Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

“And have you got a girlfriend?”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant.”

“Just asking.”

“Well,” said Israel. “Yes, I do have a girlfriend, actually. Or, no. I mean, I did have a girlfriend, until recently, we…split up.”

“On the rebound, then, are we?”

“Sorry?”

“Looking for someone to share our little secrets with?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying-”

“I’m not implying anything, Mr. Armstrong. I’m just thinking aloud here. Trying to piece things together.”

Israel had the feeling that the conversation was being pieced together in a way that was not advantageous to him. And that it was about to be made into a very unpleasant jigsaw.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Erm. I was here. In the van.”

“And you make a habit of sleeping in the mobile library, do ye?”

“No. It was just-”

“A sort of secret meeting place for you, is it?”

“No.”

“Somewhere to entertain?”

“No! Nothing like that.”

“So did you see anyone last night?”

“Yes,” said Israel. “I did. Yes. I saw the Reverend Roberts, actually.”

“And what time would that have been?”

“At about eleven o’clock.”

“That’s the Reverend Roberts of First Presbyterian Church in Tumdrum?”

“That’s right.”

“And you were entertaining him on the van?”

“No, I wasn’t entertaining him anywhere. I visited him at the manse, up in town.”

“I see. And you make a habit of dropping in around eleven to see him every night, do you?”

“No. It’s just-”

“You have a close relationship, you and the Reverend Roberts?”

“No! I’m not…What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Armstrong. It’s obviously your business who you visit late at night-”

“Look. I’m not-”

“What, Mr. Armstrong?”

“I’m a perfectly…normal…red-blooded heterosexual, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I see,” said Friel.

“I was…just upset…”

“I see. And you’d often go to your friend the Reverend Roberts if you’re ‘upset,’ would you?”

“No, not really. I just…He’s a friend. You can ask him.”

“Oh, we will be asking him, Mr. Armstrong, don’t you worry about that.”

Israel could feel all the early warning signs of a migraine coming on.

“And before you visited the Reverend Roberts, Mr. Armstrong. Can I ask where you were before that?”

“Before that? Erm. I was at the Devines’. You can ask them as well.”

“Good. Thank you. We will.”

“And before that I was-”

“OK, thank you. That’s enough for the moment. You certainly seem to have your alibi all worked out.”

“Alibi! What do you mean, alibi? It’s not an alibi! It’s the truth. An alibi is when you…try and prove that you didn’t do something-”

“That’s right,” said Friel.

“So it’s not an alibi,” said Israel.

“We’ll be the judge of that, shall we, Mr. Armstrong?”

At which, he got up and started to walk toward the door.

“Hang on,” said Israel. “Where are you going?”

“I have no further questions for you at the moment, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Well, you can’t just leave, having suggested I’ve concocted some sort of alibi for something I don’t know I’m supposed to have done.”

“I just want to make sure we all lay our cards on the table, Mr. Armstrong. If you cooperate with us I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of things very quickly and easily.”

“Yes. Right,” said Israel, unconvinced. “You don’t seriously think I’ve got anything to do with this girl’s disappearance, do you?”

“Actually, to be honest, Mr. Armstrong, on this occasion…” And Friel paused for what seemed like an eternity. “No, I don’t think you have anything to do with the disappearance.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Israel.

“But we do have to ask, you understand.”

“Yes, of course.”

“No stone unturned.”

“Absolutely.”

“But,” said Friel, at the door.

“There’s a but?”

“There’s always a but, Mr. Armstrong. I don’t think you had anything personally to do with her disappearance-not really your style, is it?”

“My style?”

“Violence. Kidnapping.”

“What? She’s been kidnapped?”

“We’re keeping our lines of inquiry open at this time,” said Friel, looking Israel up and down. “But not your style.”

“Of course it’s not my style! I’m a librarian! I’m a paci-fist! I-”

“I’m sure, Mr. Armstrong. It’s just I have a wee hunch that tells me that you might be able to tell us something about the disappearance.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Israel.

“Nothing at all?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Fine. If you want to stick with that story.” He turned his back again, as if to leave.

“It’s not a story! It’s the truth!” said Israel.

“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?” said Friel.

“Yes. And I’d swear it on the Bible, if we had a…Bible in here.”

“Have you got a Bible in here?” said Friel.

“Well, we’ve got a reference copy.” Israel made to get up and retrieve the Bible from its shelf. “That’d do, wouldn’t it-”

“I’m joking, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Oh.”

“There’s no need for swearing on Bibles at the moment, thank you. Plenty of time for that later.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” said Israel.

“Hmm,” said Friel.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“The ‘hmm.’”

“It’s just putting all the pieces together, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Like a puzzle,” said Israel.

“If you like. And there’s just one other piece of the puzzle you might be able to help us with.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Why don’t you tell us about the Unshelved, Mr. Armstrong.”

“The Unshelved?”

“Yes.”

“What do the Unshelved have to do with anything?”

“Why don’t you leave the questions to me, Mr. Armstrong. That’s my job.”

“Right. Fine.”

“So? The Unshelved.”

“Yeah. Do you want me to show you?”

“That might be good, yes.”

Israel went over to the issue counter behind the driver’s seat. He reached down underneath and started pulling out the current Unshelved, laying them on the counter. A Clockwork Orange. The Anarchist Cookbook. As I Lay Dying. Asking About Sex and Growing Up. Brave New World. Bridge to Terabithia. Carrie. Catch-22. The Chocolate War. The Handmaid’s Tale. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Slaughterhouse-Five. And a book called What’s Happening to My Body?

“The Unshelved,” he said, when he’d piled them all up.

“That’s it?”

“That’s what’s currently not on loan.”

“And what are they exactly?”

“Well, the Unshelved are books that the Mobile Library Steering Committee believes-in its wisdom-to be unsuitable for young people to read.”

“I see. So they’re kept under the counter?”

“That’s right.”

“Actually under the counter,” said Friel, peering under.

“Yes. So that no one can see them. In case they might corrupt innocent minds.”

“But nonetheless you allow young people to read them.”

“Yes, well, if they ask.”

“And is that library policy, or is that just your own personal decision?”

“Well, there’s no real policy as such. It’s a slightly gray area. It’s sort of left to our discretion.”

“I see. And your discretion, Mr. Armstrong?”

“What?”

“Allows you to lend the books to anyone?”