“Have you got a Bible in here?” said Friel.
“Well, we’ve got a reference copy.” Israel made to get up and retrieve the Bible from its shelf. “That’d do, wouldn’t it-”
“I’m joking, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Oh.”
“There’s no need for swearing on Bibles at the moment, thank you. Plenty of time for that later.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” said Israel.
“Hmm,” said Friel.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“The ‘hmm.’”
“It’s just putting all the pieces together, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Like a puzzle,” said Israel.
“If you like. And there’s just one other piece of the puzzle you might be able to help us with.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Why don’t you tell us about the Unshelved, Mr. Armstrong.”
“The Unshelved?”
“Yes.”
“What do the Unshelved have to do with anything?”
“Why don’t you leave the questions to me, Mr. Armstrong. That’s my job.”
“Right. Fine.”
“So? The Unshelved.”
“Yeah. Do you want me to show you?”
“That might be good, yes.”
Israel went over to the issue counter behind the driver’s seat. He reached down underneath and started pulling out the current Unshelved, laying them on the counter. A Clockwork Orange. The Anarchist Cookbook. As I Lay Dying. Asking About Sex and Growing Up. Brave New World. Bridge to Terabithia. Carrie. Catch-22. The Chocolate War. The Handmaid’s Tale. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Slaughterhouse-Five. And a book called What’s Happening to My Body?
“The Unshelved,” he said, when he’d piled them all up.
“That’s it?”
“That’s what’s currently not on loan.”
“And what are they exactly?”
“Well, the Unshelved are books that the Mobile Library Steering Committee believes-in its wisdom-to be unsuitable for young people to read.”
“I see. So they’re kept under the counter?”
“That’s right.”
“Actually under the counter,” said Friel, peering under.
“Yes. So that no one can see them. In case they might corrupt innocent minds.”
“But nonetheless you allow young people to read them.”
“Yes, well, if they ask.”
“And is that library policy, or is that just your own personal decision?”
“Well, there’s no real policy as such. It’s a slightly gray area. It’s sort of left to our discretion.”
“I see. And your discretion, Mr. Armstrong?”
“What?”
“Allows you to lend the books to anyone?”
“Well. Yes. I suppose.”
“Not very discreet, then, your discretion?”
“Well. I just…I think everyone should be allowed to read these books. Look.” He picked up Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock. “What’s wrong with that?”
“You’d have no problem issuing that book to a child?”
“Children don’t tend to want to borrow Graham Greene, on the whole. But young teenagers, I suppose. I’d have no problem with that really.”
“I see. And these books contain descriptions of violence and sex?”
“Some of them. But they’re mostly about what all books are about.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. What all books are about: the glory and…misery of being human.”
Friel wrote down what Israel had said, looking rather doubtful.
“So you have no problem with lending young people that sort of material?”
“What sort of material?”
“This sort of materiaclass="underline" the Unshelved.”
“Well, some of it, maybe, but not really. It’s all different.”
“But you just said all books were about the same thing.”
“Well, yes, they are and they aren’t.”
“Some of them more disturbing than others perhaps?”
“Of course.”
“And the more disturbing material, you’re happy to lend out?”
“Well, look, they’re all on MySpace and file-sharing and YouTube, and goodness knows what. So what’s the problem with them borrowing a Nabokov?”
“Is that a book?”
“That’s an author.”
“I see.”
“Hmm,” said Friel. “And how are you spelling that?”
Israel spelled it. Friel wrote it down and ominously closed his notebook.
“Is that it, then?” said Israel. “You’ve finished with our cozy little chat?”
“Yes. I think so,” said Friel.
“Good,” said Israel, relieved.
“I just need you now to accompany me to the station, Mr. Armstrong.”
“What? You said-”
“I’d just like you to clarify a few points for us. On the record.”
“Oh no. No. I’m not-”
“It’s not really a request, Mr. Armstrong.”
“No. Please. I thought you said that I didn’t have to come to the station. Don’t make me-”
“I’m not going to make you do anything, Mr. Armstrong. I believe in the force of argument. But, alas, my colleagues”- and here Friel nodded toward the other policemen gathered outside the van-“tend to believe in the argument of force.”
“Oh god.”
“Good. You can drive the van to the station. I hardly think you’re going to make a dash for freedom, are you?”
“What?”
“Good. If you follow my vehicle, and we’ll have another car behind, just to make sure.”
So, just as he’d driven into Ballintoy Harbor last night under a cloud of despair, Israel now drove back up the winding hill, under a cloud of suspicion.
13
“I’ll tell ye what, ye don’t want to be making a habit of this,” said Ted as Israel emerged from Rathkeltair police station into the rain some hours later.
“I have no intention of making a habit of this, Ted, believe me.”
“Getting caught up with police investigitations. It looks bad.”
“I know it looks bad.”
“Bad,” repeated Ted.
“Yes, I know. I haven’t got anything to do with it, though, you know.”
“Aye, well. I know that, ye eejit.”
“Thank you.”
“Not even ye’d be stupit enough to-”
“Yes, all right, thank you, Ted. I appreciate your support.”
“Trouble is, try telling them that.”
“Who?
“Come under the umbrella here,” said Ted. “Quick.”
Israel obediently leaned down under the umbrella-a vast golfing-type umbrella advertising Maurice Morris’s financial consultancy.
“We need to get you away, son.”
“Why?” said Israel as he huddled under the umbrella with Ted, striding away from the station.
“The media,” said Ted.
“Why are they here?” said Israel.
“What? Young girl goes missing? Librarian being questioned? Wise up, Israel! Why do you think? You need to lie low.”
“Oh god.”
“And save yer prayers. Round the corner and we’re into the home stretch. I’ve the taxi parked just there.”
They walked quickly down Rathkeltair’s notoriously cracked pavements-subject of more than one minor injury claim against the council. The air around them smelled of rain and cat piss and potatoes; somehow Rathkeltair always smelled of potatoes. Rathkeltair was the kind of place that smelled as though someone had always just cooked dinner.
As they rounded the corner there was the ominous sound of running behind them.
“Israel! Israel!” came a voice.
“Ye’ve got company,” said Ted. “Come on. Don’t stop. Don’t turn around. And don’t show ’em yer face.”
They started walking even quicker, and whoever it was started walking quicker also. In heels.
“Israel, wait, wait!”
“I think I know who it is,” Israel to Ted.
“I don’t care who it is.”
“I think it’s Veronica.”
“What?” said Ted.
“Veronica Byrd.”
“Ach. The wee hasky bitch from the Impartial Recorder? I might have guessed.”
Veronica caught them as they reached the cab. She was wearing a red raincoat that looked as though it had recently been poured from a sauce bottle; her blonde hair was swept back into a bun, held in place by a shining tortoiseshell comb; and she wore shoes that would surely have made any kind of reporting difficult.