The Case of the Missing Books

There was a smell of alcohol and cigarettes and hot barbecued meats coming from the back seat, and that distinctive smell of passion; that pulse; that vibration; that disturbing hint of civet. Israel half opened his eyes, determined not to look round, and sank down lower and lower in his seat queasily, trying to remain as quiet as possible, hoping for some kind of cooling-off or reprieve, but the couple behind him were oblivious and activities were proceeding apace, and he realised if he didn’t act now things could only get messier, and worse.

‘Evening,’ he said, in a slightly squeaky voice, in a convenient pause, turning round as he spoke and trying to smile.

Everything happened at once. The woman screamed and reached for the door handle, the man let out a roar and reached forward with a punch that caught Israel on the side of the head, knocking off his glasses and knocking him against the passenger-seat window, and then Ted appeared, opening the driver’s door.

‘Ach, there you all are now. Thought I’d lost you. You’ve met Israel then?’

Israel was slumped against the passenger door, holding his head.

‘Aaggh.’

‘Israel?’ said Ted. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Aaggh.’

‘What have you been up to?’ Ted clambered into his seat. ‘Can I not leave you for one minute without you getting into trouble? What’s wrong?’

‘He hit me,’ mumbled Israel.

‘He’s the new librarian,’ explained Ted, turning round to the man and woman on the back seat.

‘I don’t care if he’s the fuckin’ Pope, Ted,’ said the man. ‘He gave us the fright of our lives.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Ted, starting up the engine and reversing out of the parking space. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Not a good start is it?’ He turned to Israel as he changed into first, and headed back down the dark lane.

‘Uggh,’ Israel continued moaning.

‘All right, all right,’ said Ted. ‘Now tell me: how many fingers am I holding up? Come on. Eh? Hey? Come on!’ He was holding up two fingers in the dark.

‘Two,’ said Israel.

‘Good man,’ said Ted. ‘Must be a bruise just. No harm done. We’ll find you a red flannel when you get back to George’s. Now catch a hold of yourselves, lads, shake hands and let’s forget all about it, eh?’

The man in the back seat leant forward to shake Israel’s hand.

‘Shake!’ Ted instructed Israel, and Israel reached a cold hand round, without turning.

‘There we are,’ said Ted. ‘Now let’s settle down.’ And they drove at high speed for what seemed a long time in complete and utter silence.

They skirted the coast, Israel staring with his one good eye out into the far, dark double-blackness of the sea, wishing he was anywhere else but here – even back at the discount bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex, which wasn’t a bad little job when you thought about it – and eventually Ted pulled up outside a house on what appeared to be a half-completed housing development perched on the edge of the main road and overlooking the sea. Some of the houses had roofs; some had windows; some had roofs and windows; all of them had identical bright white PVC front doors. Against the backdrop of the dark black sea the development looked like a shiny plastic clearing in the jungle.

The man in the back gave the woman a quick kiss and a squeeze of the hand, and then climbed out of the car, and Israel reluctantly unbuckled his seat belt and went to get out of the car himself.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ said Ted.

‘I thought I was staying with George,’ said Israel.

‘You are staying with George, you eejit.’

‘But…’

‘That’s Tony, sure,’ said Ted, nodding towards the retreating figure of the man, as if everyone in the western world knew Tony.

‘Tony Shaw?’

‘Ach, what? No. Tony Thompson.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m George,’ said the woman from the back seat.

‘Right. I’m sorry,’ said Israel. ‘I assumed…’ His words faded as Ted started up the car again.

Ted was silent. George was silent. Israel was silent. Everything was silence. And they drove again for what seemed a long time and eventually pulled onto a dirt track, and up a lane, past some big dark looming metal gates and some big dark looming farm machinery, and into a farmyard.

George got out of the car, and so did Israel, with his headache, and he went to get his old suitcase from the boot and then he tapped on Ted’s window to say thanks.

‘Hold on,’ shouted Ted, having wound down his window as Israel started walking away, calling him back to the car. ‘Hey! Buck Alec!’

‘Me?’ said Israel.

‘Yes, you,’ said Ted. ‘Muhammad Ali. Of course you. Here. Come here.’

Israel trudged back to the car then, assuming he’d lost something, or left something behind.

‘That’s twenty-five pounds,’ said Ted, leaning out of the window.

‘What?’

‘Twenty-five of your English pounds, sir. For the taxi. What, blow to the head affect your memory?’

‘But,’ said Israel, ‘I thought, you know, what’s-her-name at the council had arranged it?’

‘Linda?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Aye, she arranged for me to take you to the van, but. This is a private arrangement, between us.’

‘I’m sure Linda’ll square it with you.’

‘Aye. Well, you may be, but I’ve had enough dealings with Linda Wei and the so-called council to know better. Expect nothin’ off a pig but a grunt.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll have my money now, thank you.’

‘Well, I’ll…’ began Israel. ‘I’ll have to owe you then, I’m afraid. Can we sort it out tomorrow?’