The Bad Book Affair. Ian Sansom

      ‘Er…?’

      ‘Israel…?’ asked Pearce.

      ‘Armstrong,’ said Israel, generously. ‘Israel Armstrong.’

      ‘Ah!’ Pearce pantomime-smacked his forehead. ‘Of course!’

      ‘The librarian?’ offered Israel.

      ‘Yes. Yes. Have you lost weight?’

      ‘Maybe a little bit.’

      ‘And the beard?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘El Barbaro,’ said Pearce. ‘Had dinner once with Castro. With my second wife. Pork. Relentless talker.’

      ‘Aye, that’s the two of yous, then,’ said Ted.

      ‘Sshh,’ said Israel.

      ‘Is he dead?’ asked Pearce.

      ‘Fidel Castro?’ said Israel. ‘No, Pearce, I think he’s still going strong.’

      ‘I heard he’d died,’ said Pearce.

      ‘No, that was maybe Che Guevara.’

      ‘Oh. Really. But how are you…?’ asked Pearce.

      ‘Israel.’

      ‘Israel, yes.’

      ‘Good, thanks, yes…Erm, Pearce?’

      ‘Yes, my dear?’

      ‘You’re playing the violin?’

      ‘Viola, Israel. Viola. You can tell the difference, surely? Oxford-educated man like yourself.’

      ‘Oxford Brookes,’ said Ted, taking a last, deep, desperate draw on his cigarette before going into the café. ‘Wasn’t it? The polytechnic.’

      ‘Ex-polytechnic,’ said Israel. ‘Thank you, Ted. Ex.’

      ‘Aye,’ said Ted, coughing.

      ‘Oxford,’ said Pearce, reverently, as though describing a lover. ‘Much darker tone.’

      ‘Sorry?’ said Israel. ‘You’ve lost me. Oxford has a much darker tone than…?’

      ‘The viola,’ said Pearce. ‘Compared to the violin. Much darker. Voice of the soul. C. G. D. A.’ Pearce plucked at the strings of the instrument in his hand. ‘Prelude to the Bach cello suites, arrangement by an old friend of mine. My first wife—beautiful soprano voice. Igor wrote something for her mother…’

      ‘Erm.’ Israel hesitated. Pearce had recently been showing signs of memory loss and confusion. He’d been found as far away as Belfast, on his bicycle, claiming that he was riding in the peloton in the Tour de France. ‘You know you’re outside Zelda’s, playing your violin?’ said Israel.

      ‘Viola,’ said Pearce. ‘I’m collecting money for the Green Party. Forthcoming elections. Need every penny.’

      ‘You’re busking,’ said Israel.

      ‘That’s illegal,’ said Ted, spitting on the pavement.

      ‘Fund-raising,’ said Pearce. ‘Spare a few coppers, guv’nor?’

      ‘Not likely,’ said Ted.

      ‘I didn’t know you were a Green Party supporter,’ said Israel.

      ‘Isn’t everybody these days?’ said Pearce, breaking into another racking coughing fit, which doubled him over, his slight frame shaking as he stood himself up straight again.

      ‘No,’ said Ted.

      ‘Sssh,’ said Israel, staring hard at Ted. ‘Are you all right, Pearce?’

      ‘Yes,’ coughed Pearce. ‘Fine.’

      ‘Good,’ Israel said. ‘Good for you.’

      ‘It’s not good for me,’ said Pearce. ‘Not at all. That’s not the point of it, my dear. It’s good for the planet.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Israel, soothingly. ‘I meant—’

      ‘I’ve been planting trees up at the house, you know, carbon offsetting. About a thousand now, I think.’

      ‘A thousand trees?’

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘That’s a lot of trees,’ said Israel.

      ‘Hardly,’ said Pearce. ‘You can never have enough trees.’

      ‘No,’ agreed Israel. ‘They don’t grow on…trees.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘They don’t—’ began Israel.

      ‘Just ignore him,’ said Ted. ‘And he shuts up in the end.’

      ‘Handbook of the soul,’ said Pearce. ‘A tree.’

      ‘Is it?’ said Israel.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Right. Yes. Probably it is.’

      ‘Irish oak. Native species. Sorbus aucuparia. Sorbus hibernica…I had a friend who grew hurley ash for profit, you know. Nice little business.’

      ‘Aye, all right,’ said Ted. ‘Let’s get in here for our coffee, Israel, shall we?’

      ‘Yeah, sure. Pearce, do you want a cup of tea or anything to keep you warm? We’re just going into Zelda’s here—’

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Pearce. ‘No time for tea. Work to be done. Planet and what have you…Raging against the…’ He hawked up some phlegm and spat it into a polka-dot handkerchief. ‘Dying of the light.’

      ‘OK. Good to see you,’ said Israel. ‘Look after yourself, OK?’

      ‘Aye, you enjoy yourself there,’ said Ted.

      ‘I’ve been measuring my pond at home,’ said Pearce.

      ‘Right ye are, auld fella,’ said Ted to Pearce. And ‘Let’s get in here, my back’s killing me,’ he said to Israel.

      ‘One hundred and two feet,’ said Pearce.

      ‘Very good,’ said Israel. ‘Excellent.’

      Pearce raised the viola and the neckerchiefed dogs stirred at his feet, preparing themselves. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday, of course?’ said Pearce.

      ‘Yes,’ said Israel. ‘Of course.’

      ‘Sunday?’ said Ted.

      ‘I visit him sometimes on Sundays.’

      ‘Very cosy,’ said Ted.

      ‘Sshh,’ said Israel.

      ‘Good,’ said Pearce, waving them away with his bow. ‘Now, no time to chat. Must get on. Bach.’

      ‘Ing,’ said Ted.

      ‘Sshh!’ said Israel.

      ‘Bloody header,’ said Ted, as they walked into Zelda’s.

      ‘I like him,’ said Israel. ‘He’s my favourite person in the whole of Tumdrum.’

      ‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘’Cause he’s not all there, an’ a big lump trailin’.’

      ‘What? What does that mean?’

      ‘He’s as bloody crazy as you are.’

       4

      They waved goodbye to Pearce playing his viola outside and pushed into the crowds. Even by the usual