Read Online The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery by Ian Sansom - Free Book Online Page A

bottle?'
    'No. But—'
    'There's your answer then. Now shut up.'
    Israel dry-retched while Ted double-bagged the dog shit. There was a great heaving sound as the ferry's doors began winding open at the front of the hold.
    'Agh. Ted?' said Israel.
    'What!'
    'I really don't think I can drive.'
    'It's your—' began Ted.
    'Yes, I know. But I really hate driving at the best of—'
    'Ach, Israel. You can't hate driving.'
    'I do hate driving.'
    'You can't hate driving. Nobody hates driving.'
    'I do.'
    'You don't hate driving.'
    'I do! I'm telling you I do!'
    'People just drive.'
    'Yes, I know, but…I've just never really known what you're supposed to do when you're driving.'
    'What?'
    'No. I mean…I never even really liked Dinky Toys.'
    'What are ye going on about now?'
    The vast doors opened up fully, light flooding into the hold, the steep concrete bank before them. Vehicles all around started revving. The stench of the dog shit was overwhelming. Israel could feel his palms getting sweaty and a prickling on the back of his neck. He felt nauseous. His head was pounding like someone was in there swinging a hammer and breaking up his mental dresser full of bone china. And he really didn't like driving. He didn't like driving at all. He'd failed his test three times before passing, and eventually he had had to go on a three-day residential course, at a former outward-bound centre in Wales, where he'd been forced to do hill starts and practice reversing into a parking space for eight hours a day, and at the end of the course he drove to Hereford to take the test, and failed that too, and in the end he'd passed only when his sister Deborah had started taking him out on the North Circular, to harden him; he wouldn't forget that in a hurry; and neither would she. The memory of it made him feel sick.
    'Come on,' said Ted.
    Israel put the key in the ignition.
    He'd once had a head-on collision with a skip on a wide, empty road during the hours of daylight. And had also accidentally brought down a Belisha beacon on a pedestrian crossing. And he'd driven his mother's car into a concrete wall in a multi-storey.
    'Hitler,' he mumbled.
    'What?' said Ted. 'What?'
    'With the Volkswagen, you know. I think that's probably part of my problem with cars.'
    'Aye,' said Ted. 'Hitler. I'm sure.'
    ' The Italian Job ,' said Israel. 'Did you ever see that?'
    'They were Minis,' said Ted.
    'I know, but I was just thinking about the meaning of driving.'
    'The meaning of driving,' repeated Ted, to Muhammad. 'D'ye hear him?'
    'Music. They're really about music, cars,' continued Israel, half-deliriously.
    'Is that right?' said Ted.
    Israel had listened to a lot of music in cars: he could chart his entire adolescence according to exactly where and when and who he was with in what car when he was listening to, say, Blur, or Oasis, or Portishead, or Pulp. At this moment, however, the most appropriate music would be a doomy Philip Glass film score, or some weepy thing by Arvo Pärt. Israel dry-belched.
    'They're machines for listening to music in. Brian Eno said that.'
    'Did he now?' said Ted. 'And what would he know?'
    'Brian Eno?'
    'Aye. What would he know?'
    'How d'you mean?' said Israel.
    'He. Know? It's a joke, Israel, for pity's sake.'
    'Ah, right.'
    'Anyhow, it's us,' said Ted. They were next in line to pull away and off and up the ramp and into England.
    'You're sure you don't want to—' began Israel.
    'Drive!' said Ted.
    'Yes,' said Israel. 'Of course.'
    He turned the key. The van didn't start.
    He glanced across at Ted, who sat impassive, staring ahead, much as though he were in a film with a doomy Philip Glass score. Muhammad sat in his lap.
    'Ted?'
    Ted remained silent.
    Israel turned the keys in the ignition again.
    Israel felt his mouth and throat go dry.
    There was an incident on the A40 once, with Gloria. He'd stalled. Couldn't get the car started again. A man had come out of his car and reached in, called Gloria a stupid bitch, and then punched