Jasper drew a spiral on the steamy glass. “Eight days.” “Speak English, not Cryptic Crossword. Please. I have a headache as big as East Anglia.” “My Dutch grandfather used to say, ‘If you don’t know what to do, do nothing for eight days.’ ” Dean asked, “Why eight?” “Less than eight is haste. More than eight is procrastination. Eight days is long en

“The Narrow Road to the Deep North,” says Tiffany. “That’s jolly evocative,” says Elf. “I love it.” “The title’s from Bashō,” says Jasper. “The Japanese poet.”

“Stop. This isn’t a grudge. It’s consequences. If yer want him in yer life, great. Bully for you. That’s yer choice. I don’t want him in mine. That’s my choice. End o’ story. Just…stop.” “Men his age can and do drop dead. ’Specially if their liver’s fucked. The dead can’t sign peace treaties. And he’s still yer dad.”

Elf looks out at Denmark Street. Hundreds of people pass by. Reality erases itself as it rerecords itself, Elf thinks. Time is the Great Forgetter. She gets her notebook from her handbag and writes, Memories are unreliable…Art is memory made public. Time wins in the long run. Books turn to dust, negatives decay, records get worn out, civilizations

If Dean could click his fingers and erase Bruce Fletcher’s existence, no questions asked, no murder investigation, he wouldn’t hesitate. In fact, he clicked his fingers now, just on the off chance it would work.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” Dean had to borrow fifteen pounds from Moonwhale to pay his quarter share of this “gift.” More debt…I’m going to have to start serving coffees again, at this rate. “Yer should always look a gift horse in its mouth. They’re never gifts.”

“Here’s to friends who know when to bully us”—the

Mecca speaks carefully. “My father was a history teacher in Prague. Before the Wehrmacht took him and sent him to Normandy. He did not wish to go, but if he refused, he would be shot. My mother escaped Prague ahead of the Russians to Nuremberg with me. So I know about history. Lebensraum. Genocides. War crimes. I know. But I was born in 1944. I gav

“That smug shit was a shitting ponce.” “Was he? I thought he was quite polite.” Dean stopped. “Don’t yer ever get pissed off?” “I’ve tried, but I’m unconvincing.” “It’s not a matter of ‘convincing’! It’s a bloody emotion!” Jasper blinked. “Exactly.”