The sun was coming up outside as she read the last page and wiped her eyes. She died in bed, surrounded by her husband, and children and grand children, and happy, so happy. The children she had never wanted had filled her heart as she read about them growing up, becoming people, and she was so glad that she changed her mind. The man she would soon call her husband had helped. He was lovely; charming, kind and thoughtful and completely in love with her. He also wanted kids, badly, which, it turned out, was fine with her.

It was a good book. Not bestseller, and probably a little long-winded to start with, but if you liked your romances soppy, it had a great ending.

She placed the book carefully on the sofa and staggered to the shower, wondering just how the hell she was supposed to get through a day at work. The hot water helped, as did the coffee and Weetabix, and when she climbed into the car, she felt at least halfway human. Sat in traffic, she replayed parts of her future life. Her stomach was crowded with butterflies. She would meet him next week, and she knew exactly when, and exactly how, and was still excited. Why would she not have read it? It was wonderful, having a million things to look forward to.

The day went in a blur. The sense of deja-vu wasn’t too strong and she was glad she’d skipped the boring bits. Doing a transfer was dull enough, but doing it after having read it already was close to torture. She got out by five and climbed, stiff-limbed, back into her Corsa and pulled out into the traffic. She wanted to read it again, to savour the best bits, and she re-watched scenes in her head, one eye on the road as she crawled along. Every time she thought of a good bit, she found herself bouncing up and down in her seat, a smile on her lips. Dammit, why was the traffic so bloody slow?

She got to the part where she was managing a bank in the east end of London, living alone in a nice, but unremarkable flat in Shoreditch, seeing her mates a couple of times a week and spending far too long on Facebook staring at old photos of her and Ed. She came to the page which described her meeting a strange man in the park. He was called ‘ruggedly handsome’ and couldn’t decide whether they were her words or his. She found the scene she was in, the lounge complete with red wine stains, and then, holding her breath, she turned the page.

END OF PART ONE

She swore, and placed a hand on the page, breathing fast, her neck sweaty. She ran her hand over her neck then rubbed it on the couch, and stared down at the words. A hundred thoughts were rushing through her head. Was there another Ed out there, waiting for her? Would she get sick? Would she always work at the bank? Would George RR Martin ever finish A Game of Thrones? How would she die? The last thought stopped her in tracks and she stared up and through the Ikea print of Audrey Hepburn with her Breakfast at Tiffany’s fag. Did she want to know, really?

But what harm would it do? If there was someone out there for her, wouldn’t knowing about it make it happen, make it easier? She was nodding at the empty room, and with breath held once more, she turned the page.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS?

She hissed and turned it quickly, not giving the question time to even take its shoes off. The sound of the page turning was loud, full of portent and meaning.

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.

She shrugged, not too sure what that one meant. They, whoever they were, were being serious though. She let the book sit on her legs as she ran her hands through her short black hair. Perhaps she should sleep on it, make sure that after a night in bed she still wanted to read what happened next. She glanced at the photo above the fake fireplace, at Ed smiling at her, and she picked the book up again, and turned the page.

It had one of those faded-brown, plain covers, like you’d find in second-hand book shops by the sea, the sort you went into hoping for the latest Terry Pratchett for a couple of quid, and found instead ‘Bird watching in Snowdonia’, and ‘Getting the most from your Bread maker’.

It was on her desk, surrounded by her craft things, shoelace ties of thin wool and her jars of buttons and beads. Her mates took the piss on a regular basis, convinced that cross-stitch for the under sixties was some form of obscure torture, or the sign of a mind cracking beneath the weight of managing a bank. She didn’t bother mention that the sum total of her management stress involved making sure three twenty year olds turned up on time and didn’t steal anything.

It wasn’t looking at her, just, sitting, taking up space. She draped a piece of material over it and went to cook dinner, unconscious of the regular glances she threw toward the spare bedroom whilst steaming carrots and frying salmon. The normal twinge of loneliness she felt as she made her meal for one was absent tonight, pushed out in favour of her curiosity.

Once the washing up was done, lunch prepped for the next day, and the lounge hoovered, the excuses dried up and she found herself pushing open the door of the spare room, peering around it as if expecting to find some bizarre creature hidden within. Instead she found her craft table, strewn with the usual supplies, and the book lying prone amongst them.

She whipped the cloth away, breath held, and when it didn’t attack her (slightly disappointing), she picked it up and wandered into the lounge. Curling up on the sofa, and shivering again as she remembered the disappearing act of the man in the park, she cracked the first page.

LIFE

No author, no copyright, nothing, just the title. This was reaching a whole new level of weird. She turned though a couple of blank pages, and reached the opening chapter.

It began in a hospital, the cacophony of a children’s ward, and a woman giving birth. It was well written and she was drawn in, the agony of childbirth brought home to her as it had never been before. She had no kids, and no real desire for them either, to the disbelief of everyone and anyone she ever spoke to about them. Reading this convinced her she had made the right choice.

When the baby was born, the language changed, becoming simpler and less colourful. It described the first days in detail and her mind began to wander. This monotony was exactly why she had ran from the thought of motherhood in the first place. She skipped forward, and found the same thing. Jumping again, she found the baby’s first birthday, which was slightly more interesting, featuring as it did, both jelly and vomit, but it was still a long way from gripping.

Swathes of the book passed with nothing more exciting than a scratched knee, or full nappy, and she abruptly shut it, staring at the brown cover, forehead creased. She had been excited, expectant, but now all she could think about was the half empty bottle of red in the kitchen and what time Holby City was on. There had to be more. Perhaps it had a killer ending.

She reopened it, randomly, and came to a driving test. As she read through every turn and maneuver, a chill settled in her body, as if she had been sat in a draft for too long. The hair on her neck stood up and she shook her head.

“No way, absolutely not, not a chance.”

She slammed the book closed again, stood up and let it fall to the carpet. She paced away to the door, then turned and stared down at it, like a hunter faced with a rare, but poisonous snake. It didn’t stare back. She thought it should. She rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the wine and a glass, then a knife, then went back into the lounge. The book was where she had left it and she looked at the knife, clutched in knuckles that were white and spoke into the silence of her living room.

“It was a coincidence, there’s no way that’s what it is, so just, calm down. The guy played some clever trick just, put the knife down, step away from the knife.”

She placed it carefully on the side table, stepped over to her chair and put her wine and glass on the floor next to it, glancing at the book as she did. Another shiver went through her and she stepped back and grabbed the knife. Setting it next to the wine, she sat and picked the book up between thumb and forefinger, examining it like a surgeon would a faulty organ, eyes squinting and face screwed up.

It would be easy to tell.

She found the driving test again, reading from where she had left off. When she came to the part where the driving instructor put his hand on her leg, she squeaked a high-pitched yelp and threw the book across the room, pulling the pillow in front of her and scrabbling for the knife. She succeeded only in knocking the wine over, which led to her running back and forth between the kitchen, cloth and bowl in hand. By the time she sat down, the remains of the red in her glass, she had already convinced herself that it was a trick. Downing the wine, she retrieved the book, and checked a few more things.

Sure enough, when the girl was sixteen, Charlie Stevens dumped her at the prom, leaving her to walk home alone in tears. When she was twenty one, she got knocked off her bike and walked to A&E on a broken ankle. When she was twenty eight, the man she loved died in a car accident, and her heart caved in. Everything was here. Her dodgy teenage poetry was written out verbatim, even the scribbling out. The first time she had sex was described in detail and she blushed as she sat alone in her lounge, reading the story of her life.

A Brief Note:

This story will come out in thirteen parts, every other day for the next few weeks.

It was an unusual story for me to write, as it came from a ‘What if?’ scenario, which isn’t something I’d really done before, so thanks to KF for the inspiration, and I hope you enjoy it.

He looked tired and old, worn at the edges, like a deck of cards in a late night poker hall. His jacket spoke of better times, but those times were lost even to memory, along with the buttons that would have run down the front in neat procession. His shoes argued with the rest of his ensemble, shiny, smart, and modern. His face was twisted in a grimace, and his arms were wrapped about his thin shoulders, as if the warm afternoon sunlight, that had coaxed her from the bank for lunch, couldn’t warm him.

Suddenly, he was closer, and her stomach lurched, like she’d taken the last step of a staircase and discovered there was another still to go. She shoved her sandwich back into the Boots bag, and hastily gathered her things, handbag under one arm, can clutched in the other hand, then went to stand.

“You should read this.”

“Ahhh!”

She dropped the can, and watched it hit the floor in slow-motion, Fanta glugging out onto the dark tarmac. He was shoving a book under her nose, and without thinking, she took it, feeling the soft leather give slightly under her fingers. Her manners took over,

“Thank you”

She muttered, then looked up at him. He had an expectant, nervous look, like a father in the delivery room. She had the odd desire to make him happy, what with him looking so trampy and on-edge.

“Ummm, ok? I will?”

She half expected him to smell, but caught only the faint whiff of old leather and empty houses. The front of the book was blank and she looked back up at him, curiosity getting the better of her.

“What’s it about?”

He smiled and his teeth matched his shoes, neat white rows that made her close her mouth in sudden embarrassment. The braces she’d worn throughout school were gone, but the memories remained. He motioned at the book with his head, then cocked it to one side.

“it’s a biography, very moving. It’ll change your life.”

“Oh.”

She looked back down at the empty cover.

“So, who’s it about then?”

She looked back up, but the park was empty. She stood and stared around, a shiver running down her back. He couldn’t have got far enough in the time it took her to look at the book, it was physically impossible. And he had been there, cos there was a book in her hand and she wasn’t mad, at least, not in that way. Looking back on it, that was when things changed, that realisation of the impossible happening. The things that came later were ripples, flowing out from that exact moment.

She was sweating lightly, and the sun was only partly to blame. She glanced again at the book, then tucked it into the Boots bag with her sandwich, and headed back to work.