“He’s going to need specialist care.”

“Have you told him?”

Joan nodded.

“And what did he say?”

“What do you think? Go on in.” She nudged Israel forward.

Israel walked quietly across the squeaky floor into the library. The room was full with the smell of beeswax, old books, and sickness. He could see Pearce’s chest steadily rising and falling. Before he’d reached him, and without opening his eyes, Pearce spoke.

“How nice…” he began. And then he began coughing-low, dry coughs. “Nice of you to come,” he said. “I do apologize…for my…”

Pearce’s voice was still there, but it was thin, as though he was speaking from another room. It was the voice of man at the edge of somewhere. He drooled slightly as he spoke.

“Will you…” There were long, agonizing pauses between his words. “Have a drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Israel. “Pearce, how are you?”

“Fine. The Russian novel?”

“Sorry?”

“The Brothers Chestycough?”

“Ah. Very good,” said Israel.

“Just a…cold,” said Pearce.

“That’s because you were out in the damp on Friday, playing your fiddle.”

“Playing the fiddle?”

“On Friday? Don’t you remember?”

“Heifetz I met once.”

“Yes I know. But-”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re not going anywhere, Pearce. I’ve come to visit you.”

Israel glanced inquiringly across at Joan, who had settled herself on a battered chesterfield by the door; she cast her eyes up to the ceiling.

“Would you like me to take your coat?” asked Pearce.

“No thanks, I’m fine, really, thank you.”

“If you are, so.” Pearce raised a withered hand and beckoned him closer. “You need to…Sit close.”

Israel pulled a high-backed chair close.

“Closer,” said Pearce. Israel glanced again at Joan, who nodded. He came and knelt by the chaise longue.

Pearce was wearing a linen shirt buttoned all the way up to the neck, and a pair of black trousers, and canvas shoes with thick soles the color of a North Antrim beach. Up close, the skin on his face looked thin and papery; his beard was barely there.

“I’m sorry…” he said. “Hard of hearing.”

Israel tried to think of something to say.

“I saw a hare on the way here, Pearce. I thought you’d be interested.”

“A hare?”

“Like a rabbit?”

“Ah, yes,” said Pearce. “Lepus…” Israel could see Pearce’s mind working, struggling, trying to remember. “Timidus hibernicus,” he announced eventually. “Michael Longley.”

“Sorry?”

“Poem.”

“I don’t know it, I’m afraid.”

“Fine poem.”

“Right.”

“His father was in the same regiment as my uncle.”

“Right.”

“Ypres. The mud.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You never forget the mud.”

“Right.”

“Rats,” said Pearce, wearily. “But how are you?”

Before Israel could answer, Pearce’s dogs, Picasso and Matisse, came in, made for Israel, and started enthusiastically licking his face and hands.

“Are they being a nuisance?” asked Pearce.

“No, no, not at all,” said Israel.

“Good,” said Pearce, and then he whispered very quietly to Israel, his eyes suddenly filling with tears, “They say I’ve dementia, you know. I’ve heard them.”

“I see,” said Israel.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Pearce. “They’re trying to cart me off.”

“I’m sure that’s not-” began Israel, gently pushing the dogs away.

“I’m staying right here!” Pearce said, suddenly much more loudly, so that Joan could hear. “Tell that bloody woman! I’m not going anywhere. In the end…Nowhere. Staying. Leonard…”

“Leonard?” said Israel.

“Leonard Bast.”

“Right,” said Israel.

“You know what I’m talking about?” said Pearce.

“Yes,” lied Israel.

“Here!” shouted Pearce, with all his might. The dogs barked in response.

Israel looked over at Joan. She cast her eyes down, sadly.

“Right here! Do you…understand!”

“That’s OK, Pearce,” said Israel, soothingly. “I understand.”

“You’re all alone, aren’t you?” asked Pearce, suddenly quiet again.

Israel nodded.

“No sign of marrying?”

“No,” said Israel, “there’s…”

“You’re young?”

“I’m nearly thirty,” said Israel.

Pearce gave a harsh, faint little laugh, as though in pain.

“Alone,” said Pearce.

“You still have plenty of friends,” said Israel.

“No,” said Pearce gently. “Eventually…” His voice trailed off. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away,” said Israel.

Pearce placed a hand on Israel’s arm. “The collection.”

“The collection?” said Israel.

“The books.”

“Yes,” said Israel.

“For the library,” said Pearce.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Israel.

“I want the library,” said Pearce. “To have my books.”

There was a long pause. Israel could see Pearce struggling to stay on track with the conversation.

“Pearce?” prompted Israel.

“They say England’s changed,” said Pearce.

“Yes, I suppose it has.”

“Ireland…”

“Yes?” said Israel.

“The Glens,” said Pearce, who seemed to be having conversations in his own mind. “We’re very lucky.”

“Yes,” said Israel.

“Glenn Patterson. The coast road,” said Pearce.

“Yes,” said Israel.

“Finer than the Grande Corniche. And Jim McKillop. Finest fiddle player in Ireland. Have you seen the Book of Kells?”

“No,” said Israel.

“You must see the Book of Kells! My brother is at Trinity, he’ll take you to see the Book of Kells. All the magic people.”

Israel had no idea what he was talking about.

“Comedy of…” began Pearce.

“Errors?” said Israel.

“Manners,” said Pearce. “Do you know how many words there are in a pencil?”

“Sorry?”

“Forty-five thousand.”

“I’m not following you, Pearce, sorry.”

“In a magazine. It said. Forty thousand words in a pencil.”

“Doesn’t it depend on the size of the words?” said Israel.

“Very good!” said Pearce, laughing hoarsely. “Very good! Oh, you’ll go far, young man, mark my words.” And then, “The books!” he said suddenly-“words” having apparently brought him back to the books. “Keep them together.”

“Of course.”

“I trust you with the books.”

“I understand.”

“All of the paperwork has been done.”

“Good.”

“And there’s a book I’d like you to have.”

“No. No. I don’t need any books, Pearce.” Israel glanced nervously across at Joan.

“I…insist.” Pearce reached out a hand and closed it around Israel’s wrist.

“Very important. You know Dewey?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Israel.

“Dewey. The…”

“Oh, the classification system…”

“Yes. Remind me. What are the…”

Israel recited the Dewey decimal system to Pearce. “General works. Erm. Philosophy and psychology. Religion. Social sciences. Language. Science. Technology. Arts and recreation. Literature. History and geography.”

“Philosophy,” said Pearce. “That’s it.”

“Right.”

“Go on then. Fetch! Fetch!”

Israel got to his feet, followed by the dogs, who’d obviously taken the command to heart, and started making his way along the shelves, which were-loosely-arranged by the Dewey system. Halfway down the library he came to a halt and called back to Pearce, who had closed his eyes again.

“I’ve found Philosophy, Pearce.”

“J,” said Pearce, dreamily.

“J?”

“J.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Dr. Johnson. Rasselas. Do you know it?”

“No, I don’t think I do.” Israel ran his finger along the shelf. “Got it!”

Israel took the book down and brought it over to Pearce. It was bound in leather with fine embossed lettering. The pages were musty, and the dust set Pearce to coughing-deep, deep coughing-and hawking, and then struggling for breath. His eyes welled up with tears again. His frail body was shaking with panic.

Joan hurried over. She held up his head and helped him hawk into a handkerchief.