P009 → The Hundred and Fifty-Eighth Book
The tale of luckless, book shop owner, Hamish Harris, and how the discovery of a never-before-seen book rockets his life into euphoric chaos.
Goodreads reviews...
“Delicious, intelligent page turner. The intrigue is killing, the characters beautifully drawn.”
“I showed less restraint than its protagonist in that I read ' The Hundred and fifty-eighth book' in about a day and a half. Hamish at least fought the urge .... and therein lies the intrigue. I loved this story: the descriptions of London totally alive and the dialogue is brill. As a young person, I paticulary enjoyed the passing conversations about ancient technology ( fax and answer macines?). The mystery element is what makes it gripping, though. To me Hamish was a loveable mixture of Withnail and Bernard Black from 'Black Books'. In other words, very funny indeed and lots of unexpected laughing out loud.”
Extract from The Hundred and Fifty-Eighth Book...
I wrench my thoughts away to happier times: those first days of the shop; standing outside, the Chubb key warm in my hand; discussing the layout with Colette, her face bright with excitement. We had emptied out Father’s book collection in this room, all those years ago. I scan the room, see us sprawled amongst the boxes. Colette had waved a hand at them.
‘So, why, if he was such a non-literary type, had he amassed such a stockpile of reading material?’
I had grimaced at the thought of the regular book-club offerings that had arrived with clockwork regularity.
‘Some desperate desire to impress their friends, I think . . . not that they had any that I can remember. Anyway, you’ll see, it’s a true miscellany.’
‘Tropical Fish for Beginners?’ she had questioned holding out a glossy tome, and another, The Joy of Sex.
‘When did he ever use that’? I had murmured, looking at the bearded bloke demonstrating doggy style: fig 3 – prepare the wife thus, and enter here.
She had knelt up, thrown the book to one side, and we had done it, all slippery and sweaty in the August heat. Beekeeping, Roundabouts of Stevenage and Classic Desserts all crushed under our desperate writhing.
So, what happened? Time. Time and me not producing – kids or success in business, not even in a boom time. I sigh as an image of yet another cup of tea presents itself. I never used to feel like this – empty, fatigued by the day’s long progression in the half-light of winter. Boredom is a terrifying thing. This shop has sucked my ideas away. Time passes in a certain way within these four distemper-green walls, enveloping you like the skin forming on custard. Ennui encroaches now as I wait for the plink of the bell, something to change the day. Mindlessly I start to count books.
Top shelf: one, two, three, four . . . sixty-three, sixty-four . . . am I hungry? Must be nearly lunchtime . . . hundred and forty, fifty . . . a hundred and fifty-eight. Stop. This is unusual.
I pull the book from its sleeping fellows, their plastic jackets squeaking. No plastic. Colette always insisted, but this one escaped somehow. The cover of untarnished dark red leather is plain apart from the simple title etched in gold calligraphy. Five. Unremarkable, but remarkable in its unremarkableness. The pages are smooth cream. I long to close my eyes, lift the book to my face and breathe in the printer’s ink, like she does . . . did, but I would just be breathing in odourless air, translucent and dull as tap water.
The third page reveals a spidery dedication: ‘to whoever picks this up’, and an ink blot resembling a beetle.
As I peer at the small print on the following page, searching for the book’s edition date, the shop lights flicker. A growl of thunder vibrates the floorboards; a first few raindrops slant on these dusty windows. A moment later the deluge starts in earnest, drumming on the bins in the back courtyard. That’s it. No one will be in this morning. I could get all the bills sorted, filed. I could . . . To whoever picks this up.
I seem to be moving back to the old leather swivel chair. I sit, click on the fan heater, clump my feet onto the desk, open the book at chapter one and read until a certain paragraph causes me to cease in minor surprise . . .
Pen and ink illustrations from the book
Work in progress: the sequel to The Hundred and Fifty-Eighth Book, (working title, Five) in which Hamish finds himself waking from being cryogenically preserved along with a famous artist, a celebrity psychoanalyst, a renowned conductor and a belligerent and equally renowned chef.
After their initial shock they come to realise that they are now living within a bizarre futuristic commune of Hampstead Heath Dwellers known as the Steadlunders and must somehow learn to adapt and above all accept that they no longer exist in London's 21st century world.