The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery (27 page)

“Yes. Something that sells more easily to people. Jesus said, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, there is no way to the Father except through me.’”

“Right.”

“And I’m afraid I don’t hear that simple, plain Gospel message being preached by the Reverend Roberts.”

“So you think he’s too…lenient?”

“Well, that’s certainly a layman’s way of expressing it, yes.”

“I’m definitely a layman,” said Israel.

“Can I ask if you’ve read the New Testament, Israel?”

“Not often,” said Israel. “No.”

“And have you ever considered your future, Israel?”

“Well, again, no, alas, not often,” said Israel. He thought about that brownstone in New York, his true home and his future, which had maybe a little balustrade out front, and he thought about breakfast with Paul Auster, and lunch with Philip Roth, and cocktails with friends from the
New Yorker
, and returning home late at night to listen to the sound of John Coltrane playing
A Love Supreme
. The utterly complete, beautiful, urban bourgeois solidity of his unfulfillable fantasy life…

“You are aware we are living in the end-times?” Adam was saying.

“Are we?” said Israel.

“Look around you,” said Adam.

Israel glanced around the room.

“Erm…”

“Not just in Tumdrum. Around the world. Economic catastrophes. Natural disasters. Tsunamis,” said Adam. “Hurricane Katrina. Hurricane Wilma.”

“Ah, right, I see what you mean.”

“Disease,” continued Adam. “Famine. Strife. War.”

“Yes,” agreed Israel. But Adam wasn’t listening: he was preaching. He’d got into a rhythm. He was even rocking slightly on his seat.

“Just take the weather. Swollen rivers. Devastating floods. Southern China, northern India, Pakistan, Bangladesh. In Europe, Israel, last year people died from the extreme heat—and this was in Europe, mind.”

“Right.”

“Drought and wildfires.”

“Well, you’re certainly painting a picture of—”

“It’s not my picture I’m painting, Israel. It’s the Book of Revelation. The consequences of man’s rebellion against God.”

“Erm…”

“Look at the Middle East, Israel. Israel, Israel. The war against terror. Bird flu. SARS. Soaring crime. I believe we are witnessing the beginning of the outpouring of the bowls of wrath, Israel.”

“Doesn’t sound good, certainly,” said Israel.

“When you look in the papers, Israel, isn’t all you see photos of people drinking and cavorting and in states of undress? Celebrities? Lowlifes?”

“Erm. I’m not sure about the paper thing, actually. Doesn’t it depend rather which…”

“The angels are pouring out God’s wrath.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel, nervously.

And then Adam Burns broke off suddenly from his litany of wrath and woes, as though awakening from a trance.

“You say you’re a librarian?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask, does the library stock the Left Behind series?”

“I don’t think so,” said Israel. “I can always run a check for you.”

“My sense is,” said Adam, “that the forces of the secular state don’t want that kind of literature in the libraries.”

“Well, I’d hardly regard myself as an agent of the secular state. We have a very open policy on what’s admitted,” said Israel.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm,” said Adam, unconvinced.

Israel felt that the conversation had perhaps drifted away from where he wanted it to be going. He shifted in his tiny seat.

“Sorry. Just to get back to Lyndsay Morris.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“When was the last time she was at the club here?”

“It would be about a month or so ago, I think.”

“OK. And can you think of any reason why she hasn’t been back since?”

“I’m afraid I had to ask her to leave the Retreat.” Adam did his cough.

“Right. Why?”

“She was becoming rather…a problem.”

“Really?”

“It was a question of behavior.”

“Oh dear. What sort of behavior?”

“I’m afraid Lyndsay was self-harming,” said Adam Burns.

“What?”

“She was cutting her arms with razor blades.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s not uncommon, actually, among the young people we work with, Israel. More girls than boys.”

“Why was she self-harming?”

“Personally, I think it was something to do with home.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I believe, Israel, that I have what the Bible calls the gift of knowledge.”

“The gift of knowledge?”

“Yes. One of the gifts of the spirit.”

“1 Corinthians 12?” said Israel.

“Yes,” agreed Adam Burns, rather surprised. “That’s right. And I felt I had to ask to her to leave.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be—”

“It’s complicated, Israel. Lyndsay had become a part of our church group—”

“Kerugma?”

“That’s right. So she wasn’t just coming on Friday nights. She had become part of our fellowship. And when someone…breaks covenant with us within the fellowship we feel we have no choice but to defellowship them.”

“Defellowship?”

“That’s correct.”

“Sorry, I still don’t quite understand how a young girl who is self-harming would be breaking—”

“Let me put it this way, Israel. We believe that Jesus shed his blood in our place and that his was the perfect sacrifice. And so in self-harming we believe the young person is denying this once-only act of atonement. Do you see?”

Israel nodded skeptically.

“So,” continued Adam Burns, “persisting in this sort of behavior, we believe, is behaving in many ways like the priests of the Old Testament, who continually offered sacrifices that could in no way atone for their sins.”

“Right,” said Israel, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with Adam Burns’s logic.

“Which is wrong. It’s a sin.”

“OK.”

“Jesus wants to transform us, Israel. He wants to make us into his likeness. And if we resist that and continue to set our face against the Lord’s will for our lives, then I’m afraid it’s difficult for us to share fellowship with such a person.”

Israel smiled, falsely.

“The aim of Kerugma is not merely to proclaim the gospel but also to offer to one another mutual encouragement and edification in Christ. 2 Thessalonians 2:15.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where the churches are instructed to ‘stand firm and hold to the traditions which you were taught, whether by word of mouth or by letter from us.’”

“Yeah.”

“So, if we believers are part of the body of Christ, shouldn’t we be unified, as his one bride?”

“Erm…” said Israel, his voice strained and high. “So, basically, when you found out she was self-harming—”

“Persisting in self-harming.”

“Right. You then asked her to leave?”

“Yes.”

After thanking Adam Burns for his time, Israel left the community halls as quickly as possible. As he hurried down the street he remembered something his mother would sometimes say to him. “All Christians,” she would say, “are crazy.” He’d never quite understood what she meant.

He’d never been so glad to see teenagers hanging around on street corners drinking and smoking and shouting abuse.

21

I
srael rang Veronica.

“Hi.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Israel.

“Oh, right. So, shoot.”

“What?”

“How are you getting on, Israel?”

“Fine.”

“What have you got?”

“I went to the Venice Fish Bar.”

“And?”

“I spoke to some people there.”

“Yes. And?”

“They thought Lyndsay was close to the owner.”

“Gerry Blair?”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yeah.”

“He’s married.”

“I know.”

“So how close is she?”

“They didn’t say.”

“God, well. That’s brilliant. We’re talking tabloid there.”

“Are we?”

“Absolutely! And what else?”

“I also spoke to her ex-boyfriend.”

“Who?”

“He’s called Colin. He spends all his time editing Wikipedia and playing computer games.”

“Computer nerd?”

“He was quite nice, actually.”

“Boring. God, I hope it’s Gerry Blair.”

“Anyway, he put me onto this guy who runs a sort of Christian youth group thing that Lyndsay used to attend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he thinks there were maybe problems at home.”

“What sort of problems?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Your interviewing skills are not that great, Armstrong, d’ye know that? You have to ask the supplementary.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.”

“Anyway, how did you get on with Maurice?”

“Fine, yeah. He’s quite dishy, actually.”

“
Dishy
?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything to go on?”

“Not yet, no.”

“So what do we do next?”

“I think I need to follow up some up of the leads we’ve established.”

“We?”

“Yeah. I’ll get on to the Gerry Blair angle and the computer nerd boyfriend—what was he called?”

“Colin.”

“Him, yeah.”

“Can’t I follow them up?”

“That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t think you have the necessary skills, Israel. You’re more use to us out on the street.”

“Out on the street.”

“Yeah. I think you need to speak to Mrs. Morris, without Maurice there. See what she has to say about it all.”

“Can’t you talk to her?”

“D’ye want me to do all the work, Israel?”

“No.”

“Look, Maurice is going to be busy with last minute door-to-doors and what have you. I’ll keep an eye on him, and I’ll start on Gerry Blair as well. If you go and see Mrs. Morris—”

“What should I say?”

“Just tell her…I don’t know. Tell her you’re a librarian. That usually works, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. But—”

“OK, Israel, sorry, got to go, thanks. Bye.”

Which is how Israel ended up the next morning ring
ing the doorbell at Maurice Morris’s luxuriously appointed home, where there didn’t seem to be anyone in, and then wandering around the back of the house, toward the sea—where waves lapped up against the shore—and peering in through the windows of one of the many restored outbuildings, the old grain store, where he saw a woman lying on a sun lounger, smoking, wearing sunglasses, and which is how he ended up tapping on the window, and putting his head round the door, allowing a little rush of wind into the room, and saying—

“Hello? Mrs. Morris?”

“Hi,” said Mrs. Morris, raising her sunglasses momentarily, as if she were expecting him. She squinted. The room—which was an enormous, exquisite jumble of paints and canvases and sofas and easels, and which seemed simultaneously both bare and plush—was filled with harsh natural light.

Mrs. Morris remained one of Maurice’s greatest assets, not least because she herself happened to be one of the best-looking women in Northern Ireland, or at least one of the best-looking women over fifty-five in Northern Ireland, and certainly the best-looking woman over fifty-five who was a politician’s wife in Northern Ireland, where there was a surprising amount of competition, politician wife–wise; in Northern Ireland ambitious men still preferred to marry women who would look good and keep home for them; the career woman was only just emerging.

This morning, Mrs. Morris was wearing a white paint-splattered shirt. Her dark shoulder-length hair was tucked behind her ears, and her fingernails were painted a purply red, like bruises at her fingertips. Israel noticed that she was
probably wearing perfume—he’d almost forgotten what it smelled like, perfume—and in his excitement a terrible shiver ran through him, like ripples of shot silk or fingers through water. She didn’t bother getting up.

“Sorry, am I disturbing you?” said Israel.

Mrs. Morris flipped her sunglasses back down.

“Not at all.”

“Are you…painting?” asked Israel, looking around at the empty canvases, and the shelves lined with paint.

“Preparing to paint,” said Mrs. Morris, continuing to smoke.

“Right.”

“As I have been for almost twenty years.”

“Lovely music,” said Israel. The music seemed to be being piped in from recessed speakers around the room.

“Sigur Rós,” said Mrs. Morris.

“I’ve not heard of him.”

“It’s a
them
,” said Mrs. Morris. “A beat combo. From Iceland. With an accent.”

“It’s very nice music.”

“The title is a parenthesis.”

“Sorry?”

“The title of this piece of music is a parenthesis. It has no title.”

“Right. Well, it’s a very nice studio you have here,” said Israel.

“Isn’t it,” agreed Mrs. Morris.

“Wonderful views.”

“Yes. The full gamut,” agreed Mrs. Morris. “Summer, autumn, winter, and spring.”

She drew contemplatively on her cigarette, as though trying to overcome some terrible deep discomfort.

“You’re an artist, then?” said Israel.

“I was going to be an artist,” she said. “But I wasn’t allowed to go to college. I had to go to work.”

“Right.”

“Cheltenham, I would have gone to,” said Mrs. Morris. “If I’d had the chance.”

“You could still go to art college,” said Israel.

“Ha!” said Mrs. Morris. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand what art college is all about.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Practical anatomy,” said Mrs. Morris.

“Sorry?”

“Sex and drugs and rock and roll.”

“Right.”

“Although you’re not supposed to talk about that, obviously. If you’re a politician’s wife.”

“No. I guess that would be—”

“I used to go to dances at the art college in Belfast.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was. Tea, we used to call it,” she said. “Would you like to try some tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Israel.

“That’s what we used to say, if there was any weed or hash.”

“Oh, right. Yes.”

“And then when I was eighteen I hitchhiked down to Cork with my boyfriend from the art college. And we took the ferry to France, and my boyfriend, he imported forty kilos of kif
from Morocco. Made a fortune. Went back a few months later to try to do a similar deal, was thrown in jail in Tunisia.”