My new book will be published at the end of this month. I have made the changes suggested by my editors, trawled through the proof copies, and made some alterations of my own, and am now close to the end of the writing process and getting ready to host a launch party.
My last book was made from two ideas that happened to fit together nicely. This new book is two separate stories that were always intended to go together. One part is how Johnny and Claire meet in the 1980s; the other is how their lives change during the COVID-19 pandemic. It is, in part, a love story. But it’s also a coming-of-age story that explores friendships, loss, and family. I am happy with the way it turned out, and hoping that other people like it too.
By the way, if the title appears familiar, it is because it is a song by Jon and Vangelis. The song does feature in the book, and I’ll put a link to it at the end of this post.
Here are the first few pages of Chapter 1, to get you in the mood.
Nick wasn’t his real name; he was called Anthony, but everybody called him Nick. A lot of people didn’t know why; they just went with it. But those of us who had been to primary school with him knew; it was because he would nick anything. His bedroom was a grotto of ill-gotten gains; nothing was too big or too small for him to steal. There were books, pens, pictures, videotapes, soft toys, signs, beauty products, aftershave, you name it, and it was probably there. For some unknown and unknowable reason, he had a collection of taps on his window ledge, the chrome glinted in the sunlight on the row of bathroom fittings that he so proudly displayed. There was usually a selection of sweet treats available too. Whole boxes of chews or chocolate bars that he had somehow managed to liberate from their previous owners, all without getting caught.
Sometimes I would find things in his room that had previously belonged to me. They had been rehomed by Nick after he’d been to my house. In fairness, he would always give them back when I pointed out his error in accidentally mistaking my things for his own. Well, nearly always. He was generous too; he would never leave a shop with empty pockets, and he would always share his booty with his friends. He would regularly redistribute the items he’d stolen that he had no need or desire for, which was a large number of them, like a low-key Robin Hood. He was the source of a significant part of my record and tape collection. The only thing he wouldn’t do was steal to order; his response when asked why was to tell the person requesting something that he ‘had standards’, but he was never very specific about what those standards were.
We were sitting on a bench at the bus stop by the church, waiting for Dave. Nick was turning a newly liberated padlock over in his hand. He held it out towards me,
“Do you want this?”
I couldn’t think of anything I would need a padlock for.
“Nah, not really.”
“Fair enough,” he replied. He turned around and clipped the lock onto the chain link fence behind us, then threw the key into the bushes. I didn’t ask why, knowing I was unlikely to get an answer that made any sense.
“Do you think Dave’s on his way?” Nick asked.
“Yeah, he said he’d be here.”
“Well, I wish he’d hurry up.”
Nick reached into his pocket and produced another padlock, which he started clicking open and closed. He leaned forward to look up the road, then sat back again when he had confirmed that Dave was not yet in sight. He tutted loudly, then said,
“You know where he is, don’t you?”
“No, where?”
“He’s farting around with those bloody stick insects.”
The stick insects had been Dave’s project this summer. He had a glass tank in his room where he provided everything that was needed for stick insects to breed and multiply. I have no idea where he got the original pair from; I never asked. Once the tiny stick babies were big enough, he would scoop some out, put them in a jar, and liberate them in the front hedge of whichever house he had selected for that day’s release. He regularly walked miles out of his way to look for promising locations for his young stick insects to be rehomed.
When I asked him why, he told me,
“They’ll breed there, it’s the perfect environment for them. Once they set up colonies, they’ll spread all over town, and every garden will have some. The town will be famous for it in years to come.”
So that was Operation Stick Insect. As far as I’m aware, the town never did become a go-to destination for stick insect spotters, but it wasn’t for Dave’s lack of effort or determination.
“Yeah, probably,” I agreed with Nick. “It could be worse.”
“How?”
“I dunno, it could be tarantulas or snakes or ducks or something like that.”
“Ducks?”
“Yeah, you know?”
“Why would he be…? Seriously, ducks?”
“It was just an example.”
“Pretty stupid fucking example.”
“Piss off.”
Nick leant forward, reaching towards the ground. Before I realised what he was doing, he snapped the padlock closed on the laces of my right boot.
“You pillock, give me the key.”
“What, this key?” he asked, holding it up just out of my reach.
“Yes, come on, don’t be a twat.”
“Okay,” he answered, “here you go.”
He started to hand the shiny silver object over, then, just before I could take it, he threw it into the bushes, where it would be forever lost, along with the previous key.
“Twat,” I told him as he sat back laughing. I started unlacing my boot to take the lock off it.
Just as I had managed to remove the lock and was starting the laborious business of relacing my boot, Dave turned up. He didn’t join us on the bench; he just stood in front of us and said,
“Come on, you two, let’s get going,” as if he were the one who’d been waiting for us.
Nick put the padlock I’d cast aside in his pocket and joined Dave, while I did the best I could with my laces before hurrying along to catch up with them, one boot slipping and sliding on my foot as I walked.
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