The sun was coming up when he got home and he collapsed into bed, shoving the DVDs onto the floor as he fell. He slept, the book clutched in one hand.

When he awoke, he spent the next few hours amusing himself by doing something, then going back and reading about it. The description of his masturbation was particularly vivid and he prided himself on the quality of the writing. It was only when he was sat in front of the TV, thinking about heading off to work, that he thought he might read on. It felt naughty somehow, and he checked around the flat, feeling utterly daft, but unable to stop himself.

Satisfied he was alone, he turned the next page.

 END OF PART ONE

Well, duh.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS?

He looked at that page for a while. Why wouldn’t he? Maybe he died in some horrible way and had to spend the rest of his life looking forward to it. Or maybe he never got laid again, and his palms got so hairy everyone called him ‘ape man’. He chuckled, and shook his head, then turned the page

DISCLAIMER:

THE CREATORS OF THIS BOOK ARE IN NO WAY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU CHOOSE TO READ ON.

And then, in much smaller type:

These words are written on paper, not stone.

Enough already. He turned the page, and began to read, seeing almost immediately where he could go with this. As he read about crime after crime, written up in detail by him, he began to bounce up and down in his chair, giggling quietly. He needed to plan, to make this work just right.

That night, his shift went past in a flash, head down and pen scribbling in his scrawling, haphazard handwriting. By the time he left, he had the names of every criminal he would come into contact with in anyway over the next twenty years. Most weren’t worth bothering with, too small-time, but a few came through the station having succeeded in some serious heists, taking serious cash. He left work, the sun slanting into his eyes as he walked thoughtfully to the tube. Thoughtful wasn’t a word he’d have used, but that was what the book said, and who was he to argue. Feeling ‘thoughtful’, he headed home to change and shower, then went to meet his first’ contact’.

The house was nice, big and white and overlooking the park, and it looked like this guy already had enough cash, but some people can never have enough. He rang the doorbell and was gratified to see the man described in the book, bleary-eyed and wearing a dressing gown.

“Yes?”

He was one of them. Still, couldn’t be helped. He tried a smile.

“Hi, my name is James. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk to me. I think we may be able to help one another.”

The man looked at him askance, stepped back to usher him in, then stopped suddenly.

“Sorry, can I ask what it’s about exactly?”

James thought, then smiled again, considerably less pleasantly.

“It’s about the pyramid scheme.”

The man stared at him, eyes widening just enough to tell him what he needed to know. He went on quickly.

“I know it’s a new thing, but I think I might be able to give you a few pointers on how to make it more…effective.”

The man stood back, and James walked in, taking in the wooden floorboards and potted plants, the fancy paintings and umbrella stand. Who actually had an umbrella stand? The man stomped into the kitchen and he followed, running his finger over the huge granite worktop. He didn’t want to be here very long.

“So Martin, you’re either running, or about to run a fake pyramid scheme that will con a large number of people out of a very large sum of money. You’ll do very well from it, but you’re going to leave a few bits of rather clumsy evidence around that will see you sent down for about five years and all your lovely money taken away, which is how it should be, because you’re a very bad boy.”

The man had gone even whiter and was holding the jug from his coffee percolator in one hand. It clattered onto the work surface and he stepped toward James.

“Who are you? How dare you come into my home and accuse me—“

He raised a hand, stopping him mid rant.

“Please, don’t bother. I’m accusing of nothing you aren’t doing and you know it, so don’t play coy with me. I’m not here to nab you, otherwise I’d have done it already. I’m here to help.”

He paused, leaning back against the worktop.

“You see, I know what the evidence is that gets you caught, and I can tell you that, so you don’t get caught.”

The man’s expression had become one of suspicion, and he shook his head.

“What’s in it for you?”

James shrugged, then smiled.

“fifteen percent.”

“And how the hell do I know you can do what you say you can?”

“Does anyone else know about your scheme?”

The man shook his head.

“I do, so I guess that makes me a little bit special. Also, I’m not sure what choice you have. Go ahead with it without me, and see what happens, be my guest.”

He turned and made his way down the hall. The shout reached him just before he reached the door, and his grin returned.

“Wait, hold on.”

He turned, and Martin’s head popped out from the kitchen.

“10 percent. No more.”

He sighed and shook his head. This was so much fun. He waited another beat, then replied.

“Thirteen, or I’m walking.”

He was in a movie. The book had turned him into a player, the coolest cat, working both sides of the law and answerable to no one but himself. Martin nodded and he clapped slowly.

“Good choice, very good choice. I’m going home to sleep now, then I’ll come back this afternoon and we can talk about the mistakes you aren’t going to make anymore.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, and stepped out into the morning sunshine. One down. He’d hit another couple today, then maybe do the rest tomorrow. If they were all as easy as that, it shouldn’t take very long.

He got home and read on. The scheme worked perfectly, and he nearly wet himself when he read the part where he checked his bank account, and found a hundred and fifty grand in there. That was it, that was the perfect ending. He slammed the book shut and drifted off to sleep.

Next installment, Sunday 21st July

He headed back to the station to fill in more paperwork than was healthy for any normal human being, then trotted off home. Micro lasagne tonight, the cream of Iceland’s rich crop of ready meals. He was just tucking in when he noticed a lump in his jacket pocket. Digging about, he pulled out the book. That was odd, he’d put it back on the nightstand, hadn’t he? He shrugged and placed it carefully on the table next to his plate.

When the meal was done, fork washed up, and cup of tea in hand, he picked up the book and walked into the lounge. He hefted it, surprised by the weight considering how small it was. As the sofa worked its magic, he relaxed and grabbed the remote. Then he paused, and looked at the book sat beside him on the cushion.

He’d never been much of a reader. Crime reports and the regular bouts of random legislation they loved to come up with kept him busy. He’d try a murder mystery every now and then, but it reminded him of work far too much, and they never got it right. Never enough paperwork in those books.

Still, this was intriguing. Why had he brought it back with him? He could remember putting it back on the nightstand, so he must have grabbed it as he was leaving. He shook his head, took a swig of tea, and flipped it open.

LIFE

No author, nothing else. He cocked an eyebrow and turned to the first page. It began with a birth, and by the end of the first page he was both gripped and horrified. It was being told by the woman giving birth, and she spared no detail, making it abundantly clear that this was the worse experience of her life. By the third page, she’d been rushed to the emergency room and was being cut open, the baby dragged screaming out into the bright fluorescents. He was ready to put the book down, struggling to keep hold of his dinner, when a detail caught his eye. The baby, towelled down and set in his mother’s arms had a birth mark, described in detail and identical to his own.

He flicked forward a few pages, realising that the point of view was now with the baby, everything described in the most simple terms, everything that happened related to the mother. He’d read some boring reports in his time, but by the fifth nappy he was once again ready to give up. He put the book down, then picked it up again. The birth thing was peculiar, to say the least, not the mention that it was clearly a biography, yet one to which no one had put their name.

He opened it, jumping forward a few pages, then flicked quickly forward. The language became gradually more complex, almost as if the baby was actually guiding the writer. It was cleverly done, he had to admit. He skimmed, getting to the fifth birthday in a few minutes.

It was just after that he found it.

The child, still talking in short words, and simple phrases, described his father coming into his bedroom, and touching him. He read it again, then looked up, eyes set on the wall, swallowing hard. He’d been on a few abuse cases, and they were the toughest. Something about them made him furious, and lose all perspective. If he had his way, child abusers would be sent somewhere the death penalty was still legal.

He had no kids. Would’ve liked some one day, but work and women didn’t mix too well, it turned out. After Cathy had moved out, he’d stopped bothering, and that was longer ago than he cared to admit. He was gritting his teeth and realised the book was bending as he gripped it between whitened knuckles.

He read a bit more, the abuse becoming regular, and worse. He was gripped now, mind already whirring as he tried to work out who this could be. He grabbed his notepad and jotted down all the details that came out, the random moments of description of the house, the garden, the places they went.

He realised with a start that it was half eleven, and put the book down, spine up to save the page, and looked at his notepad. Someone else trying to decipher the shorthand wouldn’t have had a clue, but to him, there was a clear picture. He read through it, then read it again, and his hands began to shake.

He stood stiffly, and walked into the hallway. On the wall by the front door was the picture of him with his parents, their house behind them. He glanced at the notepad, then up to the picture, back and forth like he was watching tennis. Then the notepad slipped from his fingers, and something squeezed around his heart. He dropped to his knees, hands going to his chest.

His breath was coming in short gasps, heart refusing to work as it should, and the corners of his vision started to go black, like the lights were being dimmed just out of view. As he lay there on the faux-wooden flooring, he remembered. He remembered the crying and the shame and the hatred he had buried so deep it had ceased to exist. His last thoughts were of the book on the sofa, of where it had come from, then the lights went out completely.

They found him quicker than Sarah, the police swift to act for one of their own. He was curled up, his hands still clutching his chest. The notepad was glanced over, but meant nothing to anyone there, and went in the kitchen drawer for his relatives to sort through. The book was bagged, and dumped in the evidence locker at the station, where the dust slowly gathered.

Next Installment, Wednesday 17th July

The next day, she began with the master plan. She felt like a criminal, digging furtively through the out-pile for the sheet with his account number on it. She hastened back to her office, and typed it in, scribbling down both is mobile and work numbers. She called the mobile then and there, before she could lose her bottle, and waited for him to pick it up, tapping her pen against the desk.

“Hallo?”

She hadn’t checked this in the book, what the hell was she supposed to say?

“Um, hallo, um, Mr Reed, I’m sorry to bother you, this is Sarah from the bank calling.”

“Oh, ok, is everything ok?”

“Yes, fine, fine, unfortunately, we missed a few questions with you during your recent appointment. I am sorry about that. Would it be possible for you to pop in soon and go through them with me?”

There was a pause and she held her breath, pen frozen between thumb and forefinger. When his voice came back, it had an edge, distracted like he was reading something at the same time.

“To be honest, I don’t really have the time. Can we not do them over the phone, now?”

“I’d love to do you over the phone Mr Reed, but unfortunately, for security purposes, you do have to be in branch.”

She waited again, teeth worrying her lip like a cat on a moth.

“Well I’m sorry, but that just isn’t possible. Perhaps you can work out what the solution could be and then call me back.”

The phone went dead and she stared at it. What a dick! Then again, she was feeding him a line, so she couldn’t really complain. Still, she had a reason to call him back now. All she needed was a way to get talking about something other than work. Maybe if she called him in the evening…

The seventh time she called, the book got shorter. A lot shorter. The previous six times had been variations on a theme, none of them happy. Now, there were just a few pages left.

Her flat was just the same as it had always been, but everything seemed tired, and worn. She stared at wall, the book cradled in her lap, noticing for the first time the cracks in the plaster, the flaws in the mantle-piece. She glanced down the hall at the craft room door. When was the last time she’d gone in there?

“Read it, Sarah. You know what it’s gonna say anyway, why not find out how?”

She opened the book, and read on. This time, she died as the sun went down, the pills dissolving slowly in her stomach. It sounded like a peaceful way to go, and she found herself stood before the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, not-so-idly flicking through the tubs of aspirin and assorted other painkillers. Then she closed it, carefully, and came back to the bedroom. Not yet. She would call him one more time, give him that last chance to recognise what she already knew.

She hit his number in her recents, and listened to the soft buzzing. It clicked and his voice came through, warm and somehow still pregnant with potential.

“Sarah, I’m sorry, I understand that you have some issues, but you need to stop calling me now. If you do I’ll have to report it, and you’ll lose your job. I don’t want th—“

“Daniel, we have two boys. They’re called Isaac and Jason, and they’re beautiful, and—“

“Sarah, stop it. You need to get help. Please don’t call me again.”

The line clicked and then nothing. She stared at the phone, then threw it at the wall, jumping when it smashed against the plaster. She hadn’t meant to throw it so hard. She checked the book. It was even shorter.

They found her a week later. The bank got worried and called the police, and when they got no answer, they broke down the door. She was lying in bed, peaceful despite the rot crawling around her eye sockets and the foul-smelling belch that came as the coroners lifted her onto the stretcher. He gave it the once round, but it looked pretty simple. The empty bottles of pills and lack of a note meant this was the real deal. No one faked a suicide without leaving a note, it just wasn’t done. There was a book on the bedside, no name, not even on the spine. Without realising, he picked it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Next installment, Monday 15th July

As she drove home, foot on the floor and screaming at the bus drivers that had dedicated their lives to slowing her down, she swore and cursed, and thumped the wheel. How could she have messed it up so badly, she had the script! All her life she’d sucked at talking to guys, just sucked, but this time, it was written down. Could it be any easier? Apparently, it needed to be, because she’d screwed up pretty badly.

She was still cussing as she slammed the front door open and charged into the bedroom. The book lay, innocent and inert on the bedside table and she snatched it up, flicking through until she reached the page. The words had changed, and she whimpered slightly, skimming on to the next day. Before, he’d came back in, asked to see her, and they’d chatted about all kinds of things. Now, tomorrow was just another day. Except, apparently, she’d forget her sandwiches and wind up running to Boots to buy some lunch. With a wordless scream, she threw the book at the wall, watched it bounce off and hit the floor, then dived headlong onto the bed and rescued it. Head hanging over the edge, she read on.

This time, she died childless, and alone, retired for ten years from the bank and miserable. Tears were streaming down her face as she closed the book, then stared at it. She hated it, hated it desperately. It had done this to her, brought to this place where she had been promised so much only to have it ripped from her grasp. She snarled, digging her nails into the cover, then, decision made, she rushed into the kitchen and turned on the gas hob. She held it over the flame, watched as the corner began to brown. Then, with a shout, she pulled it free and slammed it onto the worktop.

Perhaps. Perhaps, there was something she could do.

She picked it up and wandered back into the lounge. She could call the guy, get his number from the bank records. It wasn’t strictly allowed, but he must have thought she was cool, if he would have been willing to marry her, in the other future, so he wouldn’t mind. She could phone him and talk and then check the book again and find out. Then if it still hadn’t worked, she could try something else. It was like a horoscope she could rely on. Yes!

She placed the book gently on the side table and flicked on the TV.

Next installment, Saturday 13th July