89. Fading glamour

It was a face that had seen better days.

It seemed to go well with his slightly threadbare sequinned jacket.

It wasn’t just the deepening lines. Try as he might, he couldn’t smile with his eyes any more.

88. Exposition Position

Daniel frowned.

"So, what does exposition mean?"

"Well," said Rory, "exposition is when a character in a novel or play or film gives the reader or audience some background information or explanation about the present situation. It's a way to quickly bring them up to speed on what's happened previously but is usually a bit clumsy.

"Now that you're clear on that, let's get a move on. Thanks to your exploits on my stag do last night, we're 100 miles away from the church where I'm supposed to be marrying Laura this afternoon, with no money, no clothes and no time."

"But what about the Sarah? Do you think she'll make good on her threat to wreck the wedding?"

"Let's not begin to get into all that again," said Rory.

87. On shifting sands

John and Julie are walking arm-in-arm along a cold English beach in spring.

They come across a curious thing. In the sand, in letters six feet long, is written, “I love Julie.”

Happiness swells up through Julie’s face and bursts into a smile, like someone blowing bubble gum.

“Did you write that?” she asks.

“Yes,” John lies.

“You are so sweet,” she says and grips his arm tighter.

Julie and John walk on. They happen upon a trail of pristine white shells, laid out in a perfect line across the sand. They follow it together and soon it begins to curve and wind its way across the beach in ever more complex knots and tighter spiral. They feel like they are becoming together enmeshed in a labyrinth. Then they see that the trail of shells has spelled out, “I ♥ Julie.” John and Julie are standing together at the centre of the maze in the middle of the heart. Julie’s smile is like an excited round of applause.

“Was this you, too?” she asks.

“Um, yes,” he lies. “Yes it was.”

“You are so amazing,” she says.

John and Julie walk to the end of the beach. Near the water’s edge, someone has scratched something in the wet sand. It reads, “Julie fucks like a train.”

John definitely didn’t write that.

“I think we should talk,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees.

At the end of beach, near the storm barriers, unread, lies written in the sand, “John 4 Julie 4 ever.” John did write that. The sea starts to wash it away.

86. What lies beneath

It was one of the most unusual autopsies in which Robert Knox had been employed.

The official verdict cause of death was given as misadventure. The real cause would take several months more to come to light.

In the meantime, he was presented with two ineluctable questions.

One: why the man in question had ingested a Lego Darth Vader just before death.

Two: how and why he had managed to slice open his own scalp and carve on to his own skull the phrase, “If you read this, you are gay.”

85. Les Fleurs du Mal

Nothing quite says romance like stolen flowers. Certainly not like stolen flowers from a churchyard.

“It’s what they would have wanted,” he insisted.

84. Dichotomy

Bernice was a very pretty girl with a very ugly voice.

83. Beginninging of the Endinging

This is the beginning of a story about me trying to reach the end of a book.

I know that sounds trivial, but hear me out. I haven’t not finished a book, if I may mangle a double negative, in my entire life. But now I fear this book is going to finish me.

Seriously. I have been reading it for two years now, and I don’t think I’ve slept for the last 100 days.

At first, I would near the final few chapters and then something petty would get in the way. I’d end up working late, or old school friends would invite me for a drink out of the blue, or I would somehow lose it for a few weeks. And then things started to escalate.

It was a bit like Achilles and the tortoise. I went from reading a few chapters, to a few pages to a few paragraphs, to a few words, to even less than that. It’s not even a very good story, but not finishing it started to drive me mad. Insomnia suddenly hit me, so I’d end up staring at the pages, unable to take anything in.

I can’t remember everything that happened. I spilled paint on the book, although somehow it only covered the final few pages. I tried to buy a replacement but no book shop, library or dealer anywhere in Christendom appears to have a copy of the damn thing. It took me months to work that out and weeks more to patiently slice the pages open and carefully scrape the paint off, finding the words miraculously untouched beneath.

Six months ago, I got an eye infection and was basically blinded for 12 weeks. I asked Jessica to read to me to finish the damn thing, but she lost her voice. And then my father died, throwing my life upside down. I’m not saying the book killed him, but I’m pretty sure it’s killing me.

I wonder whether books have life only as long as the story within them is alive in the reader’s head. Is it a bibliographic Scheherazade desperate to stave off the inevitable?

I need closure on the book before it has closure on me. I found it in a second hand book shop – did someone hide it in there before me to rid themselves of it?

But before I tell you about the end of the book, I should tell you about its beginning.