times do I have to tell you!”

  “Can veggetenarians not eat scones?”

  “Vege-tarians,” said Israel.

  “I didn’t know they couldn’t eat scones.”

  “Not with bacon in they can’t.”

  “Aye, well,” said Ted, reaching across. “There we are, now.”

  Minnie bustled over with the coffee pot.

  “Refill?”

  Israel took a hasty sip of coffee.

  “It tastes off,” he said grumpily.

  “What does?” said Minnie.

  “The coffee,” said Israel.

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Coffee can’t go off,” said Ted.

  “The milk can.”

  “Our milk is not off,” said Minnie.

  Israel sniffed the milk in the jug.

  “It’s fine,” said Ted.

  “It must be the coffee then,” said Israel. “It has a sort of fishy smell. Is this an americano? Are you using that chicory stuff again?”

  “Ach,” said Minnie, “the machine’s not working.”

  “That machine has never been working,” said Israel.

  “It has, so it has,” said Minnie.

  “When?”

  “It’s usually working.”

  “Not since I’ve been living here.”

  “How long have you been living here?” said Ted, in an accusatory fashion.

  “Long enough,” said Israel.

  “Aye,” said Ted.

  “Life sentence,” said Israel.

  “Ooh, did you see Prison Break, Ted?” said Minnie.

  “That the one with the tattooed fella?”

  “Aye.”

  “Was it on last night?”

  “Aye.”

  “I think I Sky-plussed it. I was watching this program last night about the American security services on the History Channel.”

  “Ooh. Really? Was it any good?”

  “In America,” said Ted, raising his fingers as though about to conduct. “In America, they have sixteen security agencies.”

  “Sixteen?” said Minnie, impressed.

  “I bet you didn’t know that, now, did you?” Ted said to Israel.

  “No, I must admit, I didn’t—”

  “There’s the CIA,” said Ted.

  “Oh god,” said Israel. “Are you going to—”

  “The FBI. The NSA.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Israel.

  “National Security Agency,” said Minnie.

  “How do you know that?” said Israel.

  “The Defense Intelligence Agency,” said Ted, counting on his fingers. And…some others.”

  “Drugs Enforcement Administration?” said Minnie.

  “Aye, that’s one,” said Ted.

  “How the hell did you know that?” said Israel.

  “Sure, wasn’t Denzel Washington in one of those films?”

  “Was he?” said Ted.

  “Aye?” Minnie turned to Israel. “Now what’s up with ye? You’ve a face’d turn milk sour.”

  “The coffee,” said Israel, grimacing. “It really is—”

  “I was telling ye, we can’t get the parts,” said Minnie.

  “How long have you had the machine?”

  “The Gaggia?” said Minnie. “I don’t know. Forty years?”

  “Right. Well, there you are,” said Israel. “It’s obsolete.”

  “It’s a very good make,” said Minnie.

  “It’s an antique,” said Israel. “Like everything else in this godfor—”

  Ted reached forward and clipped Israel round the ear.

  “He smells lovely,” the women at the next table were agreeing among themselves at that very moment, as Maurice Morris wafted over to them, and he did, they were right, Israel could smell it as he ducked down with the force of Ted’s blow; he smelled absolutely lovely, Maurice; it was the sharp, sweet lemony smell of a Turkish cologne, which Maurice had discovered while on holiday with friends at a luxury golf resort hotel in southern Turkey some years previously, a cologne to which he had become famously—according to his campaign literature—addicted, and which he had sent over specially from London, and whose smell of exotic sweetness had until recently cut famously and decisively through the manly whiff of his cigar smoke, though, alas, since the beginning of his campaign Maurice had—also famously—given up smoking. You had to make certain sacrifices in politics, Maurice believed, and politicians were expected to set an example. Also, smoking was no longer a vote winner, so the cigars had had to go. A politician caught smoking cigars in public these days might as well have been caught patting a secretary on her pert little behind, or having an affair—for the sake of argument—with one of their constituency workers; those days, the good old cigar-chomping, camel-coat-wearing, secretary’s-pert-little-behind-patting, and constituency-worker-bedding days were long gone, and they sure as hell weren’t ever coming back. You had to keep moving with the times and keep on moving forward in politics, according to Maurice, which could be easier said th
an done, frankly: since giving up smoking he’d put on a few pounds around the waist, and if he was absolutely honest the last place he wanted to be was in a café surrounded by gray-haired men and women in car coats discussing coffee and cakes, but if these good people—his people, his constituents—wanted to talk traybakes, Maurice talked traybakes. He was like Jesus, Maurice Morris: his life was a living sacrifice.

  “Tasty, ladies?”

  “Yes,” said one of them.

  “That was a statement rather than a question,” said Maurice, winking.

  “Here you are,” offered one woman, “would you like a wee nibble of mine?”

  “Well, thank you,” said Maurice, leaning down teasingly. “It’s not often I get an offer like that.”

  “Go on, then,” said the woman, blushing and reaching forward with her fork, the dark brown confection poised perilously on the end. Maurice closed his mouth around the cake, winked at the assembled crowd, smacked his lips around the cake, and exaggeratedly chewed and swallowed.

  “Mmmm!” he exclaimed suborgasmically. “That is delicious. So rich!”

  “I think it’s made with buttermilk,” said the woman.

  “Really?” said Maurice, entirely as if the use of buttermilk in cakes were a point of great interest to him.

  “You have to use buttermilk,” piped up someone from the crowd.

  “I can’t get buttermilk these days,” said someone else.

  “Buttermilk,” repeated Maurice, confirmingly.

  “Me neither,” said another woman.

  “You ladies can’t get buttermilk?” said Maurice.

  “No,” they all chorused.

  “That sounds to me like a problem,” said Maurice. “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes,” chorused the ladies.

  “Well, let’s make a note of that,” said Maurice. This was where he really came into his own, M ’n’ M; this was where his years of independent financial advising and his reading of Neuro-linguisic Programming For Dummies really came into play: he profoundly understood that people liked to think that they were being consulted, even when they weren’t, that you had to give people at least the illusion that they were in charge of their lives and their destinies. Hence one of his favorite phrases, “Let’s make a note of that.” Maurice didn’t make actual notes of anything himself, of course—that would have been ridiculous; he always had a secretary with him—whose pert behind went noticeably unpatted—whose job it was to make notes of things.

  “Buttermilk,” he said as he got up from the table. “Let’s see what we can do about that. Ladies, I hope I can rely on your vote.”

  Of course he could rely on their votes: Maurice was the tallest and the best dressed and the most pointlessly and aggressively articulate Unionist politician in Northern Ireland, where there was plenty of competition in the pointlessly aggressive articulation stakes and no competition whatsoever between parties outside of their secure geographical and sectarian areas, which made Maurice’s reelection a real possibility. All he needed to do was to win back the popular vote and to get people on his side again—including his wife, Pamela, who’d stood by him through thick and thin, even though she had every reason not to, given the…unique…stresses and strains that Maurice’s career had placed upon their marriage.

  “Here he comes!” said Minnie. “Quick! Sit up!”

  “Macher,” said Israel.

  “What!” said Ted.

  “It’s Yiddish,” said Israel.

  “I don’t like the sound of it,” said Ted.

  “It’s just a word,” said Israel. “It means—”

  “I don’t care what it means,” said Ted, “Shut up. Here comes his lordship. I’m going to give him a—”

  And then there he was, in the flesh, Maurice Morris, looming over them, teeth a-sparkling, tan a-glowing, body a-facing them—whenever Maurice spoke he consciously moved his body to face the person he was talking to, so that they could feel the full force of his personality.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Maurice Morris. I wonder if I can rely on your vote next Wednesday?”

  “Aye,” said Ted, resolve failing, and blushing like a schoolgirl.

  “Marvelous. And how about you, young man?”

  Israel looked up at Maurice Morris, up at the blue suit, at the shiny tie, the rosy cheeks, the hair with some sort of shiny product in it, and he smiled.

  “Nope,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” said Maurice Morris.

  “He’s Jewish,” said Ted apologetically.

  “Ah,” said Maurice Morris.

  “What?” said Israel.

  “Also, he’s not from round here,” added Ted. “So he’s probably not illegible.”

  “Eligible,” corrected Israel.

  “It depends if he filled in the census,” said Maurice Morris, speaking to Israel as though he were wheelchair-bound. “Did you?”

  “I have no idea,” said Israel. “But I’ll not be voting for you anyway.”

  “So, anyway,” said Minnie, glaring at Israel, beginning to usher Maurice Morris away.

  “Well, good to meet you, gents. Enjoy your coffees,” said Maurice, ready to move on.

  “Hold on,” said Israel. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Ssshh,” said Minnie.

  “No, no, fire away,” said Maurice. “Always open to questions.”

  “It’s a policy question,” said Israel.

  “Good,” said Maurice.

  “What are you going to do about global warming?”

  Global warming was one of the many things that Israel felt bad about.

  Minnie frowned but Maurice smiled his weird politician’s smile. This was not the usual traybake kind of a question. This was one of those questions that he’d said something about in his brochure. One of the things that had always distinguished Maurice from his rivals, according to his campaign literature, was the sheer quality and quantity of his campaign literature; his election brochure had been printed at an expense and in a style that might more properly have been used to advertise the first release of a complex of luxury apartments in Majorca, or a major development opportunity on the north coast, and Maurice also blogged (at mnmblogspot.com), and did e-mail circulars and had a MySpace site; he was, according to his brochure, Northern Ireland’s first and most successful cyberpolitican. And he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was he’d said in the brochure about global warming.

  “That’s still one for the scientists,” he told Israel.

  “Not according to the scientists it’s not,” said Israel, one of whose only companions these days was the BBC World Service late at night and early in the mornings.

  “Ha!” said Maurice, changing the subject rapidly. “Well, it’s been good talking to you.”

  “I would still like an answer,” said Israel.

  “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Maurice to Israel. “You are?”

  “I’m a librarian,” said Israel.

  “Really?” said Maurice.

  The phrase “I’m a librarian” usually excited a number of depressingly predictable responses, in Israel’s experience, responses that usually began with an “Oh” and were soon followed by a vague and slightly uncomfortable look in the eye. Maurice’s response was unusual.

  “The mobile librarian?” said Maurice.

  “Yes,” said Israel.

  “Isaac Angstrom?”

  “Israel Armstrong,” said Israel. Had Maurice been reading John Updike? Couples?

  “Israel Armstrong,” said Maurice, savoring the words in his mouth. “The mobile librarian.”

  “Yep,” said Israel. “That’s me.”

  “Well, I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, you sick bastard,” said Maurice, striding away.

  5

  “Ach, brilliant!” said Ted, again and again, after they’d left Zelda’s and they were driving to their next port of call, Tumdrum Primary School, where Israel was expected to help the children with
their reading. “Brilliant! Brilliant. Priceless.”

  “All right, thank you, Ted,” said Israel.

  “The look on his face, but. Brilliant. Brilliant. You must have done something bad to upset him! Oh, brilliant!”

  “He’s just a miserable bas—” began Israel.

  “Language!” said Ted. “Mebbe he just doesn’t like the look of you.”

  “Horrible,” said Israel. “A creepy, slimy, rude, horrible man.”

  “Ach, he was maybe in a bad mood, just, eh? ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself, you sick bastard!’ Oh dear, oh dear.”

  “He’s got some sort of problem,” said Israel. “Personality disorder probably.”

  “It’s the election, isn’t it?” said Ted. “Pressure getting to him.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Israel.

  “What? Pressure?”

  “Yes,” said Israel. “Do you have any Nurofen?”

  “Ach, wise up,” said Ted, as though Nurofen were a heroin substitute. They pulled into the school playground. “Who’d ye think ye are, Barack O’Bana?”

  “Obama,” said Israel. “O. Ba. Ma.”

  “Aye,” said Ted. “His family were from Kerry, weren’t they?”

  “What? He’s a black man from Hawaii,” said Israel.

  “I’m not arguing with you about it,” said Ted. “Just get on with it. Come on. We’re late.”

  They visited the school once every two weeks, and the routine was always the same: the children would choose their books from the library under Ted’s menacing gaze and without major incident—no tears, no fights, no tantrums—and then Israel would trudge with them into the classroom for the compulsory story time, and all hell would break loose.

  Israel was just not a story-time kind of a librarian: he absolutely hated children’s books, for starters. Most of them were mind-bogglingly bad, illustrated by the artistically challenged—can no one draw hands anymore?—and with words by people who clearly hated words. He was always trying to read Where the Wild Things Are or Green Eggs and Ham again, but the children, being children, wanted novelty, and the teachers wanted something more appropriate to the national curriculum’s reading strategy. So Israel would read something dull and appropriate in a dull and appropriate monotone, and the children would inevitably fidget, and then this would lead inevitably to shoving and poking, and then usually to a fight, and hence to chaos. It didn’t help that Israel also didn’t much like children, per se. He could never remember their names, or if he could remember them, he couldn’t pronounce them.