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

by Richard Osman

I was talking to a woman in Ruskin Court, and she said she’s on a diet,” says Joyce, finishing her glass of wine. “She’s eighty-two!” “Walkers make you look fat,” says Ron. “It’s the thin legs.” “Why diet at eighty-two?” says Joyce. “What’s a sausage roll going to do to you? Kill you? Well, join the queue.”

“Small dogs are like small men: always got a point to prove. Yapping it up, barking at cars.”

small men are always barking at cars 😔

“I’d outlive a dog through pure spite,” says Ron. “We’d just sit in opposite corners of the room, staring each other out, and see who went first. Not me. It’s like when we were negotiating with British Leyland in ’seventy-eight. The moment one of their lot went to the loo first, I knew we had ’em.” Ron knocks back more wine. “Never go to the loo first. Tie a knot in it if you have to.”

There are lifts in all the buildings, but Elizabeth will use the stairs while she still can. Stairs are good for hip and knee flexibility. Also, it is very easy to kill someone in a lift when the doors open. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and a ping to announce you’re about to appear. Not that she’s worried about being killed; it doesn’t feel to her like that’s what is happening here, but it’s always important to remember best practice.

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.

“Poppy, can I ask why you have a tattoo of a daisy on your wrist? I would have thought you’d have a tattoo of a poppy?” Poppy smiles and strokes the small tattoo on her wrist. “Daisy is my grandmother. I told her once I wanted a tattoo, and she said over her dead body, anchors and mermaids and so on. So I went away, had this done, and showed it to her the next time I visited. I said ‘Daisy, meet daisy,’ and there wasn’t a lot she could say about it then, was there?” “Clever girl,” says Joyce. “Then two weeks later I went round again, and she rolled up her sleeve and said, ‘Poppy, meet poppy.’ A great big poppy tattoo all the way up her forearm. She said if I was going to be an idiot, then she was too.”

He sees the signs for Hambledon at around one thirty. As he knew he would. Not satnav either, he refuses to use them. Bogdan turns right or left when Bogdan chooses to turn left or right. You don’t need to tell Bogdan that he’s approaching a roundabout.

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?

Ron stands and stretches. “I’m just going to nip down to the shop. Ibrahim, would you like an ice cream?” “No, thank you, Ron,” says Ibrahim. “No one wants an ice cream, righty-ho,” says Ron, and turns to go. Kendrick clamps his lips together and lets out a small noise. Ron turns back. “You all right there, Kendrick?” Kendrick keeps his lips together and murmurs an uncertain “mmm hmm.” “Nothing you want? Some eggs? Washing-up brush? Toilet cleaner? Sardines?” Kendrick shakes his head. “You sure? I’m going to the shop anyway. Bottle of whisky? A cabbage? I can get you a cabbage, if you want?” Kendrick looks down. “No, thank you, Grandad.” Ron smiles and picks his grandson up. “Maybe an ice cream, though?” Kendrick looks at him. “Really?” “You’re on holiday, Kenny. It ain’t a holiday without an ice cream.” “Were you just teasing?” “I was just teasing.”

Wouldn’t it be fun to be in a book? I bet my hip wouldn’t hurt so much in a book.

fun little 4th wall break

A pigeon is currently trying to steal Ron’s chips. He had insisted on a trip to McDonald’s on the way to court. Ron shoos the bird away, but it just stands its ground on the table, staring at him, then staring at his chips, waiting for him to drop his guard. “Don’t even think about it, mate,” says Ron to the pigeon, then turns to Chris. “I reckon all pigeons are Tory.”

“You know that time is not coming back, don’t you? The friends, the freedom, the possibilities?” “You’re supposed to be cheering me up,” says Donna. Ibrahim nods. “Let it go. Remember it as a happy time. You were at the top of the mountain, and now you’re in a valley. It will happen to you a number of times.” “So what do I do now?” “You climb the next mountain, of course.” “Oh, yeah, of course,” says Donna. Simple. “And what’s up the next mountain?” “Well, we don’t know, do we? It’s your mountain. No one’s ever climbed it before.” “And what if I don’t want to? What if I just want to go home and cry every night and pretend to everyone that everything’s okay?” “Then do that. Keep being scared, keep being lonely. And spend the next twenty years coming to see me, and I will keep telling you the same thing. Put your boots on and climb the next mountain. See what’s up there. Friends, promotions, babies. It’s your mountain.”

Elizabeth stills feels a little woozy from the Belgian beers on the train. And the glass of wine at the station as they waited for their taxi. And the gin and tonic Bogdan had waiting for her when she walked through the door. And the second gin and tonic she is currently drinking.

Elizabeth and Joyce are in the minibus, on their way down to Fairhaven. Joyce has flapjacks, and Elizabeth has news. Joyce intends to share the flapjacks, but Elizabeth is keeping the news to herself. “Just tell me,” says Joyce. “In good time,” says Elizabeth. “You’re such a bully,” says Joyce. “Nonsense,” says Elizabeth. “Are you getting a dog, by the way? Stephen wanted to know.” “None of your business,” says Joyce. 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.

“So where are we going?” asks Joyce. “You know where we’re going,” says Elizabeth, and sets off toward the seafront. “You’re so infuriating,” says Joyce, setting off behind her. “I know,” says Elizabeth. “I honestly can’t help it. I have tried.”

She hisses, “When I get out, you’re a dead man.” Ron looks back at her. “Well, I’m seventy-five, and you’ll be doing thirty years so, yeah, agreed.”

Joanna solved the mystery of my private messages. She went into my account and searched all of them for me. She told me that if I didn’t want to be sent an endless tide of photographs of men’s genitals, I should really change my username. Needless to say, I haven’t changed it.

she said :3