Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery (19 page)

'Oh. Sorry.'

The vast man did not respond.

Ray was presumably the man seated at the table on the far side of the room. He was wearing sunglasses. Which seemed unnecessary: the room was not sunny. In fact the room had no windows. But the lack of light looked as though it might not have bothered Ray: he had a pale, weak face, cracked and streaky with burst blood vessels. He did not say hello. There was no shaking of hands with Ray.

'So, Ted.'

'Ray. Appreciate you coming.'

'OK.'

Ted slipped Ray an envelope of cash.

'I won't count it, Ted.'

'No, it's all there.'

'Ted, what are you doing?' said Israel.

'Ray's been acting on our behalf.'

'What?'

'I've had words,' said Ray.

'What do you mean you've had words?' said Israel.

'He's not been kidnapped.'

'No?' said Ted. 'I didn't think so.'

'Not by any of ours.'

'What do you mean "ours"?' said Israel.

'Shut up, Israel.'

'Our lot,' said Ray.

'Which is?'

'Half of one, and half a dozen of the other,' said Ray, tapping the side of his nose with his finger.

'So?' said Ted.

'We think there's a woman involved.'

'Ah!' said Ted. 'I thought so.'

'And the Dixon boy might be worth talking to.'

'The boy?' said Israel. 'Do they have a son?'

'Aye. Course.'

'He wasn't there today though, at the police press conference.'

'He wouldn't be,' said Ray.

'Why?'

'He's away down in Belfast,' said Ray.

'He'd have been on the radio,' said Ted.

'Why?'

'He's a programme.'

'What sort of programme?'

'Phone-in jobby.'

'So,' said Ray.

'Appreciate it, Ray.'

'Not a problem, Ted.'

'That's us sorted then. Let's go.'

Ted and Israel made their way back into the corridor.

'Who the hell was he?'

'I said, he's someone who knows people.'

'Well, what sort of people?'

'People who know people.'

'Who know people who know people? What is it, infinite regress? What are we talking about?'

'Just.'

'And you were paying money for that sort of information?'

'Aye.'

'So where did you get that from?'

'It's creative accounting. End of the tax year. It's a couple of leads there, well worth it. We'll check out the son tomorrow.'

In the back room some of the men were drifting away.

'Sorry, lads,' said Big Red. 'Need an early night.'

'How's your father?' said a Billy.

'And your mother still working?' said a Sammy.

Which made them laugh.

'All right, fellas.'

'Night.'

'Safe home.'

More drink was provided for the remaining brains trust.

'I don't know how you drink that stuff,' said Israel, as Ted tucked into another Guinness.

'What?'

'It's disgusting. It's like drinking fermented dog juice.'

'Cheers,' said Ted.

'Cheers,' said Israel, rubbing his stomach and belching. He was on lager. 'I thought you were off the drink anyway?'

'Sometimes I'm off; sometimes I'm on.'

'Right.'

'Tonight I'm on.'

It had been a long couple of days, and it turned into an even longer night.

There was a political discussion going on.

Israel decided to keep out of it. His grasp of Northern Irish politics was sketchy, to say the least. He had some idea there'd been a civil war or something similar. The most political he'd ever been was at university, when he briefly joined the Jewish Socialist Society, which he'd only joined because he was, notionally, Jewish, and notionally a socialist. He never went to any of the meetings.

He couldn't remember much of what happened during the rest of the evening, though he did vaguely recall one of the Billys telling him about a cousin of his who was a pastor who operated out of a mission hall in north Belfast and who was caught with two Russian grenades and a pipe bomb on the outskirts of Dungannon, and then another Billy starting in with the old argument that 'Sure, this was a great wee country until all the immigrants started coming in,' and another similar conversation with another Billy which began with the statement, 'At least you knew where you were with the Troubles,' and went downhill from there.

Bruce Springsteen had just kicked in on the jukebox with 'Born in the USA' when Elder appeared at the bar.

'Turn that fucking music off and get out, you cunts!'

Only Ted and Israel were left. Israel was at that drooling, many's-the-slip stage in his drinking, where everything you lift to your mouth does not necessarily reach its destination.

'I am large,' he said to Ted. 'I contain multitudes.'

'Aye, right,' said Ted.

'No sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.'

'Why don't you join a gym or something?' said Ted.

'Because,' pomped Israel, 'I don't believe…'–and he was struggling then–'I don't believe the body should…'

'Once a…' began Ted, sighing.

'Catholic?' said Israel.

'No, thanks,' said Ted. 'I've eaten already. Don't worry about it. You're just getting old.'

'I'm not getting old.'

'How old are you?'

'I'm not even thirty.'

'Aye, well, you're getting there. Anyway, I'm away here.'

'Right,' said Israel. 'I'll just get my…'

'You're not coming with me.'

'What?'

'You're a flippin' liability, son. I don't want the police dragging me into this far—'

'Far out?'

'Rago of nonsense.'

'Right. So where am I staying? I can't go back to the farm. They'll be…'

'You're staying here.'

'Where?'

'Here, the First and Last.'

'Do they have rooms?'

'This is the room.'

'I can't sleep here.'

'You'll be safe here. I'll pick you up at eight, all right?'

'Hold on, Ted!'

But by the time he got to the door Ted had gone, locking the door behind him.

It gave a new meaning to the phrase 'lock-in'.

He seemed to be blind in one eye. And someone had inflated a paper bag inside his head. There was a kind of banging going on somewhere.

Oh, God.

He'd not slept the best–not good at all. At first he couldn't get to sleep, and then when he did he dreamt all night long, terrible tormenting dreams, like something out of a David Lynch film.
Eraserhead
–gave him nightmares for years.

First, he'd dreamt that he was standing alone in a bookshop–the Discount Bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex, just off the M25–browsing, having wandered in aimlessly off the street. In the dream no one in the whole world knows that he's there. The phone rings at the back of the shop and the assistant goes to answer it. 'Yes,' the assistant says, 'he's here. I'll just get him for you.' The assistant begins walking towards him. How do they know he's there? Something terrible has happened.

That was bad enough but then he dreamt that he was arriving home at the flat he shared with Gloria–away from Tumdrum at last. He was walking up the stairs, before the final turn. There was a man asleep on the doorstep. And a slick of blood on the carpet. He rushes into the flat, treading blood into the carpet. Something terrible has happened.

And then finally he dreamt that there was a man standing next to him on the Tube. The man slowly produces a pen and paper from his pocket, and writes down a few words. It's a message for him. He's about to pass it to him. Something terrible has happened.

Half delirious, his head throbbing, he tried to remember where he was. He had no idea. Was he at home with Gloria? No. At the farm? The police station? Rosie's?

No.

He was staring up at flaking yellow plaster, there was beer swilling in his stomach, there was the stench of…what was that smell? It was a smell like…urinated Marmite.

And something else. He felt underneath the bench, touched something. A big container. Bleach. 'Chunky's Fragranced Channel Cubes–Minimum 200 Yellow Cubes–Specially Formulated for use in URINALS and WASHROOMS to combat unpleasant odours.'

Ah, yes. He was in the back room of the First and Last. He was all sweaty. His clothes stank of cigarettes and beer.

He tried to get up but couldn't. He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at himself. Fully clothed, on a bench, domed belly rising up before him, weary legs down below, and a head that felt like it was on fire.

He heaved himself up onto his feet. As long as he could just keep himself balanced he'd be fine. The First and Last. Oops. Steady. It was like having tides within him. He was at the First and Last because…

Oh, God. That's right. When all this was over he was going to need a therapist, or an analyst: Freudian, or maybe Kleinian, or Jungian, or cognitive-behavioural, Gestalt. ECT. And a shower.

There was that knocking. Ted walked in.

'Let's go, you idle rascal.'

Israel was in the van for half an hour, stomach churning, chest heaving, head dozing, before he could find the powers to speak.

'We're in the mobile, Ted.'

'Aye. Well spotted. All that education didn't go to waste then.'

'But—' began Israel. Every time he opened his mouth it was as though he was going to be sick.

Ted had thoughtfully provided him with a plastic bag: 'Just try not to spray, OK?' he said. 'We've not got much time. I'm not pulling over.'

Israel had the bag clutched in both hands.

'The mobile. I thought the police. Had. As their centre of…'

'They did.'

'So?'

'D'you want to let the peelers get a hold of the van?'

'No, but. How did you…?'

'I borrowed it back.'

'Oh, no, Ted.'

'No one cleared it with me. As far as I'm concerned the library remains in use.'

'But what if…'

'I'll plead ignorance.'

Israel gave a huge soupy belch, groaned, and felt a little better.

There was an answering sound from the back of the van.

'What's that?'

'It's the dog.'

'Ah, Ted, did you have to bring the dog?'

'What have you got against dogs?'

'I haven't got anything against dogs. I just…don't like dogs.'

'Why?'

'It's their…They bite you.'

'Well, she's not going to bite you.'

'She?'

'It's Mrs Muhammad. My other wee Jack Russell. I had to bring her along, she's pregnant.'

'What?'

'Right, now, shush. You've got to hear this,' said Ted, reaching to switch on the radio in the van.

'No, Ted. I'm really not into breakfast radio.'

'Aye, it's breakfast radio, but not as you know it.'

'I've quite a…headache actually, Ted.'

'Aye?'

'You've not got any…?'

'Here.' Ted gave Israel a handful of headache tablets.

'You've come prepared.'

'You're making a habit of it.'

'Am I?'

'Right, yes, and here's water. Now shush. Here we are. It's Robbo.'

'Who Bo?'

'Robbo Dixon. Mr Dixon's son. Listen.'

'I usually listen to the
Today
programme in the mornings.'

'Aye. Well, change'll do you no harm.'

The
Today
programme: God, now he thought about it, that seemed like a lifetime ago, waking up to the
Today
programme back in north London, in his own bed, in his own flat. His mum used to love Rabbi Lionel Blue: 'Good morning, John. Good morning, Jim. And good morning, all of you.' It was luxury, listening to the
Today
programme: like waking up wrapped in a silk kimono and wandering down to the Senior Common Room, with grapefruit and kedgeree for breakfast, laid out on fresh white linen, and a pre-Murdoch copy of
The Times
propped up against a jar of good thick-cut marmalade. That was another life. Not his. Like getting up late, if he had the day off from the bookshop, and lying in bed, reading the
Guardian
, though why he bothered with the
Guardian
he didn't know; it was the principle of the thing, because he already knew the news and he hated all the columnists and never had the time or inclination to read the dull and detailed comment and analysis, and he couldn't afford any of the clothes or the meals or the houses or the holidays or the home furnishings, and was never interested in the features on celebrities or dead people. Or it was like a Saturday morning, down to Borough Market, or Waitrose at least, him and Gloria. Holding hands, fondly squeezing Fair Trade melons, and the most difficult decision they had to make was whether to go for free range, or organic, or both.

Had he actually ever lived that life? Was that his life? Wasn't that someone else's life he was imagining?

Whatever the hell it was they were listening to now, hurtling along in the van, it was not the
Today
programme.

'That,' the man was half shouting, 'is unbelievable!'

'It is,' said the caller. 'It's unbelievable.'

'It. Is. Unbelievable! D'you know that?'

'It is, Robbo, yes. It's unbelievable.'

'D'you know what I think? I think these people…' The man's voice was steadily rising, in pitch, tone and volume. 'These people are not yobs! They're not thugs! They're not just low-lifes! D'you know that? These people…' His voice couldn't get any higher or harsher now. 'These people…' Oh, yes it could. 'Are the scum of the earth!' He said it in a way in which the words tumbled together–scumoftheearth.

'They are,' agreed the caller. 'That's exactly what they are, Robbo. They are the scum of the earth.'

'Caller on line two?'

More random ranting continued for a while and then there was a record–'It's Raining Men', the Weather Girls–completely unannounced and unexpected, like the Weather Girls had all just wandered into the studio, mid-rant, and set up and started singing. And then there was another caller. No continuity. No sequence. Then another record: Dexys Midnight Runners. No intro, no explanation, no seamless links. Total chaos. A disabled man ringing in to complain about disabled access. Then Eminem. The whole thing held together only by the raging voice of the presenter.