The Bad Book Affair

‘Do you make books?’ asked Laura, without pausing for a beat.

‘No,’ said Israel, trying to muster what might pass for a tone of infectious enthusiasm. ‘No, personally, I don’t actually make the books myself, I just…’

Laura’s eyes bored into him, withering his confidence.

‘I just…look after the books,’ he continued. ‘Like a…zookeeper looks after the animals.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘Any other questions for Mr Armstrong, the bearded book zookeeper?’

A hand shot up. It was Padraig.

‘Any other questions?’ said Israel, eyeing up Padraig. ‘Anyone else?’

No hands were raised.

‘Sure?’ said Israel. ‘No one else? Any questions?’

Silence.

‘Good. So…Yes…Paddy,’ said Israel.

‘My name’s Padraig,’ said Padraig.

‘Ah, yes, sorry. Of course. Porr-idge?’

‘What do you do?’ said Padraig.

‘What do I do?’ said Israel. ‘I’m a librarian.’

‘But do you have another job?’ interrupted Padraig. He had intricate whorl-like ears, Padraig, and a head like a pug.

‘No,’ said Israel, ‘I don’t have another job. This is my actual job.’

‘D’ye not have another job?’

‘No. I don’t. It’s actually quite a busy job, being a librarian. You have to…sort the books out, and put them on the shelves, and…’

‘Thank you, Padraig,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘Any final questions for Mr Armstrong this week before he rushes off to rearrange his books on the shelf?’

Hands again.

‘Yes, Billy?’

‘What are books?’ asked Billy, whose face was as wide as it was tall.

‘What are books?’ said Israel. ‘Erm. Books? Good…question. Excellent…question.’

‘I’m sure we’d all like to hear your answer to that question, Mr Armstrong,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘What is a book? Listen, children, to what Mr Armstrong has to say.’

‘A book is…’ Israel was struggling here slightly. ‘Well, a book can be about…’

‘Sorry,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Armstrong. But I think what Billy was asking was not what is a book about, but a wider and more general question—wasn’t it, Billy?’ Billy nodded obediently, his pure white lardy child-jowls shaking. ‘About what exactly a book is.’

‘Ah, yes, what is it? A book?’

‘Indeed,’ said Tony Thompson.

‘A book?’ repeated Israel. ‘What is a book?’

‘Yes,’ said Tony Thompson. ‘That’s the question, Mr Armstrong. And the children would love to hear your answer.’

‘Well, a book is a kind of…’ Israel looked around desperately for inspiration. ‘It’s a dead tree, basically.’

‘A dead tree,’ repeated Tony Thompson, grinning and showing his teeth. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Israel, ‘basically.’ He got the sense he was maybe losing his audience here, but he’d started so he’d have to finish. ‘Not a tree that’s been killed, exactly, by a…gun or anything. It’s more…I mean, more like a piece of a dead tree.’

‘A piece of dead tree,’ said Tony Thompson.

‘Yes. That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Israel. ‘Or, I know…a tree flake.’ Oh God. ‘Yes! That’s it, that’s what books are. Tree flakes. Little parts of the body of a tree, you see, that have been…Like pork scratchings…It’s not something alive, anyway. If you turn it over in your hand.’ He turned over the supersized Red Ted on the Shelf in his hand. ‘Here we are, then,’ he said. ‘Listen! Can you hear it saying anything?’ He held the book up to his ear. ‘Hello, Mr Book? Red Ted? Anybody there? No? No. That’s because a book is not a disembodied voice. Can you hear it, children?’

Tony Thompson was shaking his head.

The children were leaning forward in their seats.

A hand shot up.

‘Yes?’

‘I can hear it, Mr Armstrong.’

‘No. No. You can’t. That must be a…voice in your…head. You can’t hear the book,’ continued Israel, changing tack. ‘Because a book can’t speak. Because a book is not…a person.’

‘Is it imagination?’ asked Laura.

‘Yes. Well, not exactly. A book is not itself imagination, or an idea, or anything like that. It’s just…A book is basically…I mean, literally of course a book is just…paper covered in ink, like lots of…little black…maggots crawling around on a big…white sheet, or snow, or…’

‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong,’ interjected Tony Thompson. ‘I think that’s enough this morning. Thank you very much for your little talk. As enlightening as ever.’

‘No, thank…you,’ said Israel.

‘Good to be back in the saddle, eh?’ said Ted, when Israel—mentally and emotionally drained, and dizzied by his ordeal—arrived back at the van.

‘You’re not meant to smoke in the van,’ said Israel.

‘Ach, wise up,’ said Ted. ‘Glad to be back in the swing of things, though, eh?’

‘No,’ said Israel.