He seemed to be blind in one eye. And someone had inflated a paper bag inside his head. There was a kind of banging going on somewhere.
Oh, God.
He’d not slept the best–not good at all. At first he couldn’t get to sleep, and then when he did he dreamt all night long, terrible tormenting dreams, like something out of a David Lynch film. Eraserhead–gave him nightmares for years.
First, he’d dreamt that he was standing alone in a bookshop–the Discount Bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex, just off the M25–browsing, having wandered in aimlessly off the street. In the dream no one in the whole world knows that he’s there. The phone rings at the back of the shop and the assistant goes to answer it. ‘Yes,’ the assistant says, ‘he’s here. I’ll just get him for you.’ The assistant begins walking towards him. How do they know he’s there? Something terrible has happened.
That was bad enough but then he dreamt that he was arriving home at the flat he shared with Gloria–away from Tumdrum at last. He was walking up the stairs, before the final turn. There was a man asleep on the doorstep. And a slick of blood on the carpet. He rushes into the flat, treading blood into the carpet. Something terrible has happened.
And then finally he dreamt that there was a man standing next to him on the Tube. The man slowly produces a pen and paper from his pocket, and writes down a few words. It’s a message for him. He’s about to pass it to him. Something terrible has happened.
Half delirious, his head throbbing, he tried to remember where he was. He had no idea. Was he at home with Gloria? No. At the farm? The police station? Rosie’s?
No.
He was staring up at flaking yellow plaster, there was beer swilling in his stomach, there was the stench of…what was that smell? It was a smell like…urinated Marmite.
And something else. He felt underneath the bench, touched something. A big container. Bleach. ‘Chunky’s Fragranced Channel Cubes–Minimum 200 Yellow Cubes–Specially Formulated for use in URINALS and WASHROOMS to combat unpleasant odours.’
Ah, yes. He was in the back room of the First and Last. He was all sweaty. His clothes stank of cigarettes and beer.
He tried to get up but couldn’t. He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at himself. Fully clothed, on a bench, domed belly rising up before him, weary legs down below, and a head that felt like it was on fire.
He heaved himself up onto his feet. As long as he could just keep himself balanced he’d be fine. The First and Last. Oops. Steady. It was like having tides within him. He was at the First and Last because…
Oh, God. That’s right. When all this was over he was going to need a therapist, or an analyst: Freudian, or maybe Kleinian, or Jungian, or cognitive-behavioural, Gestalt. ECT. And a shower.
There was that knocking. Ted walked in.
‘Let’s go, you idle rascal.’
Israel was in the van for half an hour, stomach churning, chest heaving, head dozing, before he could find the powers to speak.
‘We’re in the mobile, Ted.’
‘Aye. Well spotted. All that education didn’t go to waste then.’
‘But—’ began Israel. Every time he opened his mouth it was as though he was going to be sick.
Ted had thoughtfully provided him with a plastic bag: ‘Just try not to spray, OK?’ he said. ‘We’ve not got much time. I’m not pulling over.’
Israel had the bag clutched in both hands.
‘The mobile. I thought the police. Had. As their centre of…’
‘They did.’
‘So?’
‘D’you want to let the peelers get a hold of the van?’
‘No, but. How did you…?’
‘I borrowed it back.’
‘Oh, no, Ted.’
‘No one cleared it with me. As far as I’m concerned the library remains in use.’
‘But what if…’
‘I’ll plead ignorance.’
Israel gave a huge soupy belch, groaned, and felt a little better.
There was an answering sound from the back of the van.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the dog.’
‘Ah, Ted, did you have to bring the dog?’
‘What have you got against dogs?’
‘I haven’t got anything against dogs. I just…don’t like dogs.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s their…They bite you.’
‘Well, she’s not going to bite you.’
‘She?’
‘It’s Mrs Muhammad. My other wee Jack Russell. I had to bring her along, she’s pregnant.’
‘What?’
‘Right, now, shush. You’ve got to hear this,’ said Ted, reaching to switch on the radio in the van.
‘No, Ted. I’m really not into breakfast radio.’
‘Aye, it’s breakfast radio, but not as you know it.’
‘I’ve quite a…headache actually, Ted.’
‘Aye?’
‘You’ve not got any…?’
‘Here.’ Ted gave Israel a handful of headache tablets.
‘You’ve come prepared.’
‘You’re making a habit of it.’
‘Am I?’
‘Right, yes, and here’s water. Now shush. Here we are. It’s Robbo.’
‘Who Bo?’
‘Robbo Dixon. Mr Dixon’s son. Listen.’
‘I usually listen to the Today programme in the mornings.’
‘Aye. Well, change’ll do you no harm.’
The Today programme: God, now he thought about it, that seemed like a lifetime ago, waking up to the Today programme back in north London, in his own bed, in his own flat. His mum used to love Rabbi Lionel Blue: ‘Good morning, John. Good morning, Jim. And good morning, all of you.’ It was luxury, listening to the Today programme: like waking up wrapped in a silk kimono and wandering down to the Senior Common Room, with grapefruit and kedgeree for breakfast, laid out on fresh white linen, and a pre-Murdoch copy of The Times propped up against a jar of good thick-cut marmalade. That was another life. Not his. Like getting up late, if he had the day off from the bookshop, and lying in bed, reading the Guardian, though why he bothered with the Guardian he didn’t know; it was the principle of the thing, because he already knew the news and he hated all the columnists and never had the time or inclination to read the dull and detailed comment and analysis, and he couldn’t afford any of the clothes or the meals or the houses or the holidays or the home furnishings, and was never interested in the features on celebrities or dead people. Or it was like a Saturday morning, down to Borough Market, or Waitrose at least, him and Gloria. Holding hands, fondly squeezing Fair Trade melons, and the most difficult decision they had to make was whether to go for free range, or organic, or both.
Had he actually ever lived that life? Was that his life? Wasn’t that someone else’s life he was imagining?
Whatever the hell it was they were listening to now, hurtling along in the van, it was not the Today programme.
‘That,’ the man was half shouting, ‘is unbelievable!’
‘It is,’ said the caller. ‘It’s unbelievable.’
‘It. Is. Unbelievable! D’you know that?’
‘It is, Robbo, yes. It’s unbelievable.’
‘D’you know what I think? I think these people…’ The man’s voice was steadily rising, in pitch, tone and volume. ‘These people are not yobs! They’re not thugs! They’re not just low-lifes! D’you know that? These people…’ His voice couldn’t get any higher or harsher now. ‘These people…’ Oh, yes it could. ‘Are the scum of the earth!’ He said it in a way in which the words tumbled together–scumoftheearth.
‘They are,’ agreed the caller. ‘That’s exactly what they are, Robbo. They are the scum of the earth.’
‘Caller on line two?’
More random ranting continued for a while and then there was a record–‘It’s Raining Men’, the Weather Girls–completely unannounced and unexpected, like the Weather Girls had all just wandered into the studio, mid-rant, and set up and started singing. And then there was another caller. No continuity. No sequence. Then another record: Dexys Midnight Runners. No intro, no explanation, no seamless links. Total chaos. A disabled man ringing in to complain about disabled access. Then Eminem. The whole thing held together only by the raging voice of the presenter.
‘How long does this go on for?’ said Israel.
‘Two hours.’
‘He keeps this up for two hours? What, once a week?’
‘Five mornings a week, plus the TV.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Aye, I’ve heard he’s a fan.’
Another caller: someone who’d been robbed.
‘So. You were in the town centre there. And these people attacked your son?’
‘That’s right, Robbo.’
‘And they pulled him out of the car?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And they beat him?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Robbo.’
‘About the head?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, you know what I think about these people?’
‘I do, Robbo.’
‘They’re not thugs. They’re not scum. They’re not…You know, I can’t even find words this morning.’
‘They belong behind bars, Robbo, that’s where they belong.’
‘But sure, you know what the prisons are like these days.’
‘They’re like hotels, Robbo.’
‘That’s right, they’re like hotels. We need to treat these people the way they deserve to be treated.’
‘We do, Robbo.’
‘We need to hunt these people down and sort these people out!’
‘We do, Robbo, we do. Sure, if I could get my hands on them, I’d—’
‘Now you know I can’t condone violence on this show.’
‘No, I know, Robbo. But they should all be shot, sure.’
‘I know, I know. But we can’t say that on the show. They won’t let us say that.’
‘You’re only saying what a lot of us is thinking, Robbo.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Your programme is brilliant, sure.’
‘Well, like you say, I’m only saying what a lot of us are thinking. It’s people like you ringing in that make this programme.’
‘You’re doing a great job, Robbo.’
‘Thank you. Caller on line three?’
‘I can’t listen to any more of this,’ said Israel.
‘Sshh,’ said Ted.
‘Robbo, listen, I’m just ringing in here about us older people.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m sixty-three, Robbo.’
‘Sixty-three!’
‘That’s right, Robbo. And I’ll be honest with you–I’m fit enough, mind, I worked in the shipyard twenty-eight years–but the way things are going these days I’m scared to go out at night.’
‘You can’t walk the street at night because you’re scared?’
‘That’s right, Robbo.’
‘Is that really true?’
‘It is, Robbo. Wait till I tell you. There’s a bunch of young fellas around where I live—’
‘Where do you live?’
‘I don’t want to say, Robbo.’
‘Why don’t you want to say?’
‘In case, you know.’
‘What?’
‘They might come after me, Robbo.’
‘You’re too scared to say where you live because you’re scared these hoods who are–what?–terrorising your community?’
‘That’s right, Robbo.’
‘Might come after you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You know, when people hear that they are just going to despair. I mean, what is our society coming to? When a man of your age–not an old man–can’t walk the streets at night?’
‘I don’t know, Robbo. These fellas round and about here, you see, they’re shouting abuse at the old people, tearing around on these quad bikes. I’ve nearly been knocked down meself now a couple of times. It’s a disgrace, so it is.’
‘You know what I think? About these young people, these hoods that are doing this to our communities, terrorising—’
‘That’s right, Robbo.’
‘—terrorising our communities? These people are scum! That’s what they are! They are worthless scum!’
‘They’re scum, Robbo, so they are.’
‘And yet, if we say that, we get these do-gooders come crawling out of the woodwork ringing in here and saying it’s not their fault. It’s because of the Troubles or some other lot of nonsense. It makes me–I’ll be honest with you–it makes me sick. It actually makes me feel physically sick.’
‘Exactly, Robbo.’
‘D’you know what we should do?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you what I think we should do. I think we should find these people. I think we should get a hold of these people.’
‘They’re lower than the low, Robbo.’
‘There’s no word in the English dictionary that can describe what I feel about these people.’
‘That’s right, Robbo.’
‘They’re talking about building a football stadium at the Maze, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘D’you know what I think? I think we should reopen it. I think we should reopen it and set it up as a boot-camp, you know. Like a detention centre. Somewhere where they know they’ve been.’
‘You should start a campaign, Robbo.’
‘Maybe we will. Maybe we’ll start a campaign to get the legislation changed. Have them properly punished. Really punished. Because you know what they are, these people?’
‘The scum of the earth?’ said Israel.
‘Exactly!’ said Ted.
Israel leant forward and switched off the radio. ‘I can’t listen to that, Ted.’
‘What?’
‘That’s awful. That’s like…It’s like listening to Adolf Hitler.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It is. It’s the same principle.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Is it like that every day?’
‘Of course. That’s why people listen.’
‘Him shouting and ranting?’
‘People love that, sure. He calls a spade a spade.’
‘And that’s a skill?’
‘Aye.’
‘Isn’t that just a basic command of the English language?’
‘Aye, well, you’d have fancy ideas about it, but.’
‘The bloke’s stark raving mad.’
‘He speaks on behalf of a lot of us ordinary people…’
‘What? I’m an ordinary person, and he doesn’t speak on my behalf.’
‘I hardly think you count,’ said Ted, swinging the mobile library into another lane.
Israel’s stomach lurched with the van. They were on a six-lane motorway–twelve all told, six lanes one way, six the other–and it was heavy, heavy traffic, like the North Circular at rush hour.
‘Bloody hell, where is this?’ said Israel.
‘Belfast City,’ said Ted, keeping his eyes firmly on the road, ‘where the girls are all pretty.’
‘This is it?’
‘Aye.’
Israel knew Belfast only through television, where it was mostly dark and where there were only men in balaclavas with guns, or boys with scarves tied around their faces throwing bricks, or thick-set men in heavy overcoats doing their piece straight to camera. Israel had expected something spectacularly bad of Belfast, something immense and dramatic and ruinous, but Belfast refused to live up to its image. In reality, Belfast was a bit like Bolton, or Leeds: all the start-ups and ruins of industry; a disused mill, a warehouse, a derelict factory, low-rise industrial estates. Belfast was a big disappointment. For better and for worse, Belfast looked like anywhere else.
They drove through docks, past big new buildings which looked like big new buildings anywhere, and eventually pulled up outside the BBC building, which looked like a miniature version of the BBC at Langham Place in London, though lacking Eric Gill’s famous creamy white Portland stone statue of Prospero and Ariel with his penis, which had always fascinated Israel, even as a child, going past on the C2 bus up to Camden. What was it, the BBC’s remit? To inform, to educate, and to entertain? It had certainly done it for Israel; that was his sex education.
‘So what are we doing?’ asked Israel.
‘Waiting for Robbo.’
‘Can’t we just go in and ask if we can talk to him?’
‘No, this is a stake-out,’ said Ted.
‘Oh, come on, Ted. Let’s—’
‘You think they’d let us just walk into the BBC?’
‘Well…’
‘Ach, wise up. We’ve time anyway, he’s still on the air. And I need to check on the dog.’
Ted brought the dog up to the front of the van, cradling her in his lap.
‘Israel, Mrs Muhammad. Mrs Muhammad, Israel Armstrong.’
‘She looks tired, Ted.’
‘I said, she’s pregnant. Right, you just hold her there for a while.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, d’you fancy a fry?’
‘Where? Is there somewhere about?’
‘No. Here.’
‘In the van?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Ted lifted up the cover on a bench behind the driver’s seat. ‘We’ve the wee gas rings and the grill here.’
‘Ah. I always wondered what that was in there. I thought it was maybe the first-aid kit.’
‘Aye, with a Calor gas stove? What d’you think that was for?’
‘Sterilising the needles?’
‘Holy God, man.’
Ted got out a carrier bag from one of the van’s storage cupboards and produced a wrap of bacon and sausages, some soda farls and some eggs.
It’s a truth not perhaps universally acknowledged, but one that will doubtless be easily understood and appreciated, that it’s difficult to remain a vegetarian in the confined space of a mobile library when there’s the smell of fried bacon and sausages and you haven’t eaten a square meal for almost a week. Indeed, Israel found it almost impossible to keep his vegetarian resolve as Ted dished out fried bread, sausages, bacon and egg onto two battered old enamel plates.
Israel missed good home cooking; not that his mother ever did any good home cooking. This was a myth about Jewish mothers, in Israel’s experience. He knew a lot of Jewish mothers who liked to eat, but who liked to cook? No. None. Gloria’s mother had pretensions as a cook, but her meals were always somehow wrong or inappropriate; they were the meals of a woman going through a divorce. Back home in London with Gloria he used to eat out at least once a week, in cheap Italians, or Indians or Chinese round where they lived, or they would meet up somewhere in town. There was this vegetarian restaurant they liked near Old Street, where you used to get saffron lasagne with pistachio and ginger and it was all scrubbed wooden tables and body-pierced Australian waitresses. He hadn’t eaten out much since arriving in Tumdrum, partly because he didn’t have the money, and partly because the few restaurants there were tended not to offer much in the way of vegetarian options, unless you were content to have champ with your chips.
‘D’you not want your bacon and sausage?’ said Ted.
‘No. I—’ Before Israel had a chance to reconsider, Ted had reached across and taken them.
‘Ted!’
‘I’m seeing if Mrs Muhammad fancies the sausage. What’s the matter with you anyway, you not like bacon?’
‘No, I’m vegetarian,’ said Israel, regretfully. ‘Remember?’
‘I thought you were Jewish,’ said Ted, waving the sausage in front of Mrs Muhammad; the dog wolfed it.
‘You can be both,’ said Israel.
‘Ah’m sure.’
Israel ate the scrambled egg and fried bread, washed down with tea.
‘God, that’s good, Ted.’
‘Aye.’
‘You know what? I feel a bit better actually.’
‘Good feed inside you, does wonders. Take the good o’ it while it lasts.’
‘It feels a bit like being on holiday.’
‘Well, don’t get too comfy, we’re working here, remember.’
They were parked directly outside the BBC, listening to the end of Robbo’s show–street crime, scumoftheearth, car theft, scumoftheearth, dog-fouling, scumoftheearth, litter louts, scumoftheearth–and eventually the whole sorry thing came to an abrupt end, crashing into the Village People, ‘YMCA’. Half an hour later a flush-faced man emerged from the building, wearing the traditional Belfast overcoat and clutching carrier bags. He looked as though he’d just eaten a very big breakfast, on top of an earlier breakfast, and had maybe been up all night working his way through some giant Easter eggs. He looked like a boy trapped in a fat man’s body.
‘That’s him!’ yelled Ted. ‘Quick!’
They jumped down from the van and started running after him.
‘Mr Dixon!’ said Ted. ‘Robbo! Robbo!’
‘Hello!’ said the man, turning round. ‘How ye doin’?’
‘Can we have a word with ye?’ said Ted.
‘If it’s an autograph you’re after I’ll not charge ye.’ Robbo laughed.
‘No, actually,’ said Ted. ‘We wanted to ask you about your father.’
‘My father?’ There was an abrupt change in tone. ‘What are yous, reporters?’
‘No,’ said Israel. ‘We’re librarians.’
‘Very funny,’ said Robbo.
‘No, really we are,’ insisted Israel. ‘Look.’ He pointed over at the mobile library. ‘We’re from Tumdrum.’
‘Tumdrum? My home town? Is that the old mobile library?’
‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘Good nick, isn’t she?’
‘I used to get books out there once every two weeks when I was growing up,’ said Robbo. This seemed to confuse him. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘So, have we books overdue, or what?’
‘No, we just wanted to ask you a few questions about—’
‘Yes?’
‘Look, Robbo,’ said Ted, grabbing Robbo’s elbow. ‘The wee fella here’–he nodded towards Israel–‘It’s a long story, but we’re just looking for a wee bit of help with a…library project he’s working on.’
‘Yes!’ said Israel. ‘It’s a five-panel touring exhibition about the history of Dixon and Pickering’s.’
‘Hmm.’ You didn’t argue with Ted when he had a hold of your elbow. ‘Could you just…?’ Robbo tried to wriggle free.
‘It’s very important. If you could just spare us five minutes.’
‘I don’t know.’
Ted still had a hold of Robbo’s elbow.
‘We’ll buy you a coffee?’ said Israel.
‘A library project?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll tell you what, you get him to leave hold of me, and you make it a hot chocolate and a tray bake, you’re on. Five minutes, mind.’
Ted released his grip.
They went into a café just along from the BBC, a place that was trying to be chic, and which was failing miserably: far too much taupe and too many lilies in too-tall vases filled with pebbles, and not enough comfortable seating. It was like an old Eastern European version of Western Europe; it was a simulacrum of cool. Nonetheless, it had got some things right. A waitress with a foreign accent came to take their order and Israel could have kissed her right there and then–she was the most excitingly ethnically diverse individual he’d come across in a long time.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Israel.
‘I’m from the Czech Republic,’ she said, Czechly.
‘God. I mean, wow. That’s…How on earth d’you end up here?’
‘I’m a student.’
‘Wow. What are you studying?’
‘I’d doing my PhD on Seamus Heaney, up at Queen’s.’
‘Right. Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests? I’ll dig with it.’
‘Just ignore him,’ said Ted. ‘He doesn’t get out much.’
‘Great poem,’ said Israel.
‘Aye, and you’d know, would ye?’ said Ted. ‘You never been getherin praitas in yer life, man.’
‘What?’
‘Tubers.’
‘Sorry, you lost me, Ted.’
‘It’s a poem about peat and potatoes, for guidness sake. I’ll take a coffee, love.’
‘Regular?’
‘Cappuccino.’
‘And for you?’ said the waitress.
‘I thought it was about writing?’ said Israel.
‘It’s about potatoes,’ said Ted. ‘Ask the expert here.’
‘Is it about writing?’ said Israel.
‘I think it can be about both,’ said the waitress.
‘Thank you,’ said Israel.
‘Coffee?’ repeated the waitress.
‘Espresso, please,’ he said, satisfied.
‘And Mr Dixon, what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Will he have his regular?’
‘I would have thought so,’ said Israel. ‘By the look of it.’
Robbo was busy circulating round the tables, signing autographs. People were coming up to him, offering opinions on his show.
‘Great show, Robbo,’ they said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Love it,’ said another.
‘Hi!’ he was saying, and ‘Hello!’ and ‘Great to see you!’ and ‘Thanks,’ ‘All right!’ and this seemed to go on for an age, but eventually people grew accustomed to having greatness among them and Robbo drifted back to Israel and Ted.
‘Belfast,’ said Robbo. ‘You gotta love it.’
‘Sure,’ said Israel.
‘Great wee city,’ said Ted.
‘It is,’ said Robbo. ‘But you know what I think? It’s the people who really make it.’
‘Scum of the earth,’ said Israel.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So, gents, now we’re here, let’s talk,’ said Robbo, who was tucking into his luxury hot chocolate with whipped cream, marshmallows and a flake, with a side order of caramel slice. ‘Shoot.’
Israel and Ted looked at each other hopefully. They hadn’t worked out exactly what it was they wanted to ask.
‘Israel?’ said Ted.
‘Ted?’ said Israel.
‘Gents? If you’re going to ask me a question for your project, ask me a question. Your time’s running out.’
‘Do you know where your father is, Mr Dixon?’ said Ted.
‘No! Of course not! If I did, I would have told the police.’
‘Are you and your father…close?’ said Israel.
‘No. We had a falling out a few years ago. This has all been covered before, though, in other interviews. It’s been in the papers.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Israel.
‘What sort of project did you say you were working on?’
‘It’s to do with the history of Dixon and Pickering’s.’
‘Well, I don’t know if I can help you much with that.’
‘And…’ Israel had to think. ‘People who work in family businesses.’
‘Ah! I see.’
‘So,’ continued Israel, ‘how did you end up down here, in Belfast?’
‘I had to get away, because of the business.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, you’re from Tumdrum, you know the store?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you know the score. He had this whole thing, you know, my father, about me, the only son, taking on the family business.’
‘I see.’
‘Lot of pressure, you know, because Dixon and Pickering’s was—’
‘Formed in 1906 when Mr Dixon, the haberdasher, inherited money from a distant relative sent out to seek his fortune in New South Wales,’ said Israel.
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s a part of my project.’
‘Right. OK. And anyway, there was this whole family thing, and I wasn’t interested.’
‘I see.’
‘Never was. Always wanted to do my own thing.’
Robbo was dunking his marshmallows, self-reflectively, into his hot chocolate, like Narcissus with his pool before him.
‘So, what?’ asked Israel. ‘Was it passed on, the business, on to your sisters?’
‘No. No. My dad’s hung on in there. He wanted a man at the helm, you know, which is crazy, because it was always my mother who was the real brains behind the business.’
‘As is traditional,’ said Israel.
‘Yes,’ said Robbo. ‘She had a real flair. Her mother was French, you know. She always oversaw the range of furnishings stocked at the shop. She’s got a real eye, you know: she travels to all the trade shows over in Birmingham, and in Milan, and in Germany.’
‘I don’t want to be personal,’ said Ted, who was getting fed up with Israel’s low-level-chat approach to interviewing informants, ‘but do you know anything about any other women in your father’s life?’
‘I’m not answering that!’
‘No,’ said Israel. ‘No, of course not. My colleague here was just…Difficult living with those sorts of family tensions,’ Israel went on, thinking about Gloria’s family, and his own. ‘You know, with your sisters, and your parents.’
‘Aye, well. There’s always a lot of strains, I think, running your own business. I mean, I’m basically my own business now, if you see what I mean. My own brand.’
‘Right,’ said Israel with distaste.
‘And you have to work hard at it. My parents worked hard at it. The only times they were ever really relaxed and happy was when we were on holiday in Donegal.’
‘Ah,’ said Ted fondly. ‘Whereabouts did ye go?’
‘Inishowen peninsula?’ said Robbo.
Ted nodded.
‘But mostly it was around Lough Swilly. D’you know it?’
‘A wee bit.’
‘Rathmullan.’
‘Ach, beautiful.’
Robbo drank down the rest of his hot chocolate in one considerable gulp.
‘Listen, boys, I would love to chat more about Donegal and about the history of Dixon and Pickering’s but I don’t really think I can tell you anything else you wouldn’t be able to discover elsewhere.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Israel.
‘The police are coming down this afternoon, actually, from Tumdrum, to talk to me about this business with my father and the store, so, you know, it’s going to be a long day.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Israel, ‘terrible business. I hope they catch whoever’s responsible.’
‘The PSNI?’ said Robbo. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Right, well, thanks for your time,’ said Israel.
‘Didn’t get very far there then, did we?’ said Israel, when they were back in the mobile.
‘What do you mean we didn’t get far? I’ve got it. I know where to find Mr Dixon!’ said Ted. ‘Brilliant work by you there!’
‘What?’
‘That softly-softly approach. Brilliant!’
‘Was it?’
‘Aye, just gaining his trust there, drawing the information out of him.’
‘Well, I…’
‘Come on then.’
Ted started up the van.
There was a uniformed policeman walking past the BBC. He was looking towards the van. He was talking into his walkie-talkie.
‘Israel, we need to get out of here!’ said Ted, throwing the van into reverse. ‘Quick! Get your head down.’
Ted pulled away and drove fast up and down the tight narrow streets surrounding the BBC.
‘Are we all right?’ said Israel.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ted. ‘We’re going to have to take the scenic route.’
‘Ted?’
‘Yes?’
‘The dog’s making a funny noise in the back.’
‘What?’
‘In the back there, the dog, it’s sort of panting and…’
‘All right, go and have a look.’
Israel crawled on his hands and knees towards the back of the van, where Ted had wedged the dog basket between Fiction and Reference. He peered in.
‘I think we’ve got an emergency here, Ted.’
The pregnant dog in the back of the van was heaving and yelping and a tiny sac of something–something horrible–was protruding from her.
‘Something’s coming out here, Ted!’
‘Oh, Jesus. You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘Right, you’re the midwife.’
‘What?’
‘The sausage must have upset her. She’s not due till next week, sure.’
‘What? She’s not actually going to…Is she?’
‘Mrs McCready’s son up at the vet’s checked her. He thought probably around next Tuesday.’
‘Right, but Ted?’
‘I’ve the birthing box and the heater at home all ready for Tuesday.’
‘But it’s not Tuesday, Ted, it’s now.’
Ted shook his head, looking for an explanation.
‘Right, I’m holding you responsible for this, Israel, all right? You’re going to have to follow my—’
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God!’
‘What? In the name of Jesus!’ Ted swerved, trying to look round.
‘Ted, I think it’s coming! What am I supposed to do? Do you leave it to it?’
Israel was trying not to be sick, holding on to a tiny sac that had spurted out of Mrs Muhammad, who was looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.
‘Oh, God! It’s out, Ted. No, it’s in!’
‘Ach, wise up. Have you never done lambing?’
‘I live in north London!’
‘Aye, well that’s your excuse for everything. Right, first, just calm down. Is it breathing?’
‘What?’
‘The pup, man.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Feel it.’
‘Yes! Yes! Thank God! It’s breathing.’
‘Good. I’ve whacked the heating up here, we need to keep them warm. Take my coat here as well. Come on!’
Israel wanted to cry but no tears came.
He grabbed Ted’s coat and crouched back down awkwardly over the dog, and held on gently to the tiny sac which was oozing over his hands and his trousers. The stacks of books observed and judged him silently, his total lack of knowledge of the most basic of animal functions.
Meanwhile, Ted was gunning the van through the streets of Belfast.
‘Ted! Actually, I really don’t think I can do this. The little dog’s all hot and it’s not moving, Ted. I think there’s something wrong. I’m going to be sick.’
‘You’re not going to be sick.’
‘I am!’
‘Wise up, boy…’
‘TED!’
Mrs Muhammad’s licks had opened up the sac and the tiny puppy squeezed blindly out and onto Israel’s lap, slimy and warm. Israel instinctively tucked it into the folds of his jacket.
‘He’s out! Ted! He’s out!’
‘Don’t forget to cut the cord!’ said Ted. ‘Don’t just leave him dangling there!’
‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ted! Pull over!’
‘I’m not pulling over. We’ve got to get out of Belfast before the PSNI set up any roadblocks.’
‘Roadblocks!’
‘You’ll have to use dental floss to tie it off. I use dental floss at home. Have you any dental floss?’
‘Ted! DO I LOOK LIKE I HAVE A TOILETRY BAG IN MY POSSESSION?’
‘All right, I’ve mine somewhere. It’s in the wee cupboard there.’
Israel found the bag, got the dental floss.
‘Tie it off!’ shouted Ted. ‘Don’t tear it! Tie it! Careful. If you do it wrong the pup gets a hernia, or bleeds to death.’
‘I am being careful! Can’t you slow down a bit?’
‘No!’
As soon as Israel had tied off the umbilical cord and wrapped up the puppy Mrs Muhammad heaved and yelped and another sac appeared. The van’s blower was on full, there was a bloody mess on the floor and the puppies kept on coming.
As they were heading out of Belfast, Mrs Muhammad’s fourth and last puppy emerged–this one without a sac. Israel, fumbling, tucked the fourth bundle into his jacket while–unbelievably–Mrs Muhammad began to lick and chew the mass of bloody tissue she had deposited on the floor of the van.
‘Oh, God, Ted. It’s disgusting. She’s…’
‘What?’
‘She’s eating all that…stuff.’
‘That’ll be her then. So what is it, four?’
‘Yes, four.’
‘All live?’
‘Yes.’
‘Got ’em suckling?’
‘Erm. Yuck. Yes.’
Israel sat cradling the dog and her pups, wrapped in Ted’s coat, close up to the van’s fan heater.
‘So? We lost the police?’
‘I think so.’
‘And where are we going?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t even know what day of the week it is.’
‘It’s Tuesday and we’re going to find Mr Dixon.’
‘Yeah, right. And where is he?’
‘Well, think, where would you go, if you had to disappear?’
‘Home?’
‘Home? You eejit. You escape from home. You don’t escape to it. Honest, one day I’m going to take my boot and kick you up the erse so hard you’ll not come back.’
‘Not home?’
‘You don’t go home to escape. You go to the place where once you were happy.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘For most people in Northern Ireland? Donegal. That’s the teat. That’s where we go when the going gets tough. It’s here but not here, if you catch my drift.’
‘I think so,’ said Israel. ‘Yep. I think I know exactly what you mean.’