The Man Who Died Twice (Thursday Murder Club, #2)

by Richard Osman

Two people who never met, touching and laughing and making plans. A pot plant here, a coffee table there. The stuff of love.

“Well, I assume so too,” says the man. “Good to see you, Elizabeth. Are those flowers for me?” “No, I have taken to carrying flowers around with me as an affectation,” says Elizabeth, handing them over as she is ushered in.

That twinkle in his eye was undimmed. The twinkle that gave an entirely undeserved suggestion of wisdom and charm. The twinkle that could make you walk down the aisle with a man almost ten years your junior and regret it within months. The twinkle you soon realize is actually the beam of a lighthouse, warning you off the rocks.

There were certain men you could allow to dress themselves and certain men you couldn’t. Chris was on the cusp. Soon he would be able to run free.

The file is the only one on Ibrahim’s shelves that isn’t kept in strict alphabetical order. Because sometimes you had to remember that life wasn’t always arranged in alphabetical order, however much you would like it to be.

I told Poppy she had been very brave, and Elizabeth told her she had been a terrific shot too, and Douglas said amen to that. But Poppy was having none of it, just silently weeping.

She opens the door, sunshine floods into her dark world, and there he is. Bogdan. Shaven headed, tattoos snaking up both arms, deep blue eyes, and an expression of total indifference.

How unfair to die in your twenties with all that fun ahead of you. The kisses and the boat rides and the flowers and the new coats. Those poems she will never read to a new lover? You will go completely mad waiting for life to be fair, but whoever killed Poppy took something beautiful.

Andrade’s face fills the screen, suddenly, and he immediately begins to remonstrate with Lomax, his arms windmilling. He brings a fist down on his New York desk. “Frank, you’re on mute, I think,” says Martin Lomax. “You need to click on the little microphone. The green button.” Frank Andrade leans into his screen, mouth open and eyes scanning for the button. He presses it. “Can you hear me?” “That’s perfect, Frank,” says Martin Lomax. “What were you saying? When you were banging your fist on the desk?” “Ah, nothing,” says Frank. It always disappoints Martin Lomax that Frank doesn’t have a thick New York accent like in the films. He just sounds like a normal American. “I was just creating a mood.” “No need to create anything with me, Frank,” says Martin Lomax. “Listen, Lomax,” says Frank. “I like you, you know that. My dad likes you. You’re English, we respect that.”

People love to sleep, and yet they are so frightened of death. Bogdan has never understood it.

I would say I found him attractive, except he turned out to be a bit boring, and I can’t find boring men attractive. Believe me, I’ve tried. Wouldn’t it make life simpler?

Then he said he would kill us one by one. He pointed at Ron and said he would start with him. Ron gave us an “it’s always me” gesture. And he’s right, it always is.

By the way, earlier, when I said Elizabeth is a terrible flirt, I didn’t mean she’s a terrible flirt like I’m a terrible flirt. I mean that when she flirts, she’s terrible at it. Really all over the place. I like to see things Elizabeth is bad at. There aren’t many, but at least it levels the playing field a bit for the rest of us.

“Looking at a man you love isn’t romantic, Joyce,” says Elizabeth. “It’s just the sensible thing to do. Like watching a television program you like.”

And that’s because he is the weather, and I am the weather forecaster. He believes in fate, while I am fate.”

“That’s because Gerry planned them and never told you,” says Elizabeth. “Because things are more fun for you when they’re not planned, and they were more fun for him when they were planned. It’s best to have one of each in every relationship.”

doddery

Bear in mind, also, that this was past ten and I had already said, “Well, this has been lovely,” more than once.

Last night, awake with Stephen at around four a.m., he had been showing off about some mountain or other he had climbed when he was a young man. She had then invented an even bigger mountain she had climbed—“without a single Sherpa, darling”—and he then upped the ante and was climbing Everest without Sherpas or oxygen, and then she was climbing Everest carrying a grand piano, and the two of them were in fits of giggles. It was love, of course, but it was also friendship. Stephen was the first person she had ever met who refused to take her seriously.

Joyce doesn’t take her seriously, Ibrahim doesn’t take her seriously, Ron certainly doesn’t take her seriously. They respect her, she thinks, they know they can rely on her, they take care of her—shudder—but they refuse to take her seriously. Who knew that was the secret all along? Now she really thinks about it, Chris and Donna don’t take her seriously either. First Stephen, then the Thursday Murder Club, now Chris and Donna? Why this sudden wave of people who refused to be taken in by her casual brilliance and brusque efficiency?

“Well, the kettle is always on at mine.”

“Oh, I never take offense,” says Joyce. “Such an effort.”

“More women are murdering people these days,” says Joyce. “If you ignore the context, it is a real sign of progress.”

“You should do this for a living, you know?” “You are simply a little lost, Donna. And if one is never lost in life, then clearly one has never traveled anywhere interesting.”

A long day of thinking, a long life full of thinking. So much thinking. Just to find that all she was looking for was this. A Polish man too big for the chair he is sitting in and a lovely white-haired man who thought he could explore Venice without a map.

She is beginning to think she might not offer Elizabeth a flapjack, but she has made them with coconut oil and is desperate for someone to try them. So she is in a bind.

“Stop trying to cheer me up,” says Joyce. “I should be looking at travel toiletries in Boots.”

All is quiet in this happy place. Another day done, family safe and sound, curtains closed, and heating on. Nothing you’ll ever see on the news, but something you should really pay more attention to, just the gentle hum of contentment.

Thinking back, the last line of The Thursday Murder Club was about Joyce’s gooseberry crumble, so I really feel I am growing as a writer.