If Bas' ambition had truly been to scar all his pupils for life, I have to commend his commitment. Unfortunately for me, I had already graduated to secondary school and so missed witnessing him taking his last, undeserving breath.
I want to say with confidence he never actually succeeded in crushing the hopes and dreams of generations of Port Derrum children, but judging by the pile of semi-dessicated dog poo nestled at the foot of his headstone, all bets are off. Or perhaps dogs just know a bastard when they crap on one.
"Hello Bas. Couple of weeks no see."
Basil doesn't have much to say to that. There is no refuting I've been marginally neglectful of late.
"I've got something to show you." I pull my phone out of my pocket and thumb open the TikTok app.
"You know when you told me, I don't know, at least a dozen times, I was a waste of resources and would never amount to anything more than the clumps of dust gathering volume inside my skull? Well, I just made five thousand pounds for less than a minute's worth of work – work, I'd like to point out, that has been viewed by –" I pull the phone back and squint at the screen. "– nearly two million people in the eight hours of it being out in the world." I put the phone back in my pocket.
"Imagine that. Two million people taking note of something I've done and enjoying it. Hardly what I'd call amounting to nothing. I'd call that making a mark on the world. Wouldn't you?"
Basil offers little in the way of a reply.
"I now have over one hundred thousand followers. That's more than the entire population of Exeter – the equivalent ofmorethan a city's worth of people so interested in me, they want to know what I say the moment I say it."
With a grin, I let that sink in for a few seconds. Bas, I hope, is struggling against the press of soil and decayed wood to turn in his grave.
I've been visiting Bas' grave since my first success. Landing a lead role in a grammar school musical, graduating from university, starting my own business.
It's been years of visits, hours of happily proving him wrong, but it's this moment that feels like the true triumph.
I am bright and shiny with glee in the stormy gloom. My TikTok success is a rare and precious achievement – inarguable social proof that I have significance.
I know it to be vulnerable, fickle even. Those same one hundred thousand followers might find me boring tomorrow. Or too much. I could be cancelled in a heartbeat. But I don't care. I'll happily take what I can get.
The first fat drop of rain hits the headstone and leaves a dark grey mark in the shape of a turd, which brings a nice symmetry.
Time to close the conversation. "Been nice chatting with you, Bas. I hope the rain liquefies the dog shit."
Chapter five
Ed
It'sanunusuallyquietmorning in the library. No children. No pensioners. Nobody popping in for a chat about their sciatica, or the state of American politics, or the lack of parking due to all the tourists. The modern library is as much a conversational hub as a place to read and find information.
But not this morning.
This morning is progressing at the same pace as efforts to achieve a circular global economy. I'd even be amenable to taking George Couch up on his weekly offer to discuss the state of his haemorrhoids if it meant I didn't have to read one more email.
I've worked my way through the ones I can't ignore and am now on to the emails I don't want to have to pay attention to, but am obliged to.
The only noise in the library is the beep of books being checked back in.
Mistral stands at one of the computers on the front counter, her eyes on the screen, hands working automatically.
Her long, red hair is in Princess Leia buns today, which partially obscure the small, intricate tattoos behind each of her ears. She wears high-waisted maroon dress shorts with braces and a floral puffed-sleeved blouse. She looks great.
I wear navy trousers and a white shirt, because I lack the confidence and imagination to wear anything other than 'middle-of-the-road professional'.
I have, however, undone the top two buttons of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves due to the questionable ability of the air-conditioning system to cope with the unseasonable heat, which feels, I don't know, a little reckless.
Mistral is small and finely boned and her movements are quick and decisive. She's a flitting, darting sprite. Which defies her shoeware. She wears large, black, wide-soled and platformed ankle boots. The kind favoured by Goth girls. If you tried to push her over, she'd spring back into place without her feet having moved, like one of those weighted eggs that makes its way into everyone's toy box.
Mistral momentarily pauses her flow and places a book on top of my keyboard. "You fully need to read this."
It doesn't actually look like a book I need to read at all. I open it to a random page and read aloud: "The precise proportions of the different hydrocarbons in bitumen can vary, and this can affect the properties and behaviour of something incredibly boring I couldn't care less about."
