The Case of the Missing Books

‘What?’

‘Headache tablets, for Israel here. Do we have any?’

‘What for?’

‘For a headache?’

‘I wouldna thought so. We’ve TCP and some bandages just in the first-aid box.’

‘That’s no good.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Israel, wishing he’d never brought it up in the first place. ‘It’s fine.’

‘You sure?’

‘Syrup of figs?’ offered the old man.

‘No, thanks. I’ll be fine.’

‘What’s yon other stuff called?’

‘What stuff?’ said Brownie.

‘Collis-Brown. That’s it. Bind you rightly.’

‘No. It’s really OK,’ said Israel.

‘It’d not do you a button o’ harm.’

‘He’s fine, Granda. Are you sure, Israel?’

‘Yes. I’ll be fine. And you’ve not got any – I really don’t want to be a pain or anything – but you’ve not got any Sellotape, have you, by any chance? Just to fix my glasses?’

Israel took out the two halves of his spectacles from his pocket.

‘Och dear. What happened there?’

‘Well. It’s a—’

‘I’m sure we could fix them up, Granda, couldn’t we? Sellotape or soldering iron or something?’

‘Aye. P’rhaps.’

‘And after that we’ll maybe have some breakfast, Granda? No chance of a fry?’

‘Aye.’

‘Lovely. And you’ll join us for breakfast, Israel, won’t you? Room at the trough, Granda?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, yes, thank you. That’s very kind of you.’

Brownie then showed Israel into a dining room full of dark, miserable, heavy furniture, hung with cobwebs and family pictures, and with a large black Bible on the sideboard, open at the Book of Revelation, and an ancient grey dial telephone next to it. Israel slowly, painfully got changed out of his wet clothes and dried himself off underneath a photograph of men in robes and with drums outside an Orange Hall, looking for all the world as if they were fresh back from a lynching, and then he rang Gloria at home in London.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Israel imagined the sound of it ringing in Gloria’s lovely pale satinwood, soft-furnished, little-bit-of-the-Mediterranean-in-the-heart-of-the-city, inspired-by-the-World of Interiors-but-not-slavish-in-the-pursuit-of-fashion flat near Borough Market. He could almost smell the fresh bagels and orange juice.

‘Hey!’ shouted Israel, relieved and excited when Gloria finally picked up.

‘ ,’ said Gloria indistinctly. It was a bad line.

‘It’s me,’ explained Israel, his voice echoing round the room like a condemned man’s in a prison cell.

‘ .’

‘Israel.’

‘ .’

‘Shit.’

‘ .’

‘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.’