He was trying to explain his predicament to Brownie and George and old Mr Devine as they sat down to eat dinner together that night.
'Oh, God. I don't know. What the hell am I going to do?' he asked, pushing his patched-up glasses up high onto his furrowed forehead and plonking his elbows firmly on the kitchen table.
'Elbows!' said Mr Devine, who was bustling with dishes and plates.
Israel politely withdrew his weary elbows and ran his fingers through his hair.
'Sorry.'
He'd just been telling them about the disaster with the school gates.
'Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction,' said Mr Devine.
'It's tricky,' agreed Brownie.
'Champ?' said Mr Devine, pushing towards Israel a bowl of what looked like steaming hot Play-Doh with little bits of green stuck in it, like grass clippings.
'Ah yes, champ,' said Israel hungrily in recognition. 'Mmm. Now. Champ. Yes. Thank you, Mr Devine. Spring onions, isn't it?' he said, pointing at the green bits, like little sketches, in the mashed potato.
'Scallions,' said Mr Devine.
'It's the same difference, Granda,' said Brownie.
'Aye,' said Mr Devine.
'My father used to make champ when I was growing up,' said Israel, rather mournfully.
'Aye,' said the old man. 'George?'
'Thank you, yes.'
George was sitting at the head of the table, regally uninterested in Israel's tales of woe, resplendent in a man's plaid shirt (L), washed-out dungarees (XL), and a dark blue mud-stained fleece (XXL), and knee-high wellies.
'You don't think it could have been Ted then,' asked Israel of everyone and no one, 'who stole the books?'
He had been sworn to secrecy, of course, by Linda Wei not to mention the theft of the books to anyone, but Israel reckoned it would be safe to tell the Devines; frankly, he couldn't imagine them having anyone else to tell, and also, to be honest, he didn't have anyone else to tell himself. Gloria hadn't been answering her mobile for days: she was involved in a very important case at work, apparently. Mind you, Gloria was always involved in very important cases at work; he'd hardly got speaking to her since he'd arrived.
'Ted who stole them? I doubt it,' said Brownie, mounding piles of champ on his plate, in answer to Israel's question.
'He goes to First Presbyterian,' said Mr Devine, although Israel wasn't clear whether this implicated or exonerated him.
'Oh, God…' said Israel, even more deeply mournfully.
'Mr Armstrong!'
'Sorry. I don't know,' said Israel, shifting his plate slightly, so that he could speak round the steaming mound of potato and onions. 'If Ted's not guilty-'
'We are all guilty in the eyes of the Lord,' said Mr Devine.
'I need proof, though,' said Israel.
'For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain…'
'Apriorism,' said Brownie.
'Sorry?' said Israel, sniffing hungrily at the food in front of him.
'That's apriorism: you've decided he's guilty, and now you're looking for evidence to support it.'
'No,' said Israel. 'I haven't decided he's guilty. But he had the key to the library, so-'
'Now you're just affirming the consequent.'
'What? Really? Am I?'
'Events can be produced by different causes,' explained Brownie. 'It's a classic fallacy in law and logic: in the absence of any evidence, you just affirm the consequent.'
'Sorry, you've lost me.'
'Aye,' said Mr Devine. 'He does that all the time.'
'If I intended to kill you,' said George, smiling menacingly, illustrating her brother's point from the top of the table, 'I would have had a weapon. I did have a weapon. Therefore…'
'That's it,' said Brownie.
'Oh right, I see,' said Israel.
'Ach, Ted's yer man,' said Mr Devine. 'No doubt. He's the face for it.'
'Granda!' said Brownie.
'Well, young people today,' said Mr Devine, returning to one of his favourite themes, 'sure they're all the same.'
'What?' said Israel.
'Come on now, Granda,' said Brownie. 'Ted's in his sixties.'
'Well, he's that young I can still remember him in short trousers,' said Mr Devine, conclusively. 'Mr Armstrong, chicken?'
'Thanks,' said Israel, absentmindedly. 'I…'
Israel looked at the glistening crispy bird that the old man was in the process of dismembering-the deep brown crackling skin wisping off, with the revelation of pure white flesh underneath, and the rich, full smell of fat and onions.
'Erm.'
He hesitated and fiddled with his glasses.
Chicken was the thing he missed most as a vegetarian, although admittedly he did also miss salami quite a lot, and pastrami, and salt beef, and sausages, and Cornish pasties, and meatballs, charcuterie, that sort of thing. A Friday night chicken, though, you really couldn't beat that: his mother used to do this thing with tomatoes and paprika, and admittedly she tended to use paprika as a condiment rather than as a spice, a culinary shorthand, a way of getting from A to Z, from meat to meatball and chicken to pot by the quickest possible route, but it was so good…Her boiled chicken also, that was good, with matzo balls and a nice side-order of gherkins. And chicken liver pâté. But that was all a long time ago, in his far-off, golden, meat-eating childhood and Israel had been vegetarian now for almost his whole adult life, and when he'd moved in with Gloria a few years ago they'd tended to eat a lot of chick peas-she was vegetarian too. There'd always been a hell of a lot of falafel and omelettes in his relationship with Gloria.
'Breast? Leg? Thigh?' asked Mr Devine.
Israel's eyes were glazed and he was busy remembering a lovely, thick, greasy turkey schnitzel he'd eaten once as a child on holiday in Israel with his parents, visiting his mother's uncle; that was the best thing about Israel, actually, the schnitzel, as far as Israel was concerned. He'd spent six months on a kibbutz when he'd first left college, and it had not been a great success-a lot of heavy metal and Russians were what he remembered, and the endless washing of dishes.
'Is it free-range?' he asked Mr Devine.
He thought perhaps he might be able to get away with free-range. He reckoned eating free-range was probably about the closest you could get to being a vegetarian; although obviously that might take a bit of explaining to the animals.
'Free-range?' asked Mr Devine.
'You know. Like, running around free in the countryside?'
Mr Devine simply raised an eyebrow.
Brownie and George were looking quietly amused.
'What?' asked Israel, noticing the silence and their smiles. 'What's the matter?'
'Nothing,' said George.
'What's so funny about free-range?'
Brownie just shook his head, stifling a laugh.
'All I'm asking is has it had a good life?'
'A good life?' asked Mr Devine, clearly bemused.
'It's a chicken, Armstrong,' said George.
'Yes, but…'
'Chickens don't have feelings. I hate to be the first to break it to you.'
'Ah, yes, but the question is, can they suffer?' said Brownie.
'Exactly,' said Israel.
'Well, he didn't seem to be suffering this morning when I took him from the yard,' said Mr Devine.
'What? Hold on. He's…one of yours?'
'Of course he's one of ours,' said George. 'This is a farm, Armstrong.'
'Yes. I know it's a bloody-'
'Mr Armstrong!'
'Sorry. Blinking. Whatever. I know it's a farm.'
'Well, you'll remember the chicken who was sharing your bed last night?' said George.
'What?'
'And you said you wanted rid of it?'
'Yes. But.' Israel stared at the pile of freshly cooked and quartered flesh. 'You don't mean…I didn't mean…'