by Ian Sansom
'I thought you said it'd take—'
'Aye. Worked on her all night. Not every day you get the library back out on the road.'
'No. I suppose not.'
'Give you the tour later. Now. Tradesman's entrance for us,' said Ted, leading Israel round the back of the library, where he opened rusty metal gates which led down into an open passageway, ankle-deep in black plastic bin bags and rubbish, and they kicked their way through to a big steel door, which had been punched and hammered and stabbed and set light to enough times to make it look like the gates to hell itself.
Ted produced a big bunch of keys.
'Dante's Inferno,' joked Israel.
'Dan Tay?'
'He's an author. Thirteenth-century.'
'Aye, right,' said Ted, unimpressed. 'The Carson translation's the best.'
'What?'
'Much better than the John D. Sinclair or the Dorothy L. Sayers.'
'You know the Divine Comedy?'
'Aye,' said Ted. 'In more ways than one. What d'you think a driver does on a mobile library when they're not driving, read the Sun?'
'Er. I never really thought—'
'Clearly. Electric's off,' continued Ted, moving swiftly on from literature to life, swinging the door open, as they entered a dark porch.
'Did you—' began Israel, as Ted produced a torch from a jacket pocket. 'Ah. Right. Good.'
Ted then opened up another internal door and shone the torch into the dark interior–a basement storage area, full of orange stackable chairs and old display cases. No books.
'Where are the books?' asked Israel.
'They'll be upstairs,' said Ted, who pointed with his torch over to a flight of stairs on the opposite side of the room. 'In the library.'
'Of course.'
'After you.'
Israel made his way over to the stairs and as he began to walk slowly up the winding concrete stairwell something suddenly whipped past his leg.
'Aaggh!' screamed Israel. 'A…rat!'
'Mouse,' corrected Ted.
'Ah!' said Israel. 'But it was huge.'
'Ach, wise up, man, will ye?' said Ted.
The stairs twisted round and round. At the top was another steel door.
'I forgot about that,' said Ted. 'Hold the torch,' which Israel did, while Ted went through the ritual of trying every key until eventually the right key caught and turned, and the door swung open and they entered the library proper.
They were under a staircase standing in the library's main entrance area.
There was natural winter light flooding in from the vast windows set high all around. There were architraves and cornices. There were complex tiled floor patterns. There was mahogany. Even under the dust and layers of paint and the scuffs you could tell the place was beautiful, that it had ambitions, and desires, and generosity, and woodworm: it was a building that breathed public service.
Ah, yes. At last. This was more like it. This was why Israel had come. This was where he belonged.
There were two large rooms off the main lobby area, one to the left and one to the right of the central sweeping staircase.
'Where does that go?' asked Israel, pointing to the top of the stairway.
'Nowhere,' said Ted.
'What d'you mean, nowhere?'
'Nowhere, as in nowhere. You understand the meaning of nowhere?'
'Increasingly I do, yes. But it must go somewhere.'
'I just said, it goes nowhere. It's a false staircase,' explained Ted. 'They say they ran out of money when they were building. It was that fella.'
'Who?'
'The architect. Whatyemacallhim?'
'I don't know.'
'The famous fella.'
'No. Sorry.'
'More.'
'More?'
'O'Ferral. Him. Ach. Anyway. The two storeys at the front are just a…what do you call it?'
'I don't know,' said Israel.
'A fac…?'
'A what?' said Israel.
'A fec…?'
'A what?'
'Fackard?'
'A fackard?'
'Aye.'
'A façade?'
'That's what I said. There's no upstairs. Just windows.'
'Blimey,' said Israel. 'Can I?'
'Aye,' said Ted. 'If you've nothing better to do.'
Israel trotted up to the top of the stairs, which branched and which looked as though they led to upper rooms, but sure enough, as he turned left, he suddenly found himself facing a wall. Turning round, he looked opposite. Another wall.
'That's weird,' said Israel, prodding his glasses, coming back down.
'Things aren't always what they seem,' agreed Ted philosophically.
Israel then went quickly through to the room to the left: the plastic laminate sign over the doorway read FICTION AND NON-FICTION.
The room was painted in several non-matching shades of white. There was a drab, stained grey carpet and big fluorescent lights hanging down on huge chains, looking like instruments of torture. The filthy windows, with their blinds high up, had knotted grey cords and strings hanging down, looking like a set of gallows. Wires were haphazardly cable-clipped to the walls; there were cracks and holes; and brackets hung down everywhere like gibbets with nothing gibbeted to them. And all around were the shadows where once the books and shelves had been, looking like the bars of a prison.
Oh yes, this felt good. This felt much more like home.
Israel went back through the lobby into the right-hand room, which was identical–the same dirty white emptiness–except for a long grey veneered built-in issues desk running along one wall.
Ted seemed to have disappeared.
'Ted,' called Israel. 'Ted?' There was no reply. 'Ted?' he called again. 'Ted!'
He went back into the lobby.
Ted emerged through the doors from the basement.
'Everything all right?' asked Ted.
'Yes.'
'Good,' said Ted, sounding relieved.
'Except for one thing,' said Israel.
'What's that?' said Ted.
'Look around you,' said Israel. 'What do you notice?'
'The library?'
'Yes, but what exactly about the library?'
'Ach. I don't know.'
'What do you usually get in libraries?'
'Drunks?'
'No!'
'Ach,' said Ted. 'I don't know.'
'Books.'
'Books?'
'Yes. Books. Books! There are no books.'
Ted looked round at the empty library. 'Aye,' he agreed.
'No books at all,' said Israel.
'Are you sure though? Are they not through there?' said Ted, pointing to the other main room.
'No.'
'That's where I thought they were.'
'Well, they're not there now.'
'No?'
'No. They're gone.'
'Ach.'
'Maybe someone's moved them?'
'Aye.'
'Or stolen them.'
'Aye, right.'
'Well, anyway, I'd better ring Linda.'
'Ach,' said Ted dismissively.
'What do you mean "Ach"? What does that mean, "Ach"?'
'Ach, it's just Linda. You know.'
'No. I don't. How am I supposed to know? What am I, psychic?'
'Now, listen, if I wanted cheek, son, I could go down to Belfast and get some.'
'Well. Honestly.'
'Aye, well, you want to watch—'
'What is it about Linda then?'
'Ach. You know what they say.'
'No. I don't. I don't know. That's the point.'
'The rotten egg keeps the nest the longest.'
'Sorry?'
'Ach, nothin'.'
'Fine. Right. Just keep it to yourself then. I'll just have to ring her.'
'If you have to.'
'Yes. I do,' said Israel officiously.
He tried to ring Linda on his mobile phone.
&n
bsp; 'Erm. Actually, Ted, have you got a mobile phone then? I can't seem to get a signal on mine…'
Israel's conversation with Linda Wei, Deputy Head of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services was brief and to the point and twenty minutes later she was there.
Ted was sitting outside smoking. 'He's inside,' he said to Linda, factually.
Back home in England Israel would have been at the discount bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock, Essex, by now, maybe getting a morning coffee and a muesli bar from Starbucks, or trading repartee and bon mots with his colleagues, and chatting about the new paperback bestsellers. Instead, he was sitting at the top of the steps of the false staircase in the empty library of Tumdrum, gingerly prodding at the egg-sized bump on his head. Also, he was wondering if he was maybe getting cappuccino withdrawal symptoms. When he got back to London he'd probably have to go into therapy.
'Well,' said Linda, as she waddled in. She was wearing a tomato-red blouson leather jacket.
'No books,' said Israel, coming down the stairs.
'Hmm,' said Linda, producing a crumpled bag of sweets from her pocket. 'Fudge?'
'No, thanks.'
Linda paused and burped. 'Oops. Excuse me. I've got white mice in here as well,' she said. 'Pick'n'Mix.'
'No, thanks. You've not got any headache tablets though, have you?'
'No, what for?'
'For a headache.'
'No. Sorry.' Linda looked in her bag. 'Liquorice?'
'No, thanks.'
'Anyway,' said Linda, 'what's happened to you? Your clothes are—'
'Yes. I had to borrow them.'
'And what happened to your eye?'
'Don't ask—'
'It looks terrible.'
'Yeah. Well—'
'And you know your glasses are a wee bit—'
'Yes, it's—'
'Is that masking tape?'
'Yes, I—'
'And have you bumped your head or something?'
'Yes, Linda. But don't let me bore you with the details. Now about the books?'
Linda popped a liquorice twirl in her mouth. 'Yes. Well,' she said. 'Where have they all gone, I wonder?'
'I don't know,' said Israel. 'I was hoping you could tell me. That's kind of why I called you.'
'Mmm. They're supposed to be here.'
'But they're not,' said Israel.
'No. Ach.'
'"Ach"? What is this "Ach"?'
'Ach?'
'Yes! "Ach!" You all say it all the time. It's…'
'Well, I do apologise,' said Linda, in a way that suggested she was not apologising at all.
'Yes. Well. What do you think's happened to the books? Someone's moved them?'
'Not as far as I'm aware.'
'So, what do you think?' said Israel. 'Someone's stolen them?'
'They must have done,' said Linda seriously, sucking on her liquorice. 'Is there any sign of a forced entry?'
'I don't know. I couldn't see anything. But I'm not an expert. Shouldn't we just call the police? They'll know what to do, won't they?'
'No!' yelped Linda over-excitedly, spraying liquorice spit.
'Sorry?' said Israel, taking a step back.
'No,' she said, more calmly. 'I meant no, that wouldn't be necessary.'
'But—'
'No. I'm sure we can sort this out.'
'But if they've been stolen?'
'I wouldn't think it.'
'But you just said—'
'They might all be out on loan.'
'What, ten thousand books?'
'Our stock is closer to fifteen thousand, actually,' said Linda.
'Whatever. They're hardly all going to be overdue, are they?'
'I don't know. People love reading round here. It's like Iceland.'
'Yes, but they're hardly going to have a hundred books out per person, are they?'
'I don't know.'
'Linda, be serious.'
'Well, maybe not.'
'So you think they've been stolen?'
'I don't know,' said Linda, rather quietly now. 'Maybe.'
'So we need to call the police.'
'No!' yelped Linda again. Israel put his hand up this time to protect himself from the liquorice spray.
'Why not?'
Linda looked furtively around and came and stood close to Israel.
'We need to keep this to ourselves. It wouldn't be good for us–or for you–would it?'
She was very close up to Israel now, almost whispering, her mouth a big black purply maw.
'It was bad enough with the library closing,' she said, looking at him conspiratorially. 'You know your eye does look terrible; it looks worse, close up.'
'Yeah, right. Getting back to the point?'
'Well, you see, if people thought all the books had been stolen…' She lowered her voice even further. 'The council would be seen as…incompetent.'
'I see your problem,' said Israel.
'Our problem, please,' she said.
'Sorry?'
'Our problem,' she said, swivelling round dramatically, in a way that only a fat Northern Irish Chinese lady wearing a red blouson leather jacket and holding a bag of Pick'n'Mix could be said to swivel round dramatically. 'You're the librarian.'
'Yes. But I don't have any books.'
'You're still the librarian.'
'Well, I can't be a librarian until I have some books.'
'Exactly.'
'What?'
'It's your job to get them back.'
'Now hold on, Mrs—'
'Ms, please.'
'Ms?'
'Thank you. We do try to avoid false generics and outdated sexist names, titles and categories as far as possible here at Tumdrum and District Council.'
'What?'
'We're not the back of beyond here, you know.'
'Right.'
'An apology would be fine.'
'An apology?'
'Please.'
'All right. Sorry.'
'Thank you. Anyway, as far as I'm aware, Mr Armstrong, your contract states that as the librarian you are responsible for the books in your care.'
'Yes, but—'
'And I think a very dim view would be taken of you being unable to—'
That was it. That was enough. Israel now went and stood close to Linda.
'No, lady, you just hold on,' he said, with a fierce prod of his glasses.
'Ms, please.'
'Whatever. Whatever. First of all I arrive and there's no library. Then I find I'm being put up by some lunatic in a chicken coop—'
'Oh, you mean George? I forgot to ask. How are you getting on there?'
'Terrible. But that's another issue. Then I find I'm supposed to be driving around in some ancient illegal rust-bucket of a mobile library.'
'How is it?'
'It's falling apart.'
'A lick of paint, I'm sure it'll be fine.'
'No. It's a death-trap. And now I find there's no books for the library.'
'Yes. Well. Not to worry. As long as you get the books back we'll be fine.'
'No. You don't understand. I'm not getting your books back for you. It's not my fault they're missing.'
'Now, don't be silly. No one's saying it's your fault, Mr Armstrong. You really must learn not to take things so personally.'
'I'm not taking it personally!'
'I think you are now.'
'I'm not!'
'You are, sir, actually. You are raising your voice, and you're invading my personal space.'
'Yes, that's because—'
'If you could just step back please. Thank you.'
Israel took a step back.
'Thank you. The council runs courses, actually, for our employees to address these sorts of issues–bullying and etcetera–and you'll doubtless be recommended for an appropriate course when the time comes. But'–and she raised a finger here as Israel was about to speak–'in the meantime you are employed to sort out the problem of the mis
sing books. That's your job.'
'That's not my job!'
'It is, actually.'
'I'm a librarian!'
'Yes. And you need to find your books.'
'No. I'm not Father bloody Brown.'
'There's no need for that sort of sectarian language, thank you.'
'Oh, Jesus Christ!'
'Mr Armstrong!'
'Right. OK. Sorry.'
'Good. So I'll take it that I can leave it with you then.'
'Oh yeah, sure, yeah,' said Israel, exasperated. 'Fine. Yeah. OK. I come all the way over here to this godforsaken hell-hole to play Inspector bloody Morse.'
'Please, Mr Armstrong. That's the second time I've had to warn you about your offensive language. I'm issuing you now with a verbal warning. One more time, and I shall have to fill in a report about your behaviour.'
Israel walked away across the empty library.
'Right. OK. Sorry. Excuse me. Fine. I'll tell you what, I'll solve it for you. I'll solve it for you right now; I'll solve your little mystery. Easy. Who has a key to the library?'
'I do, obviously.'
'Right. So did you steal the books?'
'No! Of course not. Don't be silly.'
'Fine. You're eliminated from my enquiries. Anyone else have a key?'
'Ted.'
'And that's it?'
'That's it. There's only two sets.'
'Right,' said Israel. 'So if you didn't steal them, there's no sign of a forced entry, it must, by a process of logical deduction, be Ted who's stolen them. Case solved, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight, I'm going home.'
Israel started to walk off.
'Hold on,' said Linda, picking at something stuck in her teeth. 'Hold on, hold on. Are you accusing Ted of stealing the library books?'
'Well, he stole the mobile library van, didn't he?'
'Ah, yes.' Linda now seemed to have got a hold of whatever it was that was stuck in her teeth, and was examining it on the end of her finger. 'He told you about our arrangement then?'
'Yes, right, that was your totally bonkers arrangement where he steals the mobile library and you buy it back from him? I mean—'
'Well. That was a…difficult situation,' said Linda, sniffing the end of her finger. 'You have to understand that the people who stole the van saw it as a civil rights issue.'
'A civil rights issue?'
'This is Northern Ireland, Mr Armstrong.'
'Right. Fine. Well, maybe they saw it as a civil rights issue to nick the library books as well.'
'Really! And what do you think they'd have done with fifteen thousand library books?'
'Read them?'
