'No.'

'So then. Come on, you big glunter.'

So against his better judgement-and partly because no one had ever called him a big glunter before-Israel did what he was told and placed a foot on Ted's big joint-of-meat hands and Ted grunted and puffed and straightened up and Israel scrambled for handholds and footholds up the side of the van, and by grappling and struggling he made it up onto the roof of the van, where there was only a few feet clearance from the roof of the barn, and he knelt down, puffing and scraping dust and rust and chicken shit out of the way.

'Eerrgh.'

'Good man you are!' shouted Ted. 'Go on then!'

'All right. Give me a minute,' said Israel, catching his breath and crawling on his belly towards the skylight. 'It's filthy!'

'Get on with it.'

'But-'

'Just pop it.'

'What?'

'The skylight. Pop it.'

Israel had a hold of the skylight and was wiggling and wobbling the Perspex from side to side.

'Got it?'

'Not yet.'

'Pop it!' shouted Ted, like a boxer's corner man.

'I can't pop it!'

'Go on!'

'I am going on!'

'Put some effort in.'

'I am putting some effort in. It's stuck.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes!'

'Might be rusty,' granted Ted.

'Might be? It's all rust.'

'Just yank her then,' said Ted.

Israel got a hold of the two sides of the skylight and braced himself, half kneeling and half standing, and put all his weight into pulling up and back and he took a deep breath and then he pulled up and back, and the skylight gave a sound of cracking, and the ancient Perspex came away in his hands.

And Israel straightened upwards and backwards…smashing the back of his head on the roof of the barn.

'Aaggh!' he screamed.

'You done it?' said Ted.

'Aaggh!'

'What?' said Ted.

'Aggghh!'

'What's the matter?'

'Aaggh, shit!'

'Will you mind your bloody language!' shouted Ted.

'Aaggh!' shouted Israel back. 'I nearly brained myself.'

'Aye. Knock some sense into you.'

'Ow,' said Israel, rubbing his head. 'I'm injured. My head.'

'Only part of you safe from injury.'

'I'm in agony here!'

'Aye, but you've not lost the powers of speech.'

'It hurts.'

'All right. You got a bump. Now just get on with it.'

'Get on with what?'

'What do you think? Your eyes in your arse or what?'

'What?'

'Climb in, you fool.'

'What do you mean climb in? There's no ladder.'

'Of course there's no ladder. Jump!' said Ted.

'I'm not jumping in there,' said Israel. 'It's dark.'

'Of course it's bloody dark. Just jump,' said Ted. 'What's wrong with ye, boy? Just mind your bap, eh.'

'My bap?'

'Your head, you eejit.'

'It's quite a drop,' said Israel, peering down into the dark interior of the van.

'Get on with it now,' said Ted. 'Christmas is coming, and it'll be here before we are if you keep carrying on.'

'I don't like the look of it.'

'Well, you're not going to like the look of it when I come up there and throw you down. Now, jump.'

'I don't know if I'll fit.'

'Of course you'll fit. What do you want us to do, grease you like a pig? Get in there and stop your yabbering, will ye. Come on.'

'Ah, God. All right,' said Israel. 'But I'm blaming you if I get hurt.'

'Fine. Just jump.'

'My head hurts.'

'It'll hurt even more if you don't shut up and get on with it,' said Ted reasonably. 'Jump!'

And lowering himself over the gap, supporting himself by his arms, Israel did.

And 'Aaah!' he cried, as he landed awkwardly on his ankle inside the mobile library.

'Ach, God alive, Laurence Olivier, that's enough of your dramatics now,' said Ted. 'Open the door.'

'I've hurt myself,' called Israel from inside the van.

'Ah'm sure,' said Ted. 'But come and open the door first.'

'I've hurt my ankle,' shouted Israel. 'I don't think I can walk.'

'Well, crawl.'

'I think I might have broken it!'

'If you've broken your ankle then I'm the Virgin Mary,' said Ted.

Israel stood up. 'I can't walk!' he cried.

'I tell you, if you was a horse I'd shoot you. Now stop your blethering and open this door before I lose the head and batter the thing in on top of you.'

Israel hopped down the bus and, after some fiddling with catches and locks, managed to open up the side door.

Ted entered.

'Ah,' he said. 'At last. Smell that.' It was not the smell of a library-books, sweat, frustrated desire, cheap but hard-wearing carpets. It was more the smell of a back-alley garage-the smell of warm corroding metal and oil. 'That's beautiful, sure,' said Ted, sweeping his arm in an expansive, welcoming kind of gesture. 'Welcome home.'

Maybe in her day the mobile library had been beautiful: maybe in her day she'd have been like home. These days, however, she was no longer a vehicle any sane person could possibly be proud of, unless you were Ted, or a dedicated mobile library fancier, or a scrap-metal merchant, and she wouldn't have been a home unless you were someone with absolutely no alternative living arrangements; also, crucially, and possibly fatally for a mobile library, there were no shelves.

'There are no shelves,' said Israel, astonished, still rubbing his head, and staring at the bare grey metal walls inside the van.

'No.'

'None at all.'

'Aye,' agreed Ted.

'Well, I don't want to sound all nit-picky, but shelves are pretty much essential for a library.'

'True.'

'Essential.'

'You could stack books on the floor,' said Ted.

'Yes. We could. But generally, we librarians prefer shelves. It's, you know, neater.'

'All right. Don't be getting smart with me now.'

'Right. Sorry. But there are no shelves. And no books, as far as I can see. So…the books?'

'The books?'

'The library books?'

'Ach, the books are fine, sure. You don't want to worry about the books. They'll be in the library.'

'This is the library.'

'Not this library. The old library.'

'The one that's shut?'

'Yes.'

'You're sure the books are there?'

'Of course I'm sure. There's been books there since before Adam was a baby.'

'Really.'

'We'll take a wee skite over later on, sure.'

'A what?'

'A skite. And we'll get Dennis or someone to knock us up some shelves.'

'Who's Dennis?'

'He's a plumber.'

'Right.' Then Israel thought twice. 'What?'

'He's a joiner. What do you think he is, if he builds shelves? I mean, in the name of God, man, catch yerself on. I'll give him a call later. So, do you want to try her?'

'Sorry?'

'Try her? Start her? For flip's sake, d'they not speak any English where you come from?'

'Yes. Of course they speak English. I am English!'

'Ah'm sure. And you can drive, can you? Or do they not teach you that over there on the mainland either?'

'Of course I can drive,' said Israel, grabbing the keys from Ted's hands.

Israel could drive-sort of. He had a licence. He'd passed his test. But he was a rubbish driver. And he was tired and he had a headache and what he really needed now was a lie down in a darkened room, preferably at home in lovely north London, rather than attempting to drive a clapped-out old mobile library under the scrutiny of a half-mad miserable minicab driver in the middle of the middle of nowhere. Nonetheless, he wasn't going to lose face, so he climbed into the thinly padded driver's seat, the foam coming out of the leather-effect PVC, put the key in the ignition, turned the key and…

Nothing.

Thank goodness.

'Oh well,' he said, 'we can always come back-'

Ted's heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

'It'll only be the battery,' said Ted. 'I'll take a look.'

It was the battery. And the alternator. And the air filter. And the fuel filter. And a lot of other things Israel had only ever heard rumour of-the gasket, the plug circuit, wiring looms, cylinder barrels. Ted spent a long time examining the engine.