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

'No.'

'Not even a little bit?'

'No.'

'Not even a tiny, teensy-weensy little bit?'

'No. Why? Are you hungry? I thought you were feeling sick a minute ago.'

'Yes. I am. But I wonder if a little something would…You know, settle my…But if you're okay. I was just wondering if you were…'

'No, I'm fine.'

'Good. We'll keep on going on then, shall we? We wouldn't stop at the services yet, would we?'

'No,' agreed Ted.

'You don't need the toilet or anything?'

'No.'

'Don't want to buy anything?'

'No.'

'A paper, or a…souvenir, or anything?'

'No, Israel. We're here working. We're not on holiday.'

'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'Quite. Lunch though. We'll be stopping for lunch somewhere?'

Ted gave a huge eloquent sigh. Israel shut up.

Somewhere down the road, somewhere south, somewhere after the M62, on the M6, just after the Knutsford Service Area-the manifold facilities of which, much to Israel's disappointment, the pair did not avail themselves-Ted started to relax and decided to put on the audiobook of The Da Vinci Code. Again.

Israel had had to listen to The Da Vinci Code-all six and a half hours of it, repeatedly, narrated by a man who did comedy French accents-for much of the past six months in the van. It was Ted's favourite.

'No!' he groaned, as Ted extracted the first of the cassettes from its special box. 'No! Please! Not that bloody book again.'

'It's good,' said Ted.

'It's not good at all. It's total crap.'

'Have ye read it?'

'No. But-'

'Well then.'

'I may not actually have read it. But I have had to listen to it being read out loud by Dan fucking-'

'Language,' said Ted.

'Sorry. Flippin' Brown.'

'It's not Dan Brown who narrates it. He's the author.'

'I know he's the author.'

'It's another fella who narrates it. He's an actor.'

'Yes! Fine! And I've been listening to him read the bloody thing for what seems like most of my adult life, so I think I have pretty good grounds to be able to form a judgement on the book!'

'Maybe,' said Ted.

'And it's crap,' said Israel.

'It's not crap.'

'It's even worse than Harry bloody Potter, and that bloody accordion music. It's total nonsense.'

'What, the Field Marshal Montgomery Pipe Band?'

'No! The Da Vinci Code. It's rubbish.'

'It is not.'

'It is!'

'The Priory of Sion,' said Ted. 'Fact.'

'What?'

'The sacred femimime. Fact.'

'What?'

'Holy Blood, Holy Grail. That was a great book also,' said Ted.

'Oh God.'

'Stop it,' said Ted.

'Sorry,' said Israel.

'And what are you reading at the moment, then, Einstein?'

'Paul Auster, actually.'

'Well, that's a lot of crap,' said Ted.

'Have you ever read any Paul Auster?'

'I don't need to: if youse are reading it then I know it's a lot of crap.'

Israel agreed to allow Ted to play The Da Vinci Code-again-if they could stop at the next service station. Which they did.

And which Israel instantly wished they hadn't. He hadn't been at a service station for a long time: they didn't seem to have any service stations in Northern Ireland; there weren't enough motorways, and people still believed in doing flasks and their own sandwiches, and taking rugs and fold-up chairs for the lay-by. He'd forgotten what service stations were like: they were like England, complete, but in miniature: women in tight T-shirts giving out peanut butter KitKats, men in shiny suits trying to sell credit cards, young men in football shirts, older men in baseball caps, fat women dressed for the gym, celeb mags, sweeties, super-value meals. Machine coffee. Spoliation.

'This is great, isn't it?' said Ted, tucking into an all-day five-piece fry. 'I've not had an English fry for years,' he said. 'You miss the potato bread, but.'

Israel had gone for the vegetarian option-a fried egg on toast. The egg had not been recently fried.

When they got back into the van, Israel got into the driver's seat.

'Look, Ted, you have a rest. I'll drive. You can navigate.'

'No,' said Ted. 'You navigate. I'll drive.'

'No!' said Israel. 'I insist. We need to share the responsibility.'

Ted sat with the burgundy AA Illustrated Road Book of England & Wales unopened on his lap.

'Concord De Le Elegant,' said Ted sleepily to himself as they motored down the M6, down, down towards the south of England.

'Concours D'Elégance,' corrected Israel.

'That'll give that wee nigger bitch Linda a-'

'What?' said Israel. 'You can't say that.'

'What?' said Ted.

'That! What you just said.'

'What? Wee nigger bitch?'

'Yes! That! That's racist! And sexist!'

'It is not.'

'Of course it is.'

'Are ye calling me a racist?'

'Yes, I am. You can't call someone a nigger bitch.'

'Why not?'

'Because it's offensive!'

'Aye. But Linda is a wee nigger bitch, so she is.'

'Ted! No. No. Also, Linda's not black, she's Chinese.'

'I don't mean she's black, ye fool.'

'"Nigger"?' said Israel.

'Aye. D'ye not say that in English?'

'No, we don't. Unless you're…you know.'

'Like, "niggerly" but?' said Ted.

'Niggerly?' said Israel.

'Aye.'

'Niggardly, do you mean? Nig-gard-ly?'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Same thing.'

'It's not the same thing at all, Ted.'

'Well, it might not be to you, but it is to me.'

'Well, it's still outrageous. You better stop talking like that now we're here.'

'Oh!' said Ted, again putting on the strangulated, nasal voice that was supposed to be his approximation of an English accent. 'You want me to start speaking proper?'

'You could try,' said Israel.

'Aye, and you can try the back of my hand,' said Ted.

Hours passed. They crawled along: the van shuddered at anything over fifty. Places. Muhammad slept. M6. M1. Newport Pagnell.

'It'll be stiff competition,' said Israel.

'What?' said Ted.

'The Mobile Meet. It's the UK's premier-'

'Aye. But we've the luck of the Irish,' said Ted.

'Ted?' said Israel, sucking on a fruit pastille; he'd stocked up on sweets at the service station: two Snickers, Maltesers, some M &Ms and a Daim bar. They were so good; the fruit pastilles now were just to clear his palate.

'Aye.'

'You know when you're in Northern Ireland you insist you're Northern Irish.'

'That I am. Ulsterman and proud.'

'Yes. Well. Did you know now we're in England you've started to refer to yourself as an Irishman? Just Irish?'

'And?' said Ted.

'It's interesting though, isn't it, multiple identities? How we shift and redefine ourselves according to our environment.'

'Aye, right, d'ye read that in a book?'

'No. I-'

'Just give over, Israel, will ye? And get ready to pay out one thousands pounds.'

Coming into the Great North Way, off the M1. Mill Hill. Israel could feel his pulse rate increasing.

'What are you doing now?' said Ted.

Israel was humming 'London Calling' by the Clash. He could almost smell the tartan moquette on the old Route-master buses.

'I'm home, Ted.'

Ted looked around.

'This is it?'

It was mostly light industrial units.

'Not like North Antrim, eh?' said Israel.

'You're right there,' said Ted.

England is a complete mess, of course-everybody knows that-and London is at the heart of the mess, the guts, the nub: vast, cosy, labyrinthine, stinking, fresh and alive-like a bucket of still beating offal. Israel loved it. It was hard to explain, but it felt to Israel as though he'd been in a place where the house lights were permanently dimmed, and now suddenly someone had turned on the lights, turned up the volume and thrown open the windows.

'The ripeness!' he called out, as they came through Hendon.