“Great,” said Israel.

“This’ll take a few minutes,” said Linda.

“Fine.”

As Linda typed, Israel tried to remember every Philip Roth novel he’d ever read. The Human Stain. Sabbath’s Theater. Portnoy’s Complaint. The Ghost Writer. Operation Shylock.

“Oh,” said Linda. “And while you’re here, I almost forgot, we also need a doctor’s note from you to cover your few days’ sickness.”

“I see.”

“You need to go and see your GP and provide me with a note. For the records. Unauthorized days off would of course lead to an automatic salary reduction.”

“Right. Great.”

“Good,” said Linda. “That should do it. We’ll get a printout in just a minute.”

“Right.”

“So, finally, training needs.”

“OK,” said Israel.

“Do you have any?” said Linda.

“Any what?”

“Needs,” said Linda, stressing the knee in “needs.” “Anything that would assist you in carrying out your duties?”

“Erm. No, I don’t think so. Unless you count an apartment overlooking Central Park and a holiday home in the Caribbean,” said Israel.

“Don’t be facetious, Mr. Armstrong.”

“I’m not being facetious.”

“I can offer you a storytelling course,” said Linda.

“A storytelling course?”

“Yes, a lot of people have found it very helpful.” Linda began reading from a brochure. “‘Using narrative-based techniques to broaden children’s horizons, participants will learn about-’”

“Storytelling,” said Israel.

“Exactly,” said Linda.

“I don’t think so,” said Israel. “Thanks, anyway. That doesn’t really appeal to me.”

“OK,” said Linda. “Fine. Face painting.”

“Face painting?” said Israel.

“Face painting,” said Linda.

“You’re joking,” said Israel.

“I’m not joking,” said Linda.

“You’re proposing we do face painting in the library?”

“No, Mr. Armstrong. It’s a course available through the Education and Library Board, which can lead to an NVQ in children’s entertainment. And which you may find useful in your work as Learning Support Facilitator-”

“Mobile librarian.”

“-Learning Support Facilitator.”

“No,” said Israel.

“Fine,” said Linda. “You do realize, Mr. Armstrong, that you are required to complete a certain number of hours’ training as part of your continuing professional development?”

“Yes, but I don’t think face painting is really the kind of professional development I’m interested in, Linda. Difficult to do the…lolling tongues and-”

“Lolling tongues?”

“You know, they always have sort of lolling tongues, with face painting, don’t they?”

“What is the kind of professional development you’re interested in, Mr. Armstrong?”

“I’m not really sure,” said Israel.

“Self-defense?” said Linda.

“Self-defense?”

“‘Designed especially for the council’s public-facing staff,’” Linda began reading again, “‘this course is designed to-’”

“‘Public-facing’?”

“Yes. That’s you, Mr. Armstrong. I’m sure you must sometimes encounter…difficulties with readers.”

“Ha!” said Israel.

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

“Yeah!” said Israel. “Right. The window lickers.”

“Sorry?”

“Window lickers. We call them window lickers.”

“Please do not refer to our customers as window lickers.”

“Fine,” said Israel. “Nutters, then.”

“And do not refer to them as nutters.”

“Freaks?

“Or freaks, clearly, Mr. Armstrong. Anyway, the course is called Minimizing Risk. I shall sign you up for-”

“The only way to minimize risk is not to let anyone on the library!” said Israel.

“Clearly,” said Linda. “Computing?”

“I hate computing.”

“Health and Safety?”

“No.”

“Fire Safety?”

“No.”

“What about your PSV test?”

“No, I don’t want to do the test.”

“It’s run by the Road Transport Industry Training Board, down at Watt’s Corner.”

“No, thank you.”

At which point the laser printer concealed under Linda’s desk on a little shelf hummed awake like a tiny tiger and coughed up a sheet of paper that Linda gratefully took, glanced at, signed, and pushed across her desk for Israel to countersign. The page was titled ISRAEL ARMSTRING and contained two columns, titled AKP (Addressing Known Problems) and AICS (Actions for Improving Customer Service), that listed problems and pointed out solutions, with dotted lines at the bottom asking for Israel’s signature and the date.

Israel signed and dated. And then he signed and dated another. And another. One for Linda’s records, one for Israel, and one for the Education and Library Board. This incriminating statement of failure and intent would be kept on file for future reference, Linda explained. Israel didn’t even know he had a file.

“Good,” said Linda. “Well, I think that was very helpful, wasn’t it?”

“Very,” said Israel.

“I’ll just be ringing the police and offering any assistance we can.”

“Super,” said Israel.

“And you’ll be providing me with that doctor’s note?”

“Absolutely.”

“Immediately.”

“If not sooner.”

“Good. Well, I think that’s all.”

“Thank you, Linda.”

11

“Israel,” said George. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying sorry to me?”

“Yes. I…I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

They were in the Devines’ kitchen. Israel had been on the library all day after his appraisal meeting with Linda. After a long day, returning to the Devines’, for all its faults, felt like rejoining humanity. It was his little niche, his little place in among the Devines’ familial smells, and the mess, and the debris and decay. There was a kettle whistling on the Rayburn. The dogs. The long, placid sound of the clock. The floor, washed and scrubbed clean, and the hot, overrich smell of cleaning products and of deep, deep grime; the smell of dishes having been recently washed. It wasn’t home, but it was the closest thing he had to home.

“Problems with the goats?” said Israel. He’d lived here so long now he couldn’t imagine worse news. And he couldn’t understand why George was saying sorry. She never said sorry. And certainly not to him. Sorry for what?

“Sorry,” she was saying again, stony-faced. She was wearing a white apron, the white apron she always wore in the kitchen.

“The chickens?” said Israel. “Pigs?” George looked down at the floor. Israel looked to old Mr. Devine, tucked up in his blanket on his seat by the Rayburn. “OK,” he said, not getting a reply, and he stroked his beard. He’d taken to stroking his beard; it gave him something to do with his hands. “What’s up? You’re not kicking me out of the chicken coop again?”

George looked him in the eye and held his gaze for a moment.

“I’m afraid it’s Pearce.”

“What?”

George paused, just for a moment, and Israel realized: it was the pause. The pause that everyone dreads, and that everyone knows ultimately is coming, and whose meaning is as clear as any outpouring of however many words; the total eloquence of a moment’s silence.

“No?” said Israel.

“I’m so sorry,” said George.

“No!” said Israel.

George averted her gaze.

“Oh, no.”

“I know you were fond of him.”

“But…I was…just. I just saw him, yesterday.”

“I know.”

George reached out and patted Israel’s arm, and it was the touch that was like the pause, a touch entirely expressive and direct in meaning: the black spot, the bad news, the curse. And it suddenly brought everything back, the way she touched him: the day his father died. He was thirteen. His mother. They were in the front room. They had this new sofa-they hadn’t had it long. You could still smell its newness-almost as if it’d been born into the room. And he was there, sitting on the sofa. He’d been watching TV. His father had been in hospital for some time. But Israel still somehow had no idea his father was going to die; it just hadn’t occurred to him. He’d thought that it was like in a television drama-that it was a difficult story, but that everything sorted itself out in the end. As if life were like a drama. Like Dawson’s Creek. And his mum was sitting on the sofa next to him, and she was saying his name, and there was a pause, and she ruffled his hair, and he somehow knew in that moment that everything didn’t sort itself out. That things went wrong and couldn’t be put right, that beyond crisis there was…nothing. Darkness. And everything after that moment, after his father’s death, seemed to lose its color, as if someone had literally put on a filter that had blocked out the light. As though a cloud had passed over. And the colors had never quite returned. As though the world was on mute. Which is why he read books. That’s when he’d become a serious reader. To try to regain the color. But he never could regain the color. The books always promised they would help him regain the color-as though the stories could somehow redeem things. But they never could. So he always had to read more and more books, just in case the next book was going to be the one that made the colors return. Thirteen. Which was when he’d started suffering from migraines. And he’d started putting on weight. And retreating. Into a sort of long insomnia. Which was why, ultimately, he was here. Nowhere. With the touch and the pause, awakening him again to grief.