19

P. J. Bullimore's was an old red-brick building on the edge of town which called itself the Antiques and Collectables Treasure Trove and which was surrounded by a high corrugated-iron fence and which did not look anything at all like an antiques and collectables treasure trove; it looked more like a high-security prison.

Now Israel would have been the first to admit that he didn't have that much experience in breaking and entering-he'd sometimes had trouble getting into a vacuum-sealed pack of Fair Trade coffee back home with Gloria, or splitting open a gaffer-taped box of books back at the discount bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre off the M25 in Thurrock in Essex. But fortunately he just happened to have with him now, at his own personal disposal, a bit of kit that even the most hardened and experienced of professional house-breakers would have been happy to get their hands on: a red and cream liveried rust-bucket of a mobile library which seen in a certain light and under certain desperate circumstances made a pretty effective Trojan-horse-cum-battering-ram-cum-elevating platform. He pulled up this lethal public-service vehicle alongside the corrugated-iron fence around midnight, turned off the engine, took one of the Devines' kitchen chairs which he had wisely thought to bring along earlier and hoisted himself up through the skylight and onto the roof. He was level with the top of the security fence. Sometimes it felt good to be a librarian.

It was about a fifteen-foot drop the other side though; he hadn't got quite that far in his planning.

He prodded his glasses and looked down. The ground looked like dirt rather than concrete, but he couldn't be sure. And was that a mangle and an enamel bath and a few bits of old fireplace and tiles and cast-iron radiators and other architectural salvage-type items lying around down there?

He thought he could hear a car approaching in the distance. The car was coming closer. He looked down again. That was definitely a roll-top bath down there. He could see the headlights now. He didn't want to jump. But nor did he want anyone seeing him standing on the roof of a mobile library at midnight: it would take some explaining.

So he took a deep breath and he leapt.

Aaggh.

Bright security lights came on all around him. He lay still, face down in the dirt. No one came. Nothing happened.

So he picked himself up and dusted himself down-duffle coat, brown corduroy jacket, combats and brogues and all. He'd just missed being impaled on an ornate cast-iron balustrade (£500) and dashing his brains out on a pile of handmade bricks (£2 each, 25 for £40). He'd made it.

And then the dog came out of nowhere.

It was an Alsatian.

Oh, Jesus.

Fortunately though, Israel was prepared even for this, though he didn't know it: the dog leapt up towards him across a pile of mossy coping-stones and Israel may have been a vegetarian and everything but he had no intention of being bitten and he instinctively thrust his hand into his duffle coat pocket and pulled out the first thing he found there and thrust it forwards into the dog's slavering maw-a fine use for a copy of Yann Martel's Life of Pi if Israel said so himself.

The dog was whimpering and thrashing about to try and dislodge the Booker Prize-winning fable about the relationship between man and beasts from his mouth, so Israel didn't have much time.

He ran across the yard to the front of the shop, dodging the mill-stones, and old slate hearths, and nymph-type statuettes and antique garden furniture as he went.

Unfortunately he had no idea how to break into a building, but he did have a couple of other books stuffed into his pocket, including a pre-remaindered copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which they'd given to him as a leaving gift back at the discount bookshop in Thurrock in Essex-because he hated J. K. Rowling, obviously-and he hadn't read it, but right now, at this moment, a work of thick, dense, self-indulgent children's fantasy seemed to him just about the best book published this century; perfect in form, fit to purpose and just what he needed. He took the book firmly in his hand, thrust his arm forward and smashed it through the glass in the top half of the shop's stable door, reached in, fiddled with a few bolts, lifted the top of the door off its hinges, and walked inside. This was probably not what Matthew Arnold had meant when he argued that literature can save you, but it did the trick.

The security lights illuminated the scene inside like something from film noir: dark furniture looming up from the shadows, an armoire here, a little pie-crust-edged table there, studded wooden doors to the right of him, bureaux to the left of him. Some quite nice clocks.

He could hear the dog howling outside. He didn't have long. He started moving quickly through the warren of rooms, rushing past bedsteads and chaise-longues and stuffed birds and desks and tables and cabinets.

But no books. There was absolutely no sign of the bloody books! The only books he could find were tooled leather volumes sitting on a little mahogany book carrel; a snip at £300. But no Hayes car manuals. No Dorling Kindersleys. No Catherine Cooksons. No little purple stickers and the Dewey number. No sign of the Tumdrum and District Library books.

He thought he heard a noise-someone approaching. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

His breathing was heavy-his blood seemed to be pumping round his body at twice its normal speed. He was shaking. His broken nose throbbed. He opened up the nearest door to him and climbed through and wedged himself inside a nice double pine wardrobe: it would have done him and Gloria actually, the wardrobe. He could hear his heart echoing round the wooden space. For a moment he thought his heart might explode. The footsteps approached nearer and nearer.

As the sound of footsteps passed the wardrobe Israel took courage, pushed open the doors and leapt out, shouting and slinging a punch.

The dark figure in front of him turned as Israel swung, blocked the blow, struck him under the chin, hit him in the face, and kneed him in the groin. Israel fell to the floor.

'Aaggh.'

'Get up.'

'Aaggh,' continued Israel.

'Get up, you eejit.'

It was Ted.

'Ted? Ted, what are you doing here?' groaned Israel.

'I couldn't let you come here on your own, you bloody fool.'

'Right. Aaggh. I think you've broken my jaw, but-aaggh-thanks anyway.'

'Don't thank me. I haven't broke your jaw. We're getting you out of here.'

'Right. Yeah,' said Israel, raising himself up to his feet.

'You never go anywhere without back-up. D'you find them though?'

'What?'

'The books, boy!'

'No.'

'Ach, Israel.'

'Ah, but I haven't quite finished my search yet.'

There was a sudden flash of light-like the director of Israel's little film noir had suddenly called 'Cut!' and thrown the switch. It was P. J. Bullimore standing in front of them with a huge torch and dressed in pyjamas, a nasty pink golfing jumper and monogrammed slippers.

'I think your search is over, gents.'

'Ah,' said Israel-in a tone that conveyed all at once anger, surprise, and complete and utter despair.

'Where are the books, Bullimore?' said Ted, rather more evenly.

'Ted. I might have guessed you'd be involved,' said Bullimore.

'The books, Bullimore?'

'The books? I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.'

'The missing library books?'

Bullimore laughed. 'I think the police might have something to say about this,' he said. 'In the meantime…'

And then he grabbed a shade-less standard lamp and started advancing towards them.

'Steady!' said Ted.

'Reasonable force,' said Bullimore, moving slowly towards them, enraged, his face flushed, 'in the protection of myself and my property.'