Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (16 page)

Clue, clue, God grant him a clue.

A book caught his eye. He took down a copy of Houdini's
The Right Way To Do Wrong
. He flicked through, looking for some inspirational, magical passage.

Nope. No good.

Table in the centre of the room; globe, atlases, travel books: Eric Newby, Jan Morris, Bill Bryson.

Clue, clue, where are you?

At the far end of the room there was a mirrored built-in wardrobe, the kind of thing you might find in a dance studio, or a suburban semi. Israel quickly slid open a mirrored door. Inside: magician's cloak, tails, top hats, rack of wands, sparkly stiletto shoes, sequinned bodices…

Well, that was interesting. And beside the mirrored wardrobe, just behind the door, was a little collection of photographs that caught Israel's eye: photos of a man in tails, Mr Dixon, pulling a rabbit from a hat; Mr Dixon in tails with a lovely assistant; Mr Dixon with another lovely assistant; and another; and all the lovely assistants sporting little else but sequinned body suits, ostrich feather boas, white gloves and sparkly stilettos. In their make-up and headdresses and plunging outfits all the women looked the same. Except for one. He thought he recognised the face. He stood on tiptoe and looked close, at the…Was that? No, it couldn't be.

'Nice photos, aren't they?' said Mrs Dixon, who had appeared behind Israel, holding two mugs of coffee. 'Here.' She handed him a mug. The coffee smelt good.

'Thanks,' he said. His heart was pounding.

'So, did you find what you were looking for?'

'Erm. No. I mean yes. Actually, I…'

The smell of wine seemed mixed now with something stronger–a wee snifter. Mrs Dixon gazed at the photos. The snifter and the photos seemed to put her in the mood to talk.

'The police say if he's not been kidnapped then we have to face the possibility that he has some mental health problem,' she said, looking at the photos. 'It's just—' She broke off, choking with tears.

Israel didn't carry handkerchiefs.

'Shall I get you a…Do you want a…?'

'No, thanks,' said Mrs Dixon, dabbing at her eyes. 'The police, you see, it's been very…They've been asking all sorts of questions.'

'I'm sure it's been very difficult.'

'Yes, yes. They'll be here again in a minute, actually.'

'Who? The police?'

'Yes, they're coming back this morning. There's a press conference this afternoon.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Sergeant Friel, he's very sweet, he's an old family friend, but—'

There was the sound of ringing downstairs.

'That'll be him,' said Mrs Dixon. 'Excuse me, Israel, won't you? I'll just be a minute. You relax there.'

Relax? Sergeant Friel was not going to be happy to see him. Israel had to get out.

There was a window at the far end of the room. Sash window. He ran across and threw it open. Looked out. Short drop down onto sloping roof. Should be fine. Better than being caught tampering with evidence by Sergeant Friel.

He started levering himself onto the window ledge. And then he remembered the photograph. He hurried back across the room, behind the door. Was that? It certainly looked like it. But he couldn't be quite sure. He'd have to…He took the picture off the wall, and ran back to the window.

By the time Sergeant Friel walked into Mr Dixon's study, Israel was hobbling as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him back down the Dixons' long gravel drive. He'd twisted his bloody ankle. Again.

'Here we are, Sergeant,' Mrs Dixon was saying. 'The librarian.'

But the room was empty.

'That's funny,' said Mrs Dixon. 'He was here a moment ago. He seems just to have disappeared.'

'Aye,' said Sergeant Friel, going over to the window. 'Not for long, Mrs D. Not for long.'

It was a fair walk to the Myowne mobile home park–actually, no, it was much much more, and much less than a fair walk, it was a long, bedraggling, ankle-aching hike along the main unpavemented coastal road, sprayed by cars along one side, spumed by the sea on the other. And when Israel finally made it Rosie wasn't home, so he went down onto the beach, through the drifting grassy dunes, and past the big black rock with the words 'JESUS IS THE ROCK OF MY SALVATION' daubed on it in red gloss letters four feet high, and to be honest he felt like throwing himself upon the mercy of the Lord, or in the sea.

But there she was, Rosie, his rock and his salvation, in the howling wind, her son Conor and her other little charges running around her, digging with buckets and spades, throwing sand, building castles. Rosie looked after other people's children to make money during the day, and she worked in the First and Last at night, and when she had a spare couple of hours she helped Israel out on the mobile library; she was no slacker and no slouch. But even from a distance she looked beaten. You could tell she was tired; it was something in the give of the shoulders, in the way she held her head.

'Hey!' shouted Israel as he drew near to her. 'Rosie!' The wind threw the words back in his face. 'Rosie!' he called again, coming closer.

She must have heard him.

'Rosie!'

She'd definitely heard him.

'Rosie!'

He was standing right by her now, next to her.

She didn't move. She was looking straight ahead, out to sea. She was wearing her black leather biker jacket and a green gypsy skirt, and her old brown leather boots. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was tucked behind her ears and her fingernails were painted a purply red, like bruises at her fingertips. Israel was standing so close to her he could smell her perfume–he'd almost forgotten what it smelt like, perfume. He could hear her breathing. A terrible shiver ran through him.

'Rosie?' Israel gently put a hand on her shoulder. 'Rosie?'

'Get your hands off me!' She pushed his hand away.

'What?'

'You heard.'

'Rosie, I need to talk to you.'

'Well, I don't want to talk to you.'

'Why?'

'Because you,' she said, 'need to
fucking
wise up.' She put her hand over her mouth. 'Now look what you've made me do!'

'What?'

'Cursing in front of the children.'

'Rosie, I'm sorry.'

He didn't even know what he was apologising for.

Israel could hear the waves. The seagulls. The wind in his ears. The children, wrapped up warm in their coats and in wellies, laughing, falling down, rolling around in the sand.

'Sorry,' he repeated.

'Not good enough.'

'Look, I'm sorry, I've not…It's been a bit hectic the past couple of days.'

'A bit?' said Rosie, unsmiling.

'Well, more than a bit.'

'Aye, well, I've had a
bit of a hectic
few days myself,' she replied, her voice full of sarcasm. 'I had that bitch from the council on the phone.'

'Who?'

'The wee Chinky.'

'Linda?'

'Her.'

'Rosie, you can't call her the wee Chinky.'

'I can call her what I bloody well like.'

'But that's—'

'You lied to me, Is.'

'About what?'

'About me working on the mobile with you.'

'No, I didn't.'

'You were paying me out of the petty cash!'

'Well…'

'You told me it was all sorted with the council, that it was all above board and—'

'Yes, well, I…'

'What did you think you were doing?'

'I was just…'

'What?'

'I just wanted to…help you out, you know.'

'Ach, go away!' said Rosie, pushing Israel, physically repelling him. 'You make me sick!'

For a moment Israel thought about turning around and walking away.

'But, Rosie, I—'

'Don't patronise me.'

'I'm not patronising you.'

'Yes, you are! You're patronising me now, you prick!'

'Prick!' shouted Conor, who was listening to every word. 'Prick!'

'Stop that, Conor!' yelled Rosie to the child. 'Right this minute!'

Conor ran off up the beach.

'Look, if you could just…' began Israel. 'If you weren't so…emotional maybe I could—'

'Emotional? Emotional?' Rosie turned to face him now. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Just—'

'Don't you
dare
start telling me what I should feel!'

'I'm not. I'm just—'

'You don't even know what emotional is.'

'Well, yes, I do, but—'

'What is it then?'

'Sorry?'

'I want you to tell me, Israel Armstrong. I want to know what you think.
You
.' She jabbed a finger at him and was staring at him so hard he couldn't maintain eye contact and had to look away. 'Huh? Go on, then. What is it? What's an emotion?'

Israel had been asked a lot of questions since he'd arrived in Tumdrum–mostly whether it would be possible to overlook a fine, or whether there were any extra copies of the books that were part of the Richard and Judy book club–but what is an emotion? That was a tough one. And his answer to this? Israel Armstrong, BA (Hons), his answer to this most simple and searching of questions?

Total silence.

'Well?' persisted Rosie, still looking him in the eye. 'What do you think it is?'

Israel couldn't answer. He was blinking back tears.

'Why are you talking like this?' he said.

'Talking like what?'

'You're angry.'

'Yes, of course I'm angry! Just because I live where I live and do what I do doesn't mean I don't have any self-respect.'

'No, of course not.'

'So why would you treat me like some…plaything?'

'I wasn't treating you like a plaything.'

'Well, that's what it looks like to me.'

'No, no. That's not right at all. I was just…It's only Linda who has a problem with you helping on the library.'

'Don't try and blame her!'

'I'm not trying to blame her. I'm trying to explain. She said I couldn't have you helping on the library because of insurance and the health and safety and—'

'You should never have had me on the library in the first place if you hadn't sorted it out properly!'

'No. I maybe…wasn't thinking straight.'

'Typical male.'

'No, don't say that.'

'Typical male,' she repeated. 'Thinking with your—'

'No!' said Israel. 'Look I just need to—'

'I'll tell you what you need to do!' said Rosie. 'You need to grow up.'

Oh, God. Israel had heard that one before. Gloria had said that to him before.

Israel had always thought that growing up was simply something that happened to you: you grew taller, more dextrous, you acquired language, learned to feed yourself, developed intellectually, went to school, got a mortgage, had children, got fatter and tired and full of regrets, and that was it, you were grown up, you were an adult. There was more to it than that though, apparently–and it was something that women knew, and men did not.

The children were throwing great handfuls of filthy grey sand at each other.

'I don't know what else to say.'

'Don't say anything then.'

'But, Rosie…'

'What?'

'It's just…I need to ask you something.'

She laughed–a bitter, bitter laugh. 'Go on then, you ask me something.'

'Look, I don't want to…here. Do you want to…' Israel nodded his head towards her mobile home, up at the edge of the dunes.

The wind and the drizzle had now intensified and were strong enough even by Tumdrum standards to be considered inhospitable.

'All right,' agreed Rosie. 'Let's go.'

She called the children, and started to gather up the buckets and spades. Israel went to help.

'I'll do it,' she said.

'Are you arguing with my mom?' asked Conor, who watched too much American TV.

'No, we're just talking,' said Israel.

'Are you though?'

'No.'

'Are you?'

'No!'

'Is!' said Rosie.

'Sorry.'

In the mobile home Rosie settled the children down to playing with some dressing-up clothes and sat on her kitchen stool and lit a cigarette.

'Well?' she said. 'Converse.'

Her hair was wet. Israel was chilled to the bone. She did not offer him a cup of tea; she'd usually offer him a cup of tea.

'Sorry,' said Israel. 'I'm just…finding all this a little difficult.'

'That's because it is
difficult
.' Rosie sighed, and it was a sigh so heavy, so full of disappointment, a sigh that seemed as though she had paid for it with her whole life as a woman, that Israel felt ashamed all over again. 'You've let me down,' she continued wearily. 'I thought I could trust you.'

'You can trust me.'

Rosie laughed and blew smoke up towards the ceiling.

'I…' Israel was about to speak but Rosie shook her head and waved a hand at him to stop speaking, and Israel could see from the way she lowered her head and the catch in her breath that she was about to cry.

There was the sound of laughter as the children at the other end of the room tried on fairy wings and floppy hats and scarves and plastic glasses and firemen's helmets.

Eventually Rosie stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer brimming with butts, ashes and Cellophane. She was ready to talk.

'So, what is it?'

'I…' Israel removed the photograph from under his suit jacket where he'd kept it dry on his long hike from the Dixons' and held it out to her.

'It's a photo,' she said.

'Yes.'

'So?'

'It's a photo of you,' said Israel. 'Isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'I took it from Mr Dixon's house earlier today.'

'What?'

'It's a long story…'

To the accompanying sound of the children playing doctors and nurses, and cowboys and Indians, Israel explained to Rosie what had happened to him: the theft at the department store; Mr Dixon's disappearance; his arrest. Rosie listened and when he'd finished she lit another cigarette, looked out of the big window at the strand, shook her head and said, 'Jesus! I thought I'd had a bad week!'

And Israel laughed. And she laughed, and when she laughed she threw her head back and her shoulders dropped, and Israel thought it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. Suddenly they were friends again.