'Mind his left hook now,' said the old man.

'Right. Thanks,' said Israel weakly. 'I'll do my best.'

6

Israel met Ted outside the old library at nine o'clock as arranged. The conversation was a little strained. 'Nice eye,' was all that Ted offered in acknowledgement of Israel's previous night's tangling with Tony Thompson in the back of his cab, and 'What's with the specs?' he asked of Israel's parcel-taped glasses, and 'Fancy dress?' he said, of Israel's too-tight and too-short borrowed combat trousers and hoodie and T-shirt, which certainly did not match his old brown duffle coat and his brown corduroy jacket and his old brown brogues and which made him look like he was on perpetual day-release from some long-since-closed long-term mental institution.

In return, Israel did not mention Ted's less than friendly farewell of the night before-when Ted had grabbed him by the coat and nearly pulled him through his car window-which was frankly now the least of his worries. Stripped of his money, his clothes, his dignity, unable to understand what people were talking about half the time, unwilling to eat the food, forced to be doing a job he didn't want to do, and threatened, beaten, and in a state of some uncertainty, confusion and tension, he was now really enjoying the full immigrant experience: this was what it must have been like for his ancestors and relatives who'd made it to Bethnal Green and to America. No wonder they all looked so bloody miserable in the photographs. Also, when he prodded his glasses the masking tape kept digging into his forehead.

'There,' said Ted.

'Sorry,' said Israel. 'What? Where?'

Ted nodded, indicating the red and cream rusting mobile library, parked down the side of the old library building.

'I thought you said it'd take-'

'Aye. Worked on her all night. Not every day you get the library back out on the road.'

'No. I suppose not.'

'Give you the tour later. Now. Tradesman's entrance for us,' said Ted, leading Israel round the back of the library, where he opened rusty metal gates which led down into an open passageway, ankle-deep in black plastic bin bags and rubbish, and they kicked their way through to a big steel door, which had been punched and hammered and stabbed and set light to enough times to make it look like the gates to hell itself.

Ted produced a big bunch of keys.

'Dante's Inferno,' joked Israel.

'Dan Tay?'

'He's an author. Thirteenth-century.'

'Aye, right,' said Ted, unimpressed. 'The Carson translation's the best.'

'What?'

'Much better than the John D. Sinclair or the Dorothy L. Sayers.'

'You know the Divine Comedy?'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'In more ways than one. What d'you think a driver does on a mobile library when they're not driving, read the Sun?'

'Er. I never really thought-'

'Clearly. Electric's off,' continued Ted, moving swiftly on from literature to life, swinging the door open, as they entered a dark porch.

'Did you-' began Israel, as Ted produced a torch from a jacket pocket. 'Ah. Right. Good.'

Ted then opened up another internal door and shone the torch into the dark interior-a basement storage area, full of orange stackable chairs and old display cases. No books.

'Where are the books?' asked Israel.

'They'll be upstairs,' said Ted, who pointed with his torch over to a flight of stairs on the opposite side of the room. 'In the library.'

'Of course.'

'After you.'

Israel made his way over to the stairs and as he began to walk slowly up the winding concrete stairwell something suddenly whipped past his leg.

'Aaggh!' screamed Israel. 'A…rat!'

'Mouse,' corrected Ted.

'Ah!' said Israel. 'But it was huge.'

'Ach, wise up, man, will ye?' said Ted.

The stairs twisted round and round. At the top was another steel door.

'I forgot about that,' said Ted. 'Hold the torch,' which Israel did, while Ted went through the ritual of trying every key until eventually the right key caught and turned, and the door swung open and they entered the library proper.

They were under a staircase standing in the library's main entrance area.

There was natural winter light flooding in from the vast windows set high all around. There were architraves and cornices. There were complex tiled floor patterns. There was mahogany. Even under the dust and layers of paint and the scuffs you could tell the place was beautiful, that it had ambitions, and desires, and generosity, and woodworm: it was a building that breathed public service.

Ah, yes. At last. This was more like it. This was why Israel had come. This was where he belonged.

There were two large rooms off the main lobby area, one to the left and one to the right of the central sweeping staircase.

'Where does that go?' asked Israel, pointing to the top of the stairway.

'Nowhere,' said Ted.

'What d'you mean, nowhere?'

'Nowhere, as in nowhere. You understand the meaning of nowhere?'

'Increasingly I do, yes. But it must go somewhere.'

'I just said, it goes nowhere. It's a false staircase,' explained Ted. 'They say they ran out of money when they were building. It was that fella.'

'Who?'

'The architect. Whatyemacallhim?'

'I don't know.'

'The famous fella.'

'No. Sorry.'

'More.'

'More?'

'O'Ferral. Him. Ach. Anyway. The two storeys at the front are just a…what do you call it?'

'I don't know,' said Israel.

'A fac…?'

'A what?' said Israel.

'A fec…?'

'A what?'

'Fackard?'

'A fackard?'

'Aye.'

'A façade?'

'That's what I said. There's no upstairs. Just windows.'

'Blimey,' said Israel. 'Can I?'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'If you've nothing better to do.'

Israel trotted up to the top of the stairs, which branched and which looked as though they led to upper rooms, but sure enough, as he turned left, he suddenly found himself facing a wall. Turning round, he looked opposite. Another wall.

'That's weird,' said Israel, prodding his glasses, coming back down.

'Things aren't always what they seem,' agreed Ted philosophically.

Israel then went quickly through to the room to the left: the plastic laminate sign over the doorway read FICTION AND NON-FICTION.

The room was painted in several non-matching shades of white. There was a drab, stained grey carpet and big fluorescent lights hanging down on huge chains, looking like instruments of torture. The filthy windows, with their blinds high up, had knotted grey cords and strings hanging down, looking like a set of gallows. Wires were haphazardly cable-clipped to the walls; there were cracks and holes; and brackets hung down everywhere like gibbets with nothing gibbeted to them. And all around were the shadows where once the books and shelves had been, looking like the bars of a prison.

Oh yes, this felt good. This felt much more like home.

Israel went back through the lobby into the right-hand room, which was identical-the same dirty white emptiness-except for a long grey veneered built-in issues desk running along one wall.

Ted seemed to have disappeared.

'Ted,' called Israel. 'Ted?' There was no reply. 'Ted?' he called again. 'Ted!'

He went back into the lobby.

Ted emerged through the doors from the basement.

'Everything all right?' asked Ted.

'Yes.'

'Good,' said Ted, sounding relieved.

'Except for one thing,' said Israel.

'What's that?' said Ted.

'Look around you,' said Israel. 'What do you notice?'

'The library?'

'Yes, but what exactly about the library?'

'Ach. I don't know.'

'What do you usually get in libraries?'

'Drunks?'

'No!'

'Ach,' said Ted. 'I don't know.'