Read Online The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery by Ian Sansom - Free Book Online Page B

playing the vibraphone on your ribs soon enough, ye keep this up.”
    “Right.”
    “It’s not healthy, so it’s not, losing all that weight like that. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll put it all back on again. Ye’re depressed, just.”
    “I am not depressed, Ted.”
    “Good.”
    “I’ve just got things on my mind,” said Israel.
    “Very dangerous,” said Ted, midmouthful.
    Ted finished his sandwich in silence, screwed the cup back on the top of his Thermos, and looked at his watch.
    “Books,” said Israel.
    “Books?” said Ted.
    “What are they?”
    “Ach, knock it off,” said Ted.
    “I mean a book is not a person, is it? Or an idea. Not just an idea.”
    “No,” said Ted, disinterested.
    “It’s not an issue or a theme.”
    “No,” said Ted. “I’ll tell you what it is: a book is a blinkin’ book, for goodness’ sake. End of conversation.”
    “But—” began Israel.
    At which point a man entered the van.
    “Hi!” he said.
    “Hello,” said Israel.
    “Saved by the bell,” said Ted. “I’m away for a smoke here. Think you can cope?”
    “Yes, I think so?” said Israel.
    “Not going to go crazy in my absence?”
    “No, Ted. I am not going to go crazy.”
    “Good,” said Ted. “Watch him,” he instructed the man. “He’s a bit”—he tapped a finger to the side of his head—“ye know.”
    The man was wearing a navy crombie jacket, faded jeans, and cowboy boots, a look that was one part bohemian to one part gentleman farmer, to one part middle manager in corporate marketing. He also sported a goatee beard, which added to the overall effect and which gave him a rather sincere appearance, like he’d just made a decision and was mulling over the consequences, and he also had close-cropped hair that made him look as if the decision he’d just taken was a serious one, possibly related to the military or the sale of some new kind of social-networking software. Israel wondered if it might be an idea for him to have his hair cut short, to look as though he were making important decisions relating to weapons technology or new media. Unfortunately, when Israel had his hair cut short in the past, it made him look like he meant to commit a serious crime.
    “Neil Gaiman,” said the man.
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Israel. “I’m Israel Armstrong.”
    “No, sorry,” said the man, laughing. “I mean, do you have any books by Neil Gaiman.”
    “Ah,” said Israel. “Right. Yes! Of course. I think we’re all out actually. Sorry. We could always do an interlibrary loan request.”
    “No, that’s OK, I’m not really in for borrowing,” said the man.
    “Right,” said Israel. “You’re not one of our regulars?” And as he spoke these words Israel almost choked: he knew the regulars; he had become a local; he was mired, inured, and immersed in Tumdrum.
    “No,” said the stranger. “My parents are originally from here. But I live in Belfast.”
    “Well, nice to see a new face,” said Israel. Oh, god.
    “My name’s Seamus,” said the man. “Seamus Fitzgibbons. I’m the Green Party candidate for the forthcoming election.”
    Seamus stuck out a friendly hand.
    “Oh. Hello. I’m Israel. Israel Armstrong.”
    “Look, thanks for coming,” said Seamus.
    “That’s OK,” said Israel. “I work here.”
    “Oh, yes!” laughed Seamus. “I’m so busy at the moment with meetings and meet and greets it’s difficult to remember where I am.”
    God. Israel would give anything to not know where he was. He knew exactly where he was: stuck. Seamus looked to be about Israel’s age, but while Israel had drifted and gone from job to job, aimlessly, Seamus had obviously set out with a goal and achieved a position of responsibility—prospective parliamentary candidate! A position where he wasn’t surewhere he was, and conducted meetings and meet and greets! And he was a man who looked as though he enjoyed shouldering the responsibility; it was something in his eyes. If you looked