from the Independent. And they would know. They, like everyone else, had been unable to land an interview, or even an author picture to run alongside their five-star review. No details about Andrew Black were available at the book’s publication; nobody talked to Black; nobody met Black, and that remains the case even to this day. Conspiracy theories, hoaxes, blurry author photos and doctored documents all did the rounds and were debunked and dismissed in turn. Black’s publishers offer nothing but coy smiles and upturned palms when questioned, knowing that that mystery does nothing to hurt book sales, and Black’s agent, Sophie Almonds, continues to issue the exact same statement, year on year, in response to any and all enquiries: ‘Andrew Black is not available for comment or interview, but he thanks you for your interest in his work.’
One of the few concrete details to be unearthed and verified by Black hunters concerned that unusual cover quote from my father. I hadn’t been the only one to find a quote from Stanley Quinn surprising, and pulling on that particular thread yielded results for those hungry for details on the mysterious author.
Andrew Black had been my father’s assistant and, later, his protégé.
Chosen one. Heir apparent. Disciple. Take your pick from the press clippings. I’d seen spiritual son a few times too, which stung just that little bit more than the others, as you can probably imagine. My father was immensely proud of Black, and Black – by several published accounts – idolised my father in return. They were a team, a unit, a literary family of two. My father never revealed a single additional detail about Black, no matter how often he found himself pressed, but he happily confirmed the basics. Assistant turned protégé. Proud.
And here’s the thing – my father was right to be proud of Black. And yes, it sometimes hurts my insides a little when I think about it, but what does that matter? He was right.
Cupid’s Engine became a global phenomenon, and continues to sell in huge numbers, year after year after year. And it should; it should. Andrew Black is a genius. The book is – there is no way to deny it – an out-and-out masterpiece.
This particular copy has been read almost to destruction: the spine is a mass of white fracture lines; its glue is cracked; and dozens of yellowing, dog-eared leaves poke out of it at odd angles. It’s an arresting object, a great, shabby monolith that’s so big, so dominant in fact, that you could easily miss the book behind it.
Tucked away on the far side of Cupid’s Engine, sitting so far back on the shelf as to half vanish into the shadows, is a second copy of my novel, The Qwerty Machinegun. This one’s damaged, its spine horribly buckled from a collision with something hard.
If you were to take this copy down from the shelf and open it, you’d discover that its pages were crammed almost to obliteration with changes, crossings-out, and hundreds and hundreds of neat, handwritten notes and corrections made with a fine black pen. Flipping to the front, to the title page, you’d find a small, equally neat inscription:
Thomas,
You asked me what I thought of your novel.
Andrew Black
____________
3
Why Knocks An Angel?
The books on the bookshelf stand in silent, dusty rows.
They stand, and stand, and stand.
Nothing happens. Nothing changes.
Within certain parameters, this could be any day at all.
The books are the books. The dust is just – dust.
Do you know what dust is? Have you ever really thought about it?
Dust is everything and nothing happening all at once.
It’s the smoke and exhaust from the breathing city; it’s the Great Fire and the Blitz, the Elizabeth Line and the braziers in the Temple of Mithras. It’s the life and times of Thomas and Imogen Quinn, the fibres from their tissues, tights and Christmas jumpers; it’s skin particles sent swirling from scratched heads, rubbed eyes and rough hugs, from high fives, DIY, stupid dancing and handjobs, from yanked-down knickers and pulled-up socks, from arm waving, shouting, crying and itches that are up a bit, up a bit, up a bit more. It’s an intermingling of all those things, events, and all the different people we have been as we’ve lived together in this space, it’s a mixing together of almost everything to create – almost nothing.
Just dust.
‘Do you ever think about the stories it could tell?’ my aunt said to me once, as she batted great plumes of the stuff from the rug straining the knots of her washing line. Well, I’ve thought about it a lot and the answer is – no stories at all. You see, the dust doesn’t know and or how or when or but. It has no understanding of so, or then or because. Even if it could speak, its stories would have no unfolding of events, no beginnings or endings, just one senseless, single-syllable cacophony of middle.
With dust, the medium is the only message.
Sometimes, the way it gathers around the books on the bookshelf, it makes me think of those first mammals, the tiny prehistoric proto-mice, watching the dinosaurs, waiting for their time to come.
‘Fuck.’
And just like that, it couldn’t be any day at all.
Just like that – it’s now.
That fuck came from me out in the hallway, the moment I discovered that my iPad, and also, wait for it – ‘Oh, fucking hell’ – my iPhone were both busy installing updates, leaving me with nothing to entertain myself with, even though I was absolutely desperate for the toilet.
I shoved the spare bedroom door open and shuffled quickly across the room. I grabbed my big, battered copy of Cupid’s Engine from the middle of the shelf and headed towards the door.
Two minutes later, and I was sitting in our tiny little bathroom, pants down, flicking my way past the book’s publisher notes and the yellowing title page for the first time in years.
That was when the landline started to ring.
I glanced helplessly across the hallway to the living-room door. I was still very much occupied on the toilet and in no position to answer it.
What if it’s Imogen? I thought. Well, if it is, the answerphone will pick it up. You can call her back in a few minutes. It’s not the end of the world.
Turning back to my book, I barely noticed when the ringing stopped
