Israel and Ted drove for most of the rest of the day in the mobile library, Israel tending to the puppies and reading the map–‘Were you born stupit?’ Ted yelling, after every wrong turn. They tried to keep off the major roads, in order to avoid the police, and they took a circuitous route, skirting their way around the coast up to Coleraine, then over to Magilligan Point, where they caught a ferry across to Greencastle, and then down to Londonderry, and up again to Buncrana.
‘Have we crossed the border?’ Israel kept asking.
‘A long time ago,’ said Ted.
‘And how much further?’ Israel kept asking.
‘Not far now. Let’s have some music,’ said Ted, ‘soothe the dogs.’
‘All right,’ said Israel. ‘As long as it’s not that…’
‘I’ve the cassette here somewhere,’ said Ted.
‘As long as it’s not that…’
‘Ah! Here we are. The Field Marshal Montgomery.’
‘Pipe band,’ said Israel.
‘Champion of Champions, so they were.’
If Israel had heard Ted’s cassette of the Field Marshal Montgomery Champion of Champions pipe band once, he’d heard it a thousand times, and it was not music you warmed to; it was like having someone beating you with sticks. Or cabers.
‘Campbeltown Loch,’ shouted Ted, as the skirling started up. ‘Och aye, the noo!’
‘Are you sure he’s going to be there?’ said Israel.
‘Who?’
‘Mr Dixon.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Why are you sure?’
‘Look, can you remember the periodic table?’ said Ted.
‘What?’
‘From school. Can you remember the periodic table?’
‘Erm…’
‘No. Fine. Your times tables?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Seven eights then?’
‘I don’t know what seven eights are, Ted.’
‘Well.’
‘What is your point exactly?’
‘Second Law of Thermodynamics?’
‘All right, all right. Your point?’
‘People can’t remember, even basic facts. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We all have to be reminded. Everyone’s the same. So if Mr Dixon’s away, he’s gone into hiding or whatever, then the chances are he’s gone somewhere where he can remember what it was like to be himself.’
‘I hope you’re right, Ted.’
‘Well, if I’m wrong, it’s Plan B.’
‘What’s Plan B?’
Ted just looked at Israel.
‘Oh.’
When they got to Buncrana they’d missed the last ferry across Lough Swilly to Rathmullan. It was a long drive round without it.
‘So now what?’ said Israel.
‘We’ll wait till morning now,’ said Ted. ‘Element of surprise still with us.’
‘Erm. OK. And now?’
‘We’ll go see an old friend of mine. We need someone to mind the pups for us.’
‘You know someone here, in Buncrana?’ It seemed to Israel like claiming to know someone in Timbuktu.
‘Yes. He’s an old surfing friend.’
‘Surfing?’
‘Aye. Have you heard of that over in England?’
‘Of course…So, what, you met him on the Internet?’
‘No, surfing, you fool, with surfboards.’
‘You’re a surfer?’
‘Used to be. Haven’t been out in a while, but.’
‘You’re having me on?’
‘No. I took it up years ago. When I was in Australia.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Another time. How’re the pups?’
‘They’re fine.’
They drove into the centre of Buncrana and pulled up outside a shop called Swilly’s.
Swilly’s called itself a Sports, Leisure and Gaming Centre, but basically it was a headshop: it had psychedelic T-shirts and lava lamps displayed in the window, and imitation firearms, and knives, and herbal cigarettes, and AC/DC posters, plus wet-suits and surfboards, and Frisbees, and novelty bikinis, and guitars, and sew-on heavy metal badges; if you were about fourteen years old and you were living in Buncrana, then Swilly’s probably seemed to you about the coolest place on earth; then again, it wasn’t facing a lot of competition. At five thirty on an April evening downtown Buncrana was absolutely deserted. There was a shop opposite Swilly’s called Nice Things, which was open but empty; not just empty of customers but actually empty of anything. And next to Swilly’s was ‘Pat’s Manicure and Footcare’, which advertised its services as ‘Manicure, Polish, Acrylics, Corns, Callouses, And Verucas’; it was not immediately clear whether the few tattered scraps displayed in transparent pouches and stuck to the window were in fact flesh or plastic.
Swilly’s was shut, but Ted banged on the door until eventually a man with a vast white moustache and cropped hair emerged from out back.
He was smiling broadly when he unbolted the door and opened up. He had gold front teeth.
‘Ted!’ he said. ‘Where you been, man?’ Israel had never before heard an Irish/Californian accent: it was swollen and sweet and guttural, like a raisin in peat.
‘Here and there,’ said Ted.
‘It’s good to see you. You’re looking great!’
He hugged Ted, and Ted hugged him back, without embarrassment or hesitation; Israel hadn’t had Ted down as a hugger.
‘So who’s this guy?’
‘He’s a friend. Israel, this is Tommy. Tommy, Israel.’
‘Hi,’ said Israel.
‘Good to meet you, man.’
‘We need a favour, Tommy.’
‘Sure, Ted. It’s legit?’
‘Absolutely, Tommy; those days are over. We just need a place to stay the night.’
‘That’s not a favour, that’s a pleasure, Ted. Come on in.’
‘And somewhere to park the van? Out of the way?’
‘No problem.’
‘Ah,’ added Ted, ‘and someone to look after a few puppies for us?’
As if on cue, a big curly-haired mongrel came lolloping through the shop towards them.
‘You came to the right place, my old friend. The more the merrier.’
Israel, Ted, Mrs Muhammad and the puppies were safely installed in the back of Swilly’s headshop, where Tommy appeared to live in squalor. The place was not merely dirty, it was inexplicably dirty: a thick grease on top of the kitchen cupboards; slime on the dish-rack, and what appeared to be acid stains on the lino; the walls sticky with nicotine. The toilet seat in the bathroom was encrusted and its plastic mouldings rotting; a couple of old towels, furry and grey with dirt, hung from grey plastic loops coming away from the wall. And everywhere there were books and records, stacked in milk-crates and in cardboard boxes, piled on every surface. Israel couldn’t help but think that unless he got his life sorted out this was perhaps where he was heading.
Tommy prepared white bread and paste sandwiches and a plate of luncheon meat and what he called a ‘Tropicana Salad’–some on-the-turn cottage cheese and pineapple chunks–and they drank beer out of polystyrene beakers. There was a cardboard box and a convector heater for the puppies. Van Morrison was playing loudly in the background, bellowing, ‘Gloria, G-L-O-R-I-A.’
‘Van Morrison was from over here, wasn’t he?’ said Israel, delighted to be free of the bagpipes.
Ted and Tommy looked at each other and laughed.
‘Aye,’ said Ted.
‘So I believe,’ said Tommy.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Israel.
‘Tommy here used to play guitar with Van.’
‘Right, sure he did.’
‘He did.’
‘And you’re also best friends with Ozzy Osbourne, I suppose.’
‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘But I once met Johnny Cash.’
‘Did you?’
‘I did.’
‘That’s…’
‘What?’
‘Incredible?’
‘It’s also true.’
‘He thinks we’re all up to nothing over here, Tommy.’
‘Ah, a real-life colonial Englishman!’
‘No,’ said Israel indignantly. ‘I am not!’
‘You still playing?’ asked Ted.
‘Not really,’ said Tommy. ‘Don’t get the time, you know. But I tell you what I haven’t given up, Ted.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve a little of the auld shamrock tea here, if you know what I mean.’
Ted looked shyly at Israel. ‘I don’t know, Tommy. I’ve the boy to think about here. We’ve had a big day today, and it’s a big day tomorrow.’
‘Shamrock tea?’ said Israel.
‘You want some?’ said Tommy.
‘Erm. What does it—’
Tommy winked at him. ‘Very refreshing,’ he said.
‘Oh, right, I get it!’
‘You’d take some?’
‘Erm…’
‘You’re not of the temperance inclination?’
‘No. I…’
‘I’ve vodka, if you’d rather. Or I can go and get some—’
‘Erm. No, not at the moment. I’m fine, thanks,’ said Israel.
‘Ted? For old times’ sake?’
Israel excused himself and asked if he could use the phone, which was in the shop, and he rang through to the Devines back in Tumdrum. He wanted to see if the police had been looking for him.
They had. The mobile library was featuring quite prominently on local radio and television news; the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals would be delighted. He was expecting George to be furious, but she wasn’t. She said she had some bad news for him. He thought maybe that she meant that they were throwing him out of the house, but it wasn’t that.
His grandmother had died. She’d died yesterday. Israel’s mother had been trying to get in touch with him. It meant he’d have missed the funeral, which would have been today, in accordance with tradition. She’d been taken into hospital, and that was it.
‘I’m sorry, Armstrong,’ said George.
‘Yeah,’ said Israel. ‘Thanks.’
He was stunned. He walked out of the shop and through the streets of Buncrana, past the kebab shops and amusement arcades, through the usual paper litter and dreck, and down to the lough, which had the view of the paintings that everyone in Northern Ireland seemed to have somewhere in their house: a generic picture of mountains, water, and sky.
So, that was it, his last grandparent gone. His childhood finally over. And here he was, far from home.
He tried to remember good things about his grandmother, but they kept turning to bad. He tried to screen memories in his mind, like he was watching a series of lantern-slides, or a home video, but it didn’t work, the mechanism was faulty. He remembered that when he was seven years old she’d bought him a violin, because when you’re seven you have to learn the violin. But he couldn’t picture the violin, and he couldn’t remember if in fact it was his other grandmother, his father’s mother, who’d bought it. And besides, he never learned the violin; he lacked the application. He thought about her speaking Yiddish, but he couldn’t remember any actual phrases or sentences, just words–shlump and schlep and shlemiel–so it was as if the language itself had packed up in a hurry and left, leaving behind just a few useless ornaments and a couple of bits of unmanageable old furniture. He tried to remember going to synagogue with her as a child, and all he could remember was her giving him liquorice allsorts to keep him quiet, but then he thought that maybe that had been when he’d gone to church with his father, and not with her at all.
And then he thought about being a Jew, how he was really only Jewish in the same way his friends were Church of England: the bar mitzvah, and the occasional service, the odd festival, Hanukkah plus Christmas, a vague sense of being on the side of the good guys rather than the bad. But nothing else; nothing more; if there was anything more. One of his great-grandfathers had been a rabbi, but that was a long time ago and in another country long before Israel was born, and he knew virtually nothing about the rest of his family history; it had never interested him. It didn’t seem like history; it was just life. When they were all still alive, what was the point of asking his grandparents about the past? And anyway both his grandparents, his mother’s parents, he’d always thought of as English, Protestant almost–more English than the English, in fact, marmalade and net curtains, and milky white tea in a cup and a saucer–although he knew that his grandmother’s family was Romanian, and his grandfather’s had been from Russia, but they’d been living in England long before the 1930s, long before being Jewish became difficult or a problem. Most of what Israel knew about the Holocaust had come from Art Spiegelman and reading Primo Levi; he was Jewish, but he had no real experience of being a Jew; he thought of being Jewish simply as being human, of being who he was. And yet, really, who was he?
Obviously this was not a good or helpful question at the end of what was without a doubt the worst day of the worst week of his life, and yet even this terrible day somehow didn’t seem real to him, was not something he could claim definitively for his own. It almost didn’t seem to have happened to him. Already it was as if it happened to someone else. And if he was honest what was upsetting about his grandmother’s death was not her death as such, but his deep blankness about it. Even his grief seemed second-hand.
He found himself absentmindedly throwing stones into the water.
And that night, lying on the Z-bed at the back of Swilly’s, the puppies in their box suckling their mother close by him, he sobbed and sobbed, his chest heaving, and when he woke in the morning his clothes still smelt of beer and cigarettes, and Ted smelt of dope.
Neither of them ate breakfast. Tommy had no food in. They left him in charge of the puppies and drove down to the little quay to catch the early morning ferry over to Rathmullan. While they sat waiting, Israel told Ted about his grandmother.
‘Mmm.’ Ted shook his head. ‘That’s not good. I’m sorry to hear that. You have my condolences, of course. You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re not going to start howling and wailing? Isn’t that what you do?’
‘What?’
‘Jewish people? Don’t they—’
‘No. I’m not going to be howling and wailing.’
‘Good. Can’t be doing with howling and wailing this time in the morning.’
‘No.’
They both stared out at the pale, misty sky–like a great blanket, the lough and the mountains laid out carelessly upon it, like yesterday’s clothes for the morning.
‘I remember when my father died,’ said Ted. ‘First dead body I ever saw. I was–what?–fifteen, I suppose, just left school. My father was working with this fella, Roy, a builder. My father was like a builder’s mate–you know what that is?’
Israel nodded.
‘Well, he used to take me along with him sometimes, give him a hand, like. It was a house up in east Belfast. I was downstairs, fetching up some bonding. And I heard this thud upstairs, you know.’ Ted’s voice grew thicker and slower as he spoke. ‘I thought at first it was a bag of Carlite Finish. But I went up there, calling out for my da, and there was no reply, and I went into the room, and I was looking at the wall, at the first coat of bonding, which was setting, and I couldn’t see him.’ Ted cleared his throat. ‘He was on the floor. His face was completely white. White with dust–you know, the bonding. I didn’t know what to do. You don’t. Fifteen.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Yeah. And d’you know what I can remember most clearly? The bonding on the wall, which was all scarred, like rivers, or like veins. I can still see it, exactly what it was like. And that was–what?–best part of forty years ago.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yeah. Well. You never forget.’ Ted nodded behind him. ‘I’m not the best person to talk to, probably, when someone’s died. But I’ll tell you what I do know. You see all those?’
‘What?’
‘The books.’
‘Yep.’
‘They’ll be no good to you at all, I’m afraid. You can’t learn how to grieve from a book. Like you can’t learn to deliver a puppy from a book. You just have to do it. That’s the only way you learn, in the end. For better or for worse. You did a good job yesterday.’
‘Thanks, Ted.’
‘That’s all right. I wouldn’t want to meet you if I was a pregnant woman, mind.’
The ferry arrived and they sailed across.
‘This is beautiful,’ said Israel.
‘It’s Lough Swilly,’ said Ted. ‘You can start with the hotel, OK? I’ll take the B&Bs. Let’s go and find this bastard.’
Ted drove Israel through Rathmullan and dropped him off outside the entrance to a grand country house hotel.
It was early morning in the hotel dining room, and sun was streaming in through the vast picture windows. Israel wandered nonchalantly in, doing his best to look as though he belonged, like he’d just come down to breakfast: smart casual, hung over.
The room was busy with couples, mostly elderly, a grand piano forlorn and threatening in the corner. Diners queued along one side of the room by long tables set with vast metal containers of sausages and bacon, liquidy tomatoes and hard, rubbery scrambled eggs, which glistened under harsh bright lights. There were also vast bowls of fruit salad and muesli.
The bacon and sausage looked pretty good. Israel thought he should maybe take at least one sausage and a couple of rashers of bacon, so as not to draw attention to himself. Then he settled down at a corner table to see if Ted was right, and Mr Dixon had returned to some great good place.
He’d seen a lot of photos of Mr Dixon and he knew exactly what he was looking for: the bland face of a manager; the face of an everyman and a no one. He scanned the room: it could have been any of them. He could have been any of them.
Then suddenly, coming into the dining room, he saw someone he recognised–not Mr Dixon, but his accomplice.
There she was: Mrs Dixon, the woman who had wept for the cameras and given moving testimony for local television and radio. Accompanied by her husband.
Israel wiped his mouth with his napkin. His mouth was dry. He allowed them to get their breakfast first–a full fry for Mr Dixon and a fruit salad for Mrs Dixon.
‘Excuse me?’ he said, as he approached their table once they were settled. ‘I wonder if you’d mind if I—’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs Dixon, a grapefruit segment and a piece of glacé cherry midway to her mouth.
The diners at the next table glanced across. Israel smiled at them.
‘Mrs Dixon,’ said Israel. ‘And Mr Dixon.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Mr Dixon, under his breath.
‘He’s the…librarian,’ said Mrs Dixon.
‘The what?’
‘The librarian from the mobile library.’
‘Can we help you, sir?’ said Mr Dixon. ‘Are you collecting library books?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what are you doing here?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question actually,’ said Israel. ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you want to tell me all about it?’
‘About what? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Mrs Dixon.
‘I think you do,’ said Israel. ‘Here you are, husband and wife. Mrs Dixon with her loving husband, who only forty-eight hours ago you were telling police you feared was dead.’
‘Ah. Yes. I…’
‘She found me,’ said Mr Dixon.
‘Clearly,’ said Israel.
‘We were just going to the police,’ said Mrs Dixon.
‘But you were having your breakfast first?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Dixon.
‘Fine. Well, while you’re having breakfast, can you just explain to me why you stole the money from your own business, faked your own disappearance, and nearly had me put away?’
A waiter approached the table.
‘Is everything satisfactory?’ He looked at Israel suspiciously.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Mr Dixon.
‘I’m just joining my friends here for breakfast,’ said Israel.
‘By all means. What room number, sir?’
‘Erm.’
‘It’s all right. You can add his bill to ours,’ said Mr Dixon.
‘Very well.’ The waiter turned to walk away.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Israel. ‘In that case, excuse me, waiter?’
‘Sir?’ The waiter turned back.
‘I wonder if I could trouble you for some more toast, maybe some croissants, pastries, and a pot of strong coffee?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘So, here we all are. First things first: the money. Why would you steal your own money?’
‘I needed the money,’ said Mrs Dixon.
‘For what, exactly?’
‘Investments.’
‘I see,’ said Israel.
‘Not my own investments. I have these investment clubs.’
‘Yes.’
‘I needed some sort of challenge of my own, you see,’ Mrs Dixon explained. ‘I was always very interested in business, but I was never able to exercise what I felt were my talents.’
‘But the investment clubs have hardly displayed your talents?’
‘We lost a lot on our technology shares, and then there was a cash-flow problem…’
‘So you owed them money, the investors?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘A lot.’
‘What? The amount you stole from Dixon and Pickering’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many of these investment clubs did you have going?’
‘About a dozen.’
‘A dozen? And you weren’t profiting from any of them?’
‘No. They’re about women empowering women to—’
‘Rip each other off?’
‘No!’
Israel’s croissants and coffee arrived. At last, a continental breakfast. He was going to savour this. But first he had to clear things up with the Dixons.
‘So, anyway, what about Mr Dixon faking his disappearance? What was the point of that exactly?’
‘Well, sir, like my wife I’m afraid I feel I may have missed my vocation in life.’
‘Which was magic?’
‘Correct.’
‘I spoke to Walter Wilson.’
‘Ah. Yes. Fine magician.’
‘He doesn’t speak very highly of you.’
‘No? Well, we’ve had our differences. I don’t think he ever understood my…ambitions.’
‘Which were what?’
‘To become a professional magician.’
‘Well, what I don’t understand is why couldn’t you just have retired and done that?’
‘Dixon and Pickering’s is a family business. You can’t retire from the family business.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘If you have a son to take it on perhaps.’
‘Ah, and you don’t?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You have a very angry son who’s not interested in the family business.’
‘Yes. So I’m afraid in order to pursue my dream it was necessary for me to…disappear. And start again.’
Israel was eyeing a croissant.
‘I don’t expect you to understand that,’ said Mr Dixon. ‘You’re too young.’
‘Well…I think I might have an idea actually. But I’m sure the police will understand perfectly.’
‘Yes, I wonder if we might be able to come to an accommodation on that issue?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Fortunately, we are in a position to be able to offer you a sum of money, if—’
‘Oh, no,’ said Israel. ‘I might be a lot of things, but I’m not crooked.’
‘Neither are we, Mr Armstrong.’
‘We’re not criminals,’ said Mrs Dixon.
‘We didn’t mean to cause all this trouble,’ said Mr Dixon. ‘We’re just—’
‘Unhappy,’ she said.
‘Actually’ said Israel, ‘I need to consult with my colleague.’
He went to ring Ted from the hotel lobby: there was no way the Dixons could get out of the dining room without passing him. There was only the one exit.
Ted was cock-a-hoop–‘Nailed ’em!’ he yelled down the phone–and told Israel to keep them there, and, whatever he did, not to let them out of his sight, and he’d get there with the police as quickly as possible.
Israel walked back into the dining room.
‘Sir?’ said the waiter, as he emerged through the double doors.
‘Yes?’
‘Your bill, sir?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your parents have already checked out, sir.’
‘What? But—’
‘They left through the patio doors, sir, out through the garden. They said you would take care of the bill.’
‘But I don’t have any…’ Israel patted his pockets.
‘If there’s a problem with the bill, sir, we simply call the police.’
‘Oh, no. No.’
‘And they left this for you, sir.’
It was a cheque. For £100,000.