Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

“The police seem to be under the impression that my lending her books from the Unshelved in the library may have influenced her decision to run away.”

“I see. Like The Catcher in the Rye and the man who shot John Lennon?”

“That sort of a thing, yes. So I’m rather interested in finding out where she is.”

“I see.”

“You seem remarkably relaxed, erm, Mrs. Morris, for someone whose daughter has gone missing, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I’m rather delighted she’s gone, to be honest,” said Mrs. Morris.

“Really?”

“It’s an adventure, isn’t it? What chance for escape and adventure does she have, living here?”

“Why would she want to get away from here?”

Mrs. Morris laughed.

“You’re not from round here, are you, Mr. Armstrong?”

“No, I’m not. I’m from London.”

“Well then, why do you think she’d want to get away from here?”

“Erm…”

“Or are you one of these people who thinks this is a great wee country and won’t have a word said against it?”

“No, I…”

“I have a sister in Dubai. She’s not been back here for twenty years, and I can’t say I blame her.”

“So you think Lyndsay’s just run off on an adventure?”

“Seems most likely, doesn’t it? Why? Do you have a theory, Mellors?”

“No. I…”

“If I was her I’d run away.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And where would you go?”

“Me? Marrakech, of course!” Mrs. Morris laughed a deep, throaty laugh that echoed the sound of the waves. “Although we also have a little place down in the Mournes, Slievenaman. We used to go there sometimes when Lyndsay was little.”

“Slievenaman?”

“That’s right. Wonderful quality of light. She’s probably in London, though, isn’t she? I hope so. Experiencing the world. That’s what life’s about, isn’t it, Mellors?”

“Yes.”

“Seizing an opportunity when it presents itself to you?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps you’d like to join me for some coffee-or some tea?-before you go?”

“Actually, no…I…Should be getting on.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Morris, sinking back into her sun lounger. “You run along there.”

“Well, thanks.”

Mrs. Morris did not reply. She seemed lost again to the light, and the sound of the waves.

And Israel, if he wasn’t mistaken, had a lead.

Ted agreed to drive down to the Mournes with Israel as long as they could listen to an audiobook in the van.

“An accompaniment to another wild goose chase,” he said.

Israel had been an audiobook virgin before arriving in Tumdrum, a gentile; by now he was thoroughly deflowered, his ears circumcised. In the past few weeks alone they’d worked their way, exhaustingly, through Lance Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike (a book that rather contradicted its title, in Israel’s opinion), plus an unidentifiable Ian Rankin (Nazi war criminal, Chechen people smuggler, Japanese gangster; or was it Japanese war criminal, Nazi people smuggler, Chechen gangster; or…), Sebastian Faulks’s Birdsong (again), and one of the ones about the African lady detective who was so smart, so wise, so gentle, and so patient that she made Nelson Mandela look bad. Today, they were spending the journey down to the Mournes in the company of the ever-fruity Stephen Fry, reading from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone-an audiobook classic, according to Ted. Ted had worked his way through all the Harry Potter audiobooks; they were his absolute favorites. Sometimes, if young people were causing trouble on the van, he would point at them and shout, “Expelliarmus!” and the young people would quake and Ted would bellow with laughter. Israel had tried the technique himself, but it didn’t seem to work for him in quite the same way. Ted somehow had the necessary…oomph to carry it off, while Israel rather lacked oomph: when he said “Expelliarmus” to the gathered Goths, casuals, emos, and wannabe rap artistes who plagued him on the van, they laughed at him, which was the opposite of what was supposed to happen. He did not therefore share Ted’s enthusiasm for Stephen Fry’s celebrated readings of J. K. Rowling’s celebrated tales of public school wizardry and japes, but since no publisher had yet seen fit to produce an audiobook of Infinite Jest or of any Donald Barthelme, he seemed to be stuck with it. Then again, at least Harry Potter wasn’t Allen Carr, whose Easy Way to Stop Smoking Ted had inflicted upon Israel several times since his arrival in Tumdrum, despite its obvious flaw: Ted had not given up smoking as a result of listening to Mr. Carr’s billion-selling audiobook, and Israel had seriously considered taking it up, out of sheer spite.

Today, though, by the time they had reached the Sandy-knowes roundabout, just outside Belfast, Stephen Fry had got to one of those long, boring Potter passages in which inexpli cable parts of the plot had to be explained in excruciating detail by characters with no other apparent role or function, and Israel had cracked and had lunged for the tape in frustration, but Ted had swatted him away, so there he was, condemned to another interminable journey listening to a story about a scarred, bespectacled orphan trying to find his way in the world, and what was the use or appeal of that?

It was the last day of his twenties. And this was not what was supposed to happen.

Israel wound down the window of the van, to try to drown out the sound of some guff about dragon’s eggs, and to savor the crisp air of an Irish autumn. Floral tributes to car crash victims flashed by them, and blue plastic bags lined the roadside, like ornamental flags in the whinney bushes. They had long since left behind the Glens of Antrim, with its homemade signs promising “Dulse and Potatoes, 100 Yards,” and were now deep into the long soul-destroying stretches of the A24 where all that was on offer were intermittent bar snacks and novelty ornamental concrete products.

Just outside Ballynahinch, Ted abruptly pulled the van over into a pub car park.

“I’m hefted,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt and clambering out.

“What?”

“I’m away for the toilet here.”

“Right,” said Israel, stretching uncomfortably; the library wasn’t really built for distance.

“Might be a while,” said Ted.

“Fine, take your time,” said Israel. “No hurry.”

“Been holding on since Carryduff.”

“Right.”

Ted patted the van affectionately.

“Gives ye a quiver in the liver, doesn’t she?”

“Yep. Too much information, thanks, Ted. You go ahead and treat yourself. Bye. Bye!”

The pub they’d stopped at was called the International and looked anything but. It was an old cottage which had long since been pebble-dashed and had its old wooden windows replaced by uPVC, and its garden turned into the car park. A sign boasted of Live Big-Screen Sport, and the inevitable alcopop Happy Hours, and a range of bar snacks that called themselves, unpromisingly, “Belt-Busters” and “Monster-Bites.” Along its road-facing gable wall a crude mural had been painted, depicting an Ulster fry: bacon, potato farls, soda bread, and a very large-yolked fried egg. The detailing on the bacon was reminiscent of a Lucian Freud: quease-making man-size marbled fat. But the place did have one saving grace-a good old-fashioned red telephone booth by its front door. Israel hadn’t seen an old red phone booth in years: it was like seeing an old friend. When he was young back home in north London he would often slip out of the house in the evenings to make calls from a filthy old red phone booth to his first girlfriend, who was called Leah. He’d spend hours on the phone to Leah, breathing in the smell of rusting metal and urine and other people’s stale cigarette smoke, and kicking restlessly at the takeaway cartons at his feet, hardly saying anything, gazing up at the moon and space and the innumerable prostitutes’ cards and his own fantasies, while angry dog-walkers and fellow students and immigrants and men in overcoats would tap impatiently on the window, willing him to finish. He had happy, happy memories of the old red telephone booth.