by Ian Sansom
'Don't be silly, boy,' said Zelda. 'And stand up straight,' she hissed. Israel noticed lipstick on her teeth. 'Come on! Smile! This is your moment.'
'Up!' she said. 'Head up!'
'Well,' said Israel.
'Speak up!' shouted someone from the back of the room. 'We can't hear you.'
Someone brought a chair for him to stand on.
'Well,' said Israel again, getting up on the chair.
'We still can't hear you!'
'Sorry,' said Israel.
'Stop apologising!' boomed the Reverend Roberts, to peals of laughter.
'Well,' started Israel again, more loudly and confidently, but wobbling slightly.
'Mind! You'll hurt yerself,' called Minnie.
Israel steadied himself.
'Sure he's nothing left to hurt,' said Ted, to more laughter.
'Well,' began Israel again, prodding his glasses, and trying to get a word in edgeways. 'I just want to say thank you to all of you for tolerating my presence among you for the past few weeks. It has been a…er…steep learning curve.'
'Steeper for us!' shouted Linda Wei.
'I am particularly grateful to Linda,' continued Israel, with some irony. 'And also to Ted. And to Zelda and Minnie, for arranging this lovely evening.'
He hadn't rehearsed a speech. He thought for a minute that he would say something about how libraries were important to communities, how they brought people together, and represented all that was good about mankind's striving for knowledge and self-understanding. But then he changed his mind. There was no point him telling people what they already knew. Also, unexpectedly, he found himself getting rather choked up as he spoke. So he just said a quick thanks and got down off the chair. He had to dab a few tears from his eye.
There was a rousing chorus of 'For he's a jolly good fellow!' and then a long couple of hours of banter and drinking, although of course Israel stuck strictly to the Shloer, having learnt his lesson now several times over, and eventually most everyone had gone and said their goodbyes–a lot of handshakes, and manly bear-hugs also from Ted and the Reverend Roberts–and then Israel stepped outside alone into the cold night air.
There was the bus stop and the concrete bus shelter, and the big empty flowerbeds, and the war memorial featuring the unknown soldier, whose rifle and whose plaque had long ago turned green, and the churches, and the shops, and the seagulls picking litter: the town centre just the same as usual, deserted now except for a few parked cars and the mobile library, which was sitting big and bold and proud as you like outside Zelda's, underneath a street light, the sea off in the distance, and hills to either side.
Israel went up to the van, to the rusty creamy red flanks of the van, and patted her, as though patting the rear of a cow–something he must have seen Ted do dozens of times, but not something that he himself had ever before had either the urge or intention to do, but which suddenly seemed to come naturally–and he opened her up and got into the driver's seat.
'Well, old girl,' he said to no one except himself and the van. 'Here we go.'
He drove out past the edge of town then, past Ted's Cabs and the First and Last, and up round onto the coast road, past the sign that said WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS, past the grey exposed cliff face on the one side and the dark black sea on the other, following the coil of the road, sometimes high above the sea and sometimes right alongside, through the thin little patches of wood, dipping down and along through the pools of leaves and the run-off from the little gullies and streams that flowed down into all the blackness and nothingness below.
He drove over the bridge up by the Devines', and as he hit the bump and came down the van felt different; it felt heavier somehow. Israel reasoned it was maybe heaviness of heart. He couldn't honestly say that he'd come to love this place, and he couldn't honestly say he'd come to love the people, but…well, maybe it was just because he was leaving; he was the sort of person, after all, who could get nostalgic about yesterday's breakfast.
He thought he'd better check though, just in case it was a real rather than a merely sentimental or imaginary problem with the van, and he pulled over just by the second furze, where he'd made his first pick-up, and glanced around.
The shelves were in now: Dennis had fitted them the past few days, and they were beautiful; you could see the grain even in the moonlight. Linda Wei had gone absolutely mad at first when Israel had told her about the cost of the shelves–she had exploded, a quake of Pringles and Diet Coke–but then soon after he'd been hailed as a local hero and she'd calmed down. So the shelves were a success; the shelves looked great.
And now, tonight, on every one of those beautiful grainy shelves there were books–hardbacks, paperbacks, sitting like old friends gazing down at him in silent amusement.
They were back.
Israel pushed his glasses up high onto his forehead and swallowed hard.
Someone…Someone must have stocked the van while he was in Zelda's saying his goodbyes. The library was full. It was…It was…Well, it was unbelievable.
By the time he drove back to Zelda's the party was over. The last of the parked cars had gone. There was no one around. The door was still open though and he went through the restaurant, calling out–'Zelda! Minnie!'–past the tables–'Zelda! Minnie!'–past the counter–'Zelda! Minnie!'–past boxes in the hallway and on into the parlour. His voice died out. There was no one around.
He went back into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out, more quietly. 'Zelda? Minnie?'
There was still no reply.
Something seemed to compel him to walk up the stairs–either instinct or inspiration, or a growing sense of terror, but whatever it was it kept on compelling him so that when he reached the landing he stepped through the open door to the left, which led into a huge room which stretched the entire length of the building, overlooking the town square. There was an orangey glow from the street lights.
And all along the walls of this vast orangey empty room were bookshelves–row upon row of bookshelves. Empty bookshelves.
He walked back out into the hallway and took a deep breath. He didn't know what to think. He fumbled in his pocket for some Nurofen: he had none left.
He stared for a moment at the photos on the walls: photos of a younger Zelda wearing a fox stole with the head attached, the jaw as a clasp; Zelda again in another photo with a hockey stick; another of her in a car with her hair in a tight scarf; Zelda wearing a fur coat.
'That was my first fur coat.'
Israel nearly leapt out of his skin.
Zelda stood at the top of the landing. She was looking tired. She was removing her make-up.
'Zelda!'
'Sshh,' she said. 'Minnie's asleep.'
She gestured for Israel to move back into the vast empty room.
'Zelda…'
'Yes?'
'The books.'
'Yes?'
'They're all back, in the van.'
'Yes. That's right.' She wiped creamy cotton-wool pads across her cheeks.
'But…' And now finally it clicked. 'Hang on. It was you? Who stole the books?'
'Well, they're back now.'
'Wait. Why? I mean…You were North Coast Books?'
The computer downstairs. The boxes in the hall. Oh, good grief.
'You?'
'Not just me.' Zelda's pale face shone in the glow of the street lights.
'Who? Who put the books back?'
'Everyone.' She was picking at her false nails, plucking them off, one by one.
'Everyone? What do you mean everyone?'
'Everyone. Everyone here tonight.'
'What? All of you?'
'Yes.'
'Minnie. And…?'
'Ted?'
'Not Ted! No!' laughed Zelda. 'He wouldn't have anything to do with it: he's not half the man he was.'
'Linda? The council?'
'No, of course not.'
'But. The Devines?'
'No, not them
either, they wouldn't have anything to do with us. But everyone else.'
'Everyone with the overdue books and…'
'Yes. Of course.'
Israel couldn't believe it.
Zelda stared at him, unmade up, her fingernails bare.
'Why?' said Israel.
'Why do you think? The council robbed us of the library. We weren't going to let them rob us of the books as well. We've all lost enough round here already.'
'But…'
'When they announced they were closing the library we just took the books and set up our own–the people's library.'
'Here?' said Israel, glancing around.
'Yes, here,' said Zelda. 'That's right.'
'You stole the books and kept them here, above the café?'
'We ran it as a proper library. The books were in safekeeping.'
'But you were selling stuff on the Internet?'
'Out-of-date books and duplicates just, I think you'll find, to replenish our stock.'
'Right. I see.'
'No, I don't think you do see. I don't think you have any idea.'
'But—'
'No. No more buts now, thank you. I would love to stay and chat but I'm very tired, I'm afraid: I'm not as young as I was. I suggest you go home and get some rest.'
'But I have to—'
'What?' Zelda arched an already highly pluck-arched eyebrow. 'Tell the police?'
'Yes.'
'That's your decision. The books are all back. No one's been hurt.'
'Yes. But. Why have you given them back now? Why have you told me?'
'I don't know. Because. We decided to trust you. That you'd look after them.'
'But I'm going back now. I'm not staying. I can't stay here. I have to go back to London. My life's in London.'
'Is it?'
'Yes.'
'Your life is wherever you're living, I think you'll find, young man.'
'What?'
'Never mind. But anyway. You have to do what you think is right. Just the same as us.'
'Zelda. I—'
'Goodnight now. And close the door after you please. Quietly now.'
'Zelda…'
And with that, Zelda disappeared into the darkness of the house.
If a man in a van could ever properly be said to be experiencing a long dark night of the soul, a glimpse of the infinitude of the self, and if he could be understood, in at least some small way, to be undergoing a process of being and becoming, then Israel Armstrong on his last night in Northern Ireland most certainly was. He drove in the van until dawn, until his mind was clear–down the coast road, and along the dual-carriageways, and the ring roads, and the single-track roads of County Antrim–and he parked up eventually back at the strand to watch the sun come up, the books behind him, the vast sea before him.
And when he rang Gloria back in London there was no reply.
The signs went up around town later that day.
This was not what was supposed to happen at all.
* * *
NORTH-EAST EDUCATION AND LIBRARY BOARD
MOBILE LIBRARY
Revised Timetable commencing 1 January 2006
CREMARTIN DISTRICT
Barrow Lane (Eastern lay-by)
1st & 3rd Monday in the month 10 a.m.-12 noon
Frankhill Country Park (Main car park)
1st & 3rd Monday in the month 1 p.m.-3 p.m.
Ballyoran (Monument)
2nd Monday in the month 10 a.m.-12 noon
Conwarren, Outdoor Pursuits Centre
2nd Monday in the month 1 p.m.-3 p.m.
MULLAN AND BALLYROGAN
Hill Hall
1st & 3rd Tuesday in the month 10 a.m.-11 a.m.
Ballyrogan Market Square
Tuesdays 2 p.m.-4 p.m.
Ballyrogan Business Park
(Outside Duggan's Software Solutions)
2nd Tuesday in the month 5 p.m.-6 p.m.
TUMDRUM AND DISTRICT
Sea Front, Tumdrum
(Opp. Papa Joe's Ice Cream Parlour)
Wednesdays 12 noon-1 p.m.
Hammond Road, Tumdrum (Outside library)
Wednesdays 2 p.m.-3.30 p.m.
First and Last Public House, Tumdrum (Car park)
Wednesdays 7 p.m.-9 p.m.
LARKIN'S CROSS
Community College (Car park)
Thursdays 10 a.m.-12 noon
Mullan (By Public Toilets)
2nd and 4th Thursday in the month 1 p.m.-3 p.m.
Fiddler on the Green Public House (Car park)
1st & 3rd Thursday in the month 7 p.m.-8 p.m.
PORTSTRAND
Strand School
Fridays 9.30 a.m.-11.30 a.m.
Old Windmill
1st and 2nd Friday in the month 12 noon-1 p.m.
Myowne (Visitors' car park)
3rd & 4th Friday in the month 12 noon-1 p.m.
DRUM DISTRICT
Drum (Monument)
Saturdays 10 a.m.-12 noon
Edenderry Estate (Shops)
1st & 3rd Saturday in the month 1 p.m.-3 p.m.
Killynure, GAA Club (Car park)
2 & 4th Saturday in the month 12 noon-1 p.m.
Contact: Israel Armstrong, Mobile Librarian
E-mail: [email protected],
County Library, Main Street, Rathkeltair,
Co. Antrim BT44 3HR
* * *
Acknowledgements
For previous acknowledgements see The Truth About Babies (Granta Books, 2002) and Ring Road (Fourth Estate, 2004). These stand, with exceptions. In addition I would like to thank the following. (The previous terms and conditions apply: some of them are dead; most of them are strangers; the famous are not friends; none of them bears any responsibility.) I remain extremely grateful to the editors of The Enthusiast.
Robert Altman, Wes Anderson, Roger Angell, Ole Anthony, Harold Arlen, Roger Ascham, Simon Ashby, David B., Robert Baden-Powell, Stewart Bailie, Geoffrey Balderson, Bangor Rugby Football Club, John Barry, Paul Bell, William Beveridge, Steve Biddulph, O. Blaiklock, Lawrence Block, Jane Brocket, Buck 65, Lawrence Buell, Burkhard Bilger, Abraham Cahan, Jane Campion, John Candy, Ethan Canin, Joe Carey, Michael Chabon, Chase Organics, Roz Chast, George C. Chesbro, Billy Childish, Angelique Chrisafis, Agatha Christie, Susan Clarke, Rachel Cohen, Michael Collins, Captain Cook, Jacques Cousteau, Ben Cove, Damien Coyle, J. Creaghan, Yuriy Cubarenko, Matt Damon, Stuart Daniels, Susan David, Richard Deacon, Michael Deane, Mariana Della Barba, Julie Delpy, Johnny Depp, Vittorio De Sica, Fred Dibnah, Terence Patrick Dolan, Placido Domingo, Ariel Dorfman, Christopher Eccleston, Travis Elborough, Aaron Elkins, Victor Erice, Robert Fagles, Dr Feelgood, Federico Fellini, Mrs Finlay, First Bangor Scout Group, David Fitzsimons, Matthew Fletcher, Franz Ferdinand, Sasha Frere-Jones, Bill Frissell, P. Galvin, Finn Garbutt, Frances Garbutt, Luke Garbutt, Tom Gatti, Julian Germain, Ricky Gervais, Fiachra Gibbons, Christopher Guest, Half Man Half Biscuit, Tony Hargreaves, Adam HartDavis, Ethan Hawke, Fergus Henderson, Arve Henrikson, Thierry Henry, Willie Heron, I Am Kloot, Rea Irvin, Mahalia Jackson, Ashley Kahn, Keane, Atheline Kelly, Amir Khan, Mark Knopfler, Leon Kossoff, Stefan Kürten, Josh Lacey, Richard Lattimore, Chang-rae Lee, Dan Lepard, Graham Linehan, Sidney Lumet, Robert Lyle, Mrs Magowan, David Mamet, Sarfraz Manzoor, Ellie Martin, Keith Martin, Jay Martin, Rosie Martin, Steve Martin, Wendy Martin, Willy Mason, Eleanor Massey, Arthur Mathews, Duncan McCallien, Ralph McClean, John McCormick, Andrew McEwan, McGrory's Hotel, Moira McIver, Paul McKenna, Eric McKillen, Stuart McLean, Sean McMahon, Brad Meldhau, Louis Menand, Mrs Mills, Julianne Moore, Chris Moyles and Comedy Dave, Bill Murray, Julian Nangle, Willie Nelson, Christopher Nolan, Bill Oddie, Jo O'Donoghue, R. O'Hare, Orhan Pamuk, Gareth Peirce, Gilles Peterson, Michel Petrucciani, Sue Pitt, Stephen Poliakoff, Adam Pushkin, Rathgael Gymnastics Club, Rathmullan House Hotel, Satyajit Ray, Emily Reeve, M. Reeves, Django Reinhardt, Simon Reynolds, Sheila Rhodes, Paul and Amy Richards, Nicholas Rinaldi, Marilynne Robinson, Tony Robinson, Arundha
ti Roy, Patricia Rozema, Joe Sacco, George Saunders, Martin Scorsese, Ricardo Semler, Robert Sinclair, Paul Smith, Charles Albert Lucien Snelling, Steven Soderbergh, Aaron Sorkin, Sufjan Stevens, Ben Stiller, Anthony Swofford, Peter Tatchell, Catherine Tate, David Tattersall, P. K. Tattersall, John Taylor, The Thrills, Robert Tressell, Mark-Anthony Turnage, Gus Van Sant, Mordechai Vanunu, Lars Von Trier, Nicholas Walt, Harriet Walter, Emily Warren, Richard Weight, Hannah Westland, Karen Weston, Jo Whiley, Mrs Whiteside, Billy Wilder, Jincy Willett, Frances A. Yates, Viktor Yushchenko, Reiner Zimnik.
About the Author
IAN SANSOM is the author of The Case of the Missing Books, The Truth About Babies, and The Impartial Recorder. He is a regular contributor to The Guardian and The London Review of Books. He lives in Northern Ireland.
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ALSO BY IAN SANSOM
The Truth About Babies
Ring Road
The Impartial Recorder
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE CASE OF THE MISSING BOOKS Copyright © 2005 by Ian Sansom. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Palm Reader May July ISBN: 978-0-06-146102-6
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