'No. We'll have to get her into the workshop to get the guts of it done,' he concluded.

'Oh dear,' said Israel. 'That is a shame.'

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Offside coil spring,' he continued, to himself. 'Brake drums.'

'Right,' said Israel, as if he had any idea what Ted was talking about, which he didn't. 'My foot's fine, by the way, thanks for asking. And my head.'

'Aye.'

'You've not got any headache tablets, have you?'

'What for?'

'For my headache?'

'Ach.'

'That's a no, is it?'

Ted locked up the shed and walked back to the car. Israel walked back with him.

'You're wanting a lift then?' said Ted.

'Er. Yes.' Israel looked around him at the middle of the middle of nowhere: mountains; the sea; hedges; the barn. 'Yes. That would be nice. I've been on the road now for…' Israel checked his watch.

'Aye. Well. I've a couple of fares I need to pick up first.'

'Right.'

'I've to pick up George at the Strand, at the pork dinner.'

'Right. I see.' Israel had really had enough for one day. 'And what's a pork dinner, just…out of interest?'

'The pork dinner,' said Ted. 'The Pork Producers' Annual Dinner. At the Strand. Same every year. First Friday in December.'

Oh, God.

4

It was dark now as they drove and Ted was offering a running commentary and pointing out interesting landmarks all along the way, although it was too dark for Israel actually to be able to see any of the landmarks, and anyway most of them were carpet factories, and canning factories, or buildings that no longer existed. Eventually, Ted pulled off the road and up onto yet another rutted lane, which led to the hotel, the Strand, which had clearly seen better days-even in the dark you could tell it could have done with a paint-job and some re-rendering, and maybe some work on the subsidence round where it stood on the cliff overlooking the sea.

As they drew up outside the hotel Israel could see through the vast, brightly lit ground-floor windows groups of men in dinner jackets and women in evening dresses talking, and smoking, and laughing, and clutching each other and glasses of champagne and barbecued spare ribs, and just for a moment he thought he could have been back in London: the romance of it, the people, the comfort, the warmth. He could almost smell the perfume without opening the windows.

'Only be a minute,' said Ted, once he'd parked the car. 'Just go and round them up.'

'Fine,' said Israel, happy to sit dozing in the passenger seat, glad that the longest and worst day of his life was finally coming to an end.

A man and woman approached the car and got into the back seat, laughing and joking. They didn't notice the heap of sleeping Israel in the front, and Israel, dozing, didn't notice them.

What woke him up was the sound of the kissing. It took him a minute to remember where he was: sitting in the front of a cab in the middle of nowhere waiting for Ted Carson to return, feeling sick, while a man and a woman on the back seat seemed to be getting to know each other as more than just good friends.

Oh, God.

There was a smell of alcohol and cigarettes and hot barbecued meats coming from the back seat, and that distinctive smell of passion; that pulse; that vibration; that disturbing hint of civet. Israel half opened his eyes, determined not to look round, and sank down lower and lower in his seat queasily, trying to remain as quiet as possible, hoping for some kind of cooling-off or reprieve, but the couple behind him were oblivious and activities were proceeding apace, and he realised if he didn't act now things could only get messier, and worse.

'Evening,' he said, in a slightly squeaky voice, in a convenient pause, turning round as he spoke and trying to smile.

Everything happened at once. The woman screamed and reached for the door handle, the man let out a roar and reached forward with a punch that caught Israel on the side of the head, knocking off his glasses and knocking him against the passenger-seat window, and then Ted appeared, opening the driver's door.

'Ach, there you all are now. Thought I'd lost you. You've met Israel then?'

Israel was slumped against the passenger door, holding his head.

'Aaggh.'

'Israel?' said Ted. 'Are you all right?'

'Aaggh.'

'What have you been up to?' Ted clambered into his seat. 'Can I not leave you for one minute without you getting into trouble? What's wrong?'

'He hit me,' mumbled Israel.

'He's the new librarian,' explained Ted, turning round to the man and woman on the back seat.

'I don't care if he's the fuckin' Pope, Ted,' said the man. 'He gave us the fright of our lives.'

'Oh dear,' said Ted, starting up the engine and reversing out of the parking space. 'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Not a good start is it?' He turned to Israel as he changed into first, and headed back down the dark lane.

'Uggh,' Israel continued moaning.

'All right, all right,' said Ted. 'Now tell me: how many fingers am I holding up? Come on. Eh? Hey? Come on!' He was holding up two fingers in the dark.

'Two,' said Israel.

'Good man,' said Ted. 'Must be a bruise just. No harm done. We'll find you a red flannel when you get back to George's. Now catch a hold of yourselves, lads, shake hands and let's forget all about it, eh?'

The man in the back seat leant forward to shake Israel's hand.

'Shake!' Ted instructed Israel, and Israel reached a cold hand round, without turning.

'There we are,' said Ted. 'Now let's settle down.' And they drove at high speed for what seemed a long time in complete and utter silence.

They skirted the coast, Israel staring with his one good eye out into the far, dark double-blackness of the sea, wishing he was anywhere else but here-even back at the discount bookshop at the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex, which wasn't a bad little job when you thought about it-and eventually Ted pulled up outside a house on what appeared to be a half-completed housing development perched on the edge of the main road and overlooking the sea. Some of the houses had roofs; some had windows; some had roofs and windows; all of them had identical bright white PVC front doors. Against the backdrop of the dark black sea the development looked like a shiny plastic clearing in the jungle.

The man in the back gave the woman a quick kiss and a squeeze of the hand, and then climbed out of the car, and Israel reluctantly unbuckled his seat belt and went to get out of the car himself.

'Where d'you think you're going?' said Ted.

'I thought I was staying with George,' said Israel.

'You are staying with George, you eejit.'

'But…'

'That's Tony, sure,' said Ted, nodding towards the retreating figure of the man, as if everyone in the western world knew Tony.

'Tony Shaw?'

'Ach, what? No. Tony Thompson.'

'Right.'

'I'm George,' said the woman from the back seat.

'Right. I'm sorry,' said Israel. 'I assumed…' His words faded as Ted started up the car again.

Ted was silent. George was silent. Israel was silent. Everything was silence. And they drove again for what seemed a long time and eventually pulled onto a dirt track, and up a lane, past some big dark looming metal gates and some big dark looming farm machinery, and into a farmyard.

George got out of the car, and so did Israel, with his headache, and he went to get his old suitcase from the boot and then he tapped on Ted's window to say thanks.

'Hold on,' shouted Ted, having wound down his window as Israel started walking away, calling him back to the car. 'Hey! Buck Alec!'

'Me?' said Israel.

'Yes, you,' said Ted. 'Muhammad Ali. Of course you. Here. Come here.'

Israel trudged back to the car then, assuming he'd lost something, or left something behind.