“What are you talking about?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Mind if I come in?”
“You already are in,” said Israel.
“Yes. And how are we this morning then, Grizzly Adams?”
Israel groaned.
“Sleeping it off, are we?”
“Sorry,” said Israel. “Sleeping what off?”
“Big night was it, last night? Blocked, were we?”
“Blocked?”
“Drunk? Few too many?”
“No. No.” Israel rubbed his hands over his face, trying to clear his head. His chin felt bristly: he had forgotten he had a beard. And he had forgotten what exactly he was doing here. His body felt like a chair with the stuffing knocked out of it. “No. No. I haven’t been drinking. I don’t know what you’re-”
“She’s not here, is she?” said Friel, looking around the inside of the van.
“Who?”
“You didn’t have anyone staying with you overnight in your…love wagon here?”
“My love wagon?”
Following a recent unfortunate incident in which it had suffered an unauthorized and eccentric respray-it may have been the Delegates’ Choice, but it was felt by the Mobile Library Steering Committee that it was not suitable for Tumdrum and District-the van had quickly been returned by Ted to its state of quite stunning faded glory. The interior was a riot of gray primer and nonslip vinyl flooring, the front chairs were as plastic as ever, the light casings as gray and as fly filled. The exterior was back to its classic cream and red. The mobile library might be described as many things, but “love wagon” was not one of them.
Sergeant Friel strode up and down the interior of the mobile library, peering at the shelves as though they might reveal trapdoors or secret hiding places.
“Interesting,” he said.
“What are you doing?” said Israel.
“Just checking no one’s here.”
“Why? Who are you looking for, Anne Frank?”
“Have you been drinking, Mr. Armstrong?”
“No. I haven’t been drinking.”
“Drugs?”
“No!”
“Well, we can always check later.”
“You won’t need to check later. I’m perfectly sober and fit and…”
Actually, his body ached all over. This was when he could have done with his old layers of fat. It felt like he’d been wrestling all night long. He felt a little feverish. And he needed to use the toilet.
“Sorry. I need to use the toilet. Is that OK?”
“Is it en suite, then?”
“No. No. I mean, can I just nip outside for a…”
“Well.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
“I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Try anything?”
“We wouldn’t want any kind of incident.”
“No. No. Of course not. I just need to go and-”
“You go ahead there,” said Friel, with a wave of his hand.
Israel clambered down the steps. Imperious, was what it was, that wave of hand. He was trying to work out the word for it. Imperious was definitely it. As he clambered down the steps he saw the three other policemen standing outside and two police cars. They seemed to tense as he appeared. Israel instinctively raised his arms.
“He’s fine,” called Friel behind him. “Call of nature.”
One of the policemen waved what looked like a crowbar in friendly acknowledgment.
Israel did his best to look calm and smiled and stood staring at Ballintoy Harbor. There were some mornings when you couldn’t deny the beauty of where he was living. Some mornings when the sea was a rippling gray steel, and the sky was blue and the sun was golden, the views out across the North Antrim coast took your breath away.
This was not one of the mornings. The sky was gray; the sea was squally; there was, as far as Israel could discern, no sun.
He’d suddenly lost the urge to go. He stood for a moment, not urinating into the ocean. And then he climbed back, defeated even by his own body, onto the mobile library.
Friel was browsing the biography section.
He waved a book at Israel. It was a book about a footballer.
“Any good?”
“It’s OK. If you like that sort of thing.”
Israel hovered nervously by the issue desk.
“Take a seat,” said Friel. “Make yourself at home.”
Israel sat down on what Ted called the “kinder box,” a wooden box containing children’s books. We’re Going on a Bear Hunt, To Catch a Falling Star, and a Jan Pienkowski were sticking up uncomfortably. He stood up, neatly placed them in the correct height order, and sat down again.
“Sorry. I still don’t quite understand what you’re doing here,” he said.
“Well, I haven’t seen you for a while, Mr. Armstrong, and I just thought we might catch up. Maybe borrow some books.”
The last time they’d met up, Israel had been falsely accused of robbery. And the time before that he’d been accused of kidnapping. And the time before that-
“Right. Well. It’s always nice to see you, obviously, but the library’s not open until-”
“I was joking, Mr. Armstrong,” said Friel.
Someone should perhaps tell him his jokes weren’t funny.
“Ah. Right,” said Israel. “That renowned Northern Ireland sense of humor. Hilarious.”
“I’d think twice before taking a tone, Mr. Armstrong.”
“I’m not ‘taking a tone.’”
“Good.”
“So this is just a social call, then, is it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Right.”
“We’re looking for a young girl.”
“Ah.”
Friel reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photograph and handed it to Israel. It was a schoolgirl. She was maybe twelve or thirteen. Blonde hair. Smiling. School uniform. Could have been any schoolgirl.
“Do you recognize her?”
“No. I don’t think so,” said Israel, and went to hand the photo back.
“Could I just ask you to look again more carefully at the photo, sir.”
“Yes. Of course.” Israel scanned the photo with more care. She had a few freckles. Smile slightly lopsided. Hint of eye-shadow, perhaps. He took a few moments to consider.
“Take your time now,” said Friel.
Israel half huffed and looked again.
“No,” he said finally and definitively. “That’s definitely not someone I know.”
“Definitely not?” said Friel.
“Well, maybe not definitely, but I certainly don’t recognize her.”
“What about if I told you she was in the library last week?”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we get a lot of people on the library during the week, what with being open to the public and everything. So it’s difficult to remember everyone who’s-”
“I’m sure. Perhaps this photo might help.”
Friel then produced a piece of paper printed from an Internet site: the image showed what appeared to be a girl in her late teens, wearing black, in makeup. She was grinning at the camera, making a face.
“God. This is the same girl?”
“It is.”
“She looks different.”
“Indeed. Recognize her now, do we?”
“Well, she does look…familiar.”
“I see.”
“Is that…Maurice Morris’s daughter?”
“Lyndsay Morris.”
“Yes. She was in at the end of last week.”
“Ah,” said Friel. “So your memory’s miraculously come back to you, has it?”
“Well. I mean…I’ve just remembered now.”
“I see. And I don’t suppose you’re suddenly going to remember seeing her since last week, are you?”
“No. No. Definitely not. She was just on the library, borrowing some books. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Hmm. You’re absolutely sure.”
“Definitely.”
“Well. You can perhaps see it might be difficult for me to take your word at face value now, Mr. Armstrong, seeing as a few moments ago you lied about never having seen her before.”
“I didn’t lie,” said Israel. “I just forgot to…remember and then I just…remembered.”