The Last Devil to Die (Thursday Murder Club, #4)

by Richard Osman

Had Mitch looked over the road to his left as he was leaving the business park, he would have seen a motorcycle courier parked up in a lay-by. And the thought might then have occurred to him that this was an unusual place at an unusual time on an unusual day for the man to be parked there. But Mitch doesn’t see the man, so this thought does not occur, and he drives merrily on his way back home.

“Come on, out. All of you.” The gang exit the car. Ron thinks it’s nice to be able to stretch his legs. Dom appraises them as a group. “So I’ve got a dodgy cockney, a coke dealer, some old bird with a shooter, and . . .” He looks at Joyce again. “Joyce,” says Joyce. “And Joyce,” says Dom. “Staking out my warehouse on a January morning. You see that a reasonable man might have questions?”

Hard copies are very wasteful. I would like, if possible, the Thursday Murder Club to become carbon neutral by 2030.” “You could also stop laminating everything,” suggests Ron. “One step at a time, Ron,” says Ibrahim. “One step at a time.” He knows, in his heart, that Ron is right, but he doesn’t feel able to let go of his laminating machine. This must be how America feels about coal-fired power stations.

We learned nothing, but learning nothing was the whole point of the lunch. Elizabeth just wanted to get everybody together, to shake the tree. Give them enough rope, was what we used to say, but “Let’s see who kills whom next,” was how Elizabeth actually put it.

They say that time softens the pain, but that’s a fairy tale. Who would ever love again if anyone actually told the truth?

We think time travels forward, marches on in a straight line, and so we hurry alongside it to keep up. Hurry, hurry, mustn’t fall behind. But it doesn’t, you see. Time just swirls around us. Everything is always present. The things we’ve done, the people we’ve loved, the people we’ve hurt, they’re all still here.”

“Is this a crisis? Would you say?” “Hmm,” says Elizabeth. “Life is a crisis, isn’t it?” “Quite so,” says Stephen. “Why should death be any different?

It has pieces from six thousand years ago, can you imagine? And on these pieces you can see fingerprints, you can see scratches where someone’s child has come in and distracted them. You understand that these people are still alive? Everyone who dies is alive. We call people ‘dead’ because we need a word for it, but ‘dead’ just means that time has stopped moving forward for that person? You understand? No one dies, not really.”

“I don’t know why we’re on this earth,” says Stephen. “Truly I don’t. But if I wanted to find the answer, I would begin with how much I love you. The answer will be in there somewhere, I’m sure. I’m sure.

Days of death are days when we weigh our relationship with love in our bare hands. Days when we remember what has gone, and fear what is to come. The joy love brings, and the price we pay. When we give thanks but also pray for mercy.

The life she had with Stephen will always mean more to her than the life she will now have going forward. She will spend more time there, in that past, she knows that. And, as the world races forward, she will fall further and further back. There comes a point when you look at your photograph albums more often than you watch the news. When you opt out of time, and let it carry on doing its thing while you get on with yours. You simply stop dancing to the beat of the drum.