'There you have it.'

'What? This is one?'

'Aye. You're a fast learner.'

'The side of a road?'

'That'd be it. Second furze on the left afore the bridge there.'

'But I thought a service point was a timetabled stopping point where members of the public can safely gather to meet the mobile library.'

'Strictly speaking. But some service points are by private arrangement.'

'I see.'

'So, by the bridge, second furze on the left.'

'People are meeting us there?'

'No, you eejit. Someyin's left their books there.'

'What? Someone's left their books by the side of the road?'

'Yes! For pity's sake, man.'

Israel looked outside nervously: hedges, sea, nothing, Irish skies.

'Is it safe?'

'What are you talking about, is it safe?'

'I don't know. I mean, you know, safe.'

'There's no book-rustlers out here, as far as I'm aware.'

'What about…I don't know. The IRA?'

'The IRA?'

'The IRA.'

'The IRA?'

'Yes, the IRA! You know, like booby-traps or something?'

Ted took a deep breath. 'D'you get the news over there on the mainland, do you?'

'Yes.'

'So you'll be knowing there's a ceasefire on.'

'I know, but…'

'Since 1994. And there's no longer a British Empire. You're up to date with all that, are you?'

'Yes. Of course I am.'

'Good, well, I wouldn't worry too much about it then, if I was you. I don't think the Tumdrum and District mobile library is currently a prime target for dissident republicans.'

'No. I didn't mean that.'

'Aye, right. I don't know why we bother, to be honest.'

'Who?'

'We, us, the loyal people of Ulster. I think we should maybe set up our own republic or something.'

'Well, I'm sure-'

'Aye, right. That'd suit you, wouldn't it? Get rid of us all.'

'Erm. I've got a terrible headache actually, Ted, and I would love to discuss the…'

'Aye.'

'Shall we just get back to the books?'

'You brought the subject up.'

'Right. Well, why have they left their books there, at the side of the road?'

'Who? The IRA?'

'No. Whoever's left their books there.'

'Mr Onions.'

'Mr Onions?'

'That's right.'

'Is that his real name?'

'What do you think?'

'I would, er, I'd guess not, no.'

'Aye, well, all that education didn't go to waste then, did it. He's a farmer.'

'And he grows onions?'

'No, he grows mangoes and oranges.'

'Right.' Israel caught himself on. 'No…Hang on…Well, why's he left his books here?'

'When he's too busy on the farm he leaves them. I pick 'em up, and then leave him some more. It's a private sort of arrangement. It's traditional.'

'Right.'

'Go on then.'

'What?'

'Go and get 'em.'

'But it's raining.'

'Aye, hardly but. It'll not melt you.'

'I'm still feeling a bit-'

'Well, you've only yourself to blame there, haven't ye. Go on.'

Israel got out of the van, turning up the hood on his old brown duffle coat.

'And Israel,' called Ted.

'What?'

'Mind the land-mines.'

Israel went over to the bridge. It was another harsh, wet winter's morning: the trees were bare, shivering in the wind; and the stream was flowing fast; and Israel's head felt like it was splitting in two, and the fresh air hit him so hard in the face he felt even more sick than he'd been feeling in the van. He didn't know where he was supposed to be looking. He turned around and gestured to Ted. Ted wound down the window.

'The furze!' he shouted. 'The gorse! The second furze!'

Israel wasn't entirely sure he knew what a furze was but he started rootling around under a couple of likely looking bushes, ripping his hands on their yellowy spiny branches.

'Ouch!' he cried.

Ted ignored him.

'Ouch!' he cried again, louder.

Ted still ignored him, and eventually Israel found a couple of old feed sacks, tightly tied with cord, stuffed with something, and tucked under a bush, and he brought them to the van.

'This them?' he said to Ted, offering up the bags.

'Jesus Christ, no, that's a bomb!' said Ted, covering his face with his hands.

'What!' screamed Israel, flinging open the door to throw out the bags.

'Of course it's them,' said Ted, laughing through his fingers. 'Were you born yesterday?!'

Israel's hair was plastered to his head, and steam was rising off him, he was panting, and his hands were cut.

'That's not funny,' he said.

'No, you're right,' said Ted, wiping tears from his eyes, and starting up the engine and pulling off. 'That's not funny. You're absolutely right. That's not funny at all. I'll tell you what that is: that is hilarious. You're a geg, d'you know that? That is precious, so it is…'

Israel opened up the bags, which contained some slightly damp books, and a small bag of potatoes.

'There's potatoes in here as well, Ted.'

'Aye.'

'For us?'

'I'd warrant.'

'That's very kind of Mr Onions.'

'Aye, that it is.'

'Ted,' said Israel.

'Hmm.'

'I hope these are not gifts or services in kind.'

Ted remained silent.

'Ted? Are these gifts or services in kind?'

'Of course they're not. They're potatoes.'

'But you know you're not allowed to receive goods or services in kind?'

'Ach, give over.'

'I'm serious.'

'I'm serious. Now, be quiet, boy, will you, and keep your head down, or the snipers'll see you.'

Israel flinched, and Ted roared with laughter.

'Ha! Got you! Oh yes, that's good!'

'Ted, I've got a headache.'

'Aye, me too. Listening to your auld nonsense.'

'We're never going to find all the books like this, Ted.'

'Ach, Israel, quiet, will you. You're like an auld woman.'

A couple more miles down the coast road and they came to the Myowne mobile home park. It looked like an open prison, actually: it had an air of miserable solitude about it, an air of unwelcome and rebuke, like a barracks, a place that had turned its back upon the world not through choice but through necessity, and which had grown sad and bitter as a consequence, appalled by its own exile and isolation. There were whitewashed boulders flanking the entrance, and rows of bollards linked together by rusty chains, and floodlights set upon tall posts. Signs indicated that it was an RAC-approved campsite, but it would have done equally as well as a detention centre for asylum seekers.

'I don't think I'd fancy spending my holiday here much,' said Israel.

Ted ignored him and turned off the road and drove in under the big metal arching sign which announced MYOWNE: PRIVATE, HOMES TO BUY AND RENT and they pulled up into the clearly signposted Visitors' Car Park and then went into the reception, a long, low building all flaky with paint and with faded inflatable toys hanging in its windows, and out-of-date posters advertising summer bingo nights in the communal hall, and an evening of Country Gospel with a singer called Bobbie Dylan, and a children's Bible holiday club.

'God. Holiday from hell,' joked Israel.

Ted continued to ignore him.

Inside the reception there were more pathetic inflatables hanging from the ceiling, and a rack of postcards, and shelves with nothing on them, and two trestle tables set up in front of an old wooden counter which had set out upon it newspapers and bread and milk, and a man was sat behind the counter, smoking a fragrant pipe and flicking through a newspaper, the Irish News. He was wearing a boiler suit and had a fat alsatian lying at his feet.

'Ted,' said the man, nodding to Ted.

'Jimmy,' said Ted, nodding back.

'Hello,' said Israel, extending his hand, his purple tie glistening against his brown corduroy jacket under the lights. The man named Jimmy in the boiler suit just looked at him-at the tie, at the T-shirt, at the brown corduroy jacket-and looked back down at his paper. 'My name's Israel Armstrong,' said Israel. 'I'm the new mobile librarian.'