Ian Sansom - The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

'Is it?'

'Yes.'

'What? You live in Liverpool?'

'No.'

'So you don't live in Liverpool?'

'No, I don't.'

'So this isn't your home?'

'No! I live in…I just mean, England. Oh, never mind. You drive, and I'll…' Muhammad looked up at him reproachfully from the floor. 'Just sit quietly here, shall I?'

Just as Israel spoke these words they were waved over towards a set of Portakabins by two armed policemen.

'Ach, no,' said Ted. 'I don't believe it.'

'What?' said Israel. 'What's happening?'

'Just don't say anything,' said Ted, as he swung the van over.

One policeman approached Ted's side of the van. Another approached Israel's. Ted wound down his window.

'Morning, gents,' said Ted's policeman, breathing coffee fumes into the van. 'Any form of identification at all?'

'Me?' said Israel, shocked.

'Yes, you,' said Israel's policeman, who'd perhaps had a meal with garlic in it the night before.

The policemen examined the passports. Israel's garlicky policeman seemed satisfied with his. Ted's coffee policeman was not so sure.

'Can we have a word, Mr Carson?'

Ted got out of the van.

Israel started to get out of the van too.

'Ted?'

'You stay there,' said Israel's policeman.

'But-'

'Get in the van, and stay in the van, sir,' said the policeman.

Israel stayed in the van and waited. And waited. He needed to go to the toilet. He wasn't sure he'd be allowed to go to the toilet. He took some Nurofen. They made him feel sick. You shouldn't take Nurofen on an empty stomach. Israel always took Nurofen on an empty stomach. He'd probably die of a stomach ulcer before he was thirty. Or internal bleeding. Multiple organ failure. Muhammad sat silently, occasionally scratching at himself.

Almost an hour later Ted re-emerged from the Portakabins. He looked ashen-faced. He got in the van.

'Bloody hell!' said Israel. 'Are you all right? What's going on?'

Ted didn't say anything.

'You look like you've seen a ghost,' said Israel.

Again, Ted did not reply.

'I'd almost given up on you there,' said Israel.

Ted started up the engine.

'Hang on,' said Israel, as they moved off through the docks. 'Hang on. What was that all about?'

'Nothing,' said Ted.

'Nothing?' said Israel. 'They don't question someone for an hour for nothing.'

'They do here,' said Ted.

'Really?' said Israel. 'About what? Ted? Is there something you're not telling me?' Ted was always very cagey about discussing his past-he took caginess to new heights, or depths.

'It was a misunderstanding just,' said Ted.

'Probably mistook you for a terrorist, eh?' said Israel. 'Or a drug runner or something.' The thought of this tickled Israel. 'There's not something you've been meaning to tell me, Ted, is there? You're not a drug runner, are you?' The thought of Ted as a drug runner greatly amused Israel.

'Shut up,' said Ted.

'I was only-'

'We're not talking about it anymore. All right? So shut up. They made a mistake, and that's it.'

'All right, I was only…D'you want me to drive?'

'I'm driving!' said Ted.

'Fine,' said Israel. 'I was only-'

'Which means you're navigating,' said Ted.

'Good,' said Israel. 'No problem.'

'Silently,' said Ted.

'How do you-'

'Just shut up!' said Ted.

'So,' said Israel, after less than a minute. 'Where are we?'

'In Liverpool docks,' said Ted, sighing.

'You know we could get a sat nav system when we get the new van,' said Israel.

'We're not getting a new van,' said Ted.

'No. No. Of course not. So. Directions-wise, we're going to…?'

Ted reached down beneath the driver's seat and felt around and took a book out and handed it over to Israel. It was a large burgundy hardbacked book with gold embossed lettering on the cover proudly announcing itself as The AA Illustrated Road Book of England & Wales with Gazetteer, Itineraries, Maps & Town Plans.

'What's this?' said Israel.

'It's the map.'

'It doesn't look much like a map. It's more like an encyclopaedia.'

'It's all we had in stock.'

Israel opened the book and turned to the title page.

'Erm, Ted. I think this might be a bit outdated.'

'Why?'

'Well, it was published in 1965.'

'I've a map of Ireland was my father's, it's done me rightly.'

'Yes, but, erm, I think there's been quite a bit of road-building and what have you in England since 1965.'

'Aye, well, there's been a lot of road-building in County Antrim too since 1965, but we never made a fuss about it.'

'Okay, well, if you're sure.'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'So?'

They had arrived at the main exit out of the docks.

'Where are we?' said Ted.

'Erm…' Israel was flicking through the index looking for Liverpool.

'There's people behind us here,' said Ted. 'Which way?'

'Okay, okay. I'm just looking. This doesn't seem to include any motorways or-'

'Do we need to go on the motorways?'

'Well, it's quite a journey.'

Israel kept flicking through the book. There were dozens of exquisite line drawings: Bockleton's lych gate, the lake castle built by Sir Edward Dalyngrigge in 1385, High Wycombe's arcaded town hall, the Jewry Wall in Leicester.

At last, he found Liverpool.

'The cathedral has notable stained glass,' he said. 'And there are a number of good Georgian houses.'

'I need directions,' said Ted. 'Not a fuckin' guided tour!'

There was the sound of the hooting of horns from behind.

'Israel?'

'Yes?'

"Just tell me where in God's name we're supposed to be going here?'

'Right, where are we?' said Israel, starting over again with the book's index.

'In Liverpool! At the docks! Are ye stupit!'

'Do you know what road?'

'No! We're at a junction. There's people up behind us! What do the signs say?'

'Ah, right, A5036. Okay. A5047. A57. Erm…'

'Come on! Where do I need to go?'

'Erm. You sure you don't want me to drive and you can-'

'Tell me where to go!'

'I don't know!' said Israel weakly. He had a headache so bad he'd never had a headache like it before. The Nurofen weren't working.

'You're meant to be telling me!'

'Ah. Right. Manchester? Is that south of Liverpool?'

'I don't know,' said Ted. 'You're the Englishman.'

'Liverpool. Manchester. Manchester. Liverpool. Yes, it is, isn't it? I think it is. Manchester. Yes. Definitely. Let's follow the signs for the M62 then, shall we?'

'Right. Thank God.'

Ted pulled out into the heavy stream of traffic, and their journey proper began.

The pair travelled on in haphazard and argumentative fashion for several miles-'Bear right'; 'I'm trying to bear right'; 'Quick!'; 'I'm going as quick as I can, there's all these lorries up behind me'; 'Road's a bit busier over here on the mainland, eh?'; 'Shut up, Israel'-until at last they safely reached the relative calm of the M62.

'I think Manchester's south,' said Israel. 'Should we pull over and ask someone?'

'It's a bit late now, ye fool,' said Ted. 'We're on a motorway.'

'Yes, but we could…Maybe we should just check our route with someone.'

'Aye, and what would you be asking them? Excuse me'-Ted adopted here a kind of Cockney-meets-Quentin Crisp imitation English accent-'how do I get to London?'

'Well, yes.'

'What sort of a question is that, ye eejit?'

'How to get to London? What's wrong with that?'

'You sound like Dick blinkin' Whittington, that's what's wrong with it. "How do I get to London?" Ye're from London!'

'Yes, but I've never travelled much up north!'

'Holy God, man.'

They drove on for a few moments in silence.

'Are you hungry, Ted?' said Israel.