Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

As they drove farther into the mountains, the roads became narrower and the bends sharper, and Israel’s anxieties rose as Ted’s driving style became correspondingly more relaxed. As they lurched round one corner, the van leaning dangerously to the left, Israel broke off from the explicit screenings in his mind and sat up with a start.

Ted, as usual, was driving with his knees.

“Can you stop driving with your knees?!”

“I am not driving with my knees,” said Ted, casually.

“Yes, you are.”

“I am driving with my thighs,” said Ted.

“Well, can you stop!”

“What, the van?”

“No, driving with your knees. You need both hands on the wheel here!”

“I was not driving with my knees. I was driving with my-”

“Yeah. Right. Whatever. It’s dangerous.”

“Ach,” Ted grunted, putting his hands firmly and deliberately on the wheel. “That all right?”

“Yes. Thank you,” said Israel.

Ted instantly lifted his hands off the wheel.

“Aaghh!” screamed Israel.

“Relax!” said Ted, laughing. “Ye’re wound up tight, boy, let me tell ye.”

“Right. Are we nearly there yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Ted. “You’ve got the map.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t need the map?” said Israel.

“Aye, well,” said Ted.

“Oh, so we do need the map?” said Israel, pulling an old, damp, dog-eared Ordnance Survey map from the glove compartment.

“Well, for the last bit of the journey, mebbe,” said Ted.

“‘I won’t need a map, sure’ were your exact words, I think,” said Israel. “As we were leaving Tumdrum.”

“Well,” said Ted. “Where is it we’re headed again?”

“We need the map,” said Israel, spreading the map out over his knees.

“All right,” said Ted. “Yes. We do.”

“You were wrong,” said Israel, his finger poised on the sheet.

“Aye, all right,” said Ted. “I was wrong.”

“Sorry?” said Israel, leaning over and cupping a hand to his hear. “What did you say? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I was wrong,” repeated Ted.

“Say it again,” said Israel.

“No,” said Ted.

“I like hearing you say it,” said Israel.

“Aye, right. Wise up,” said Ted. “And tell us where we are.”

Israel squinted at the map.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“That’s your job,” said Ted. “I’m driving.”

“That’s not my fault,” said Israel. “You wanted to drive.”

“No, you didn’t want to drive,” said Ted. “So, you’re reading the map.”

“Well, I don’t know where we are,” said Israel.

“What did the last sign say?” said Ted.

“I don’t know? Have you seen a sign recently?”

“Not recently,” said Ted. “No.”

“I thought you said you’d been down here before.”

“I’ve been down to Newcastle,” said Ted. “The Slieve Donard. Old friend of mine had his wedding reception there. Beautiful meal, so it was. We had braised lamb, so we did, with-”

“Yeah, maybe another time. At this moment I think we should-”

“Where is it we want again?” said Ted.

“Slievenaman,” said Israel. “I can’t see it here. Is that how you say it?”

“No idea,” said Ted.

“Anyway, some little cottage on Slievenaman, is what I think she said.”

“We’ll need to ask someone,” said Ted.

Israel stared out at the bleak mountain landscape all around them.

“What, a leprechaun? Or one of the little people? Or-”

“We’ll find someone,” said Ted.

“Yeah, right,” said Israel.

They drove for another mile until they did find someone-an old man out walking, wearing a yellow fluorescent jacket and carrying a long stick. He didn’t look like a walker. He looked, worryingly, like a local.

Israel wound down his window.

“Hello!” he said, as brightly as possible.

“Ye sellin’ fish?” said the old man.

“No, no,” said Israel. “We’re not selling fish. We’re a mobile library.”

“Potatoes?” said the old man.

“No. Sorry. No potatoes either. We were just wondering-”

“Thon’s a brave yin the day,” said the man.

“Erm…” said Israel.

“Quare and warm.”

“Indeed,” said Israel. “I wonder if you could-”

“But she’s comin’ on plump,” said the man, pointing into the sky with his walking stick.

“Sorry? Coming on plump?”

“Aye,” said the man. “I used to cut turf up here.”

“Right, lovely,” said Israel.

“Until the peelers and all put a stop to it. The world’s a miserable, crabbit sort of a place, isn’t it?”

“Actually,” said Israel, who knew when he was beaten, “you know what? I’m just going to hand you over to my colleague here.” He leaned back, to let Ted do the talking.

“Hi. How are ye?” said Ted.

“All right,” said the man.

“We’re after”-he spoke to Israel-“where is it we’re after?”

“Slievenaman,” said Israel.

“Slievenaman?” said the old man. “Ye’ll not get to Slievenaman from here.”

“Oh,” said Israel.

“Ye’d need to be back down the road.”

“Right.”

“And ye know the Fofanny Dam?”

“Er, no.”

“Turn yerself around,” said the old man.

“Hold on,” said Israel. “Let me find a pen here, and I’ll just make a quick note.” But “Where are ye from?” the old man had asked, and before the pen could be successfully retrieved for a quick note and a speedy getaway, the old man and Ted had started swapping stories about dance halls and places and people from long ago. After five minutes of hit-and-miss reminiscence, Israel managed to wrestle the conversation back to the question of how to get to Slievenaman, and they were finally away again, Ted executing a tricky three-point turn, the old man conducting them with his stick.

“He’s right about the weather,” said Ted as they drove away.

“How do you mean?”

“She is coming on plump,” said Ted, pointing up toward gray clouds in the distance. “Let’s swoop in, grab her, and get home again. Like the SAS in the Iranian embassy siege.”

“Right,” said Israel.

Eventually they found the narrow lane that led toward a cottage, and parked up on the gravel by the stone boundary wall. The cottage sloped away before them, built on the incline of the mountain, as though it were not so much a building as a glacial deposit. The roof was thatched. There were small outbuildings, a little courtyard.

“Would have been a nice little farm once, I suppose,” said Ted.

“It’s not bad now, is it?” said Israel, looking at the rough open moorland spread as far as the eye could see. “Rural idyll, isn’t it?”

“If you say so,” said Ted.

They pushed open the wooden gate and went and knocked at the door. There was no answer. The knock seemed to echo across the fields and mountains.

“Now what?” said Ted.

Israel was bending over, peering inside the windows of the cottage: it had clearly been expensively renovated inside in a traditional style, with a prominent pine dresser and stone floors and what looked like milking stools for seats.

“Wow,” he said to Ted, “come and look at this.”

“It’s a cottage, said Ted. “I’ve seen plenty of cottages before.”

“It’s really cool, though,” said Israel.

“Aye, right,” said Ted.

There were colorful cushions on thick-string-seated chairs, a plain rug, oil lamps, and a huge wall-mounted plasma-screen TV over the open fire.

“It’s lovely,” said Israel.

“Looks dark and damp to me,” said Ted. “So, now what?”

“Well, she’s clearly here,” said Israel, straightening up.