The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery (16 page)

Unfortunately, it wasn't his way of life. (Israel had never ever been to the Flatiron Building: he'd seen it in
Spider-Man
films. The Flatiron Building, like Grand Central Station, and the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty, and the whole of the rest of New York, and Boston, and San Francisco, and all America, indeed, as well as most of continental Europe, and Asia, and Africa, and Australia, and Antarctica, existed only in Israel's mind, where they had all come to resemble one another: cities, plains and mountains fabulously, exotically and glamorously
there
, a world of undiscovered and unreachable El Dorados compared to Finchley's and Tumdrum's unavoidable and everyday
here
. Israel had travelled widely in his imagination, and gone absolutely nowhere; he was imprisoned by limitless horizons. Just the thought of travel gave him a headache.)

And inside, of course, inside, the Prince Albert was nothing like the Flatiron Building. Inside, comparisons to Manhattans both real and imagined quickly evaporated. Inside, the Prince Albert was a typical stinking London Irish boozer: dirty, depressing, dull and completely empty, except for one lone drinker who wore a porkpie hat and dirty boots and a ravaged-looking suit, and who didn't look up as Israel and Ted approached the bar.

'Gastropub!' said Israel. 'God!'

'Language,' said Ted.

'Sorry,' said Israel. 'But I mean…Couldn't they at least give the place an occasional sluicing out?'

There was music playing, a tinny radio-cassette player behind the bar, its shiny silver plastic rubbed black and white with age, the sound of a female singer sighing and deep-breathing and claiming that she wanted to be a slave to your rhythm, over ululations and ecstatic drumming, and a bass line that sounded like it was being played on very tight knicker elastic. In a too-small alcove off the bar there was an old, frayed and chipped pool table, with a big dark stain on the baize that looked as though someone might once have given birth on it. The table was wedged in with just a few feet to spare all round—London Irish pool players having notoriously short arms—and it was flanked and shadowed by big faded, framed posters on the walls all around it, showing the Mountains of Mourne sweeping down to the sea, and County Kerry, and Cork, and a framed jigsaw of the Giant's Causeway, which made it look as though the basalt rocks had been machine-cut and pieced together on a Sunday afternoon by bored children and their maiden aunts.

Above the bar a chain of pathetic, dirty nylon Irish tricolours hung down like leprechauns' washing, a set of rainbow flags hanging even more pathetically below them, and behind the optics, tacked to dirty mirrors, there were nicotine-stained, crumpled, damp cartoon pictures of the Great Irish Writers: James Joyce, and Samuel Beckett, and Seamus Heaney and W. B. Yeats, and also, incongruously, ABBA and Barbra Streisand, all crowded together and looking as though someone had pissed all over them. Brown paper peeled from the walls and yellow paper hung down from the ceiling. The floor's grey lino was cracked and turning black with age, and the paintwork on the doors and windows was worn almost through to the wood. You could hardly say that the Prince Albert was a bar in decline; the Prince Albert had already declined; it had long since stooped, and slipped, and was starting to go under.

Israel texted Gloria.

No reply.

'Tricolours!' murmured Ted, 'bloody tricolours!' while he ordered drinks from the barman, who was not blessed with English as a first language, but who coped manfully, square-jawed with it as perhaps his fourth or fifth, and who could certainly manage any instructions that included the word 'Guinness', if spoken loudly. He fared less well with Ted's asking if his cousin Michael was in working that day, and if not, where they might possibly find him. After a few minutes of complex misunderstandings—involving the barman talking about
his
cousins, who were somewhere back home in Silesia, apparently—the barman disappeared behind a beaded curtain. He came back a few moments later.

'Name?' he said.

'My name?' said Ted.

'Yes.'

'Ted,' said Ted.

'Sorry. Again?'

'Ted,' said Ted. 'T. E. D. Carson. C. A. R. S. O. N.'

'Okay. One minute please.'

'Foreigners!' said Ted, as the barman disappeared back behind the beaded curtain.

'
You're
a foreigner here, remember,' said Israel.

'I don't think so,' said Ted.

'Yes, you are,' said Israel.

'Aye,' said Ted. 'The
United
Kingdom?
United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? Ever heard of it?'

Israel harrumphed and tutted—did Ted never get tired of being a relic?—and as he tutted, almost as a kind of tut echo, there was a sound as of a large object, a man, or a side of beef, or a beer barrel perhaps, being rocked slowly down a stairway, and then suddenly the barman re-emerged from behind the beaded curtain, with an old man following him.

The old man walked stiffly, loudly, with a crutch—like a beer barrel or a side of beef being rocked slowly down a stairway—and he had worn, patchy white hair and an unshaven, furry sort of puce-coloured face, as though someone had just rolled a little baby pig's head around in pinhead oatmeal. He wore tight grey nylon slacks and a too-large tomato-red shirt with pure white cuffs and collar, a shirt of a kind that Israel had only ever heard rumours of; the kind of shirt that now existed only in retro TV dramas. He also wore a black-and-white polka-dotted silk scarf. And then there was the jewellery, lots and
lots
of jewellery: rings, bracelets, a big chunky gold necklace and a huge watch of the kind that looked like you could fly to the moon with it and still not have exhausted all its unique features. The old man may have had a head like a pig and may have struggled to walk farther than a couple of hundred yards, but he was utterly, utterly blingtastic.

'Ladies and gentleman!' he boomed, the old pig-and-mealy-faced man, 'IN THE
RED
CORNER, TED CARSON!' He then dropped his shoulders slightly and bobbed unsteadily, like a boxer on a crutch, before reaching forward across the bar to shake Ted's hand, with his thick, beringed and trottery fingers.

'Michael?' said Ted. 'It's yerself?'

'I fecking hope so!' said Michael, patting his chest. 'Certainly the last time I checked it was! But for feck's sake! Ted Carson! Jesus!'

'Michael!' said Ted, shaking his head in wonderment. 'Ach, Michael! What about yerself?'

'Doin' bravely, Ted. Doin' bravely. Can't complain.'

'Good,' said Ted. 'That's good.'

'Because you know if ye did—' began Michael.

'No one would listen to ye anyway!' said Ted.

They thought this was hilarious, Ted and Michael. They both creased up at this, laughing like they were boys who'd let off a stink bomb, or slipped a whoopee cushion onto the headmaster's seat. Israel had never seen Ted laugh like that before; it was uninhibited laughter. Israel hadn't laughed like that in a long time.

'Boys-a-boys,' said Michael, coming out from round behind the bar on his crutch. 'Look at ye now. I haven't seen ye in, what, ten? Twenty?'

'Forty,' said Ted.

'Forty years?'

'Forty years,' agreed Ted.

'Forty years,' said Israel, joining in.

'Ach, Israel, quiet,' said Ted.

'Seems like yesterday we were wee lads,' said Michael. 'Out in the fields.'

'Aye,' agreed Ted.

'Y'member yer mother'd have the sandwiches set out ready for us when were in?'

'Aye. Thick as the duck-house door.'

'Happy days,' said Michael. 'Wonderful woman, yer mother, Ted.'

'Aye,' said Ted quietly.

'But now, come on, Ted, we're being awful rude here. Introduce me. Who's yer young friend then?'

'Who?'

'The wee pup here.' Michael gestured at Israel with his crutch.

'Him? He's Israel.'

'How ye doin', sir?' said Michael, bracelets jangling, shaking Israel's hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'Nice to meet you too,' said Israel.

'Israel?' said Michael, rubbing his wide, white-stubbled chin. 'Israel. Now, tell me the truth, young man, and I'll tell you no lie, would you be of the Hebrew persuasion?'

'Erm. Yes, I suppose, I—'

'Well, well,' said Michael. 'Isn't that a coincidence. Some of my best friends are Jewish.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'Did I ever tell you the story of the rabbi and the priest?'

'No,' said Israel hesitantly. He'd never met Michael before, so exactly how he might have told him the story before…

'All right,' said Michael, leaning across towards Israel. 'Come here.' Israel stepped reluctantly a little closer. He'd never really warmed to men who wore chunky gold jewellery. Michael grabbed hold of his elbow. 'So,' he said, breathing cigarette fumes over Israel. 'There's a rabbi and a priest, and the priest says to the rabbi, "Tell me, you're not allowed to eat bacon. Is that right?" And the rabbi says, "Yes, that's right."' Michael looked at Israel for confirmation of this fact of Jewish dietary law; Israel smiled weakly.

'Anyway, "Just between ourselves," says the priest, "just out of interest, have you ever tried it?" Well, "I must admit," says the rabbi, "many years ago, I did taste bacon." "It's pretty good, isn't it?" says the priest. And, "Yes," says the rabbi, "I have to agree, it's pretty good."'

Israel continued to smile uncertainly.

'"But tell me," says the rabbi—now listen,' said Michael to Israel, '"priests are not allowed to have
sex
, is that right?"'

Israel grimaced slightly.

'"Yes, that's right," agrees the priest. "We're not allowed to have sex." They're celibate, right, Catholic priests?' said Michael.

'Yes,' said Israel.

'So, "Between ourselves," says the rabbi, "have you ever tried it?" Sex? Right? "No," says the priest, "I must admit, I have never tried it." Never had sex. "Not even once?" asks the rabbi. "No," says the priest, "I've not had sex even once." Now listen,' said Michael, drawing Israel closer, 'this is the punch line. "That's a shame," says the rabbi,
"because it's a hell of a lot better than bacon!"
'

'Right,' said Israel.

'Sex, you see!' said Michael, 'better than bacon!'

Ted was roaring with laughter.

'Ah, that's a good one,' he said, wiping his eyes.

'It's the way I tell 'em!' said Michael, which sent Ted into further paroxysms of laughter.

'That's it?' said Israel. 'That's the end of the joke?'

'It's the way he tells them!' said Ted.

'Clearly,' said Israel.

'Come on, fellas,' said Michael, 'enough joking around. Come and have a seat here. Come on, come on. Look. I've reserved the best table in the house.'

Michael ushered them over to a table, a table that hadn't had a wipe in some time—years, possibly. The surface was tacky and crusty, as though covered in a thick film of mucus. Israel thought about putting his mobile down on the table, and then thought better of it. He checked again to see if he'd missed any messages. Nothing.

'You're getting drinks now, are ye?' said Michael.

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Guinness.'

The barman looked up and across at the word 'Guinness' and nodded.

'So, you all right?' said Ted.

'Not so bad,' said Michael. 'Few troubles with the old leg, but.' And he slapped his leg.

'Aye,' said Ted. 'What's that all about then?'

'Bone cancer,' said Michael. 'It was me or the leg, they said, so that was it, away.'

'What!' said Ted.

'The leg,' repeated Michael. 'Got the chop.'

'Almighty God!' said Ted. 'That's awful, sure. You mean you've only got the one…'

'Aye,' said Michael.

'Well. I'm…sorry for your loss,' said Ted.

'Ah!' said Michael. 'That's very good. "Sorry for your loss!" I like that. God, it's good to speak to someone from back home. The English, ye know…' He smiled a dirty-toothed smile at Israel. 'No sense of fucking humour. Present company excepted.'

'When did ye? Ye know? Lose the…' said Ted.

'That'd be, what? A year ago?' said Michael.

'And ye've the all-clear now, like, from the cancer?'

'Touch wood,' said Michael. 'Touch wood.' He slapped his leg. It gave a dull thud.

'It's a wooden leg?' said Ted.

'Ach, no!' said Michael. 'Wooden leg, Ted! Ye've got to get with it. This is the twenty-first century. I'm not a feckin' pirate, am I? Eh?'

'Ooh-aar, shipmates,' said Israel.

'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

'It's plastic,' said Michael. 'Ye can feel it if you want.'

'I'll not, thanks, Michael, no,' said Ted.

'Ye want to feel it?' said Michael, laughing, addressing Israel.

'No, thanks…'

'Me leg, I mean. She'll not bite,' said Michael.

'No, I'll skip on the…Thanks, anyway.'

At which point, thankfully, the barman came and set drinks down before them, three pints.

'Now
that
's a pint of Guinness,' said Ted, admiring the pint, as though it were Athena in the Parthenon.

'Aye,' said Michael. 'Ye could trot a mouse across her.' Michael demonstrated this possibility, by walking his fingers daintily across the top of his pint. 'It's the training. See yer man there now?' He gestured towards the barman while he licked the froth from his fingers. 'Months, it took me to get him to do what I wanted. Honest to God, Ted. Months.'

'Where's he from?' said Israel.

'Poland,' said Michael. 'Boleslaw.'

'Whatterslaw?'

'Like coleslaw,' said Michael.

'That his name, or where he's from?' said Ted.

'That's his name,' said Michael. 'Studying for a…what do you call it?'

'Don't know,' said Ted.

'One of those…'

'An exam?' said Israel. 'English as a foreign language? TEFL?'

'PhD,' said Michael. He shouted across to Boleslaw. 'Boles? Hey! What is it you're studying at?'

'Sublinear algorithms?' said Boleslaw, grinning behind the bar. 'King's College.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'Immigrants,' said Ted, stroking his pint glass as though it were a Jack Russell terrier. 'Pulls a good pint, mind. What, ye share the shifts, do ye?'