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

by Richard Osman

‘You must die before your children, of course, because you have taught them to live without you. But not your dog. You teach your dog only to live with you.’

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.

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.

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

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. She squeezes Joyce’s hand back.

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.’

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

Elizabeth rests her head on Stephen’s shoulder once more and shuts her eyes. The last thing she sees before they close is the mirror on her far wall. Who is that old woman looking back at her? Lucky thing, whoever she is.

‘Our existence only makes sense because of it; it provides meaning to our narrative. Our direction of travel is always towards it. Our behaviour is either because we fear it, or because we choose to deny it. We could drive past this spot once a year, every year, and neither the horse nor ourselves would get younger. Everything is death.’