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

by Richard Osman

‘Why diet at eighty-two?’ says Joyce. ‘What’s a sausage roll going to do to you? Kill you? Well, join the queue.’

Chris has lost a bit of weight, he has had a nice haircut, and is now wearing a pair of age-appropriate trainers – everything Donna had ever told him to do. She had used all the tricks in the book to encourage him, to convince him, to cajole him into looking after himself. But it turned out that, all along, the only real motivation he needed to change was to start having sex with her mum. You have to be so careful what you wish for.

I imagine if you could hear all the morning tears in this place it would sound like birdsong.

You silly old man, he thinks, as he turns the key in the ignition, you made the biggest mistake of them all. You forgot to live, you just hid away, safe and sound.

What sort of psychiatrist is frightened of life? All psychiatrists he supposes, I mean, that’s why they became psychiatrists.

The twinkle you soon realize is actually the beam of a lighthouse, warning you off the rocks.

‘So we’ll nip off now and arrest him, and question him, and get a string of “no comments”, and then we’ll have to let him go, a little smirk on his face, knowing he’s got away with it again.’ ‘Oh, he hasn’t got away with it this time,’ says Elizabeth. ‘No one gets away with hurting Ibrahim.’

Another thing I can guarantee? The boy who decided to steal my friend’s phone, and aim a kick at my friend’s head, and race off leaving him for dead? He will wish he was never born.

Revenge is not a straight line, it’s a circle. It’s a grenade that goes off while you’re still in the room, and you can’t help but be caught in the blast.

They say a man who desires revenge should dig two graves, and this is surely right. Then again, Ibrahim feels like his own grave has already been dug, so would there really be much harm in digging another for Ryan Baird?

The photograph of Ibrahim, Eric Mason and Eric’s grandson was in a special file Ibrahim kept at home. A file filled with a few mementos, not too many, all reminding Ibrahim why he loved his job. 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 wished Ron had been there, he would have told him to wind his neck in, but it was me, so I listened politely.

What has changed, he wonders. Twenty years ago and you could make jokes about whoever you liked, couldn’t you? Never to be mean, a joke was a joke was a joke. At school there had been a boy, Peter something, who they teased because he had ginger hair. Nothing mean, just jokes. He left after a few terms, too sensitive, and that was still the problem, wasn’t it?

He knows he should probably care, but sometimes it is all too much for him.

The silly thing is, Douglas knows they are right. He knows he is only being asked to be respectful, and he knows people just want to turn up to work and do their job and not be reminded every five minutes of what they look like, or who they slept with. Douglas knows they are right and he is wrong. He doesn’t miss the good old days, he misses his good old days. He doesn’t suppose they were good for most people.

‘It is fine to say “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. It is admirable. But it no longer applies when you’re eighty. When you are eighty whatever doesn’t kill you just ushers you through the next door, and the next door and the next, and all of these doors lock behind you. No bouncing back. The gravitational pull of youth disappears, and you just float up and up.’

And what if it’s the same as apples? What if pretending to enjoy life is the same as actually enjoying it? He has been smiling from the moment Patrice arrived, so perhaps there was something in it.

Martin Lomax had brought them down nibbles and everybody seemed to have a good time. Lomax didn’t really understand much about having a good time, but he was good at blending in and not spoiling things for other people.

‘This is where the first-ever game of cricket was played,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Probably still going on, knowing cricket,’ says Ron.

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

Although perhaps he isn’t really boring, if everything you hear is true? Killings and gold, and helicopters and whatnot? Though if you need killings and gold and helicopters to make you interesting then I suppose you are still boring at heart. Gerry never needed a helicopter.

You could smell the last of the honeysuckle in the air; it climbs up the side of the house. A west-facing wall is best for it, I learned that on Gardeners’ Question Time. Gerry was the gardener in the family, not me, but I still listen to it because it reminds me of him.

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

She knows the answer, of course. After meeting Stephen she took herself less seriously. The moment she had done that, a door was opened, which true friends could walk through. And in they walked.

‘You know, I would like to talk about Stephen. I just don’t know how yet.’ Joyce turns away from the window and smiles at her friend. ‘Well, the kettle is always on at mine.’

Donna wants them both to be happy, but she doesn’t need to watch them being happy. She doesn’t even particularly want to hear about them being happy. So long as they are happy, that’s all she needs. And they do look happy, don’t they? What if this relationship was actually going to work? What if Donna had performed a miracle?

On the lake to her right, a goose misjudges a landing, inelegantly belly flopping into the water. She swears the goose looks round to make sure none of the other geese were watching.

‘Perhaps we should start with loneliness?’ suggests Ibrahim. Through Donna’s closed eyes, tears begin to escape. ‘Does it hurt?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘Only when I breathe,’ says Donna.

‘You are simply a little lost, Donna. And if one is never lost in life, then clearly one has never travelled anywhere interesting.’

She has never seen Ibrahim cry before, and she never wants to again.

Ron hugged me. I will say this for Ron, he is not my type, but he is a very good hugger. He will make a very specific type of woman a very good husband one day.

And Martin Lomax? With his house and his millions, and his work. The things he had helped to fund. The weapons, the gangs, the warlords. The smell of honeysuckle covering the stench. She thinks about his cheque for Living With Dementia. Five pounds. She looks at the screen, sees his body and feels nothing.

‘Do you still hurt?’ asks Kendrick. ‘I do,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But not when I’m talking to your grandad, and not when I’m talking to you.’

Connie leans forward again, getting as close to Ron as she possibly can. 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.’

‘We’ll give it a couple of hours,’ says Joyce. ‘I’ll make sure you don’t die. It’ll be much more fun to see you in prison. Would you like some painkillers?’ ‘Yes, please,’ says Sue, the anguish etched onto her face. ‘Shame,’ says Joyce. ‘I don’t have any.’

‘Look,’ says Chris, standing on her doorstep, flowers in his hand and tears on his cheek. ‘I know it’s late, but it couldn’t wait. I can’t go another minute without telling you. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry if that’s stupid.’

‘Surely, if everything is about death, then also nothing is about death?’