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DescriptionIsrael Armstrong is a passionate soul, lured to Ireland by the promise of an exciting new career. Alas, the job that awaits him is not quite what he had in mind. Still, Israel is not one to dwell on disappointment, as he prepares to drive a mobile library around a small, damp Irish town. After all, the scenery is lovely, the people are charming—but where are the books? The rolling library's 15,000 volumes have mysteriously gone missing, and it's up to Israel to discover who would steal them . . . and why. And perhaps, after that, he will tackle other bizarre and perplexing local mysteries—like, where does one go to find a proper cappuccino and a decent newspaper? ExcerptsChapter One... No. No, no, no, no, no. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not it at all. Israel was outside the library, suitcase in hand, the hood on his old brown duffle coat turned up against the winter winds, and there he was, squinting, reading the sign. Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services Unbelievable. That was just . . . unbelievable. He couldn't take it all in; his eyes seemed to skid across the lines. He had to read it all again and still the only words he took in were 'Library' and 'Closure'—and they hit him hard, like a blow to the head, literally rocked him back on his worn-out old heels, the worn-out old heels on his one and only pair of worn-out best shoes, his brown brogues, too tight and permanently unpolished, shoes that had done him since graduation for all and every special occasion, for weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs and for the interminable and unsuccessful job interviews. Israel had a headache and he was tired from the journey, his whole body and his one and only best brown corduroy suit wrinkled and furrowed from the coach and the ferry and the train and the bus, and he put down his suitcase, shrugged his shoulders a little to wake himself up, and he read the sign again more carefully. 'Library', 'Closure'. Oh, God. He took another Nurofen and a sip of water from his water bottle. He'd read and understood the whole now—that greasy little 'with regret' and the weaselly 'public information meeting', the obfuscating 'proposed mixed-used development'—but it was the two words 'Library' and 'Closure' that really carried all the meaning, that hit hardest. He shook his head to clear his mind and pushed his mop of messy home-cut curly hair from his eyes and his little round gold-rimmed glasses up high onto his furrowed forehead and he took a long, wobbly step back and lifted up his face and looked at the building in front of him: two storeys of unforgiving bluff red brick, blinds drawn, big oak doors locked, no lights, no sign of life. He looked up high and he looked up hard, and then he dropped his head down low. This place was definitely closed. Permanently. And for good. There was a stray dog then, a little terrier, sniffing around... ReviewsPublishers Weekly...
“[Sansom’s] fish-out-of-water dilemmas and encounters with kooky locals will resonate with Alexander McCall Smith fans”
About the AuthorIan Sansom is the author of The Case of the Missing Books, The Truth About Babies, and The Impartial Recorder. He is a regular contributor to The Guardian and the London Review of Books, and he lives in Northern Ireland. Digital Rights Information
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