The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery (21 page)

'So, that's the pleasantries over,' said Danny. 'Now, are you buying me a coffee or what?'

Israel bought a grande—
grande!?
—cappuccino for Danny and a double espresso for himself and by the time he returned to the table the boys were deep in typical conversation.

'You can't rank writers like that, it's ridiculous,' Ben was saying. 'Tell him, it's ridiculous.'

'What?'

'Of course you can,' said Danny. 'Who says you can't? Firsts to the Renaissance; 2:1s to the nineteenth century; and then that leaves the eighteenth with the 2:2s and the Thirds to everything pre-Shakespeare.'

'
Beowulf
and Chaucer?' said Ben.

'They're exceptions.'

'Post-1945?' said Ben.

'Borderline Thirds.'

'What do you think, Israel?' asked Ben. 'He's got this idea you can mark authors like he marks his students.'

'Ha. Right. Very good,' said Israel. 'Very funny.'

'Did you read the new Pynchon?' asked Danny, his face deep in muggy cappuccino.

'No, I must get round to that,' said Israel.

'A 2:2,' said Danny, face full of froth.

'Oh.'

'So, what have you been reading lately?' asked Ben.

'Erm.' Israel had mostly been reading large-print true-crime books. 'This and that.'

'You should really check out the Pynchon though,' said Danny. 'I mean, a 2:2's respectable these days.'

Israel pondered for a moment the chances of the new 2:2 Thomas Pynchon making it into the acquisitions list for the mobile library in Tumdrum.

'Or that new Cormac McCarthy,' said Ben. 'Devastating.'

'Devastating,' agreed Danny, '2:1.'

'Right.'

'I've just been rereading
Cien años de soledad.
' Danny never read books; he only ever reread them.

'
One Hundred Years of Solitude
,' glossed Ben.

'Really?' said Israel. Danny did not read Spanish, as far as Israel was aware, but with Danny it was absolutely
de rigueur
to refer to titles in their original, so it was always
A la Recherche du temps perdu
, please, and
Der Zauberberg
.

'It's for a course I'm teaching.'

'Oh yeah? How's that going then?' He knew Danny through Gloria: they were old friends; their families were friends. Danny taught English at University College London, which was like teaching at Oxford or Cambridge, except much hipper. According to Danny.

'It's okay,' said Danny. 'What can I say? It's teaching. Every day's kind of the same, you know.'

'Groundhog Day!' said Ben.

'Yeah.'

'That is a great film,' said Israel.

'Punxsutawney Phil,' said Ben.

'Bill Murray,' said Israel. 'I love Bill Murray in that film.'

'Yeah.'

'And in
Lost in Translation
.'

'Yeah.'

'Basically, I love Bill Murray!' said Israel.

'Excuse me, ladies,' said Danny. 'Did your mother not teach you it was rude to interrupt when you'd asked someone a question?'

'Sorry,' said Israel.

'So, as I was saying, when you
asked
me. The teaching is fine, thank you very much.'

'Good.'

'It's kind of like working in a factory, only in a factory you get longer lunch breaks and get to knock off at five, and the stuff on the production line doesn't talk back.'

Danny talked like he was in a successful HBO returning series; he talked like he was on all the time, and as he heard him spiel Israel realised that in Tumdrum he had effectively switched himself off, possibly forever. Danny was transmitting on a channel that Israel no longer received.

'Huh,' said Israel. 'You're enjoying it then?'

'It's fine.'

'How about you, Ben?' asked Israel. 'How's work?'

Ben was smart, really smart—smarter than Danny. He was just quieter, and like Israel he'd drifted, had never quite found his niche; he was nicheless. Which was maybe why Israel got on with him so well; they were similar; they were on the same wavelength. Ben did something in the Civil Service which did not require a suit. And he was on flexi-time.

'Work's the usual,' he said. 'You know what it's like. Sometimes you feel like you can't go on—'

'But you go on,' said Danny. 'Samuel Beckett.'

'He went to school at Portora,' said Israel. 'Did you know that?'

'What?'

'Portora? It's a school in Enniskillen.'

'Weird!' said Danny.

Israel was about to ask them what they thought he should do about the mobile library.

'So, anyway, I was going to ask—' he began.

'How is life in bonny Scotland?' said Danny.

'Ireland,' said Israel.

'Oh, right, sorry. I thought it was Scotland.'

'Me too,' said Ben.

'They're all the same, though, eh? Celtic fringe.'

'Where are you based, then, Dublin?' said Ben.

'No, it's in Northern Ireland.'

'So what's it like with all the bogtrotters then?' said Danny.

'They're not bogtrotters,' said Israel.

'Top of the morning, to ye!' said Danny. 'Begorrah, begorrah, begorrah.'

'It's
Northern
Ireland,' said Israel.

'Hoots, man!'

'That's Scotland,' said Israel.

'Ulster Says No!'

'Well, you got there in the end.'

'They're all sorted over there now, aren't they?' said Danny.

'You could call it sorted,' said Israel.

'Why's it called Ulster?' said Ben. 'I always thought that was a funny name.'

'Ulster is actually one of the four ancient provinces of the whole of Ireland,' said Israel. 'Three of the counties of the historic Ulster are a part of the Republic and—'

'Oooh,' said Danny. 'Who's been boning up on his Irish history then?'

'It's actually part of British history.'

'He's gone over,' said Danny. 'He's one of them now.'

'I have not gone over. I'm just—'

'He has. Are you voting for Sinn Féin?'

'No, I am not voting for Sinn Féin.'

'Well, you bloody well should be,' said Danny. 'They're much better than the other lot, aren't they?'

'The Scottish National Party?' said Ben.

'It's Northern Ireland,' said Israel.

'Plenty of crack then?' said Danny. 'The old ceilidhs and—'

'Oh yes, plenty of crack,' said Israel, irritably. 'Loads of it. The whole place is coming down with crack.'

'All right,' said Danny. 'I was only asking. It was a joke.'

'Right.'

'When are you moving back then?' asked Danny.

'I don't know at the moment,' said Israel. 'Soon. But I just wanted to ask—'

Israel couldn't understand why they weren't exactly following what he was saying, and why they were talking to him like he wasn't actually there, but then he noticed: Danny had his right hand under the table; he was texting. And Ben was texting too. They weren't listening. And they weren't talking. They were neither here nor there. They were double-tasking.

'Sorry,' said Ben, looking up.

'When are you going to tell him your news then?' said Danny.

'My news?' said Ben.

'The news.'

'Oh, the news. Yeah. I'm getting married.'

'No!'

'Yes.'

'Congratulations. Let me shake your hand.' They shook hands. 'To Louise?'

'No,' said Danny. 'He dumped her, and he's marrying a call girl he met in a bar.'

'Yes,' said Ben wearily, 'to Lou. That was her on the—'

'That's great, mate; when's the big day?'

'October. You and Gloria will be invited, of course.'

'Super. Great.'

'And how is the fragrant Gloria?' asked Danny.

'She's fine,' said Israel.

'You're still…'

'Oh, yeah. Yeah.'

'You sure?' said Danny with a smirk.

'Difficult being apart?' said Ben.

'It's fucking impossible if you're apart!' said Danny.

'Ignore him,' said Ben.

'Yeah, it's—' began Israel.

'When the cat's away the mice will play, eh?' said Danny.

'Erm…'

'Only to be expected,' said Danny.

'He's just jealous,' said Ben.

'Ooh!' said Danny, checking his phone again. 'You'll perhaps excuse me if I leave you ladies to discuss your scintillating love lives while I get more coffee.'

'He's published his book, you know,' said Ben, when Danny was out of earshot. Danny had been talking about his book for years. Talking about it had in fact been all he'd done until now.

'Oh.' Danny was insufferable before—but now! Oh God. 'What's it like?' said Israel.

'
Postmodern Allegories
?' said Ben.

'Is that what's it's called?'

'Yeah. With a question mark.'

'Oh God.'

'He gave me a copy,' said Ben.

'He didn't send me a copy,' said Israel.

'You're lucky.'

'Why? What's it like?'

'It got great reviews,' said Ben. 'In the
TLS
someone called him a genius.'

'Oh no,' said Israel, finishing off his espresso.

'I wouldn't say it was a book for the general reader.'

'Really?' Israel felt himself to be no longer the general but rather the common reader.

'Suffice it to say that the acknowledgements run to two pages, the first chapter is called the "H—brackets—Owl of Minerva" and it's all about Facebook and MySpace, and virtual worlds, and Philip K. Dick, and contemporary American fiction, and he constructs this sort of argument based on Lacan, and Slavoj 017Di017Eek, and he uses the word "meta-epistemic".'

'Wow.'

'In his first paragraph.'

'Wow.'

'Twice.'

'Shit,' said Israel.

'Precisely,' said Ben. 'But don't tell him I said so.'

And then, as quickly as he had emerged into conversation, Ben disappeared back into the privacy of texting. And Israel twiddled his thumbs. He had no one to text: Gloria was not replying.

Danny's book. Ben getting married…

'Anyway,' said Danny, returning. 'Here we all are again. We're like the fucking Inklings, aren't we, eh?'

Israel couldn't quite remember who the Inklings were: were they a cappella, or was that the Ink Spots?

'So what are you planning while you're over?'

'Well,' began Israel, 'I was…' He hesitated, fatally, for a moment, trying to decide how to explain his predicament, and Danny stepped straight into the breach, cappuccino pint aloft.

'You want to know what I'm planning? I'll tell you. I'm planning to get
laid
.'

'Well,' said Israel, 'that is a very noble ambition.'

'Thank you,' said Danny.

'Actually, boys,' said Ben, 'I've got to go here. I'm meeting Louise in John Lewis—we've got to sort out the wedding list.'

'Right,' said Israel. 'Actually, I just wanted to—'

Ben was already up out of his seat. 'The planning, honestly, it would drive you—'

'You've got to leave it to the ladies,' said Danny.

'I'll maybe catch up with you again before you go?' said Ben, more as a question than a promise.

'Sure, yeah,' said Israel. 'And congratulations again, on the wedding. Send my love to Louise.'

'Yeah.'

And then Ben turned his back and was gone, still texting.

Which left Israel with Danny. Maybe Danny could help him to work out what to do about the van. And about Gloria. Maybe Danny would understand.

'Are you putting on weight, or is it my imagination?' said Danny.

'Actually,' said Israel, feeling a headache coming on, 'I've got to get back too.'

'But I haven't told you about my book yet.'

'Yeah, sorry. Maybe next time.'

'Okay,' said Danny, 'suit yourself.' It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He'd already switched from under-table phone to on-the-table BlackBerry.

'Bye then,' said Israel.

Danny was already deep into scanning his e-mails. 'Yeah,' he said, without looking up. 'Sure.'

Walking back home, Israel no longer observed the dramas unfolding around him. His head was down, and his heart, and he felt like shit, and indeed when he reached his street he noticed that the pavement outside his mother's house seemed to have been smothered in what he thought at first was green and white paint, Jackson Pollock–style, but which on closer inspection he realised was in fact pigeon shit, in a kind of Off-White and Heritage Green, the Heritage Green the green of drawing rooms in gentlemen's clubs and of old libraries and leather armchairs, and the Off-White a white somewhere between the white of fine china and the white-blonde hair of beautiful women; and stepping around these colours and associations, and into the gutter, onto the sleeping policeman, inches from the oncoming traffic, and yards from his childhood home, only reminded Israel once again of the many lives he did not lead, and the friends he no longer had.

Frankly, he might as well have been rubbing his nose in it.

He texted Gloria.

No reply.

'T
his is madness,' said Ted.

'
This
,' said Israel, fingers thrumming on the steering wheel, 'is the "Road to Hell".'

'What?'

'"The Road to Hell", Chris Rea? It's a song, isn't it, about the M25?'

'I've never heard of it,' said Ted.

'Of course you have! "This ain't no…something
something something
,"' sang Israel, uncertainly, in his best unfiltered-cigarettes-and-alcohol kind of voice, '"This is the road to hell."'

'No, never heard of it,' said Ted, gazing out of the window. 'Doesn't sound like much of a song to me.'

'Well, it is.'

'Aye. Right. What do you call this road? The M5?'

'The
M25
,' said Israel. 'It's famous. Like Route 66.'

'Aye. Well, it might be famous where you come from, but I tell ye, word of it's not reached us boys in County Antrim.'

'I'll bet it was built by Irish navvies,' said Israel.

'Aye, and you'd know, would ye?'

'No, I'm just saying. A lot of roads in England were built by Irishmen, weren't they? They all lived in Kilburn?'

'Aye. And they all wore shamrocks in their hair and carried shillelaghs and played harps and rode in donkey carts.'