'They're my books.'

'No. Sorry. Look. They've got a little call number here, the Dewey, and-'

'Give me the book,' said Tony Thompson, approaching Israel.

'No. Now, don't be silly.'

'Give me the bloody book!' said Tony, as he moved round the desk and stood towering over Israel.

'Now, now,' said Israel. 'Let's not get carried away.'

Tony Thompson thrust out a fist then, and, given his previous form, Israel thought he was perhaps going to hit him again and give him a black eye to match the other, so he threw up his left arm in order to block the blow, an instinctive martial arts kind of a move that would have done Bruce Lee proud, if Bruce Lee had been a tousled, overweight librarian in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes and old brown brogues out collecting books in Tumdrum Primary School on a damp December afternoon.

Tony Thompson, though, was not about to punch Israel; he was in fact simply reaching forwards to grab the book from Israel's hand, and he grabbed, and Israel held on, and before either of them knew it there was a loud rip, rip, ripping, and suddenly Israel was standing there with the cover in his hands, and Tony Thompson with the pages.

'Oh,' said Israel.

'Ah!' said Tony.

'Sorry. 101 Poems To Get You Through the Night (And Day). Never read it myself. Is it any good?'

'Look!' said Tony Thompson, holding the coverless book on its side towards Israel.

'What?' said Israel.

'Look! Idiot!'

Stamped along the top edge of the book were the immortal words: WITHDRAWN FROM STOCK.

'Ah,' said Israel. 'Sorry.'

'Go!' said Tony Thompson.

'I really…'

'Go!'

Israel went.

So, as he was saying, it was easier said than done: on his first day as book-bailiff, amateur sleuth and driver of his very own mobile library, Israel Armstrong had managed to crash the library van, cause thousands of pounds of damage to school property, offend and upset just about everyone he'd met, get into a fist fight with a headteacher, and he had rounded up a grand total of just 27 books, leaving approximately 14,973 to go. If he kept it up at this rate he'd be lucky to make it back home safely in one piece to north London in time for his own retirement.

He was trying to explain his predicament to Brownie and George and old Mr Devine as they sat down to eat dinner together that night.

'Oh, God. I don't know. What the hell am I going to do?' he asked, pushing his patched-up glasses up high onto his furrowed forehead and plonking his elbows firmly on the kitchen table.

'Elbows!' said Mr Devine, who was bustling with dishes and plates.

Israel politely withdrew his weary elbows and ran his fingers through his hair.

'Sorry.'

He'd just been telling them about the disaster with the school gates.

'Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction,' said Mr Devine.

'It's tricky,' agreed Brownie.

'Champ?' said Mr Devine, pushing towards Israel a bowl of what looked like steaming hot Play-Doh with little bits of green stuck in it, like grass clippings.

'Ah yes, champ,' said Israel hungrily in recognition. 'Mmm. Now. Champ. Yes. Thank you, Mr Devine. Spring onions, isn't it?' he said, pointing at the green bits, like little sketches, in the mashed potato.

'Scallions,' said Mr Devine.

'It's the same difference, Granda,' said Brownie.

'Aye,' said Mr Devine.

'My father used to make champ when I was growing up,' said Israel, rather mournfully.

'Aye,' said the old man. 'George?'

'Thank you, yes.'

George was sitting at the head of the table, regally uninterested in Israel's tales of woe, resplendent in a man's plaid shirt (L), washed-out dungarees (XL), and a dark blue mud-stained fleece (XXL), and knee-high wellies.

'You don't think it could have been Ted then,' asked Israel of everyone and no one, 'who stole the books?'

He had been sworn to secrecy, of course, by Linda Wei not to mention the theft of the books to anyone, but Israel reckoned it would be safe to tell the Devines; frankly, he couldn't imagine them having anyone else to tell, and also, to be honest, he didn't have anyone else to tell himself. Gloria hadn't been answering her mobile for days: she was involved in a very important case at work, apparently. Mind you, Gloria was always involved in very important cases at work; he'd hardly got speaking to her since he'd arrived.

'Ted who stole them? I doubt it,' said Brownie, mounding piles of champ on his plate, in answer to Israel's question.

'He goes to First Presbyterian,' said Mr Devine, although Israel wasn't clear whether this implicated or exonerated him.

'Oh, God…' said Israel, even more deeply mournfully.

'Mr Armstrong!'

'Sorry. I don't know,' said Israel, shifting his plate slightly, so that he could speak round the steaming mound of potato and onions. 'If Ted's not guilty-'

'We are all guilty in the eyes of the Lord,' said Mr Devine.

'I need proof, though,' said Israel.

'For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain…'

'Apriorism,' said Brownie.

'Sorry?' said Israel, sniffing hungrily at the food in front of him.

'That's apriorism: you've decided he's guilty, and now you're looking for evidence to support it.'

'No,' said Israel. 'I haven't decided he's guilty. But he had the key to the library, so-'

'Now you're just affirming the consequent.'

'What? Really? Am I?'

'Events can be produced by different causes,' explained Brownie. 'It's a classic fallacy in law and logic: in the absence of any evidence, you just affirm the consequent.'

'Sorry, you've lost me.'

'Aye,' said Mr Devine. 'He does that all the time.'

'If I intended to kill you,' said George, smiling menacingly, illustrating her brother's point from the top of the table, 'I would have had a weapon. I did have a weapon. Therefore…'

'That's it,' said Brownie.

'Oh right, I see,' said Israel.

'Ach, Ted's yer man,' said Mr Devine. 'No doubt. He's the face for it.'

'Granda!' said Brownie.

'Well, young people today,' said Mr Devine, returning to one of his favourite themes, 'sure they're all the same.'

'What?' said Israel.

'Come on now, Granda,' said Brownie. 'Ted's in his sixties.'

'Well, he's that young I can still remember him in short trousers,' said Mr Devine, conclusively. 'Mr Armstrong, chicken?'

'Thanks,' said Israel, absentmindedly. 'I…'

Israel looked at the glistening crispy bird that the old man was in the process of dismembering-the deep brown crackling skin wisping off, with the revelation of pure white flesh underneath, and the rich, full smell of fat and onions.

'Erm.'

He hesitated and fiddled with his glasses.

Chicken was the thing he missed most as a vegetarian, although admittedly he did also miss salami quite a lot, and pastrami, and salt beef, and sausages, and Cornish pasties, and meatballs, charcuterie, that sort of thing. A Friday night chicken, though, you really couldn't beat that: his mother used to do this thing with tomatoes and paprika, and admittedly she tended to use paprika as a condiment rather than as a spice, a culinary shorthand, a way of getting from A to Z, from meat to meatball and chicken to pot by the quickest possible route, but it was so good…Her boiled chicken also, that was good, with matzo balls and a nice side-order of gherkins. And chicken liver pâté. But that was all a long time ago, in his far-off, golden, meat-eating childhood and Israel had been vegetarian now for almost his whole adult life, and when he'd moved in with Gloria a few years ago they'd tended to eat a lot of chick peas-she was vegetarian too. There'd always been a hell of a lot of falafel and omelettes in his relationship with Gloria.

'Breast? Leg? Thigh?' asked Mr Devine.