The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  'Ted.'

  'No! I mean no! Muhammad'll see you out. Muhammad!'

  The Jack Russell led Israel to the door.

  'And you want to get a doctor to look at your nose,' shouted Ted from the kitchen. 'Get it straightened out proper.'

  'Right,' said Israel. 'Thanks a lot.'

  'Or yous'll end up like me,' said Ted, with a sigh.

  19

  P. J. Bullimore's was an old red-brick building on the edge of town which called itself the Antiques and Collectables Treasure Trove and which was surrounded by a high corrugated-iron fence and which did not look anything at all like an antiques and collectables treasure trove; it looked more like a high-security prison.

  Now Israel would have been the first to admit that he didn't have that much experience in breaking and entering–he'd sometimes had trouble getting into a vacuum-sealed pack of Fair Trade coffee back home with Gloria, or splitting open a gaffer-taped box of books back at the discount bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre off the M25 in Thurrock in Essex. But fortunately he just happened to have with him now, at his own personal disposal, a bit of kit that even the most hardened and experienced of professional house-breakers would have been happy to get their hands on: a red and cream liveried rust-bucket of a mobile library which seen in a certain light and under certain desperate circumstances made a pretty effective Trojan-horse-cum-battering-ram-cum-elevating platform. He pulled up this lethal public-service vehicle alongside the corrugated-iron fence around midnight, turned off the engine, took one of the Devines' kitchen chairs which he had wisely thought to bring along earlier and hoisted himself up through the skylight and onto the roof. He was level with the top of the security fence. Sometimes it felt good to be a librarian.

  It was about a fifteen-foot drop the other side though; he hadn't got quite that far in his planning.

  He prodded his glasses and looked down. The ground looked like dirt rather than concrete, but he couldn't be sure. And was that a mangle and an enamel bath and a few bits of old fireplace and tiles and cast-iron radiators and other architectural salvage-type items lying around down there?

  He thought he could hear a car approaching in the distance. The car was coming closer. He looked down again. That was definitely a roll-top bath down there. He could see the headlights now. He didn't want to jump. But nor did he want anyone seeing him standing on the roof of a mobile library at midnight: it would take some explaining.

  So he took a deep breath and he leapt.

  Aaggh.

  Bright security lights came on all around him. He lay still, face down in the dirt. No one came. Nothing happened.

  So he picked himself up and dusted himself down–duffle coat, brown corduroy jacket, combats and brogues and all. He'd just missed being impaled on an ornate cast-iron balustrade (£500) and dashing his brains out on a pile of handmade bricks (£2 each, 25 for £40). He'd made it.

  And then the dog came out of nowhere.

  It was an Alsatian.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Fortunately though, Israel was prepared even for this, though he didn't know it: the dog leapt up towards him across a pile of mossy coping-stones and Israel may have been a vegetarian and everything but he had no intention of being bitten and he instinctively thrust his hand into his duffle coat pocket and pulled out the first thing he found there and thrust it forwards into the dog's slavering maw–a fine use for a copy of Yann Martel's Life of Pi if Israel said so himself.

  The dog was whimpering and thrashing about to try and dislodge the Booker Prize-winning fable about the relationship between man and beasts from his mouth, so Israel didn't have much time.

  He ran across the yard to the front of the shop, dodging the mill-stones, and old slate hearths, and nymph-type statuettes and antique garden furniture as he went.

  Unfortunately he had no idea how to break into a building, but he did have a couple of other books stuffed into his pocket, including a pre-remaindered copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which they'd given to him as a leaving gift back at the discount bookshop in Thurrock in Essex–because he hated J. K. Rowling, obviously–and he hadn't read it, but right now, at this moment, a work of thick, dense, self-indulgent children's fantasy seemed to him just about the best book published this century; perfect in form, fit to purpose and just what he needed. He took the book firmly in his hand, thrust his arm forward and smashed it through the glass in the top half of the shop's stable door, reached in, fiddled with a few bolts, lifted the top of the door off its hinges, and walked inside. This was probably not what Matthew Arnold had meant when he argued that literature can save you, but it did the trick.

  The security lights illuminated the scene inside like something from film noir: dark furniture looming up from the shadows, an armoire here, a little pie-crust-edged table there, studded wooden doors to the right of him, bureaux to the left of him. Some quite nice clocks.

  He could hear the dog howling outside. He didn't have long. He started moving quickly through the warren of rooms, rushing past bedsteads and chaise-longues and stuffed birds and desks and tables and cabinets.

  But no books. There was absolutely no sign of the bloody books! The only books he could find were tooled leather volumes sitting on a little mahogany book carrel; a snip at £300. But no Hayes car manuals. No Dorling Kindersleys. No Catherine Cooksons. No little purple stickers and the Dewey number. No sign of the Tumdrum and District Library books.

  He thought he heard a noise–someone approaching. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  His breathing was heavy–his blood seemed to be pumping round his body at twice its normal speed. He was shaking. His broken nose throbbed. He opened up the nearest door to him and climbed through and wedged himself inside a nice double pine wardrobe: it would have done him and Gloria actually, the wardrobe. He could hear his heart echoing round the wooden space. For a moment he thought his heart might explode. The footsteps approached nearer and nearer.

  As the sound of footsteps passed the wardrobe Israel took courage, pushed open the doors and leapt out, shouting and slinging a punch.

  The dark figure in front of him turned as Israel swung, blocked the blow, struck him under the chin, hit him in the face, and kneed him in the groin. Israel fell to the floor.

  'Aaggh.'

  'Get up.'

  'Aaggh,' continued Israel.

  'Get up, you eejit.'

  It was Ted.

  'Ted? Ted, what are you doing here?' groaned Israel.

  'I couldn't let you come here on your own, you bloody fool.'

  'Right. Aaggh. I think you've broken my jaw, but–aaggh–thanks anyway.'

  'Don't thank me. I haven't broke your jaw. We're getting you out of here.'

  'Right. Yeah,' said Israel, raising himself up to his feet.

  'You never go anywhere without back-up. D'you find them though?'

  'What?'

  'The books, boy!'

  'No.'

  'Ach, Israel.'

  'Ah, but I haven't quite finished my search yet.'

  There was a sudden flash of light–like the director of Israel's little film noir had suddenly called 'Cut!' and thrown the switch. It was P. J. Bullimore standing in front of them with a huge torch and dressed in pyjamas, a nasty pink golfing jumper and monogrammed slippers.

  'I think your search is over, gents.'

  'Ah,' said Israel–in a tone that conveyed all at once anger, surprise, and complete and utter despair.

  'Where are the books, Bullimore?' said Ted, rather more evenly.

  'Ted. I might have guessed you'd be involved,' said Bullimore.

  'The books, Bullimore?'

  'The books? I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'The missing library books?'

  Bullimore laughed. 'I think the police might have something to say about this,' he said. 'In the meantime…'

  And then he grabbed a shade-less standard lamp and started advancing towards them.

  'S
teady!' said Ted.

  'Reasonable force,' said Bullimore, moving slowly towards them, enraged, his face flushed, 'in the protection of myself and my property.'

  At which point big blind John Feely Boyd came blundering out of the dark towards them.

  'Ted!' he called. 'Ted!'

  'John!' called Ted. 'Look out!'

  Bullimore turned with the standard lamp, wielding it in front of him like a sword, but because John couldn't see he just kept coming forward, which unnerved Bullimore, who hesitated in his thrust and John quickly disarmed him, grabbed him and got him in a head-lock.

  'That's the relief o' Derry, John, I tell you,' said Ted.

  'Come on! Let's go,' said Israel, adrenaline pumping. 'Before the police get here.'

  'Wise up,' said Ted.

  'We called the police,' said John.

  'Oh,' said Israel.

  'You're going to have some explaining to do, boyo,' said Ted.

  20

  People afterwards liked to talk about what really happened, but no one really knows apart from those who were there, and those who were involved.

  It was the farewell dinner at Zelda's. Linda Wei was there in her middle-management evening wear of trouser suit and character scarf. Ted was there in a black suit and a black shirt and a black tie, and he seemed also to have shaved his head specially, which doubled the usual menace: classic henchman chic. Minnie was there, in a sparkly cardigan. And George, with her red hair down; Brownie; Mr Devine; the Reverend Roberts; Rosie; the cream of Tumdrum society. Mayoress Minty had been invited but had had to decline; she was at the launch of the council's nude charity calendar, which featured photographs of dinner ladies with strategically placed Yorkshire puddings and lollipop men with their giant lollipops; the Impartial Recorder had run a full-colour centre-spread preview the week before and it had caused uproar. Mayoress Minty had come out strongly in support: if Northern Ireland had had more nude charity calendars, she'd told the paper, maybe it wouldn't be in the state it was in today, a characteristically provocative and utterly nonsensical statement which had caused more uproar, but the mayoress was sticking to her guns; she'd ordered a hundred copies of the calendar to send out to friends and family; and her own personal favourite, she was telling anyone and everyone who cared to listen, was March, which featured the council caretakers with mops atop their dignity.

  The real star of the show at Zelda's meanwhile was the food–they had really pushed the boat out with the food. There wasn't a drop of coronation chicken in sight. It was a meat- and poultry-free feast that would have warmed the heart of even the most red-in-tooth-and-claw of carnivores, let alone a short, chubby, vegetarian librarian from north London.

  Israel was seated, broken-nosed and puffy-eyed, at the head table overlooking the vegetarian proceedings, Minnie on his left, George on his right. He'd polished his brown brogues and had borrowed Mr Devine's three-piece tweed suit again, and he was wearing Ted's purple tie. He liked to think he had a certain rakish charm. He didn't, in fact, but he had the glow of someone who knew that the end was near. His old brown suitcase was already packed.

  Dishes kept arriving before them, as if by magic, although actually served up by the raggedy-nailed and not entirely clean hands of a troop of fat and miserable-looking schoolchildren in their white school shirts and blouses, employed specially for the evening by Zelda. There was more couscous and fried aubergine than Israel had ever seen.

  'It's like the Satyricon,' he said jokingly.

  'Surely,' said Minnie. 'Wasn't that on the telly? We had to send to Belfast for those,' she said, indicating a plate of deep-fried sweet potatoes. 'And the…Och, what do you call this stuff?' she asked George.

  'What stuff?' said George irritably.

  'Och, the whitey stuff there that looks a wee bit like tripe?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Come here, Israel,' said Minnie, even though Israel was already there. 'What's those sort of wee lardy lumps?'

  'Tofu?'

  'Aye, right. That's from Derry, that is.'

  'Londonderry,' said George.

  'Och, don't be so silly,' said Minnie. 'One of them healthy food shops up there.'

  'Right,' said Israel, heading off an argument. 'Well, thank you anyway.'

  'Don't thank me. Thank Zelda,' said Minnie. 'It was her idea. She wanted to give you a big send-off. Sure, it's not been easy for you.'

  'I'm sure he can't wait to get back home,' said George, grinning unpleasantly at Israel.

  Well, yes, Israel had to admit…It had been a busy couple of days.

  Unfortunately it had turned out that P. J. Bullimore was not responsible for the theft of the missing library books: the police had searched his premises thoroughly but to no avail, so Israel's hunch, like just about all his other notions, had turned out to be entirely wrong. But then again it appeared that Bullimore was responsible for having stolen numerous items of furniture from Pearce Pyper and other locals: his Antiques and Collectables Treasure Trove was a trove of other people's treasure. Bullimore was currently helping police with their enquiries.

  So Israel may not have recovered the stolen library books and there was still the small matter of the ongoing investigation into his suspected breaking and entering of Bullimore's premises, but he was a local hero, the most famous librarian, probably, in Tumdrum's history. He'd had his picture in the Impartial Recorder again, this time with Pearce Pyper, handing back an Art Deco clock that Pearce thought he'd merely mislaid and which in fact P. J. Bullimore had stolen, along with dozens of other priceless items. People had been queuing up to reclaim their fancy reupholstered chairs and their stripped farmhouse pine dressers which had been painted in green gloss the last time they'd seen them and which Bullimore had been selling off at prices they'd never have been able to afford. In recognition of his services to the community, Linda Wei and the Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services had decided that Israel should be released immediately from his contract. He was free to go.

  There was a distinctly festive spirit then that night at Zelda's. Christmas was only a week away, and there was a tree, and decorations and much sipping of Shloer and wine and beer and at the point at which the desserts were being served–a range of pavlovas and banoffee pies to rival those in any mid-range provincial pub or bistro–Zelda swept out of the kitchens and through the room as if on the crest of a wave, hair high and erect, chatting to guests, laughing with them, dangling mistletoe as she went.

  Minnie leant over to Israel, mid-pavlova.

  'She's kept her ankles, you know,' she said.

  'Her ankles?' said Israel.

  'Aye. In the old days you couldn't have beat her legs in County Antrim. Look.'

  Israel tried to catch a glimpse of Zelda's ankles between the tables: he couldn't quite make them out.

  'See?'

  'There's lots of ankles, Minnie, I can't see them.'

  'She was a mannikin, you know, when she was young.'

  'A mannikin?'

  'A model,' said George.

  'Can't you tell?' said Minnie.

  Israel looked and for a moment he could tell, he could tell what men might have seen forty or fifty years ago–a slight sway of the hips as she moved, and a certain way she had of fanning her dress out behind her to best advantage, a way of holding attention by using her body, the way the hair had been carefully arranged. He could tell that many, many years ago Zelda must have been fiercely, bitingly beautiful, even though the edge of that beauty was now concealed and obscured by the effects of age, and also by blusher, and concealer, and eye shadow, and eyeliner, and mascara, and lipstick, and powder. Zelda was still a beauty, but now she was a pantomime beauty.

  'She's mink, you know. Upstairs. Mink coats. And pearls. She was amazing when she was young,' said Minnie. 'She was like our own local Katharine Hepburn, wasn't she, George?'

  George couldn't hear her. 'What did you say?'

  'Zelda, she was like Katharine Hepburn.'

  Geor
ge looked sceptical. 'I was too young to remember, Auntie.'

  'Oh well. She was. She taught me everything I know, you know.'

  George snorted.

  'About what?' asked Israel.

  'Och, you know, the way of the world,' Minnie laughed.

  George snorted again.

  'She taught me how to smoke: I hadn't even thought of smoking before.'

  'You don't need someone to teach you how to smoke, do you?' asked Israel.

  'Of course you do, if you're a lady. It's different if you're a fella. It's not as easy as it looks. You have to look bored, you know, if you're a lady, that's what she always said.'

  'Right.'

  'And you have to cock your head when someone's talking, like you're taking an interest in them. Feminine wiles, isn't it. She used to get it out of all these magazines, you know.'

  'What happened after she was a model?'

  'Well, she got married, and they lived all over–down south and what have you. Her husband had this canteen business, very successful. Supplying places across the border. And then her husband passed on…you know.'

  'No.'

  'Her husband was an RUC reservist,' said George. 'He was killed in his car. Shot in the back of the head.'

  'Oh, God.'

  'She was there in the car with him,' she added.

  'God. That's terrible.'

  'Och, well…' said Minnie, as if someone witnessing their husband being murdered in their car were the equivalent of catching a bad dose of the flu.

  'How did she cope with that?'

  'Same as everyone,' said George bitterly. 'She coped.'

  'I had no idea.'

  'Well, anyway,' said Minnie briskly. 'Sure, it was a long time ago.'

  Zelda had gone to the front of the restaurant and was motioning for Israel to join her. But Israel did not move from his seat: he was thinking about Zelda's husband. Minnie prodded him. Then Ted and John Feely Boyd hoisted him up and out of the seat and up to the front, to the sound of much clapping and cheering.

  He stood sheepishly in front of the counter, next to Zelda.

  'Speech!' came the cry. 'Speech!'

  'I really don't want to,' Israel whispered to Zelda.