The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  'Sorry.'

  'So?'

  'I didn't tell anyone.'

  'Don't treat me like I'm stupit, Mr Armstrong.'

  Israel prodded his glasses and fiddled nervously with the fraying cuff of his brown corduroy jacket.

  'So, how did she suck the story out of you?'

  'Sorry?' said Israel, rather startled by Linda's turn of phrase.

  'You know what I'm talking about. Veronica Byrd.'

  'Oh, Veronica. Erm. I don't know. I may have let slip in conversation that there were a few books missing.'

  'Let slip? Let slip? I wasn't born yesterday, Mr Armstrong. We know all about the birds and the bees round here, thank you very much. She'll not die in her own bed, that woman.'

  'What? Who?'

  'The Impartial Recorder's own little Mata Hari. I saw you sneakin' off like a pair of teenagers.'

  'Well…'

  'Honest, are you soft in the head, man?'

  'No,' said Israel, sounding soft in the head. 'I am not soft in the head.'

  'Aye, well. They say where there's a Jock there's a Jinny.'

  'I'm sorry, Linda, I have no idea what you're talking about.'

  'Obviously. D'you have any idea how much trouble you've caused here? You're lucky we don't just send you back to where you come from.'

  'Well, that would be unfortunate, but—'

  'Oh no,' said Linda, wagging her finger. 'Oh no, no, no. It wouldn't, would it? That'd be just what you wanted, wouldn't it? In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you hadn't deliberately leaked this to the paper in order to be sacked from your job, Mr Armstrong. I certainly wouldn't put that past you.'

  If only he'd thought of that.

  'No,' he said truthfully, 'I—'

  'So, bearing that in mind, we've decided we're going to let you cool in the skin you het up in.'

  'What?'

  'We're not going to sack you, Mr Armstrong.'

  'Well, I'm—'

  'We're going to extend your contract.'

  'What?'

  'Extend your contract.'

  'You can't do that!'

  'I think, Mr Armstrong, if you ever bothered to check the small print you'd find that you are expected to fulfil all the duties required of you as Tumdrum's new Outreach Support Officer and that if you don't certain disciplinary procedures and penalties will come into effect, which—'

  'You can't do that!' repeated Israel.

  'We have done it. And you've signed it.' Linda dangled the contract before him.

  Israel's headache had appeared earlier on the horizon of his mind–at exactly the point at which he had entered Linda's office, in fact–and it was now gathering full speed towards him.

  'Actually, I've had enough of this,' he said, getting up to leave. 'I'm going.'

  'Well, of course, you're free to leave.'

  'Good. Thank you.'

  'But I'm assuming you have no means of leaving. I think you'll find you haven't received your first month's salary.'

  'No, but I've…' He patted his pockets. And he remembered that he hadn't yet replaced his crinkled credit card. Or his debit card. And that he had no money. And that all he currently possessed were the clothes he stood up in, a few books, his black eye and a bump on the head. He quickly tried to draw up a list in his mind of all the people in Tumdrum who might be prepared to sub him the money for his trip back to London. There was no one on the list.

  'Er.'

  'Now. Sit down then, please.'

  Israel sat down.

  'Clearly we need to discuss how we can move forwards from here, Mr Armstrong. So, given all of your conspiracy theories—'

  'They're not conspiracy theories,' protested Israel weakly. 'They're…hypotheses.'

  'Aye, well, given all these weird and wonderful hypotheses of yours, how many books have you actually managed to recover so far?'

  'Well, we are still missing…a few,' said Israel.

  'How many?' said Linda.

  'Er…'

  'How many are still missing?'

  'I reckon…probably around about fourteen and a half thousand.'

  'So you've hardly got any in fact?'

  'Well…'

  'I strongly suggest then, sir, that you rapidly revise your so-called hypotheses, in the light of the evidence that you're making a sad hash of the whole thing. Or you're going to find yourself with us here forever.'

  Israel's headache had now arrived, scooped him up on its back and was thundering away at full gallop.

  'Look,' he said, trying a different tack. 'I can't do this on my own, Linda. I need help.' Even Sherlock Holmes had help. Everybody needs help.

  'Well, we would of course love to help you, Mr Armstrong,' said Linda, flapping her canary arms, 'but actually, in case you hadn't noticed, you are the person who is supposed to be helping us find the missing library books.'

  'But can't we just go to the police now it's all out in the open?'

  'I think you'd agree, Mr Armstrong, that would only make matters worse at this stage. And also I have issued a statement to the paper this morning denying that the books are missing—'

  'What?'

  'And guaranteeing that the mobile library will be up and running by the end of the year.'

  'But Linda that's only, what, a couple of weeks away?'

  'Indeed.'

  'I can't find the books by then.'

  'You have to find the books by then, if you want to be going home any time soon. And you're going to look pretty foolish, aren't you, driving around with no books in the back of the van?'

  'I can't. No. Sorry. I can't do that. I can't do it on my own, Linda.'

  'Well, you could ask Ted to come back and help you out, unless he's still on your Most Wanted list.'

  'No, I've eliminated Ted from my…my, er, enquiries.'

  'Good, well,' said Linda, 'maybe you should ask Ted then. He's not an unreasonable man.'

  'Ted is a very unreasonable man, Linda.'

  'Well, given that you probably don't have that many friends around Tumdrum, I suggest you try and cultivate what few contacts you do have.'

  'Right, thanks a lot.'

  Linda glanced at the clock and got up to leave.

  'That'll be all then, Mr Armstrong. Unless you have anything else useful to add to our conversation?'

  'No,' said Israel, defeated. 'Fine. OK. Right. Where does Ted live?'

  'Ted? Up on the coast, isn't it? You'd be best looking for him at the First and Last, I would have thought, though he's off the drink but, these days.'

  'Right,' sighed Israel. 'And where is it, the First and Last?'

  'On the main Ballymuckery road as you're coming into town.'

  'Right. I don't suppose you have a map, do you?'

  'A map?'

  'Of the town.'

  'Och no, of course I don't. What would I want a map for?'

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'Is that all?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, I do have to say,' concluded Linda, making for the door, 'I'm really very disappointed in you, Mr Armstrong. I had expected much better of someone of your obvious talents.'

  'Right.'

  'It'll no doubt be better news the next time we speak though,' said Linda, leaving her office.

  'No doubt,' said Israel, full of doubt, giving her a two-fingered salute behind her back.

  'I saw that,' shouted Linda, retreating down the corridor. 'I'm watching you.'

  15

  The First and Last was so called because depending on whether you were entering or leaving Tumdrum, it was either the first pub you came to, or the last, a distinction which one would have thought was hardly worth the boast since there were at least another dozen pubs to choose from in town, most of which had more to recommend them than merely their convenient location for thirsty or fleeing travellers. But the First and Last had acquired its name not merely because it lay on the edge of town, but also because Elder Agnew, who had established the business back in the 1950s, was a
member of the Plymouth Brethren and a strict teetotaller who believed strongly in the Bible, and in the Lord which is, which was, and which is to come, and who felt that just as Christ had consorted with thieves and prostitutes, so too it was his calling to offer comfort and consolation to the destitute and the wretched of the earth and in particular to the many heavy drinkers of Tumdrum and district, and to all those who sought refuge from the trials and tribulations of this world, and from their wives, at the bottom of a pint glass. Elder's calling and ministry had eventually led to his expulsion from the Brethren, and to his joining the Church of Ireland, which had a rather more relaxed attitude towards evangelism and to the various natural products of fermentation. Elder served up strong drink to his customers on Scripture beer-mats and surrounded them with posters and samplers and big etched mirrors which bore warnings and exhortations about the vanities and miseries and disappointments of this life, which most of his customers were more than fully aware of already and who probably wouldn't have been in the First and Last if they weren't, and which certainly did not dissuade them from their evening's drinking.

  Times had changed, though, of course, and under the guidance of Elder's son, the confusingly named Elder, the First and Last had in recent years begun to relax its unwritten men-only and only men in caps rules, and to serve women, and to offer live televised sports on a giant screen, but it still remained a pub like no other in Tumdrum: it still had its huge Greek letters painted above the door, for example, which gave it the look of a masonic temple; and it still had the words, 'I Am Alpha And Omega, The Beginning And The End', painted around its doorposts and on the lintel, which made it look like the homes of the children of Israel as the angel of death passed over; and its corrugated-aluminium walls and the cantilevered roof meant that it still looked like a cattle-shed. In addition, the crudely painted mural on the building's gable end showing a bearded man in robes treading the bodies of sinners in a huge wine press meant that the pub remained unmistakable to passers-by, and to all those entering or leaving the town. The First and Last was a north coast landmark.

  Israel had finally caught the attention of the barman–Elder the Younger himself, no less, a man who was fully bearded, and who wore a novelty waistcoat featuring rambling red roses, and a permanent neck-brace, after an accident in which he had fallen into a vat of his own home-made liqueur, brewed out back, an accident which he had been lucky to survive but which some people claimed had affected his mind more than his body, a few minutes in a wooden vat of base spirit and herbs seeming to have done irreparable damage to his nervous system and to have irrevocably coloured his outlook on life. Like his father, Elder was a born-again, teetotal, evangelical Christian, but unlike his father he regarded his customers not so much as a gathered congregation as some unspeakable herd of the damned, and he was renowned for the rudeliest welcome in the whole of Tumdrum, if not in Christendom.

  'Yes, son?'

  'Erm. Just a mineral water, please.'

  'And what do you want with that?'

  'Just the mineral water, please.'

  'No.'

  'What?'

  'I'll not be serving you just with th'water.'

  'What?' said Israel. Elder started to move away. 'Hang on. This is a pub, isn't it?'

  'Aye.'

  'So, can I have a mineral water. Please?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  'D'you think I can make money out of people who come in here to drink on water?'

  'Well…'

  'Aye, well, you might as well be takin' money out of my till. You're nothin' better than a common thief. You're barred!' said Elder, moving on to another customer. 'Pint, Tommy?'

  Israel suddenly remembered he had a headache, and had done since arriving in this bloody place.

  'Ignore him,' said a dark-haired woman, who had appeared behind the bar.

  'Barred!' shouted Elder, from the other end of the bar, wagging his finger at Israel.

  'Ignore Elder,' said the barmaid, 'his bite's worse than his bark.'

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'You're not from round here?'

  'No, no. I'm not actually…'

  'I like your accent.'

  'Oh. Well. Thank you,' said Israel, who was blushing all the way down to the soles of his worn-out brogues: his Estuary English had never made much impression anywhere before; in fact, he hadn't even realised he had an accent; he thought it was all the other people who had the accents.

  'So what it is you'll have?'

  'A mineral water just?'

  'Would you not try a First and Last? It's Elder's liqueur. He makes it here, on the premises.'

  'His own liqueur? What's it like?'

  'It's…unusual. A bit like Benedictine…'

  'Really?'

  'And a little bit like mouthwash. Most people take it hot in the winter.'

  'Hot?'

  'Uh-huh. You know, like a punch-type thing.'

  'I don't know.'

  'Make a man of you,' said the barmaid, rather playfully. 'At least, that's what they tell me. I couldn't possibly comment.'

  'Well, if you put it like that,' said Israel, lowering his voice a little and attempting an international playboy kind of a face, to match his exotic accent, 'maybe I'll try one.'

  'Right you are. Jus' to pass yerself, eh? One First and Last coming up.'

  She disappeared behind the bar and Israel took in the sights: the traditional Irish TV on the traditional Irish high shelf in the corner; the traditional Irish worn and cracked lino floor; and the traditional filthy Irish bar faced with the traditional Irish red Formica, and a sign above the row of optics which read: SHOW PROPER RESPECT TO EVERYONE, LOVE THE BROTHERHOOD, FEAR GOD, AND HONOUR THE KING.

  'She's a fair pup, isn't she?' said the man sitting next to Israel at the bar, as the barmaid reappeared with a tumbler of dark steaming liquid.

  'Er. Yes. Indeed. Quite a…pup,' agreed Israel.

  'You wouldn't say no, would you?' said the man, who smelt strongly of drink and Tayto cheese and onion crisps.

  'Erm. No. I mean yes. Well…'

  'There you are now,' said the barmaid. 'Yes to what?'

  'Nothing,' said Israel, blushing. 'Just chatting to my, er, friend here.'

  'Go on then,' said the barmaid, 'pang it into ye.'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'Try it–the First and Last.'

  It went down smoothly at first–not unlike a hot toddy, though more fragrant and flavoursome, and perhaps a little thicker. Israel could taste cloves, and aniseed, and vanilla, caramel, a hint of toothpaste perhaps: it was pretty good. But then he felt his mouth begin to burn and his throat become enflamed and swollen, as if someone had grabbed him, attacking him from behind by the neck, and was threatening him with his life.

  'Good grief!' he gasped.

  'It's good, isn't it.'

  'It's…'

  'Some people prefer it with a pint. Would you like a Guinness with it?'

  Israel was speechless.

  'Give him a Guinness with it, Rosie, for goodness sake,' said Israel's cheese-and-onion-smelling companion. Israel was clearly in some discomfort. 'Ach, Jesus, here, drink this,' said the man, pushing his half-drunk pint over towards Israel, who drank it down in great gulps.

  'Thanks,' said Israel, recovering his powers of speech.

  'It's all right,' said the drinker. 'I'll take a pint.'

  'Right,' gasped Israel, 'pint, please, for my friend here.'

  'Right you are. What d'you reckon?' asked the barmaid.

  'Erm,' said Israel, 'it's…unusual.'

  'I'll tell Elder you liked it. He'll be delighted. Some people can't stand the stuff. Elder!' she shouted. 'Elder! Look, look! He liked it! Sean, I'll get you your pint.'

  Elder gave a thumbs-up sign from the other end of the bar.

  Israel excused himself for a moment to use the toilet, and to splash water on his face–the mirror above the hand-basin was helpfully etched with the words, CHRIST DIED FO
R THE UNGODLY, just in case anyone had forgotten–and when he returned the barmaid was setting up another First and Last for him.

  'There you go. Drinks on the house.'

  'No, really, thanks. It's fine. I'm not here to drink as such. I'm just, er, just waiting to see Ted–Ted Carson?–if he comes in tonight.'

  'Och, Ted? He'll not be in for ages.'

  'Oh, right. Well, I'd rather have a mineral water while I wait, if that's OK.'

  'This one's from Elder,' she whispered. 'I don't think you want to upset him.'

  Elder waved at Israel from the far end of the bar, pointing his finger at him, and mimicking drinking, and then rubbing his tummy with glee.

  'No. Well. Thanks.'

  'And a pint,' she said, setting a pint of Guinness before him.

  'But I didn't–'

  'That's from Sean here.'

  'My round,' said Sean, who'd managed to finish a pint in the time it had taken Israel to go to the loo.

  'Oh. Really, there's no need…' said Israel.

  'You saying my money's not good enough for ye?' said Sean, scowling, breathing out his fierce cheese and onion fumes.

  'No,' said Israel, laughing slightly hysterically. 'Of course not. Very kind of you. Thanks.'

  'Only joking!' said Sean, patting Israel hard on the back.

  'Cheers,' said Sean.

  'Cheers.'

  The drinks stood on the bar staring at Israel accusingly, like miserable little orphaned children waiting to be taken home, and the raven-haired barmaid and Elder and Sean were looking at him too, and Israel reckoned he'd probably toned up pretty well recently on all the whiskey he was drinking back at the farm, and so he smiled manfully at them all and steadied himself on the bar-stool and tipped back his head, and drank down the First and Last in one gulp–hoping to avoid the throat-scorching–and it worked, his throat was unscathed, and the on-lookers turned away to get on with their business…until suddenly the drink hit his stomach and Israel wished he'd sipped because it felt like something had ruptured or exploded down there, causing havoc, the fumes and the fall-out quickly working its way back up his throat, and once again robbing him of the powers of speech. The second Guinness was a great blessing though, and the third, and by the time Ted arrived Israel was four sheets to the wind, and was treating everyone at the bar to his favourite Jewish jokes.