The Case of the Missing Books

'Uh-huh. Good. Well, I was hoping'-she paused momentarily-'I could ask you a few questions?'

She was straining slightly forwards now, standing up on tiptoe, looking over Israel's shoulder into the room.

'Look,' said Israel, manoeuvring himself to block her view, 'if it's about the school gateposts, it was an accident, and no one was hurt.'

'The school gateposts?' said Veronica, still trying to look round him.

'It's not about the school gateposts?'

'No. I don't think so,' said Veronica Byrd disinterestedly. 'Although it sounds fascinating. Maybe you want to tell me all about it?'

'No. Thanks.'

Veronica looked at him and raised an eyebrow. 'Sure?'

'Yes. Thanks. Right. Well.'

Veronica continued staring at him. 'Have you been in a fight?'

'No. Why?'

'It's just, your eye.'

'Accident.'

'Oh. So.'

Veronica's gaze did not waver.

'Do you want to come in?' asked Israel, finally giving way, although really there was no need; Veronica was already across the threshold.

'Well well,' said Veronica, staring round, clearly unimpressed, 'this is home?'

Despite his attempts at home improvements-the scattering of clothes and books, the strategic placement of empty mugs-the place still looked exactly like what in fact it was: a home for chickens, with perhaps an untidy weekend guest who'd overstayed his welcome. A chicken coop, after all, is a chicken coop, no matter how many books and old clothes you leave scattered around. And Israel himself of course by this stage in his stay looked like a hobo who'd been riding trains: his corduroy jacket suit the only thing of his own remaining in an outfit in which he increasingly resembled the Unabomber. He needed some new trousers. And shirts. And shoes.

'It's temporary. Sorry,' he said, embarrassed, 'I can't offer you a seat or anything.'

'It's OK.' Veronica perched herself on the edge of the bed, pushing aside Israel's pile of books to make more room for herself. 'You like reading, huh? Isn't that a bit clichéd for a librarian?'

'Well,' said Israel, flushing. 'You could say that. Isn't it a bit clichéd for a journalist to barge in and be asking so many questions?'

'Touché!' said Veronica.

No one had said anything like 'Touché!' to Israel for quite a while. He liked it.

Veronica was sitting just inches away from Israel's bedside bottle of Bushmills and was now looking at him expectantly.

'Sorry. Can I get you a…?' Israel said, indicating the bottle.

'Sure.'

'Erm…' Israel searched around for another glass but there was no other glass, so he poured his own whiskey into a mug, and wiped out the glass with one of Brownie's spare T-shirts-The Thrills. Then he topped up the clean glass with whiskey and gave that to Veronica.

'You certainly know how to treat a girl, Mr Armstrong.'

'Ha, ha,' laughed Israel nervously, hovering at the side of the bed. 'So. How can I help you?'

'It's all right, you can sit down,' said Veronica, patting the bed beside her. 'I don't bite.'

'Right. Ha, ha.' Israel perched himself on the edge of the bed, as far away as possible.

'Actually,' said Veronica, removing a reporter's spiral-bound notepad and a pencil from her handbag, 'it's about the missing books.'

Israel coughed nervously. How did she know about the missing books?

'The missing books?'

'Yes. The library books? Is it true that over ten thousand books have gone missing from-'

'Fifteen thousand, actually.'

'Really?'

'No! No. That's just the stock, of the library. I believe. Look. Sorry. I really don't think I'm the best person to help you with this. I'm only-'

'The librarian?'

'Yes. But, I've only just-'

At that moment there was another knock at the door, thank goodness, and Israel was about to get up and answer it when the door flew open. It was George.

'George!' said Israel, leaping up from the bed, his voice slightly hoarse with relief and fear and excitement. 'Lovely to-'

'Armstrong,' said George, taking in the scene.

'Come in,' said Israel, taking off his glasses, and then putting them back on again. 'I was just-'

'No. Thank you. I didn't realise you were entertaining.'

'Ha, ha!' laughed Israel, blushing. 'I'm not entertaining. This is Veronica Byrd, from the local paper. She's just popped in to-'

'Georgina,' said Veronica.

'Veronica,' nodded George.

'Do you two know each other?'

'Yes,' said Veronica.

'From a long time ago,' added George. 'I'll leave you two to it then.'

'George, no, it's fine…'

But George had already gone, shutting the door loudly behind her.

'So,' said Israel, embarrassed, turning towards Veronica, who was taking a long sip of her whiskey.

'So?'

'Erm. How do you two…?'

'Oh, Georgina?' said Veronica, smoothing down her skirt. 'She was head girl when I was at school.'

'Really?'

'And I was deputy head girl.'

'Uh-huh.'

'We were sworn enemies, actually. Competed over everything: you know, homework, netball, swimming, boyfriends,' said Veronica, with some bitterness. 'She was an all-rounder. Straight As in her exams. She was going to go to university.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'But?' said Israel.

'But?'

'I detected a but there?'

'Oh you did, did you?'

'Yes.'

'You'd make a very good journalist, Mr Armstrong.'

Israel blushed. And Veronica moved a little closer towards him on the bed.

'It's all the Beckett and Pinter,' said Israel nervously.

'Sorry?'

'Samuel Beckett? Harold Pinter? Lot of pregnant pauses, silences, stuff like that. You know.'

'Oh.'

'I did them at university.'

'OK. Good. Well done.'

'So your "but"?' persisted Israel.

'My butt, Mr Armstrong?' said Veronica, shifting ever so slightly closer.

'Yes, your, er, not your…ahem. Your…'

'Oh yes, my "but",' said Veronica, laughing. 'But-as I was saying-then George's parents died.'

'Oh dear.'

'It was the toy-shop bomb.'

'The what?'

'In 1986 they put a bomb in the litter bin outside the toy shop on Main Street.'

'Who? The IRA?'

'Of course.'

'In Tumdrum?'

'Yes. Her parents were going to buy a christening present for her little brother.'

'Brownie?'

'Is that his name? I don't remember his name.'

'Yes. Brian his proper name is, but people call him Brownie.'

'Ah, right, yes, that's him.'

'God.'

'He survived, anyway. His pram was blown across the road by the blast. Both parents killed instantly.'

'That's terrible.'

'Yes. It was. But that was a long time ago. Things like that don't happen here now.'

'Right,' said Israel, sounding unconvinced.

Veronica took another long sip of her drink.

'So what happened to George?' asked Israel.

'She left school and came to look after the farm with her grandfather, and to bring up her little brother.'

'I see.'

'Is he still around, Brian, the brother?' asked Veronica.

'Brownie? Yes. Yes, he is.'

'He must be, what…?'

'He's probably late teens, early twenties. He's at university.'

'Inherited the brains then. And what about the grandfather?'

'Yes. He's still around too.'

'Huh,' said Veronica. 'So, how are you finding it, being stuck out here with them? Would it not put you in mind of the Addams family or something?'

'Well, it's-'

'Or the Simpsons?'

'It's not so bad.'

'Or Psycho.'

'Yes, well, thanks.'

Veronica finished her drink.

'Anyway,' she said, patting the bed, 'let's get back to the subject in hand, shall we?'

'Which,' gulped Israel, 'was?'

'The missing library books?'

'Ah, well. Yes, I really can't say anything about that. You'll have to ask Linda Wei.'

'Linda?' laughed Veronica, reaching into her handbag and taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.