The Bad Book Affair

The Bad Book Affair
Ian Sansom

FOURTH ESTATE • London

For my correspondents,

with all due respect

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgements

Other Books By

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

‘Here we are, then,’ said George, opening the creaking, paint-flaking, hinge-rusted, wood-rotting brace-and-ledge door to the former chicken coop that was now home to Israel Armstrong (B.A., (Hons.)), certainly Tumdrum’s and possibly Ireland’s only English Jewish vegetarian mobile librarian.

‘The King of Siam,’ said Ted, striding in. ‘Let’s have a look at him, then.’

Israel lay on his metal-framed bed in the middle of the room, dirty quilt pulled up around him, broken-backed books everywhere, empty bottles of wine and Jumping Jack cider stacked around like giddy sentinels. A row of broad-shouldered peanut butter jars stood lined up on top of the rickety shelves next to the bed, staring down disapprovingly at the squalor below.

Israel raised his head wearily and dismissively from his book as George and Ted entered.

‘Quite a sight, eh?’ said George.

‘Ach, for goodness’ sake,’ said Ted.

‘Morning, Israel!’ said George.

Israel placed his index finger on the page of Infinite Jest that he was currently reading, and rereading, and rereading again, looked up at his visitors, returned to the book.

‘This what he’s been like the whole time, is it?’

‘Well, I only came across him last week,’ said George. ‘I was wondering why I hadn’t seen him for a while. He’d not been in the house and I hadn’t seen him leaving for work.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ted, going up to the end of the bed, like a doctor on his ward rounds. ‘What’s with the auld face-lace, then?’

‘I think he’s growing a beard,’ said George, quietly.

‘That’s always a bad sign,’ said Ted.

‘He might look all right with a goatee,’ said George.

‘I wouldn’t have thought it,’ said Ted. ‘They look all right on goats, but…Maybe a moustache.’

‘Ach, no,’ said George. ‘No one has a moustache these days. They went out with the Troubles.’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Ted. ‘I had a nice moustache once. Back in the day.’

‘Sorry. Excuse me? Can I possibly help you two?’ said Israel, rubbing his forehead as if in great pain. ‘You do seem to have just barged into my home here.’

‘I’ve brought Ted to see you,’ said George.

‘I can see that,’ said Israel. ‘And do neither of you normally knock before you enter someone’s home?’

‘Don’t ye dare get sharp with me,’ said Ted.

‘The door was open,’ said George.

Israel tutted.

‘Bit of fresh air is what ye need in here,’ said Ted.

‘Yes,’ agreed George quietly. ‘It is a bit…rich, isn’t it. It’s damp, I think. And the chickens, maybe.’

‘That’s not chickens,’ said Ted.

‘Well, his personal hygiene,’ said George, whispering. ‘He has let himself go a bit, recently.’

‘Lost the run of himself entirely,’ said Ted, picking up a discarded tank-top thrown on the bed and rubbing it disdainfully between forefinger and thumb.

‘I think it’s because of the split with his girlfriend,’ said George.

‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘He needs to pull his finger out.’ He glanced over at Israel. ‘Mind ye, difficult to pull your finger out if it’s never been in.’

‘Hello?’ said Israel. ‘I don’t want to appear rude, but could you leave, please? Is that too much to ask? A little privacy here, in the comfort of my own home?’

Ted tensed and stared at Israel fiercely. It looked for a moment as though he might actually reach out and grab Israel and throw him off the bed, but he seemed to think better of it and instead he turned his back on him, and wandered slowly round the coop, which didn’t take long—it was only one room—sniffing and poking around at the books and clothes piled on every surface. T-shirts. Toby Litt. Alice Sebold. Pants.

Israel’s ambitious programme of refurbishment for the coop had stalled some time ago—his most recent acquisition, an old sofa that he’d found in someone’s yard, was wedged tightly between the wardrobe and the Baby Belling cooker balanced precariously on a stool. The place clearly hadn’t been cleaned or tidied for quite a while.

‘He’d always the breath of a garlic-eater,’ said Ted, fanning his hand in front of his face, in a vain attempt to dispel the room’s fumes.

‘I don’t think he’s been eating much,’ said George.

‘No,’ said Ted, removing a spoon from an open jar of peanut butter.

‘Hey!’ said Israel. ‘Leave that alone! That’s mine!’

‘Shall I leave you boys to it, then?’ said George.

‘Yes,’ said Ted. ‘I think that’d be best.’

‘No problem,’ said George. ‘I thought it wise to get you in, Ted. I hope you don’t mind. We were all getting a wee bit worried about him. I wasn’t sure if I should have called the doctor.’

‘Don’t ye be worrying about him any more, my dear. No need for the doctor. I’ll soon have him sorted,’ said Ted.

George shut the chicken coop door behind her.

‘Right, ye brallion,’ said Ted, stepping briskly towards the side of Israel’s bed. ‘What are ye on, the auld loonie soup?’

‘What?’

‘What in God’s name d’ye think ye’re doing?’

‘I’m not feeling well,’ said Israel.

‘Aye, right, me elbow. Lying in yer bed when there’s work to be done—yer head’s a marlie.’

‘What?’ said Israel. ‘What are you talking about? Bob Marley?’

‘God give me strength,’ said Ted. ‘Right. Up. Come on. It’s no good you lying there.’