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already he was getting itchy fingers. He’d already convinced himself that sitting at his word processor was okay so long as he didn’t do any serious work. He could catch up with his correspondence, jot some notes for a short story, or even mull over some ideas for the next novel so long as he didn’t actually start it. What he’d planned to do with the week was sleep late, grab some much-needed fresh air and exercise, leisurely scour the secondhand bookshops, read, socialise . . . but after only two days he found to his profound astonishment that this simply wasn’t enough.
    What’s wrong with me? he thought. Why can’t I relax? He told himself that writing was his relaxation, that words were his toys and he needed to play with them. Yet he knew this wasn’t the answer. Sometimes, occasionally, the act of writing was exhilarating, but more often than not it was stressful, frustrating, tortuous. For Jack the joy came not in the process of building words, cementing one to the next, but in the final construction, the finished product. His old A-level English tutor, Mr. Wild, had once described novels as temples, and whilst Jack found this analogy a little pompous he also saw the sense in it. Certainly the words of his own books, taken by themselves, were simply the bricks, the framework. What was important was the emotion, the meaning, contained within.
    So what did that make him? A literary masochist, flagellating himself with his own inadequacies? The thought depressed him. Perhaps if he could deflect some of his intensity into another area . . . a new girlfriend maybe? But no. Jack had always found relationships hard. He was far too secretive and selfish, far too protective of his space and his time, the domain of his life. He liked his life and he liked himself and he didn’t want anyone intruding. After Carol the last thing he needed was someone telling him he had hang-ups just because they perceived him differently from the way he perceived himself.
    On Friday, May 16 th 2003, this was his state of mind. He got out of bed at 8:42 after promising himself he’d sleep in until at least nine. He made himself some breakfast—a bowl of muesli, wholewheat toast with honey and his obligatory cup of tea—and sat, unshaven and tousle-haired, watching breakfast TV on Channel 4.
    The post arrived at 8:55. Jack put down his tea and scampered eagerly to the door. He wondered if all writers did this. Certainly the ones he knew did. He scooped up his mail—five letters, about average since he’d “become famous.” There were times in the early days when he’d receive nothing of interest for weeks. He’d get to the stage where he’d think there was a countrywide conspiracy against him, when even a rejection slip would be welcome. On the board above his desk was a postcard a friend had sent him. On it was a cartoon of a seriously twitchy man, and below the cartoon the words:
I’m not paranoid—I know they’re out to get me!
    His post bag was good this morning. It contained a fan letter from a forty-seven-year-old man in Chesterfield, a letter from his agent, a magazine he subscribed to, a letter from a contemporary who wanted to sell a werewolf anthology and wondered if he’d contribute, and a satisfyingly healthy bank statement. Jack read through it all as he finished his tea, then showered, shaved, dressed and congratulated himself on not having had a cigarette yet. He made his way to his study, sat behind his desk and switched his machine on before he even realised what he was doing.
    â€œRelax, Stone, for God’s sake. You’re a bloody workaholic,” he said out loud. He’d just have a quick dabble, just half an hour’s tidying up and then he’d do something else. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed Frank Dawson’s number. Most of his friends were at work but Frank might be home.
    After five rings