The Case of the Missing Books. Ian Sansom
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.’
‘Sorry. I forgot what time it was—’
‘ .’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘ .’
‘I said I was sorry.’
‘ .’
‘Sorry.’
‘ .’
‘I know. I tried. There’s no coverage here.’
‘ .’
‘Oh. It was unbelievable.’
‘ .’
‘It’s some farm in the middle of nowhere.’
‘ .’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘ .’
‘No. It’s not a joke. It’s terrible. There are chickens in my bed.’
‘ .’
‘Right. Yes. Ha, ha.’
‘ .’
‘No. But that’s not the worst of it. You’re not going to believe this…’
‘ .’
‘No, not that. I’m serious. There’s no library.’
‘ .’
‘It’s been shut.’
‘ .’
‘ .’
‘I know they can’t.’
‘ .’
They want me to drive a mobile library instead.’
‘ .’
‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’
‘ .’
‘Yes, as a replacement.’
‘ .’
‘No, I told her I wouldn’t accept it.’
‘ .’
‘It’s not an opportunity.’
‘ .’
‘What do you mean? I can hold down a proper job.’
‘ .’
‘Anyway. I’m coming back in a couple of weeks’ time.’
‘ .’
‘I can.’
‘ .’
‘No. You don’t understand. This isn’t a stepping stone. You haven’t seen this place.’
‘ .’
‘Oh. You’re not?’
‘ .’
‘I see. Why, where are you going?’
‘ .’
‘Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll have a great time.’
‘ .’
‘No, of course not.’
‘ .’
‘Yes.’
‘ .’
‘Anyway, what else is happening there?’
‘ .’
‘Oh, really?’
‘ .’
‘No. That’s great. No, you deserve it.’
‘ .’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘ .’
‘But…’
‘ .’
‘Yeah, I’ll try and ring you later.’
‘ .’
‘Yep. OK.’
‘ .’
‘No. I understand.’
‘ .’
‘Love you.’
‘ .’
‘OK, yeah. Bye.’
‘ .’
‘Bye.’
His head hurt.
It was not the most cheering and successful conversation Israel had ever had: discovering that his girlfriend was going skiing with friends on the proceeds of her more-than-generous Christmas bonus, and that there was a possibility she was about to get an unlooked-for but richly deserved promotion, while he was stood listening, shivering in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, staring at photographs of men in bowler hats and sashes with peculiar moustaches and glints in their eyes, while wearing someone else’s combat trousers which were too tight and too short, and a hoodie, and a T-shirt saying ‘Niggers With Attitude’.
He returned to the kitchen even more depressed than before.
Breakfast was on the table, Brownie and the old man patiently waiting – the old man now decked out in a festive-looking, fat-flecked Union Jack apron.
Israel was starving.
‘Sorry I was so long. I…Something smells good.’
‘Yep,’ said Brownie. ‘Clothes all right?’
‘Thanks. Yes.’
‘Good. Sit down.’
‘Here,’ said the old man, passing Israel his glasses, which had been fixed with masking tape.
‘Thanks,’ said Israel politely, putting them back on. ‘How do they look?’ he asked Brownie.
‘Fine,’ said Brownie hesitantly.
‘They feel a bit…’
‘Let’s eat,’ said Brownie.
Israel adjusted his wonky glasses as best he could.
The plate of food in front of Israel was of such extraordinary, all-encompassing shapes and sizes that it could have fed about a dozen deeply curious meat-eating men – although a vegetarian, alas, might have struggled to find much to interest and sustain him.
‘Knock it into you,’ said the old man, pouring out mugs of tea.
‘Mmm,’ said Brownie, tucking in. ‘Thanks, Granda.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Israel. ‘This looks…lovely.’
Brownie was already eating.
‘Grace!’ said the old man.
‘Sorry, Granda.’
‘May the Lord Bless This Food to Us.’
‘Amen,’ said Brownie.
‘Amen,’ said Israel.
The two Irishmen tucked in.
‘Erm. Could you just give me a guide here?’
‘Mmm,’ said Brownie, his mouth full. ‘Yes, sorry. Pork chop.’
‘Right.’
‘Sausages.’
‘Yep.’
‘Bacon. Black pudding.’
‘While pudding,’ added the old man.
Israel had forgotten to mention that he was a vegetarian: maybe now was not the time.
‘And that’s potato bread,’ said Brownie, pointing