by Ian Sansom
“Right. Could you not make an exception, on this one…”
The ponytailed man could not make an exception.
Israel reluctantly dug out his money. He went for the day membership. The annual membership was obviously the better deal, but he couldn’t imagine he’d be coming back anytime soon.
The money rung into the till, the ponytailed man pressed a buzzer and said, “Through the door,” and Israel pushed against the door next to the booth and entered a dark room.
There were blinds drawn at the windows, and young men—all men, as far as Israel could tell in the gloom—were ranged around all four walls at computer monitors, frantically tapping away. Those who weren’t wearing headphones or earpieces were able to enjoy the kind of splintering, yelling, thrashing music that might have been the theme tune to Dante’s Inferno being blasted out from vibrating speakers set high up on the walls. There was cracked linoleum on the floor, and a smell of damp and adolescent deodorant. Even though it was on the first floor, it felt like a dungeon. It was horrible. Gustave Doré might just have done it justice.
No one looked up as Israel entered. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to make an impact in the room: to be sure of getting anyone’s attention he’d have had to switch off the main power supply. Instead, he did the next best thing and went and tapped one of the young men on the shoulder. The young man’s computer screen showed a chariot racing around the rim of a canyon filled with flames, and unfortunately, as Israel tapped him on the shoulder, the chariot skidded and went hurtling over the edge into the fiery pits below. The young man turned round furiously and pulled an earpiece from one ear.
“What the fuck are ye doing?”
“Hi,” shouted Israel, as best he could above the sounds of death metal. “Sorry. I’m looking for Colin? Colin Wilson?”
“You interrupted me!” said the young man.
“Sorry,” said Israel.
“I’m playing fucking Chariots of War here!”
“Right. Yes. It looks very—”
“It’s a fucking beast! And you’ve fucking killed me!”
“I’m sure it is a beast,” said Israel. “And I’m very sorry. But do you happen to know where I could find Colin Wilson?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh, good.”
“How about up your fucking arse! You fucking idiot!”
“Right. Well, thank you. Thank you very much,” said Israel.
“Fuck off!” said the young man, turning back to the screen.
“Charming!” said Israel as he walked away.
It took two more taps on the equally unforgiving shoulders of equally charming individuals before Israel managed to track down the person he thought was possibly Colin. He was rocking slightly backward and forward in his seat, twirling a ballpoint pen between the fingers of his left hand. He looked like a cross between a computer nerd and a bodybuilder. With dyed black hair. Israel took a deep breath and tapped again.
The young man swiveled his seat round, much as a computer-game-playing Bond villain might swivel round.
“Hello!” said Israel. “Colin? Colin Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I might talk to you for a few moments?”
“Are you the police?”
“No. I’m a librarian.”
“Ha!” said Colin.
“What’s funny?” said Israel.
“You’re joking, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re a librarian?”
“Yes. And I’m investigating the disappearance of Lyndsay Morris.”
“I thought you just said you were a librarian?”
“Well, I’m sort of doubling up as a—”
“Detective?”
“Sort of.”
“You’re a librarian slash private detective?”
“Yes, I suppose you could—”
“Wicked! Is this some sort of setup or what?”
“No.”
Colin punched the man sitting at the next terminal on the shoulder.
“Hey!” he said. “Is this is a prank?”
“What?” said the young man.
“Is this a prank?”
“Is what a prank? What are you talking about?”
“This bloke says he’s a librarian slash detective.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said the young man, turning back to his screen.
Israel continued smiling, trying to look suitably like a librarian slash detective.
“So you’re for real, are you?” said Colin.
“Yes,” said Israel. “I am definitely for real. One hundred percent.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police,” said Colin.
“Well. I just wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time. It would be a big help to me and might help find Lyndsay.”
Colin looked Israel up and down.
“All right,” he said. “This is totally random, but.”
“Great. Thank you,” said Israel as Colin got up. “Is there somewhere quiet we can talk for a moment?”
“All right,” said Colin. “But only because you’re a librarian slash detective. You guys are an endangered species.”
“Thanks,” said Israel.
They went out through the main door and then straight out a fire door onto a narrow fire escape.
“Nice,” said Israel.
“It’s the smoking terrace,” said Colin. “Do you smoke?”
“No,” said Israel.
“Me neither,” said Colin. “I just come here for the views.”
The smoking terrace afforded unenviable views of the back of Tumdrum High Street’s various takeaway establishments and the main car park.
They stood leaning over the fire escape railing.
“So, librarian slash private detective, how can I help you?” said Colin.
“Well, I’m looking for Lyndsay.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Israel didn’t feel he could say that if he didn’t find her his name would be in the Impartial Recorder. “I know you two were…close. I just wondered what you thought had happened to her.”
“Like I told the police, I think she’s just having a benny.”
“A benny?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I quite catch your drift.”
“Catch my drift?” said Colin, mimicking Israel’s Estuary accent. “Are you for real? Where are you from?”
“Not from round here,” said Israel.
“No. I can tell that. She’ll be back soon—”
“Right,” said Israel. “Can I ask—I know it’s personal, and please don’t feel you have to…if you aren’t…—anyway, you and her, your relationship was…”
“It was just caj, you know,” said Colin.
“Casual?”
“Yeah. Like, we were going out, it was OK. It was jokes, ye know.”
“Jokes?”
“Yeah. She was all right, we were into the same music, you know.”
“Goth?”
“No, not just Goth. Grime, dubstep, gabber, crunk, nu rave.”
“Uh-huh,” said Israel, painfully realizing his youth was slipping away from him.
“But in the end, I was, like, CBA.”
“CBA?”
“Can’t be arsed?”
“Right, I see.” Israel was feeling older by the minute. “Can I ask how you got to know each other?”
“I don’t know. I think I had a mate who Facebooked her and then, well, you know…We’d cotch around at hers.”
“I see.”
“But then she was getting into this whole church thing, man, which is just dry, ye know.”
“Which church thing?”
“The whole house church thing. The happy clappies.”
“The happy clappies?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s weird. I was brought up Presbyterian, b
ut I’m much more do what you want, you know.”
“Yes, I think I know,” said Israel.
“Why don’t you just Facebook her and ye can find out everything.”
“There’s nothing like the personal touch,” said Israel.
“Right,” said Colin. “When it comes to private investigating.”
“Yeah,” said Israel.
The fire door opened and they were joined by a man wearing a white hoodie. His hair had been shaved completely at the back and sides, and the tufty remainder bleached into blondness. It gave him the look of a ferret. He looked Israel up and down as he lit a cigarette.
“Who’s this?”
“Librarian,” said Colin.
“Yeah, right.”
“No, he is,” said Colin.
“I am,” agreed Israel.
“Hufter,” said the man. “What’s he want?”
“He’s looking for Lyndsay.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yeah. He’s a librarian. But he’s all right.”
“Thanks,” said Israel.
The man looked at him.
“I’m Rory,” he said.
“Hello, Rory,” said Israel.
“I didn’t realize there were librarians anymore,” said Rory.
“Well, yes there are.”
“I thought Google had it all sewn up.”
“We’re struggling on,” said Israel.
“You want to think about retraining, mate.”
“Yes,” said Israel, wistfully. “Probably I do.”
“Still no sign of Lynds then?” said Rory to Colin.
“No.”
“You’d already split up, mate, though, hadn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“You want the real answer or the answer I gave the police?” said Colin, who seemed momentarily to have forgotten that Israel was there.
“The real answer would be great,” said Israel, chipping in.
“She was fed up with the time I spent editing Wikipedia!” said Colin.
Rory laughed.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You edit Wikipedia?” said Israel.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Colin.
“I’ve never met anyone who edits Wikipedia before.”
“Well, you’ve met one now.”
“Gosh. I didn’t think…Can anyone do it?”
“Doh! That’s the whole idea, isn’t it?” said Rory.
“Yes, well, I suppose,” said Israel. “Does it take long?”
“I do about fifty hours a week.”
“Fifty hours a week! Fifty? Or fifteen?”
“Fifty.”
“That’s a full-time job.”
“Yeah. I suppose.”
“Do you get paid?”
“Of course you don’t get paid.”
“Do you get paid?!” said Rory. “Doh!”
“Would I be familiar with your work?” asked Israel.
“‘Would I be familiar with your work?’” repeated Rory. “Fuck’s sake! Where d’ye get him, Colin!”
“Yeah,” said Colin, ignoring Rory’s provocations. “I’ve got a couple of Featured Articles: Saruman you might know.”
“Sorry?”
“From The Lord of the Rings?”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course.”
“And a piece about James Thurber.”
“I love James Thurber!” said Israel.
“I’d never heard of him, actually,” said Colin. “I just like editing them.”
“I’ll tell ye what,” said Rory, finishing his cigarette.
“What?” said Israel.
“Libraries are fucking finished, man.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that—”
“Who needs a fucking encyclopedia when you can get it all online?”
“Libraries are repositories,” said Israel.
“That’s random,” said Colin.
“Yeah,” said Rory. “Repositories! Doh!”
“Well, gents, anyway, thank you for your assistance.”
“‘Well, gents,’” said Rory, “‘thank you for your assistance.’ Are you some sort of perv or what, mate? Looking for Lyndsay. You’re old enough to be her dad, you know.”
“Well, I’m not, I think I…” Israel did the sum in his head. Actually, he was old enough to be her dad. Technically old enough to be her father. He thought it was probably time to beat a retreat. “Thanks again, anyway, gents.”
“Check out that whole church thing,” said Colin, as Israel backed toward the door. “They are total weirdos. It’s like a cult, almost.”
“Right. Will do,” said Israel. “Thanks.”
“Hufter!” said Rory.
19
That evening, Israel went up to the manse to visit the Reverend Roberts again. The reverend was working on a sermon. Another bloody sermon,” he said as he brought Israel through to the kitchen, where dozens of thick biblical commentaries were scattered on the table, like discarded bottles after an all-night party.
“Stuck?” said Israel.
“As always,” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Any ideas?”
“Alas, no. Any ideas yourself?”
“For a sermon? Something from the Bible perhaps?” said Israel.
“Ha!” boomed the reverend, straightening up the books and putting them into a neat pile. “Very good! You know, sometimes, Israel, I feel like the preacher in that Kierkegaard parable.”
“That Kierkegaard parable…” said Israel, attempting to sound as though he knew what the Reverend Roberts was talking about.
“You know it?”
“Is that the Kierkegaard parable about the…”
“The ducks.”
“Ah, yes, the ducks,” said Israel.
“Who go into church every week, and the preacher duck says to them, ‘You can fly! You can fly!’ and then every week the ducks waddle home, and waddle back to church again the following week.”
“Ah,” said Israel.
“Anyway,” said the Reverend Roberts. “Coffee?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” said Israel.
“Good man! Good man!” said the reverend.
“You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?”
“I need a break,” said the reverend. “There’s only so much biblical Hebrew a man can take in one sitting.”
Having made the coffee, the reverend sat with Israel, the two of them taking up their traditional positions flanking the oven, as though they were sitting around an electric campfire or a dual-fuel burning bush.
“So?” said the reverend, leaning back on his chair. “Social call?”
“Actually,” said Israel, “I wondered if I could talk to you on a sort of…a religious matter.”
“Uh-oh,” said the Reverend Roberts. “Doctrinal? Or more of a pastoral matter?”
“Erm…Not sure. I’m looking for Lyndsay Morris.”
“Ah, yes, the missing girl.”
“That’s right.”
“Lovely girl,” said the Reverend Roberts, stroking his chin.
“You know her?”
“Oh, yes. Maurice Morris’s daughter? She used to come to the church, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She was a very valued member of the young people’s group.”
“She was?”
“Yes, was. Past tense. I’m afraid she left.”
“When?” said Israel.
“It was about…six months ago. A lot of the young people left then, unfortunately.”
“Why?”
“Why!” The Reverend Roberts laughed. “To ask the hard question is simple, Israel. It’s a long story.” He spooned more sugar into his coffee.
“I’ve got plenty of time,” said Israel. “And it might help, as part of the investigation.”
“Investigation?”
“Into Lyndsay’s disappearance. I’m sort of…
trying to find her.”
“Aren’t the police trying to find her?”
“Yes, but, I’m…”
“Helping them out?”
“That’s it.”
“Is that wise?” said the Reverend Roberts, pinching his forehead and making a “that-sounds-very-unwise” sort of a face. “Given your rather troubled history with Tumdrum’s law enforcement officers?”
“Well, it’s…slightly complicated. I need to…Anyway, tell me about Lyndsay.”
“What do you want to know?” said the Reverend Roberts. “It’s not as if I knew her well.”
“Well, erm…” Israel’s interviewing technique required some work. “I’m not sure. Anything you think might be relevant.”
“Everything is relevant, Israel, isn’t it? It just depends on your perspective. Sub specie aeternitatis and all that.”
“Quite,” said Israel, having no idea what “sub specie aeternitatis” might mean or how to spell it.
“Pen?” said the Reverend Roberts, offering Israel a ballpoint from the table.
“Thanks, but…”
“For taking notes, as a part of your investigation?”
“Ah, yes,” said Israel. “Absolutely. Good idea. You wouldn’t have any—”
“Paper?” said the Reverend Roberts, tearing a couple of sheets of A4 from a jotter on the table.
“Super,” said Israel.
“Ready now, detective?” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Absolutely.”
The Reverend Roberts drained his coffee cup and started to talk.
“About six months ago we suffered a schism in the church.”
“Sounds painful,” said Israel.
“It was,” said the Reverend Roberts, threading his fingers together, as though in prayer.
“S-c—” began Israel.
“H,” said the Reverend Roberts. “From the Greek. Meaning disunion. Or division.”
“Right,” said Israel.
“Now, as you doubtless know, Israel, the Protestant church is of course prone to schism: it’s where we’re from.”
“Right,” said Israel, whose knowledge of church history rivaled only his knowledge of local, Irish, British, Jewish, and in fact almost all other history in his premier league of virtual-know-nothingness. They’d done mostly the Nazis at school.
“It’s probably to do with the priesthood of all believers,” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Israel, sniffing faux-knowledgeably.
“1 Peter 2:9.”
“I’ll maybe look that up,” said Israel.
