The Secret Hours

by Mick Herron

But all of that was in the future, which was arriving too slowly, unless you were riding a motorbike across a rough-toned field, spitting stony soil behind you.

Things like this should happen to a younger man, if they had to happen at all. Presumably someone had a good reason for setting all this in motion. Max would enjoy holding their head down a toilet, should the opportunity arise.

When you axed lower paid jobs, the average rose without anyone becoming richer.

“How come you know so much about it?” He could hardly believe he’d said those words aloud. “Every Black woman does.”

In her case, the price of her soul had been a party invitation.

That bumping noise she used to worry about, the sound of her own head hitting the ceiling: she was used to it now. Having a ceiling prevented you drifting away.

Nobody told you what a drag it was, getting older. Or at least, people did tell you, but you ignored them, because they were old.

Professionals don’t burst into tears when you punch them in the face, not even after you’ve bitten the tip of their nose off.