Read Online Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery by Ian Sansom - Free Book Online

kidnap.'
    'Kidnap?'
    'Mr Dixon, he's gone missing.'
    'Ach.'
    'They're trying to blame me for it.'
    'Aye. They're just trying to rile ye.'
    'Well it certainly worked. Ted, you wouldn't believe the conditions they keep you in.'
    'I think I would, boy. Come on, let's go.'
    They got into Ted's cab.
    Israel found he was shaking so much he couldn't do up his seat belt.
    'Ye all right?' asked Ted.
    'I don't feel well, Ted.'
    'Aye, well, you'll be all right once we're out of here.'
    'It's a violation of basic human rights.'
    'Ach, Israel.'
    'They're framing me, Ted. I really think they are.'
    'You're getting carried away now.'
    'I am not getting carried away, Ted!' There was a hoarseness to Israel's voice, as though he were about to cry.
    'For goodness sake, you're not going to be blubbing now, are ye?'
    'No, it was just…' Israel swallowed hard and tried to compose himself.
    'Look, you're getting yerself all highsterical. Just calm down.'
    'But I was in prison, Ted!'
    'You were in a police cell. It's no' the same thing at all.'
    'But, Ted, what if they manage to pin it on me?'
    'Pin it on ye?' Ted laughed. 'What are ye blathering on about now? Pin it on ye? They're not going to pin it on you, son. You're just being silly. You're too sensitive altogether.'
    'Too sensitive! Ted…' Israel took a deep breath. 'They've arrested me, released me on bail for a crime I didn't commit, and you're telling me I'm too sensitive!'
    'Aye, that's exactly right. Get a grip of yerself.'
    They drove out of the police compound and into the streets of Rathkeltair. Israel lapsed into silence.
    'Linda wants to see you,' said Ted.
    'What? Now? Oh, no. Ted, no.'
    'Yes.'
    'I can't, Ted. Not today. I don't even know what day it is. What day is it?'
    'Saturday.'
    'She wants to see me on Saturday?'
    'I'm afraid so.'
    'I can't, Ted. I need to…Not now. Not today.'
    'You'll be all right.'
    'Ted. No. I'm…I'm tired.'
    'Aye, well. Get the name of rising early and you can lay on till dinnertime.'
    'What?'
    'It's just a saying.'
    'Not now, Ted, please. I need a cup of coffee or something, and something to eat.'
    'Aye, right. The old prison food not to your liking, eh?'
    They stopped off at the garage and picked up an egg mayonnaise sandwich and a bottle of Coke for Israel, and drove on to Tumdrum.
    The food and drink cheered him disproportionately: Israel had never been so glad to eat a triangular-pack egg sandwich and drink a bottle of Coke in his whole life. And as for Tumdrum…Tumdrum! The sight of Tumdrum, with its outlying loyalist housing estates, and its little central square, and the sea down the hill at the bottom of Main Street, with the car park and the big sewage outlet pipes spoiling the view, just the sight of it, and the smell…It was…
    It was wonderful.
    Tumdrum! What can you say about Tumdrum?
    An impartial observer–and indeed Israel himself until this morning–might perhaps have said that the best thing you could say about Tumdrum was that it wasn't actually offensive, that it was quite neat, as though a large, plain grey linen tablecloth had been lain over it and set for an afternoon tea of bread and butter but no jam, and that it was plain, plain, plain: the bus stop with its concrete shelter and seating, the big, empty flowerbeds, the war memorial featuring the proverbial unknown soldier, whose rifle and plaque had long ago turned green, the many churches and the shops; Atchinson's the Chemist, with its window display of a plastic set of cancerous lungs; Byrant's Ladies and Gents Outfitters, which offered pastel nightgowns and cardigans protected from the non-existent glare of the sun by a sheet of wrinkled orange plastic; and T.M. McGrath's, the grocer, produce displayed on a small trestle table in its window.
    Tumdrum was not really the kind of place that inspired you to want to stick around for too long; it was not the kind of place that threw its arms around visitors and offered you a hundred thousand welcomes: it was more the kind