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Fic—’, and
his hand was all over my face again.
    ‘Stop
doing that,’ I said, once I had prised it free.
    ‘Stop
saying that title, then.’
    What, Snuff
Fic— Get your hands off me!’
    ‘Then
don’t say the title again.’
    ‘Then
sell me a copy.’
    ‘I can’t.
We don’t have any.’
    ‘I don’t
believe you. I want a copy and I want it now.’
    ‘You
can’t have one.’
    ‘But
you do admit there’s such a book.’
    ‘Of
course I do. But I’ll only admit it in here. With you. As you’ve actually seen
a copy.’
    ‘Tell
me what’s going on,’ I said, ‘or I will go out into the shop and shout very
loudly. I will shout “Give me Snuff Fic—”‘
    ‘All
right. All right. I’ll tell you. But you have to promise. Promise that you’ll
never pass on what I tell you here.’
    ‘All
right,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
    ‘Really
truly, cross your heart and hope to die.’
    ‘Cross
my heart and hope to die.’
    ‘It’s a
nightmare,’ he said. ‘It’s Quinn’s revenge. ‘What?’
    ‘It
seems that he was famous in the Sixties but the world forgot about him. His
books went out of print and he became more of a myth than a living person. He
blamed the publishers and the booksellers and the public. He blamed everyone.
He was a paranoid schizophrenic, voices in the head, the whole bit. And he
vowed to take his revenge on everyone. So he wrote his final novel, Snuff
Fiction.
    And he
paid for it to be printed and published himself. Millions and millions of
copies, to be distributed to booksellers all over the world. He ran up debts of
millions of dollars, then he committed suicide.’
    ‘I’m
not getting this,’ I said. ‘So he publishes his own book, runs up millions of
dollars of debt and commits suicide. But that’s a big story. That alone should
make the book a bestseller.’
    ‘That’s
exactly what he planned, yes.’
    ‘So
what’s the big deal? Why aren’t you selling the book?’
    ‘Because
it’s snuff fiction.’ He whispered the words. ‘It really is snuff
fiction.’
    ‘I don’t
understand what you mean.’
    ‘You
know what a snuff movie is?’
    ‘Of
course. Although it seems to be an urban myth. Nobody you meet has ever seen
one themselves, but they’ve all got a friend whose friend has seen one.’
    ‘Well,
this is the real thing. If you read this book, you die.’
    What,
someone comes round and kills you?’
    ‘The
book kills you.’
    ‘How
can a book kill you? I’ve read a few that have put me to sleep. But how can a
book kill you?’
    ‘The
pages are impregnated with poison. It comes off on your fingers while you’re
reading the book. Enters your bloodstream and kills you.’
    ‘I don’t
believe it. There’s no such poison.’
    ‘There
is. It comes from the Amazon.’
    Who
told you that?’
    ‘A
friend.’
    ‘And
who told your friend? A friend?’
    ‘Look,
it’s true. There have already been deaths. Book reviewers, people like that.
The books have all been pulped now, so it’s OK. But the whole thing is a
nightmare.’
    ‘I’ve
never read anything about this in the papers.’
    ‘And
you won’t. It’s all being hushed up. Can you imagine the implications of a
thing like this? If people thought that books could kill them—?’
    But I
was way ahead of him there. A thing like that could bring down the whole
British book publishing industry.
    And I
could imagine quite clearly how it might start.
    Rumours
on the conspiracy pages of the Internet. A big publisher was pulping books
under mysterious circumstances. A mention of the word virus. Which is
always a great word to start a panic with. And then the tall stories told in
the pub. A friend of a friend’s mum had been found dead in her armchair with a
paperback book clutched in her hands. Another friend of a friend’s dad had gone
likewise, but he had been reading the Sunday Sport. And blokes in
radiation suits had bagged up his body and torched his house.
    It was
the eco-warriors, some said, out to