The case of the missing books (11 page)

At exactly which point Tony Thompson entered the room.

'What?' spluttered Tony. Israel swivelled round, plushly. 'Are.
You
doing here?'

'Ah. Yes. Hello,' said Israel. 'I've finished getting the books from the library.' He held up the book in his hand. 'And then I noticed you had a few…'

'They're mine.'

'Ah. Well. I think you'll find actually they belong to Tumdrum and District Council. It's the—'

'They're my books.'

'No. Sorry. Look. They've got a little call number here, the Dewey, and—'

'Give me the book,' said Tony Thompson, approaching Israel.

'No. Now, don't be silly.'

'Give me the bloody book!' said Tony, as he moved round the desk and stood towering over Israel.

'Now, now,' said Israel. 'Let's not get carried away.'

Tony Thompson thrust out a fist then, and, given his previous form, Israel thought he was perhaps going to hit him again and give him a black eye to match the other, so he threw up his left arm in order to block the blow, an instinctive martial arts kind of a move that would have done Bruce Lee proud, if Bruce Lee had been a tousled, overweight librarian in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes and old brown brogues out collecting books in Tumdrum Primary School on a damp December afternoon.

Tony Thompson, though, was not about to punch Israel; he was in fact simply reaching forwards to grab the book from Israel's hand, and he grabbed, and Israel held on, and before either of them knew it there was a loud rip, rip,
ripping
, and suddenly Israel was standing there with the cover in his hands, and Tony Thompson with the pages.

'Oh,' said Israel.

'Ah!' said Tony.

'Sorry.
101 Poems To Get You Through the Night (And Day)
. Never read it myself. Is it any good?'

'Look!' said Tony Thompson, holding the coverless book on its side towards Israel.

'What?' said Israel.

'Look! Idiot!'

Stamped along the top edge of the book were the immortal words: WITHDRAWN FROM STOCK.

'Ah,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'

'Go!' said Tony Thompson.

'I really…'

'
Go!
'

Israel went.

So, as he was saying, it was easier said than done: on his first day as book-bailiff, amateur sleuth and driver of his very own mobile library, Israel Armstrong had managed to crash the library van, cause thousands of pounds of damage to school property, offend and upset just about everyone he'd met, get into a fist fight with a headteacher, and he had rounded up a grand total of just 27 books, leaving approximately 14,973 to go. If he kept it up at this rate he'd be lucky to make it back home safely in one piece to north London in time for his own retirement.

He was trying to explain his predicament to Brownie and George and old Mr Devine as they sat down to eat dinner together that night.

'Oh, God. I don't know. What the hell am I going to do?' he asked, pushing his patched-up glasses up high onto his furrowed forehead and plonking his elbows firmly on the kitchen table.

'Elbows!' said Mr Devine, who was bustling with dishes and plates.

Israel politely withdrew his weary elbows and ran his fingers through his hair.

'Sorry.'

He'd just been telling them about the disaster with the school gates.

'Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction,' said Mr Devine.

'It's tricky,' agreed Brownie.

'Champ?' said Mr Devine, pushing towards Israel a bowl of what looked like steaming hot Play-Doh with little bits of green stuck in it, like grass clippings.

'Ah yes, champ,' said Israel hungrily in recognition. 'Mmm. Now. Champ. Yes. Thank you, Mr Devine. Spring onions, isn't it?' he said, pointing at the green bits, like little sketches, in the mashed potato.

'Scallions,' said Mr Devine.

'It's the same difference, Granda,' said Brownie.

'Aye,' said Mr Devine.

'My father used to make champ when I was growing up,' said Israel, rather mournfully.

'Aye,' said the old man. 'George?'

'Thank you, yes.'

George was sitting at the head of the table, regally uninterested in Israel's tales of woe, resplendent in a man's plaid shirt (L), washed-out dungarees (XL), and a dark blue mud-stained fleece (XXL), and knee-high wellies.

'You don't think it could have been Ted then,' asked Israel of everyone and no one, 'who stole the books?'

He had been sworn to secrecy, of course, by Linda Wei not to mention the theft of the books to anyone, but Israel reckoned it would be safe to tell the Devines; frankly, he couldn't imagine them having anyone else to tell, and also, to be honest, he didn't have anyone else to tell himself. Gloria hadn't been answering her mobile for days: she was involved in a very important case at work, apparently. Mind you, Gloria was always involved in very important cases at work; he'd hardly got speaking to her since he'd arrived.

'Ted who stole them? I doubt it,' said Brownie, mounding piles of champ on his plate, in answer to Israel's question.

'He goes to First Presbyterian,' said Mr Devine, although Israel wasn't clear whether this implicated or exonerated him.

'Oh, God…' said Israel, even more deeply mournfully.

'Mr Armstrong!'

'Sorry. I don't know,' said Israel, shifting his plate slightly, so that he could speak round the steaming mound of potato and onions. 'If Ted's not guilty—'

'We are all guilty in the eyes of the Lord,' said Mr Devine.

'I need proof, though,' said Israel.

'For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain…'

'Apriorism,' said Brownie.

'Sorry?' said Israel, sniffing hungrily at the food in front of him.

'That's apriorism: you've decided he's guilty, and now you're looking for evidence to support it.'

'No,' said Israel. 'I haven't decided he's guilty. But he had the key to the library, so—'

'Now you're just affirming the consequent.'

'What? Really? Am I?'

'Events can be produced by different causes,' explained Brownie. 'It's a classic fallacy in law and logic: in the absence of any evidence, you just affirm the consequent.'

'Sorry, you've lost me.'

'Aye,' said Mr Devine. 'He does that all the time.'

'If I intended to kill you,' said George, smiling menacingly, illustrating her brother's point from the top of the table, 'I would have had a weapon. I did have a weapon. Therefore…'

'That's it,' said Brownie.

'Oh right, I see,' said Israel.

'Ach, Ted's yer man,' said Mr Devine. 'No doubt. He's the face for it.'

'Granda!' said Brownie.

'Well, young people today,' said Mr Devine, returning to one of his favourite themes, 'sure they're all the same.'

'What?' said Israel.

'Come on now, Granda,' said Brownie. 'Ted's in his sixties.'

'Well, he's that young I can still remember him in short trousers,' said Mr Devine, conclusively. 'Mr Armstrong, chicken?'

'Thanks,' said Israel, absentmindedly. 'I…'

Israel looked at the glistening crispy bird that the old man was in the process of dismembering–the deep brown crackling skin wisping off, with the revelation of pure white flesh underneath, and the rich, full smell of fat and onions.

'Erm.'

He hesitated and fiddled with his glasses.

Chicken was the thing he missed most as a vegetarian, although admittedly he did also miss salami quite a lot, and pastrami, and salt beef, and sausages, and Cornish pasties, and meatballs, charcuterie, that sort of thing. A Friday night chicken, though, you really couldn't beat that: his mother used to do this thing with tomatoes and paprika, and admittedly she tended to use paprika as a condiment rather than as a spice, a culinary shorthand, a way of getting from A to Z, from meat to meatball and chicken to pot by the quickest possible route, but it was so good…Her boiled chicken also, that was good, with matzo balls and a nice side-order of gherkins. And chicken liver pâté. But that was all a long time ago, in his far-off, golden, meat-eating childhood and Israel had been vegetarian now for almost his whole adult life, and when he'd moved in with Gloria a few years ago they'd tended to eat a lot of chick peas–she was vegetarian too. There'd always been a hell of a lot of falafel and omelettes in his relationship with Gloria.

'Breast? Leg? Thigh?' asked Mr Devine.

Israel's eyes were glazed and he was busy remembering a lovely, thick, greasy turkey schnitzel he'd eaten once as a child on holiday in Israel with his parents, visiting his mother's uncle; that was the best thing about Israel, actually, the schnitzel, as far as Israel was concerned. He'd spent six months on a kibbutz when he'd first left college, and it had not been a great success–a lot of heavy metal and Russians were what he remembered, and the endless washing of dishes.

'Is it free-range?' he asked Mr Devine.

He thought perhaps he might be able to get away with free-range. He reckoned eating free-range was probably about the closest you could get to being a vegetarian; although obviously that might take a bit of explaining to the animals.

'Free-range?' asked Mr Devine.

'You know. Like, running around free in the countryside?'

Mr Devine simply raised an eyebrow.

Brownie and George were looking quietly amused.

'What?' asked Israel, noticing the silence and their smiles. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing,' said George.

'What's so funny about free-range?'

Brownie just shook his head, stifling a laugh.

'All I'm asking is has it had a good life?'

'A good life?' asked Mr Devine, clearly bemused.

'It's a chicken, Armstrong,' said George.

'Yes, but…'

'Chickens don't have feelings. I hate to be the first to break it to you.'

'Ah, yes, but the question is, can they suffer?' said Brownie.

'Exactly,' said Israel.

'Well, he didn't seem to be suffering this morning when I took him from the yard,' said Mr Devine.

'What? Hold on. He's…one of yours?'

'Of course he's one of ours,' said George. 'This is a farm, Armstrong.'

'Yes. I know it's a bloody—'

'Mr Armstrong!'

'Sorry. Blinking. Whatever. I know it's a farm.'

'Well, you'll remember the chicken who was sharing your bed last night?' said George.

'What?'

'And you said you wanted rid of it?'

'Yes. But.' Israel stared at the pile of freshly cooked and quartered flesh. 'You don't mean…I didn't mean…'

'Lovely big bird,' said Mr Devine.

'I'll take a thigh, Granda,' said Brownie.

'And breast for me,' said George.

'I…' began Israel, who suddenly had an image of the poor, sick, injured chicken tucked up tight in bed with him, wearing stripey pyjamas, sipping chicken soup. 'Er. Actually. No. I'm not that hungry, thanks.'

Mr Devine said grace and then they started in on the champ and chicken.

'Mmm,' said Israel, politely tucking in to the champ.

'Hmm,' he then said, as the scalding hot white mush hit the roof of his mouth.

Then, 'Ah!' he said, and 'Ergh!' and 'Ah, yes, I almost forgot,' and he got up, fanning his mouth, and hurried over to his duffle coat, which was hanging by the door.

'Are you all right, Armstrong? Not leaving us already?'

'No. Yes. I'm fine. I…Ah. I bought us some…ho, ho, ho, some…wine. To…thank you for your…hospitality.'

George and Brownie and Mr Devine looked at Israel in deep congregational silence.

'So,' he said, smiling, returning to the table, turning the bottle reverently in his hand. 'Merlot just, I'm afraid. Not a lot of choice in town.' He'd found a £10 note tucked in the corner of the pocket of his old brown corduroy jacket and had decided to invest it all in wine and Nurofen.

George and Brownie and Mr Devine continued to gaze in hush.

'Ah, yes, right. I know what you're thinking.'

He quickly darted back over to his duffle coat and with a flourish reached into his other pocket and produced a bottle of white.

'Ta-daa! A white for those who prefer.'

The gathered Devines remained silent. Israel looked at the label.

'Mmm. Chardonnay was all they had, I'm afraid.' He now had exactly seven pence to his name. 'Still. I think we have a sufficiency. Do you have a corkscrew?

'Corkscrew?'

'Erm. No. 'Fraid not,' said Brownie, breaking the solemn silence.

'You don't have a corkscrew? Well, OK. That's, erm…What about a Swiss army knife or something?'

'No.'

'We don't drink, Armstrong.'

'You don't drink?'

'No.'

'Not at all? But what about…'

Israel was about to point out that the other evening George seemed to have been more than happy to drink, if her exploits with Tony Thompson on the back seat of Ted Carson's cab were anything to go by, unless it was perhaps just the spare ribs at the Pork Producers' Annual Dinner that had done it, in which case Israel wished he'd known about that growing up in north London. But George was looking at Israel at that moment much in the same way she might look at a chicken she was about to pick up by the legs and swing at with an axe.

'I see. So.'

The Devines remained silent.

'Not even half a glass?'

'We've all signed the pledge,' said Mr Devine proudly.

George and Brownie were staring down at their plates.

The irony was, of course, that he didn't really drink as such himself. He and Gloria would sometimes share a bottle of wine in the evenings, if they were together, and Gloria was partial to the various liqueurs that she brought back with her from business trips, and Israel, who liked to keep a few boiled sweets about his person and whose already sweet tooth had been getting a whole lot sweeter over the years, was not averse to trying the odd liqueur with her: a nice flaming sambucca, perhaps, now and again, or an insanely sweet amaretto. And he'd occasionally go drinking with old college friends in London–a few beers–but he was a lightweight by any normal standards. Compared to the Devines, though, Israel was virtually an alcoholic.

Certainly, at this moment he needed a drink.