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Frank’s answering machine cut in: “Tough shit, I’m out. You know what to do.” Jack grinned. “Hi, Frank,” he said, “this is Jack. I’ve just delivered a new book and I’m going stir-crazy trying to relax. Do you fancy lunch at Alfred’s? If so, I’ll meet you there at one. I’m off to haunt a few bookshops first. Bye.”
    He pushed his chair back, the castors making grooves in the rug he’d bought in Islamabad eleven years ago. He looked out of the window that was to the right of his desk. His top-floor flat in Crouch End was spacious and full of light. From his window he could see the houses across the street, the wide road, the roofs of cars. His street, indeed much of the area, was quiet, residential, relatively clean, at least by London standards.
    It was a beautiful spring morning, the sky so blue that it made Jack’s eyes ache to look at it. A few wispy clouds drifted past, the occasional one greying at the edges like sponges that still retained a little moisture. It was not a day for staying indoors when one didn’t have to. Just twenty minutes, Jack thought, and then he’d go out.
    Forty-five minutes later he looked at his watch and swore. He’d decided to do some light editing on an unsold short story and then maybe print it off to send somewhere, but he’d become increasingly bogged down in the narrative. “Bugger you!” he growled at the screen, and decided to abandon what he’d thought would be a pleasant task, maybe to return to it later. He collected together the miscellany he always carried with him—credit card, phone, spectacles, cigarettes, notepad and pen, cash, a novel to read—and distributed them among the many pockets of his bulky brown leather jacket. Outside the house he patted his car, a red Mini Cooper, as if it were a pet. He left it where it was, though—driving was too much of a hassle during the day—and strolled to Archway, his nearest tube station.
    At this time of year the underground was hot and crowded with tourists. It was irritating having to step over rucksacks and around suitcases, and Jack felt gloomy at the thought that it would become increasingly unbearable over the next three months. He found a seat and sat down and took out the book he was reading, James Ellroy’s
The Black Dahlia.
Sometimes, when he told fans he didn’t read horror and fantasy exclusively they seemed disappointed, as if he’d exhibited disloyalty to his genre. In truth, though, Jack found that most books were simply amalgams of separate genres—horror novels often contained elements of crime and romance, mainstream novels were often fantasy packaged as literature. Jack felt lucky that the “uniqueness and innovation” of his own work had been seen by the press, the fans and his publisher as a positive aspect from the word go. So many writers he knew complained that their publishers tried to pigeonhole them, balked at the proposal of even the slightest change in direction. For some of his colleagues writing a book had become almost a group project, a clinical exercise in producing the ultimate saleable commodity. Hallelujah for publishers like Cormorant, Jack thought. His editor there, Patricia Stephens, believed that a novel should be just what its name implied: something that was new and fresh and challenging.
    By the time the tube arrived at Tottenham Court Road it was packed. Jack got off, scowling at people who stood there as if they had no idea why he was trying to push past them. The tube station smelled of stale breath and sour bodies. Everyone was hurrying as if London’s entire population were late for appointments. Jack’s clothes felt stuffed with damp warmth; he grasped the collar of his jacket in both hands and flapped it, trying to generate some air. At the bottom of the escalators, squatting on the floor, a man with sandals and a mop of dark hair was playing a