Mr. Dixon disappears: a mobile library mystery Read online

  '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 t
he 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.'

  15

  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 everyw
here 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.