The Bad Book Affair

‘I think he’s growing a beard,’ said George, quietly.

‘That’s always a bad sign,’ said Ted.

‘He might look all right with a goatee,’ said George.

‘I wouldn’t have thought it,’ said Ted. ‘They look all right on goats, but…Maybe a moustache.’

‘Ach, no,’ said George. ‘No one has a moustache these days. They went out with the Troubles.’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Ted. ‘I had a nice moustache once. Back in the day.’

‘Sorry. Excuse me? Can I possibly help you two?’ said Israel, rubbing his forehead as if in great pain. ‘You do seem to have just barged into my home here.’

‘I’ve brought Ted to see you,’ said George.

‘I can see that,’ said Israel. ‘And do neither of you normally knock before you enter someone’s home?’

‘Don’t ye dare get sharp with me,’ said Ted.

‘The door was open,’ said George.

Israel tutted.

‘Bit of fresh air is what ye need in here,’ said Ted.

‘Yes,’ agreed George quietly. ‘It is a bit…rich, isn’t it. It’s damp, I think. And the chickens, maybe.’

‘That’s not chickens,’ said Ted.

‘Well, his personal hygiene,’ said George, whispering. ‘He has let himself go a bit, recently.’

‘Lost the run of himself entirely,’ said Ted, picking up a discarded tank-top thrown on the bed and rubbing it disdainfully between forefinger and thumb.

‘I think it’s because of the split with his girlfriend,’ said George.

‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘He needs to pull his finger out.’ He glanced over at Israel. ‘Mind ye, difficult to pull your finger out if it’s never been in.’

‘Hello?’ said Israel. ‘I don’t want to appear rude, but could you leave, please? Is that too much to ask? A little privacy here, in the comfort of my own home?’

Ted tensed and stared at Israel fiercely. It looked for a moment as though he might actually reach out and grab Israel and throw him off the bed, but he seemed to think better of it and instead he turned his back on him, and wandered slowly round the coop, which didn’t take long—it was only one room—sniffing and poking around at the books and clothes piled on every surface. T-shirts. Toby Litt. Alice Sebold. Pants.

Israel’s ambitious programme of refurbishment for the coop had stalled some time ago—his most recent acquisition, an old sofa that he’d found in someone’s yard, was wedged tightly between the wardrobe and the Baby Belling cooker balanced precariously on a stool. The place clearly hadn’t been cleaned or tidied for quite a while.

‘He’d always the breath of a garlic-eater,’ said Ted, fanning his hand in front of his face, in a vain attempt to dispel the room’s fumes.

‘I don’t think he’s been eating much,’ said George.

‘No,’ said Ted, removing a spoon from an open jar of peanut butter.

‘Hey!’ said Israel. ‘Leave that alone! That’s mine!’

‘Shall I leave you boys to it, then?’ said George.

‘Yes,’ said Ted. ‘I think that’d be best.’

‘No problem,’ said George. ‘I thought it wise to get you in, Ted. I hope you don’t mind. We were all getting a wee bit worried about him. I wasn’t sure if I should have called the doctor.’

‘Don’t ye be worrying about him any more, my dear. No need for the doctor. I’ll soon have him sorted,’ said Ted.

George shut the chicken coop door behind her.

‘Right, ye brallion,’ said Ted, stepping briskly towards the side of Israel’s bed. ‘What are ye on, the auld loonie soup?’

‘What?’

‘What in God’s name d’ye think ye’re doing?’

‘I’m not feeling well,’ said Israel.

‘Aye, right, me elbow. Lying in yer bed when there’s work to be done—yer head’s a marlie.’

‘What?’ said Israel. ‘What are you talking about? Bob Marley?’

‘God give me strength,’ said Ted. ‘Right. Up. Come on. It’s no good you lying there.’

‘I can’t get up, Ted. I’m…cultivating my mind,’ said Israel, dreamily, stroking his beard. ‘Like Saint Jerome.’

‘Who?’

‘He’s the patron saint of libraries.’

‘Patron saint of my arse. You can cultivate your mind out in the van with me. Come on.’ He went to grab Israel’s arm. Israel shrank back.

‘Get off! I’m on holiday,’ said Israel.

‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘Ye were. But ye’ve had your two weeks off and another week off sick.’

‘I’ve not been feeling well.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ted. ‘Ye been in this stinking pit the whole time?’

‘More or less.’

‘Right. Good. Time to get out, then.’

Ted threw the bedcovers from Israel, scattering books and toppling wine bottles in the process—Merlot and Roberto Bolaño everywhere.

‘Hey!’