“Big difference, twenties and thirties,” said Ted, ignoring Israel, swallowing. “Big, big difference.”

“No it’s not.”

“I’m telling ye. Yer movers and shakers, they’ve all done their moving and shaking by thirty, haven’t they?”

“Well, some of them have, but-”

“Maurice Morris here.” Ted nodded toward the pin-striped figure of Maurice moving among them. “Look what he’d achieved by the time he was thirty.”

“I have no idea what he’d achieved, actually. But I’m sure-”

“Well, what about yer Romantical poets, then. What about them?”

“Who?”

“All done in, weren’t they, by thirty?”

“Who?”

“Kates and-” Ted attacked the scone again.

“Keats?”

“Aye. All hanged themselves, didn’t they, by the time they were-”

“No, they did not all hang themselves,” said Israel factually. “And I think Wordsworth lived till-”

“Exception that proves the rule,” said Ted. “Like Johnny Cash.”

“What?”

“Oldest swinger in town.”

“You’re losing me, Ted.”

“That’s why you’re depressed. The birthday and breaking up with the girl-”

“I am not-” said Israel.

“The beard. The diet.”

“I’m not on a diet!”

“Have it your way.”

“I will. Thank you. I think thirty is a fine age.”

Ted finished his scone. Israel looked around Zelda’s.

Thirty was an absolute disaster.

At thirty you could no longer pretend that you might have lived a different, more extraordinary life, because you’d already lived a large part of your life-thirty useless years, for goodness’ sake!-and it was utterly ordinary and straightforward and dull, dull, dull. Ted was right. At thirty you have lost touch forever with the great and the good and the rich and the famous-the simple fact is, you do not move and you do not shake. At thirty there’s no way you’re going to start behaving like…whoever the hell it was, it didn’t matter, because in fact you’re just a half-decent butcher or a baker or a candlestick-maker, or even a librarian, let’s say, for the sake of argument, a mobile librarian named Israel Armstrong, on the northernmost coast of the north of the north of Ireland, and your whole life-let’s just pretend, for who could possibly imagine a life of such inanity and nullity?-is preoccupied with cataloguing, and shelving, and making sure you remember to switch off the lights before you go home to the pathetic little converted chicken coop-imagine!-where you live on a farm-oh god-in the middle of the middle of nowhere around the back of beyond, and your idea of a good time is coming here to Zelda’s to drink ersatz coffee with elderly men and women in car coats…

Basically, his life was over.

“Israel?” said Ted.

Israel did not answer.

“Hey?” Ted clicked his fingers in front of Israel’s face. “Wakey wakey.”

“What?” said Israel.

“Ye eatin’ your scone?” said Ted.

“I suppose,” said Israel, as though a scone were all he deserved in life. “What is it today?”

“Bacon and cheese,” said Ted.

“Oh god. Not again. Why do they do that? That’s not a scone!”

“That’s a scone and a half,” said Ted.

“Exactly: that’s lunch,” said Israel.

“Ye not having it then?”

“I’m a vegetarian! How many times do I have to tell you!”

“Can veggetenarians not eat scones?”

“Vege-tarians,” said Israel.

“I didn’t know they couldn’t eat scones.”

“Not with bacon in they can’t.”

“Aye, well,” said Ted, reaching across. “There we are, now.”

Minnie bustled over with the coffee pot.

“Refill?”

Israel took a hasty sip of coffee.

“It tastes off,” he said grumpily.

“What does?” said Minnie.

“The coffee,” said Israel.

“It doesn’t.”

“Coffee can’t go off,” said Ted.

“The milk can.”

“Our milk is not off,” said Minnie.

Israel sniffed the milk in the jug.

“It’s fine,” said Ted.

“It must be the coffee then,” said Israel. “It has a sort of fishy smell. Is this an americano? Are you using that chicory stuff again?”

“Ach,” said Minnie, “the machine’s not working.”

“That machine has never been working,” said Israel.

“It has, so it has,” said Minnie.

“When?”

“It’s usually working.”

“Not since I’ve been living here.”

“How long have you been living here?” said Ted, in an accusatory fashion.

“Long enough,” said Israel.

“Aye,” said Ted.

“Life sentence,” said Israel.

“Ooh, did you see Prison Break, Ted?” said Minnie.

“That the one with the tattooed fella?”

“Aye.”

“Was it on last night?”

“Aye.”

“I think I Sky-plussed it. I was watching this program last night about the American security services on the History Channel.”

“Ooh. Really? Was it any good?”

“In America,” said Ted, raising his fingers as though about to conduct. “In America, they have sixteen security agencies.”

“Sixteen?” said Minnie, impressed.

“I bet you didn’t know that, now, did you?” Ted said to Israel.

“No, I must admit, I didn’t-”

“There’s the CIA,” said Ted.

“Oh god,” said Israel. “Are you going to-”

“The FBI. The NSA.”

“Never heard of it,” said Israel.

“National Security Agency,” said Minnie.

“How do you know that?” said Israel.

“The Defense Intelligence Agency,” said Ted, counting on his fingers. And…some others.”

“Drugs Enforcement Administration?” said Minnie.

“Aye, that’s one,” said Ted.

“How the hell did you know that?” said Israel.

“Sure, wasn’t Denzel Washington in one of those films?”

“Was he?” said Ted.

“Aye?” Minnie turned to Israel. “Now what’s up with ye? You’ve a face’d turn milk sour.”

“The coffee,” said Israel, grimacing. “It really is-”

“I was telling ye, we can’t get the parts,” said Minnie.

“How long have you had the machine?”

“The Gaggia?” said Minnie. “I don’t know. Forty years?”

“Right. Well, there you are,” said Israel. “It’s obsolete.”

“It’s a very good make,” said Minnie.

“It’s an antique,” said Israel. “Like everything else in this godfor-”

Ted reached forward and clipped Israel round the ear.

“He smells lovely,” the women at the next table were agreeing among themselves at that very moment, as Maurice Morris wafted over to them, and he did, they were right, Israel could smell it as he ducked down with the force of Ted’s blow; he smelled absolutely lovely, Maurice; it was the sharp, sweet lemony smell of a Turkish cologne, which Maurice had discovered while on holiday with friends at a luxury golf resort hotel in southern Turkey some years previously, a cologne to which he had become famously-according to his campaign literature-addicted, and which he had sent over specially from London, and whose smell of exotic sweetness had until recently cut famously and decisively through the manly whiff of his cigar smoke, though, alas, since the beginning of his campaign Maurice had-also famously-given up smoking. You had to make certain sacrifices in politics, Maurice believed, and politicians were expected to set an example. Also, smoking was no longer a vote winner, so the cigars had had to go. A politician caught smoking cigars in public these days might as well have been caught patting a secretary on her pert little behind, or having an affair-for the sake of argument-with one of their constituency workers; those days, the good old cigar-chomping, camel-coat-wearing, secretary’s-pert-little-behind-patting, and constituency-worker-bedding days were long gone, and they sure as hell weren’t ever coming back. You had to keep moving with the times and keep on moving forward in politics, according to Maurice, which could be easier said than done, frankly: since giving up smoking he’d put on a few pounds around the waist, and if he was absolutely honest the last place he wanted to be was in a café surrounded by gray-haired men and women in car coats discussing coffee and cakes, but if these good people-his people, his constituents-wanted to talk traybakes, Maurice talked traybakes. He was like Jesus, Maurice Morris: his life was a living sacrifice.