Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (21 page)

'I'm a student.'

'Wow. What are you studying?'

'I'd doing my PhD on Seamus Heaney, up at Queen's.'

'Right. Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests? I'll dig with it.'

'Just ignore him,' said Ted. 'He doesn't get out much.'

'Great poem,' said Israel.

'Aye, and you'd know, would ye?' said Ted. 'You never been getherin praitas in yer life, man.'

'What?'

'Tubers.'

'Sorry, you lost me, Ted.'

'It's a poem about peat and potatoes, for guidness sake. I'll take a coffee, love.'

'Regular?'

'Cappuccino.'

'And for you?' said the waitress.

'I thought it was about writing?' said Israel.

'It's about potatoes,' said Ted. 'Ask the expert here.'

'Is it about writing?' said Israel.

'I think it can be about both,' said the waitress.

'Thank you,' said Israel.

'Coffee?' repeated the waitress.

'Espresso, please,' he said, satisfied.

'And Mr Dixon, what do you think?' she asked. 'Will he have his regular?'

'I would have thought so,' said Israel. 'By the look of it.'

Robbo was busy circulating round the tables, signing autographs. People were coming up to him, offering opinions on his show.

'Great show, Robbo,' they said.

'Thanks.'

'Love it,' said another.

'Hi!' he was saying, and 'Hello!' and 'Great to see you!' and 'Thanks,' 'All right!' and this seemed to go on for an age, but eventually people grew accustomed to having greatness among them and Robbo drifted back to Israel and Ted.

'Belfast,' said Robbo. 'You gotta love it.'

'Sure,' said Israel.

'Great wee city,' said Ted.

'It is,' said Robbo. 'But you know what I think? It's the people who really make it.'

'Scum of the earth,' said Israel.

'Sorry?'

'Nothing.'

'So, gents, now we're here, let's talk,' said Robbo, who was tucking into his luxury hot chocolate with whipped cream, marshmallows and a flake, with a side order of caramel slice. 'Shoot.'

Israel and Ted looked at each other hopefully. They hadn't worked out exactly what it was they wanted to ask.

'Israel?' said Ted.

'Ted?' said Israel.

'Gents? If you're going to ask me a question for your project, ask me a question. Your time's running out.'

'Do you know where your father is, Mr Dixon?' said Ted.

'No! Of course not! If I did, I would have told the police.'

'Are you and your father…close?' said Israel.

'No. We had a falling out a few years ago. This has all been covered before, though, in other interviews. It's been in the papers.'

'Yes, of course,' said Israel.

'What sort of project did you say you were working on?'

'It's to do with the history of Dixon and Pickering's.'

'Well, I don't know if I can help you much with that.'

'And…' Israel had to think. 'People who work in family businesses.'

'Ah! I see.'

'So,' continued Israel, 'how did you end up down here, in Belfast?'

'I had to get away, because of the business.'

'Really?'

'Well, you're from Tumdrum, you know the store?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you know the score. He had this whole thing, you know, my father, about me, the only son, taking on the family business.'

'I see.'

'Lot of pressure, you know, because Dixon and Pickering's was—'

'Formed in 1906 when Mr Dixon, the haberdasher, inherited money from a distant relative sent out to seek his fortune in New South Wales,' said Israel.

'How do you know that?'

'It's a part of my project.'

'Right. OK. And anyway, there was this whole family thing, and I wasn't interested.'

'I see.'

'Never was. Always wanted to do my own thing.'

Robbo was dunking his marshmallows, self-reflectively, into his hot chocolate, like Narcissus with his pool before him.

'So, what?' asked Israel. 'Was it passed on, the business, on to your sisters?'

'No. No. My dad's hung on in there. He wanted a man at the helm, you know, which is crazy, because it was always my mother who was the real brains behind the business.'

'As is traditional,' said Israel.

'Yes,' said Robbo. 'She had a real flair. Her mother was French, you know. She always oversaw the range of furnishings stocked at the shop. She's got a real eye, you know: she travels to all the trade shows over in Birmingham, and in Milan, and in Germany.'

'I don't want to be personal,' said Ted, who was getting fed up with Israel's low-level-chat approach to interviewing informants, 'but do you know anything about any other women in your father's life?'

'I'm not answering that!'

'No,' said Israel. 'No, of course not. My colleague here was just…Difficult living with those sorts of family tensions,' Israel went on, thinking about Gloria's family, and his own. 'You know, with your sisters, and your parents.'

'Aye, well. There's always a lot of strains, I think, running your own business. I mean, I'm basically my own business now, if you see what I mean. My own brand.'

'Right,' said Israel with distaste.

'And you have to work hard at it. My parents worked hard at it. The only times they were ever really relaxed and happy was when we were on holiday in Donegal.'

'Ah,' said Ted fondly. 'Whereabouts did ye go?'

'Inishowen peninsula?' said Robbo.

Ted nodded.

'But mostly it was around Lough Swilly. D'you know it?'

'A wee bit.'

'Rathmullan.'

'Ach, beautiful.'

Robbo drank down the rest of his hot chocolate in one considerable gulp.

'Listen, boys, I would love to chat more about Donegal and about the history of Dixon and Pickering's but I don't really think I can tell you anything else you wouldn't be able to discover elsewhere.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Israel.

'The police are coming down this afternoon, actually, from Tumdrum, to talk to me about this business with my father and the store, so, you know, it's going to be a long day.'

'Ah, yes,' said Israel, 'terrible business. I hope they catch whoever's responsible.'

'The PSNI?' said Robbo. 'I doubt it.'

'Right, well, thanks for your time,' said Israel.

'Didn't get very far there then, did we?' said Israel, when they were back in the mobile.

'What do you mean we didn't get far? I've got it. I know where to find Mr Dixon!' said Ted. 'Brilliant work by you there!'

'What?'

'That softly-softly approach. Brilliant!'

'Was it?'

'Aye, just gaining his trust there, drawing the information out of him.'

'Well, I…'

'Come on then.'

Ted started up the van.

There was a uniformed policeman walking past the BBC. He was looking towards the van. He was talking into his walkie-talkie.

'Israel, we need to get out of here!' said Ted, throwing the van into reverse. 'Quick! Get your head down.'

Ted pulled away and drove fast up and down the tight narrow streets surrounding the BBC.

'Are we all right?' said Israel.

'I don't know,' said Ted. 'We're going to have to take the scenic route.'

'Ted?'

'Yes?'

'The dog's making a funny noise in the back.'

'What?'

'In the back there, the dog, it's sort of panting and…'

'All right, go and have a look.'

Israel crawled on his hands and knees towards the back of the van, where Ted had wedged the dog basket between Fiction and Reference. He peered in.

'I think we've got an emergency here, Ted.'

The pregnant dog in the back of the van was heaving and yelping and a tiny sac of something–something horrible–was protruding from her.

'Something's coming out here, Ted!'

'Oh, Jesus. You're joking?'

'No.'

'Right, you're the midwife.'

'What?'

'The sausage must have upset her. She's not due till next week, sure.'

'What? She's not actually going to…Is she?'

'Mrs McCready's son up at the vet's checked her. He thought probably around next Tuesday.'

'Right, but Ted?'

'I've the birthing box and the heater at home all ready for Tuesday.'

'But it's not Tuesday, Ted, it's now.'

Ted shook his head, looking for an explanation.

'Right, I'm holding you responsible for this, Israel, all right? You're going to have to follow my—'

'Oh God, oh God, oh God!'

'What? In the name of Jesus!' Ted swerved, trying to look round.

'Ted, I think it's coming! What am I supposed to do? Do you leave it to it?'

Israel was trying not to be sick, holding on to a tiny sac that had spurted out of Mrs Muhammad, who was looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.

'Oh, God! It's out, Ted. No, it's in!'

'Ach, wise up. Have you never done lambing?'

'I live in north London!'

'Aye, well that's your excuse for everything. Right, first, just calm down. Is it breathing?'

'What?'

'The pup, man.'

'I don't know.'

'Feel it.'

'Yes! Yes! Thank God! It's breathing.'

'Good. I've whacked the heating up here, we need to keep them warm. Take my coat here as well. Come on!'

Israel wanted to cry but no tears came.

He grabbed Ted's coat and crouched back down awkwardly over the dog, and held on gently to the tiny sac which was oozing over his hands and his trousers. The stacks of books observed and judged him silently, his total lack of knowledge of the most basic of animal functions.

Meanwhile, Ted was gunning the van through the streets of Belfast.

'Ted! Actually, I really don't think I can do this. The little dog's all hot and it's not moving, Ted. I think there's something wrong. I'm going to be sick.'

'You're not going to be sick.'

'I am!'

'Wise up, boy…'

'TED!'

Mrs Muhammad's licks had opened up the sac and the tiny puppy squeezed blindly out and onto Israel's lap, slimy and warm. Israel instinctively tucked it into the folds of his jacket.

'He's out! Ted! He's out!'

'Don't forget to cut the cord!' said Ted. 'Don't just leave him dangling there!'

'What? I don't know what you're talking about. Ted! Pull over!'

'I'm not pulling over. We've got to get out of Belfast before the PSNI set up any roadblocks.'

'Roadblocks!'

'You'll have to use dental floss to tie it off. I use dental floss at home. Have you any dental floss?'

'Ted! DO I LOOK LIKE I HAVE A TOILETRY BAG IN MY POSSESSION?'

'All right, I've mine somewhere. It's in the wee cupboard there.'

Israel found the bag, got the dental floss.

'Tie it off!' shouted Ted. 'Don't tear it! Tie it! Careful. If you do it wrong the pup gets a hernia, or bleeds to death.'

'I am being careful! Can't you slow down a bit?'

'No!'

As soon as Israel had tied off the umbilical cord and wrapped up the puppy Mrs Muhammad heaved and yelped and another sac appeared. The van's blower was on full, there was a bloody mess on the floor and the puppies kept on coming.

As they were heading out of Belfast, Mrs Muhammad's fourth and last puppy emerged–this one without a sac. Israel, fumbling, tucked the fourth bundle into his jacket while–unbelievably–Mrs Muhammad began to lick and chew the mass of bloody tissue she had deposited on the floor of the van.

'Oh, God, Ted. It's disgusting. She's…'

'What?'

'She's eating all that…stuff.'

'That'll be her then. So what is it, four?'

'Yes, four.'

'All live?'

'Yes.'

'Got 'em suckling?'

'Erm. Yuck. Yes.'

Israel sat cradling the dog and her pups, wrapped in Ted's coat, close up to the van's fan heater.

'So? We lost the police?'

'I think so.'

'And where are we going?'

'Where do you think?'

'I have no idea. I don't even know what day of the week it is.'

'It's Tuesday and we're going to find Mr Dixon.'

'Yeah, right. And where is he?'

'Well, think, where would you go, if you had to disappear?'

'Home?'

'Home? You eejit. You escape
from
home. You don't escape to it. Honest, one day I'm going to take my boot and kick you up the erse so hard you'll not come back.'

'Not home?'

'You don't go home to escape. You go to the place where once you were happy.'

'Where's that?'

'For most people in Northern Ireland? Donegal. That's the teat. That's where we go when the going gets tough. It's here but not here, if you catch my drift.'

'I think so,' said Israel. 'Yep. I think I know exactly what you mean.'

Israel and Ted drove for most of the rest of the day in the mobile library, Israel tending to the puppies and reading the map–'Were you born stupit?' Ted yelling, after every wrong turn. They tried to keep off the major roads, in order to avoid the police, and they took a circuitous route, skirting their way around the coast up to Coleraine, then over to Magilligan Point, where they caught a ferry across to Greencastle, and then down to Londonderry, and up again to Buncrana.

'Have we crossed the border?' Israel kept asking.

'A long time ago,' said Ted.

'And how much further?' Israel kept asking.

'Not far now. Let's have some music,' said Ted, 'soothe the dogs.'

'All right,' said Israel. 'As long as it's not that…'

'I've the cassette here somewhere,' said Ted.

'As long as it's not that…'

'Ah! Here we are. The Field Marshal Montgomery.'

'Pipe band,' said Israel.

'Champion of Champions, so they were.'

If Israel had heard Ted's cassette of the Field Marshal Montgomery Champion of Champions pipe band once, he'd heard it a thousand times, and it was not music you warmed to; it was like having someone beating you with sticks. Or cabers.

'Campbeltown Loch,' shouted Ted, as the skirling started up. 'Och aye, the noo!'

'Are you sure he's going to be there?' said Israel.