The Case of the Missing Books. Ian Sansom
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‘What?
‘Well, when you say you hid her…’
‘Hmm?’
‘Is that not the same as stealing her?’
‘Ach, no. Not at all. Stealing’s wrong. Yous must have that in your religion, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Of course we have that in my religion—’ began Israel.
‘We were looking after her, just, that’s all. She was on loan, if you like.’
‘And now you’ve decided to give her back?’
‘No. No. We’re not giving her back.’
‘But…This is the mobile library we’re going to be using?’
‘Aye. But we’re not giving her back. We’ve sold her back.’
‘You’ve sold the council back their own mobile library?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘It’s practical.’
‘God,’ said Israel, trying to take it all in. ‘It’s quite a vindication, I suppose, for you.’
‘Vintication?’ Ted glowered. ‘It’d take more than that for a vintication.’
‘Right. So you and who sold her back?’
‘A few of us.’ Ted tapped his nose. ‘Those of us with the interests of the wider community at heart.’
Israel knew when not to ask any further questions, and anyway some small chick feather seemed to have lodged itself in the back of his throat; he began coughing and coughing, breathing in more dust and the stench of bird and chicken shit.
‘Ah.’
Ted slapped him hard on the back.
‘Eerrgh. Thanks,’ said Israel. ‘Couldn’t you have kept it, you know, somewhere a bit more hygienic?’
‘There wasn’t anywhere else. Here we go,’ said Ted, unbolting the big double doors at the far end of the chicken shed and heaving them open. Light and fresh air streamed in. ‘Freshen her up.’ Ted’s shaven head shone like a beacon in the winter’s light.
‘Where are we exactly?’
‘Where? We’re here.’
‘Yes, but where is here exactly?’
‘Well, that’d be Ballycastle across Cushleake there. What’s that? North-west?’ Ted pointed off into the cloudless distance. ‘Then round westerly you’ve got yer Giant’s Causeway, and Bushmills and—’
‘I see,’ interrupted Israel, who was still none the wiser, his grasp of Northern Irish geography being almost entirely limited to memories of the little black dot showing Belfast on the BBC news during his childhood.
He wiped his glasses on his shirt and turned back to look at the tarp – a vast, damp, mouldy sack, pocked with black and white stains. Ted was walking round and round, huffing and puffing, loosening ropes.
‘I used to do all the work on her myself. She wasn’t in bad shape, so she wasn’t.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘But the tarp, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Not good, tarps. Moisture. Rust if you do, rust if you don’t.’
‘A bit like life really then,’ said Israel feebly.
Ted ignored this comment. ‘You helping, then, or your hands painted on?’
Israel started fiddling with the ropes. ‘These are tight knots. I’m not sure if I can—’
‘Quit your gurnin’ and get on with it,’ advised Ted.
So Israel did.
‘Now. Pull,’ commanded Ted eventually, and he started pulling, and Israel started pulling, and ‘Pull!’ commanded Ted again, and Israel did again, and ‘You’re as weak as water,’ shouted Ted, and ‘Pull!’ again and suddenly the whole big damp dirty tarpaulin came off in a storm of dust and bird and chicken shit, right on top of Israel, who lost his balance and fell back onto the filthy dust and bird – and chicken-shit floor.
‘Aaggh!’
‘What?’ said Ted. There was a muffled sound from under the tarpaulin. ‘You there, you big galoot?’ More muffled sounds. Ted lifted up the heavy tarpaulin and helped Israel out and onto his feet: he was covered, head to foot, in grey dust and black and white and bright green bird and chicken shit.
‘Aaggh,’ said Israel.
‘There she is,’ said Ted.
‘Aaggh,’ said Israel, rubbing his eyes.
The van came into focus. He could just make out what looked like the remains of a bus in a faded, rusting cream and red livery: there were rust patches as big as your fist, and what looked like mushrooms growing around the windscreen.
Ted was down on his knees, examining the wheel arches and the paintwork.
‘Aye,’ he said to himself, lost in rapture. ‘Aye, aye.’ Having eventually circled the bus and patted it fondly, as though calming a beast, he stood back. ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ agreed Israel.
‘Well?’ said Ted. ‘What do you think?’
‘Erm. It looks like a bit like a…bus,’ said Israel. ‘Except without windows.’
‘You’re not wrong, Sherlock Holmes,’ said Ted. ‘It’s a Bedford. Built on a VAM bus chassis. Beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Beautiful’ was not quite the word that Israel had in mind: the words he had in mind were more like ‘write-off’, ‘wreck’, ‘filthy dirty’, ‘yuck’, and ‘I want to get out of here and go home.’
‘You are joking me, are you?’ he said.
‘Joking?’ said Ted.
‘This is not the mobile library,’ said Israel.
‘That she is.’
‘But we can’t possibly drive that…thing. It’s a wreck.’
‘Lick of paint, be as good as new,’ said Ted.
Israel put his hand into a rust hole.
‘Come on,’ he said.
‘And a bit of bodywork,’ admitted Ted.
And then there was the soft sound of something heavy and metal falling onto the ground and Ted got down on his hands and knees and looked underneath the vehicle.
‘And some spot-welding,’ he admitted. ‘But she’s no jum.’
‘I see,’ said Israel, who had absolutely no idea what a jum was. He was up on tiptoe trying to peer into the bus’s dark interior.
Ted produced some keys from his pocket and weighed them heavily in his hand, as if they were precious jewels. He then placed them ceremonially in Israel’s hands.
‘Over to you, then,’ said Ted.
‘No, really,’ said Israel.
‘She’s all yours,’ said Ted.
‘No. I—’
‘Take. The keys,’ said Ted insistently.
‘Right,’ said Israel.
‘So,’ said Ted.
‘Well,’ said Israel, hesitating and trying to think of something appropriately