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Overview
Disgruntled, disheveled, fish-out-of-water mobile librarian Israel Armstrong is finally going home to London, rattling along with his irascible companion Ted Carson in their rust bucket book van en route to the Mobile Meet. The annual library convention gives Israel the opportunity to catch up with his family, eat paprika chicken and baklava, and drink good coffee. But they've barely found parking when the unimaginable occurs: their library-on-wheels is stolen!
Who on earth would want to take a thirty-year-old traveling disaster with the words "The Book Stops Here" painted across the back? Israel and Ted are determined to find out. But their search is leading them on a very twisty trail through the countryside in pursuit of a suspicious convoy of New Age travelers. And the hunt is raising numerous troubling questions—such as where exactly is Israel's high-flying girlfriend, Gloria? And is Ted really making a move on Israel's widowed mother?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061873072 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 10/13/2009 |
| Series: | The Mobile Library Mystery Series , #3 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Sales rank: | 1,036,855 |
| File size: | 412 KB |
About the Author
Ian Sansom is the author of 10 books of fiction and non-fiction. He is a former Fellow of Emmanuel College, Cambridge and a former Writer-in-Residence at the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry in Belfast. He is currently a Professor in the Department of English and Comparative Literary Studies at the University of Warwick. He is a regular broadcaster on BBC Radio 4 and Radio 3 and he writes for The Guardian and The London Review of Books.
Read an Excerpt
The Book Stops Here
A Mobile Library Mystery
By Ian Sansom
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2008
Ian Sansom
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780061452000
One
I resign,' said Israel.
'Aye,' said Ted.
'I do,' said Israel.
'Good,' said Ted.
'I've made up my mind. I'm resigning,' said Israel. 'Today.'
'Right you are,' said Ted.
'I've absolutely had enough.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Of the whole thing. This place! The—'
'People,' said Ted.
'Exactly!' said Israel. 'The people! Exactly! The people, they drive me—'
'Crazy,' said Ted.
'Exactly! You took the words right out of my mouth.'
'Aye, well, you might've mentioned it before,' said Ted.
'Well, this is it. I'm up to—'
'High dough,' said Ted.
'What?' said Israel.
'You're up to high dough with it.'
'No,' said Israel. 'No. I don't even know what it means, up to high dough with
it. What the hell's that supposed to mean?'
'It's an expression.'
'Ah, right yes. It would be. Anyway, I'm up to . . . here with it.'
'Good.'
'I'm going to hand in my resignation to Linda.'
'Excellent,' said Ted.
'Before the meeting today.'
'Firstclass,' said Ted.
'Before she has a chance to trick me out of it again.'
'Away you go then.'
'I am so gone already. I am out of here. I tell you, you are not going to see me for dust. I'm moving on.'
'Mmm.'
'I'm going! Look!'
'Ach, well, it's been a pleasure, sure. We're all going to miss you.'
'Yes,' said Israel.
'Good,' said Ted.
'So,' said Israel.
'You've time for a wee cup of coffee at Zelda's first, mind? For auld time's sake?'
'No!' said Israel. 'I need to strike while the—'
'And a wee scone, but?'
Israel looked at his watch.
'Meeting's not till three,' said Ted.
'What day is it?' said Israel.
'Wednesday.'
'What's the scone on Wednesdays?'
'Date and almond,' said Ted, consulting his mental daily-special scone timetable.
Israel huffed. 'All right,' he said. 'But then we need to get there early. I am definitely, definitely resigning.'
They'd had this conversation before, around about mid-week, and once a week, for several months now, Israel Armstrong BA (Hons) and Ted Carson—the Starsky and Hutch, the Morse and Lewis, the Thomson and Thompson, the Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the Dante and Virgil, the Cagney and Lacey, the Deleuze and Guattari, the Mork and Mindy of the mobile library world.
Israel had been living in Tumdrum for long enough—more than six months!—to find the routine not just getting to him, but actually having got to him; the self-same rainy days which slowly and silently became weeks and then months, and which seemed gradually to be slowing, and slowing, and slowing, almost but not quite to a complete and utter stop, so that it felt to Israel as though he'd been stuck in Tumdrum on the mobile library not just for months, but for years, indeed for decades almost. He never should have taken the job here in the first place; it was an act of desperation. He felt trapped; stuck; in complete and utter stasis. He felt incapacitated. He felt like he was in a never-ending episode of 24 or a play by Samuel Beckett.
'This is like Krapp's Last Tape,' he told Ted, once they were settled in Zelda's and Minnie was bringing them coffee.
'Is it?' said Ted.
'Are ye being rude about my coffee?' said Minnie.
'No,' said Israel. 'I'm just talking about a play.'
'Ooh!' said Minnie.
'Beckett?' said Israel.
'Beckett?' said Minnie. 'He was a Portora boy, wasn't he?'
'What?' said Israel.
'In Enniskillen there,' said Minnie. 'The school, sure. That's where he went to school, wasn't it?'
'I don't know,' said Israel. 'Samuel Beckett?'
'Sure he did,' said Minnie. 'What was that play he did?'
'Waiting for Godot?' said Israel.
'Was it?' said Minnie. 'It wasn't Educating Rita?'
'Riverdance,' said Ted. 'Most popular Irish show of all time.'
'That's not a play,' said Israel wearily.
'Aye, you're a theatre critic now, are ye?'
'Och,' said Minnie. 'And who was the other fella?'
'What?' said Israel.
'That went to school there, at Portora?'
'No, you've got me,' said Israel. 'No idea.'
'Ach, sure ye know. The homosexualist.'
'You've lost me, Minnie, sorry.'
'Wrote the plays. "A handbag!" That one.'
'Oscar Wilde?'
'He's yer man!' said Minnie. 'He was another Portora boy, wasn't he, Ted?'
Ted was busy emptying the third of his traditional three sachets of sugar into his coffee. 'Aye.'
'Zelda's nephew went there,' said Minnie. 'The one in Fermanagh there.'
'Right,' said Israel. 'Anyway . . .'
'I'll check with her.'
'Fine,' said Israel.
'And your scones are just coming,' said Minnie.
'That's grand,' said Ted, producing a pack of cigarettes.
'Uh-uh,' said Minnie, wagging her finger. 'We've gone no smoking.'
'Ye have not?' said Ted.
'We have indeed.'
'Since when?'
'The weekend, just.'
'Ach,' said Ted. 'That's the political correctness.'
'I know,' said Minnie. 'It's what people want though, these days.' 'You'll lose custom, but.' 'Aye.' 'Nanny state,' said Ted, obediently putting away his cigarettes and lighter.
'Smoking kills,' said Israel.
'Aye, and so do a lot of other things,' said Ted darkly.
'It is a shame, really,' said Minnie. 'Sure, everybody used to smoke.' Israel stared at the yellowing walls of the café as Ted and Minnie reminisced about the great smokers of the past: Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Bette
Davis, Winston Churchill, Fidel Castro.
'Beagles,' said Israel.
'What?' said Minnie.
'And Sherlock Holmes,' added Israel.
'Aye,' said Ted.
'Was he not a druggie?' said Minnie.
'Sam Spade,' said Israel.
'Never heard of him,' said Minnie.
Sometimes Israel wished he was a gentleman detective, far away from here, with a cocaine and morphine habit, and a slightly less intelligent confidant to admire his genius. Or, like Sam Spade, the blond Satan, pounding the hard streets of San Francisco, entangling with knock-out redheads and outwitting the Fat Man. Instead, here he was in Zelda's, listening to Ted and Minnie and looking up at old Christian Aid and Trócaire posters, and the dog-eared notices for the Citizens Advice Bureau, and the wilting pot plants, and the lone long-broken computer in the corner with the Blu-Tacked sign above it proclaiming the café Tumdrum's Internet hot spot, the first and still the best, and the big laminated sign over by the door featuring a man sitting slumped with his head in his hands, advertising the Samaritans: 'Suicidal? Depressed?'
Continues...
Excerpted from The Book Stops Here by Ian Sansom
Copyright © 2008 by Ian Sansom. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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