“No. I understand.”

“More coffee?”

“No. Thanks. I should be going.”

“The hour is getting late,” said the Reverend Roberts wistfully. “You’re very welcome to stay.”

“No, thanks. I need to get back.”

He got up and the Reverend Roberts led him toward the front door.

“You drive carefully on those roads,” said the Reverend Roberts.

“I will,” said Israel.

“And ring me anytime if you need to,” said the Reverend Roberts.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Israel walked outside into the cold again and got back in the van. His heart was beating fast. It felt like he was anticipating something. Something that he knew would never happen. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the chicken coop. So he drove back down the coast road. Down by the sign that said “Try Your Brakes.” Down toward Ballintoy Harbor, the narrow windy road going down. There was a bright moon hanging in the sky. And he parked up at the bottom and looked out toward the sea. And after a while he went and lay down in the back of the van. He used last week’s newspapers as a pillow. And used his duffle coat for a mattress and wrapped the dog blanket around him for warmth. He lay with his eyes open for a long time.

12

He was awoken by the sound of banging. And it wasn’t a headache.

“Who’s there?” he said, turning over and opening one eye, his mind still fogged from bad dreams: dreams full of exits and entrances, about death and the dead. A dream in which he was a bird in a tree, not knowing which way to fly; a dream about a bed in which the sheets and blankets became bindings from which he could not escape. A dream in which his father came tapping at the window…

“It’s the tooth fairy,” came the answer.

“What?” For one weird confused moment, in a half-dreamlike state-during which he imagined himself briefly back at home as a child, tucked up safely in bed in suburban north London, his mother quietly slipping into his room, slipping fifty pence under his pillow and then quietly slipping out again-Israel considered the possibility that it was indeed the tooth fairy.

“And Santa!” called another voice. That broke the spell. The tooth fairy worked alone.

He lay there in a stupor. A kind of crushing hungover dullness descended upon him, weighing him down, a deep weariness-no, no, not weariness, ennui-overcoming him. He wondered whether he might need to spend a few more days in bed.

He started getting groggily to his feet, wrapping the dog blanket round his shoulders-even shabbier and more rumpled than usual. It felt like he was bruised around his ribs.

“Open up!” came the voice. “Now!”

He was almost at the door when it was wrenched open. It wasn’t the tooth fairy. Or Santa.

Israel found himself blinking into bright sunlight and the unsmiling face of his old friend Sergeant Friel looking in, mustache bristling, panting slightly from exertion and excitement. And out beyond Friel were the white limestone cliffs and the dark volcanic basalt rocks of the harbor. And out to sea, guillemots, razorbills, kittiwakes, fulmars. Birds.

“What the hell are you doing!” said Israel. “You’ve broken the bloody door!”

“Yes,” said Sergeant Friel, a “yes” not of pleasant agreement but rather a “yes” confirming a threat. Israel instinctively pulled the dog blanket a little tighter around his shoulders.

“But…look,” he said-to his shame-rather apologetically. The door hung limply from its hinges. “The lock! You’ve broken the-”

“And a very good morning to you too, Mr. Armstrong,” said Friel as he pushed past Israel onto the mobile library.

“But the door!” Israel repeated. “Ted’ll kill me!”

“Not if we do first,” said Friel.

“What?”

“Only joking. Have you lost weight?”

“What?”

“And the auld beard act as well, I see. Converted to Islam, have we?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. Mind if I come in?”

“You already are in,” said Israel.

“Yes. And how are we this morning then, Grizzly Adams?”

Israel groaned.

“Sleeping it off, are we?”

“Sorry,” said Israel. “Sleeping what off?”

“Big night was it, last night? Blocked, were we?”

“Blocked?”

“Drunk? Few too many?”

“No. No.” Israel rubbed his hands over his face, trying to clear his head. His chin felt bristly: he had forgotten he had a beard. And he had forgotten what exactly he was doing here. His body felt like a chair with the stuffing knocked out of it. “No. No. I haven’t been drinking. I don’t know what you’re-”

“She’s not here, is she?” said Friel, looking around the inside of the van.

“Who?”

“You didn’t have anyone staying with you overnight in your…love wagon here?”

“My love wagon?”

Following a recent unfortunate incident in which it had suffered an unauthorized and eccentric respray-it may have been the Delegates’ Choice, but it was felt by the Mobile Library Steering Committee that it was not suitable for Tumdrum and District-the van had quickly been returned by Ted to its state of quite stunning faded glory. The interior was a riot of gray primer and nonslip vinyl flooring, the front chairs were as plastic as ever, the light casings as gray and as fly filled. The exterior was back to its classic cream and red. The mobile library might be described as many things, but “love wagon” was not one of them.

Sergeant Friel strode up and down the interior of the mobile library, peering at the shelves as though they might reveal trapdoors or secret hiding places.

“Interesting,” he said.

“What are you doing?” said Israel.

“Just checking no one’s here.”

“Why? Who are you looking for, Anne Frank?”

“Have you been drinking, Mr. Armstrong?”

“No. I haven’t been drinking.”

“Drugs?”

“No!”

“Well, we can always check later.”

“You won’t need to check later. I’m perfectly sober and fit and…”

Actually, his body ached all over. This was when he could have done with his old layers of fat. It felt like he’d been wrestling all night long. He felt a little feverish. And he needed to use the toilet.

“Sorry. I need to use the toilet. Is that OK?”

“Is it en suite, then?”

“No. No. I mean, can I just nip outside for a…”

“Well.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Try anything?”

“We wouldn’t want any kind of incident.”

“No. No. Of course not. I just need to go and-”

“You go ahead there,” said Friel, with a wave of his hand.

Israel clambered down the steps. Imperious, was what it was, that wave of hand. He was trying to work out the word for it. Imperious was definitely it. As he clambered down the steps he saw the three other policemen standing outside and two police cars. They seemed to tense as he appeared. Israel instinctively raised his arms.

“He’s fine,” called Friel behind him. “Call of nature.”

One of the policemen waved what looked like a crowbar in friendly acknowledgment.

Israel did his best to look calm and smiled and stood staring at Ballintoy Harbor. There were some mornings when you couldn’t deny the beauty of where he was living. Some mornings when the sea was a rippling gray steel, and the sky was blue and the sun was golden, the views out across the North Antrim coast took your breath away.

This was not one of the mornings. The sky was gray; the sea was squally; there was, as far as Israel could discern, no sun.

He’d suddenly lost the urge to go. He stood for a moment, not urinating into the ocean. And then he climbed back, defeated even by his own body, onto the mobile library.

Friel was browsing the biography section.

He waved a book at Israel. It was a book about a footballer.

“Any good?”