The Case of the Missing Books. Ian Sansom

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and he couldn’t believe how much they were drinking. They were drinking gallons. Literally. Enough to sink a ship.

      He’d never been a great one for the drink himself, Israel, although he wasn’t entirely averse; he found that two glasses of red wine was usually about his limit and seemed to have approximately the same effect on him as a dozen pints of super-lager on his peers and contemporaries. Any more and he was usually violently sick, as he had been on the ferry a little earlier actually, although without so much as a sip of red wine and only coffee and snacks inside him: he wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the swell, or the after-effects of the ten-hour coach journey up from London Victoria, and a couple of vegetable samosas on the way, a 10% Extra Free! pack of Doritos, two Snickers, two hard-boiled eggs and a souvenir packet of ‘Olde London’ fudge bought on impulse from a kiosk at Victoria moments before departing.

      He had tried to regain his sense of balance and his composure in the ferry’s bar – the unfortunately named Sea Dogs – with a glass of Coke to settle his stomach, but by eight o’clock things were getting a little rowdy in Sea Dogs, and a little choppy, and he had no desire to add further to the mess and the confusion, so he moved on to the television room, where he had to endure a charity reality TV show in which people were forced to compete for the chance to have their houses redecorated by their favourite celebrities by entering a lookalike karaoke competition.

      Trying to sleep upright in a chair, next to men twice his not inconsiderable size dribbling burger juice, with Sky TV at full volume: this was not how his new life and new career in Ireland were supposed to begin. His new life in Ireland was supposed to be overflowing with blarney and craic. He was supposed to be excited and ready, trembling on the verge of a great adventure.

      But instead Israel was just trembling on the verge of being sick again, and the journey had given him a headache, a terrible, terrible headache; he was a martyr to his headaches, Israel. He’d probably had more headaches in his life than most people have had hot dinners, assuming that people these days are eating a lot more salads and mostly sandwiches for lunch. It was all the books and the lack of fresh air that did it, and the fact that he was a Highly Sensitive Person.

      When the ferry finally arrived in the grey-grim port of Larne, hours late, and disgorged its human, pantechnicon and white-van contents onto the stinking, oily, wholly indifferent harbourside, Israel had a bad feeling, and it wasn’t just his headache and the sea-sickness. He was supposed to be met at the ferry terminal, but there was no one there and no one was answering the phone at his contact number at the library, so he had to use what little remained of his money and his initiative to get the train out of Larne to Rathkeltair, and then the bus to Tumdrum, and through the long grey streets end-on to the hills and to the sea, and all the way to the library – to the big shut library. It felt as though someone had slammed his own front door in his face.

      Israel had grown up in and around libraries. Libraries were where he belonged. Libraries to Israel had always been a constant. In libraries Israel had always known calm and peace; in libraries he’d always seemed to be able to breathe a little easier. When he walked through the doors of a library it was like entering a sacred space, like the Holy of Holies: the beautiful hush and the shunting of the brass-handled wooden drawers holding the card catalogues, the reassurance of the reference books and the eminent OEDs, the amusing little troughs of children’s books; all human life was there, and you could borrow it and take it home for two weeks at a time, nine books per person per card. By the age of thirteen Israel had two pink library tickets all of his own – you were only really allowed one, but his dad had had a word with the librarian and won him a special dispensation. ‘More books?’ he could remember his dad proudly saying when he used to stagger home from the library after school with another sports-bag full of George Orwells and specialist non-fiction. ‘More books? That’s my boy!’ he’d say. ‘He’s read hundreds,’ his father would boast to the librarians, and to teachers, and to friends of the family, and to other parents. And ‘Hundreds?!’ his mother would correct. ‘What do you mean, hundreds? Thousands of books that boy’s read. Thousands and thousands. His head is full of books.’

      And so it was this Israel Armstrong – this child of the library, his head full of books and a little overweight perhaps these days in his brown corduroy suit, portly even, you might say, but not stout, and not yet thirty years old – who had found himself barred and locked out in the fishy-smelling, grey-grim town of Tumdrum on that cold December afternoon, and who found his way eventually to the Tumdrum and District Council offices, after having had to ask directions half a dozen times, and who was finally being ushered in, old brown suitcase in hand, to see Linda Wei, Deputy Head of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services, to sort out the apparent misunderstanding.

      ‘Ah! Mr Armstrong’ said Linda Wei, who looked as though she might have been quite at home on the Larne-Stranraer ferry – she was a big Chinese lady wearing little glasses and with a tub of Pringles open on her desk, and a litre bottle of Coke, half its contents already drained; you wouldn’t have blinked if you’d seen Linda behind the wheel of an articulated lorry, honking on her horn while offering a one-fingered salute.

      ‘We meet at last,’ she said; they had previously spoken on the phone. ‘Come on in, come on in,’ she motioned to him, rather over-animatedly, and then again, for good measure, because Israel already was in, ‘Come in, come in, come in!’ She gave a small Cola burp and extended a sweaty, ready-salted hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. Lovely. Lovely. Good journey?’

      Israel shrugged his shoulders. What could he say?

      ‘Now, I am sorry there was nobody to meet you at the ferry terminal this morning…’

      ‘Yes,’ he said.

      ‘You were late, you see.’

      There was an awkward silence.

      ‘But. Never matter. You’re here now, aren’t you. Now. Tea? Coffee? It’ll be from the machine, I’m afraid.’

      ‘No, thanks.’

      ‘Erm? Crisp?’

      ‘No. Thanks.’

      ‘They’re Pringles.’

      ‘No. Thank you.’

      ‘I missed breakfast,’ said Linda.

      ‘Right.’

      ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’

      ‘Absolutely sure. Thanks anyway.’ This was not a moment for Pringles.

      ‘Well. OK. So. You’re here.’

      ‘Yes.

      ‘And you’ve been to the library?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Ah. Then you’ll be aware that—’

      ‘It’s shut,’ Israel said, surprised to hear a slight hysterical edge to his voice. ‘The library. Is shut.’

      ‘Yeeees,’ she said, drawing out the ‘yes’ as though stretching a balloon. ‘Yes, Mr Armstrong. There’s been a wee change of plan.’

      Linda paused for a crisp and rearranged herself more authoritatively in her padded black-leather-effect swivel-seat.

      ‘So. You probably want to know what’s happened?’

      Israel raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Yes. СКАЧАТЬ