The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery (25 page)

'Aye, well, and I'm telling you to mind yer own blinkin' business, or I'll—'

'Don't be threatening me, Ted!'

'I'm not threatening ye, ye eejit!'

They arrived back at the Mini.

'Well, that's what it sounds like to me. Now, anyway'—they got into the car, ready to go—'so. To be clear. We're going to find the van—without doing any harm to anyone!'

Ted huffed.

'And we'll get this whole thing over and done with. And without my mother! Do you understand?'

'Ach.'

'Do you understand?'

'Aye, and who made you the head bombardier all of a sudden?'

'Head bombardier?'

'Aye, ye're all the same.'

'Who?'

'People.'

'Right.'

Muhammad barked at them approvingly.

'Stonehenge?' said Ted, as they set off, unable to let it go. 'Jesus!'

'Have
you
got a better idea, Ted?'

'I have not,' said Ted, as if the mere suggestion that he might have an idea was an offence.

'So,' said Israel. 'As far as I'm concerned that's the end of the discussion. That's what we're doing. It's a long shot, but it might just work.'

'It's a stupit idea,' said Ted.

It was 6.00 p.m. by the time Ted and Israel eventually arrived at Stonehenge; they'd stopped off in a pub on the way for lunch, which was definitely not a good idea. ('I tell you what I'm going to have,' Ted had announced, hungrily, as they pulled off the motorway and onto an A road, and then onto a B road and into the pub forecourt. 'What?' 'A ploughman's. Nice fresh bread and cheddar cheese. A real traditional English pub lunch. You can't get that back home.' He was right. 'Your ploughman's, sir,' the barman had said. 'A ploughman's? That's not a ploughman's,' Ted said. 'It's…' 'It's sourdough bread, sir, with melted goat's cheese, and a cranberry and sweet chili coleslaw, and baby gem lettuce.' 'Has this whole country gone completely mad?' said Ted. 'No,' said Israel, 'it's just gone gastro.') And then on round the M25, and on and on, on the M3, and the A303, and onto the A344, in the hot, steaming summer's night, and the approach to Stonehenge, which was like the approach to Lakeside, except this time instead of people being there for their actual shopping, they were there for the
spiritual
shopping, which is cheaper, admittedly, although some actual shopping was also available; as they approached the car park, there were young men and women wearing eccentric floppy rainbow-coloured hats going from car to car, offering juggling balls, and tarot cards, and giant Rizla papers and novelty lighters. There were also stewards in fluorescent bibs, and policemen with dogs, and barriers, and fences, and burger and hot dog stalls, and vegetarian burger and hot dog stalls, and everywhere you looked, cars, and vans, and more cars and vans. It felt more like a motor show than anything else—a second-hand motor show, at which hippies jeered at the drivers of SUVs.

Israel had never seen Stonehenge before, and he could barely see it now; you just caught a glimpse of it from the car park. From a distance, in the shimmering heat, it looked like big heaps of old moulded plasticene.

'Nice job,' said Ted, as they got out of the car.

'What is?' said Israel.

'The stones. Probably some sort of mortice and tenon at the top.'

'What?'

'Some sort of wee joggle joint. Must be.' Ted peered at the stones in the distance, as if surveying the quality of a roof on a new-build bungalow. 'Carpentry, basically, isn't it, applied to stones?'

'Right.'

'They're like lintels, if you look,' said Ted. 'Not bad. Must have been a job to do.'

'Right. Okay,' said Israel. 'I think it's more the spiritual significance that most people are interested in, rather than the ancient building techniques.'

'Ah'm sure,' said Ted.

'So, anyway,' said Israel. 'I guess now we just look for the van.'

'Aye, it'll take some doing, mind,' said Ted. 'Look around ye. It's like Coleraine on market day.'

They agreed to split up, and went walking up and down the rows of parked cars and vans, which spread out as far as the eye could see, with crowds of people milling around, flying kites, playing Frisbee, playing the bongos; people hugging each other; people cheering and shouting; people crying; stumbling drunks. Occasionally, Israel would stop a sober-looking person and ask them if they'd seen the van.

'I'm looking for a van,' he'd say. 'An old Bedford?'

'Yeah. Nice vans. Good conversion.'

Or, 'Have you seen an old Bedford?'

'D'you want to buy a kite?'

And 'Excuse me, have you seen an old—'

'Could you give me fifty pounds?'

And, 'Have you seen—'

'Dope? Skunk? Crack?'

And, 'Have you—'

'Make Homebrew, Not War.'

And, 'Hello, I—'

'Waaalllly!'

Ted had fared no better.

'Any luck?' asked Israel, when they met up again, half an hour later.

'Ach,' said Ted. 'No. Not at all. Look at the place. Disgusting.' There was rubbish everywhere. 'It's like an outdoor bloody loony bin. All these sorts, all scunging about.'

'Scunging?'

'That's right. Load a thugs and auld hippies stocious with drink, playing the drums.'

'Bongos,' said Israel.

'Exactly,' said Ted. 'Completely blinkin' bongos, the lot of 'em.'

'I saw a nice-looking falafel stall, though, if you fancy something to eat,' said Israel.

Ted stared at him and tutted.

'Well, maybe you're right,' said Israel. 'Maybe later?'

A man came striding past then, wearing a yellow fluorescent vest with the word
'STEWARD'
printed on it, front and back. He carried a satchel, and had a walkie-talkie, and a long, greying goatee beard, down almost to his chest, and his hair was in a ponytail, and he was wearing frayed denim shorts, and walking boots and a stained leather cowboy hat; he looked like a municipal Gandalf.

'Excuse me?' said Israel.

'Yes, brother?' said the man, halting abruptly, officially, and more than a little ironically, in his stride.

'Brother!' exclaimed Ted.

'Erm. I wonder if you might be able to help?' said Israel.

'That's what I'm here to do,' said the man. 'I Am Here to Help.'

'Good,' said Israel.

'You may call me Lancelot,' said the man.

'Right,' said Israel.

'I'll call ye something,' muttered Ted.

'And this might perhaps answer your questions, gentlemen.' He handed them a leaflet from his satchel, announcing '
SUMMER SOLSTICE: CONDITIONS OF ENTRY AND INFORMATION
'. 'No dogs!' the man announced, pointing to Muhammad. 'Sunrise at 4.58 a.m.,' he said, '
pre-cisely
,' and went to stride off again.

'Erm. Thanks. That's…lovely, Lancelot,' said Israel. 'But, actually, we're looking for a van.'

'Okay,' said Lancelot, turning back. 'A van? Uh-huh.'

'Which has been…we have lost.'

'I see.'

'It's been painted. It has…What's it got painted on it, Ted?'

'Black,' said Ted.

'Yeah,' said Israel, 'and over the front there's a sort of big eye, and it says—'

'The Odyssey,' stated Ted, with distaste.

'Yeah, that's it,' said Israel. 'The Odyssey. And down the side it says—'

'The Warehouse of Divine Jewels,' said Ted, with disgust.

'Yeah.'

'Okay,' said Lancelot.

'And on the back it says—'

'Follow Us Towards Enlightenment,' said Ted, his voice beyond emotion.

'Yeah,' said Israel. '"Follow Us Towards Enlightenment", with a rainbow painted above it.'

'Sounds like quite a van,' said Lancelot.

'Yeah. It belongs to…some friends of ours.'

'I see.'

'We were going to meet them here. You've not seen it?'

'No. No. I don't think so,' said Lancelot. 'But I could check with the other stewards, if you'd like?'

'Right, well, that'd be great actually,' said Israel. 'And this is where all the travellers meet, is it?'

'No, young man,' said Lancelot, 'oh, no, no, no, no, no.
These
'—he emphasised the word 'these' as though indicating his own wayward offspring—'
these
are mostly tourists.' He lowered his voice. 'To be honest with you, they're only here for Fatboy Slim.'

'Oh? Really? Is Fatboy Slim playing?' said Israel.

'No!' Lancelot laughed, as if this were the funniest thing he'd heard in a long time. 'He was on a few years ago—and very good, actually, I should say, though I'm more of a Steely Dan man myself—but now of course everybody expects a rave when they come. This is your first time, I presume?'

'Yes,' said Israel.

'And last,' said Ted.

'Henge virgins,' mused Lancelot, stroking his beard. 'I remember when I was a Henge virgin myself. Seventy-four,' he mused. 'Nineteen seventy-four.'

'Anyway, I'm sorry I missed Fatboy Slim,' said Israel.

'There were rumours this year that Snoop Dogg was going to play,' said the steward. 'I ask you!'

'Snoop Dogg!' Israel laughed. 'As if!'

Ted looked perplexed.

'A lot of your old-style New Agers,' continued the steward, 'they go up past Amesbury there, into the hills.'

'Ah, that'd be where our friends are then, I would have thought,' said Israel. 'Do you think, Ted?'

Ted shrugged.

'Do you still want me to check with the stewards for you?' asked the man.

'No, it's all right, thanks, erm, Lancelot,' said Israel. 'I think our friends'll probably be with the other…people. But thanks anyway.'

'Peace,' said the man.

'Off,' said Ted, as they got into the car. 'Lancelot! What sort of a name is that supposed to be? Lancelot? And Fat Boy Jim?'

'Slim.
You've Come a Long Way, Baby
?'

'Aye. And the Soup Dog?'

'Snoop Dogg,' said Israel. 'He's a rapper.
Doggystyle
? D'you not know it?'

'Israel. Let's just find the van and get home, can we?' said Ted. 'Because, I'm telling ye, everyone in this country's on the loonie soup, as far as I can tell. The whole blinkin' lot of ye…'

It took them even longer driving away from Stonehenge than driving towards it—diversions, single-lane traffic—but eventually they made it back onto the open roads and into the country.

'So?' said Israel. 'We are looking for—'

'Hippies,' said Ted. 'Gypsies. Troublemakers. Thugs. And ruffians.'

'Right. All of the above?'

'And rappers,' added Ted. 'Find one, we'll find 'em all. All together like Brown's cows.'

Which indeed they were, whatever it meant. Over on the other side of Amesbury, as dusk was turning to dark and they'd almost finished listening to the
Da Vinci Code
audiobook all the way through for the umpteenth time ('This bit, in the film, with Tom Hanks, is brilliant,' said Ted again and again), they saw lights in the distance; not house or street lights, but what appeared to be fiery streaks and haloes shooting down the hillsides.

'What the hell's going on over there?' said Ted.

Israel peered through the windscreen. 'Well, from a distance it looks to me like it's people burning tyre wheels and rolling them down the hill.'

'That's what I thought,' said Ted. 'But why in God's name would anyone do that?'

'No idea. Some sort of pagan ritual?'

'Burning car tyres?'

'Well, maybe a sort of…reinterpretation of some…pagan ritual.'

'Aye. That'll be our lot then.'

Israel parked the Mini carefully in a lay-by and then they clambered over a stile and began walking down across a field towards the tyre burners.

It was dark now, but still warm, and there was the sound of birdsong, and suddenly, here, just for a moment—a tiny moment; just a half even, maybe, or a quarter—in a field somewhere in England, for the first time since being back, Israel felt, for a piece of a moment, at home.

He felt overcome by the intensity of his own existence, and yet at the same time completely disembodied from it, as though he were observing his own experience. He thought for a moment of Robert Browning, and of Robert Bridges, and Thomas Hardy, and Ray Davies, and T. E. Lawrence, and Tim Henman, and of hedgerows, and cricket, and is there honey still for tea? He did not think, for a moment, of Gloria. He felt idyllic.

He decided not to mention this to Ted.

'Get down!' said Ted suddenly, as they approached a hedge. 'Down on yer hunkers.'

'Mywhatters?'

'Hunkers. Quick! Down. Get down! Quick!'

Israel did not get down on his hunkers quick enough, so Ted pushed him down flat into the damp mud.

'Ted!'

'Sshh!'

'What? Why?' whispered Israel. 'Have they seen us?'

'Look. There,' whispered Ted.

'Where?'

'Ahint the hedge there.'

'A hint?'

'Aye.'

Israel looked ahint the hedge there.

It wasn't the travellers.

It was a long line of policemen, wearing dark blue boiler suits. And protective helmets. And carrying shields. Shoulder to shoulder. In total silence. And behind them, just over the hedge, piled up, were shovels and picks and spades.

'Oh, shit!' said Israel. 'I don't like the look of this, Ted! What are the police doing here?'

'The same thing we're doing here,' whispered Ted. 'Come on, we need to get out of here,' and so they wriggled along on their bellies beside the hedge, as quietly as they could, away from the police, taking a much longer, snaking, circuitous route through fields of wheat towards the travellers and their burning tyres.

Eventually, having successfully evaded the police, and down towards the bottom of the hill, safely hidden in among some trees, they were close enough to observe.

'Travellers in their natural environment,' whispered Israel, putting on his best David-Attenborough-observing-the-gorillas voice.

'Sshh!' said Ted.

Men and women, stripped to the waist, were leaping over fires. Someone was playing bongos, and people were dancing barefoot, and there were jugglers, and fire-eaters, and people were being tattooed, and there was a child dancing around in a luminous skeleton suit, while other people lay around on the ground, wrapped in rugs, passing bottles and joints. And there, among them, sprawled out, were Stones and Bree, locked in—'Sweet Jesus!' said Ted—an intimate embrace. And behind them, parked at the top of the hill, among the camper vans, old coaches, horseboxes and ambulances, was the mobile library, resplendent, glowing in the firelight, in all its repainted glory, its Eye of Horus keeping watch over the proceedings.