I find a box of small brown paper bags and slip Brian’s book into that so he can keep his cryptocurrency predilections to himself and hand it over to him. ‘You’ve already paid, according to the invoice.’
He nods. ‘Gus was a stickler for that, so he didn’t get left with a heap of unpaid orders. I’m going to miss the old man, truth be told. It’s not the same around here without him. You’ll soon see, the expats use the bookshop as another place to hang out, catch up and gossip under the pretence of buying books. Mostly, we loved having philosophical conversations with Gus. Man sure could spark some healthy debate.’
‘I can imagine.’ My mind slips back to the quirky interview questions. ‘If you were stuck on a desert island with one book, what would it be?’
‘Ah – you’ve been subjected to Gus-isms too!’
I smile fondly at the memory of the upbeat phone interview. ‘Briefly. I’d been expecting him here when I arrived. He didn’t mention he was retiring, not once.’ I study Brian’s expression for clues. Being an expat, there’s a chance he’s not going to close ranks and zip his lips, like the staff feel obliged to.
‘Retiring? Is that what they say?’ There’s a weighted pause which I don’t fill. ‘Look, Gus is a good guy. Loved this bookshop like it was his own. Yeah, he might’ve made a mistake or two, but haven’t we all?’
‘A mistake or two?’ What kind of mistake forces an elderly man into retirement, if that’s what Brian is alluding to?
Brian drums his fingers on the counter as if contemplating sharing it with me. ‘It’s not my place, sorry, Harper. It’s Gus’s story to tell. I’m really hoping he’ll be back at some point if only to see Turt, who hasn’t been his sunny, happy-go-lucky self since his pal left.’
‘But…’ How to wangle information out of these tight-lipped expats!
Brian gazes wistfully outside as if lost in thought before he turns back to me. ‘Which of us here hasn’t made a mistake? You’ll find that’s the case with so many of us expats and some staff too. Mrs Bastille is a forgiving sort. That’s kind of what makes this place special. We’ve become a family, and Gus is part of that. Always will be. You see, the Last Chance Resort is just that – a place for those who have made a mess of things, in one way or another, and by some miracle managed to find our way to these tranquil shores. Some mistakes are more serious than others, of course; take me for example. I was once the type of guy who couldn’t resist the lure of a quick buck, but I was young and foolish.’
I’m curious about the expats and their stories. Most of them are British and found a place to call home so far away from old Blighty.
‘What did you do?’
He grins. ‘Stupid things. But, where I’m from, we all did that sort of thing back then. Times were different, you know? Not a lot of jobs going, not a lot of money around. And when I got myself in a spot of bother, I escaped here, having holidayed in these parts before and felt it was as good a place as any to hide out. I’ve learned my lesson not to mess with the wrong people. I might island hop for a new vista every now and then, but I’ll never leave the Last Chance Resort. I’m part of this place now.’ He makes it sound like some gangland mess he got caught up in, and maybe it is. What else would make a man decide to up sticks and hide on a tropical island for the rest of his natural-born life?
‘What about your family? Your friends back home?’
‘Long gone, the lot of them. I’ve got all the family I need right here.’
So Brian is hiding out here too, like me. Maybe if I share my story, the expats will eventually trust me with the entirety of theirs. ‘I’m here because of a huge mistake I made too.’
His eyebrows knit. ‘Oh, yeah? What happened?’
The whole saga spills out in one long jumble. ‘And so, here I am. Missing my old life, my best friend Lily, my book collection. Not to mention my Bookstagram page, which feels like I’ve actually lost an appendage. I spend half my time worrying I’m going to wake up one day to a huge lawsuit where I’m ordered to pay an astronomical amount for my so-called crimes.’
‘Wow.’ Brian’s face is a picture of shock. ‘AI? Is it really that sophisticated these days?’
In some ways, life on the island feels truly stuck in time. ‘It really is.’
‘And there are books? Published books written by a machine being sold as the real thing?’ His voice is incredulous, as if I’m spinning a yarn that just cannot be true.
‘Yes, there are publishing start-ups promoting the use of AI to write and market books for their “authors”. Some of these new publishing platforms claim they intend on releasing upwards of eight thousand AI-written books per year.Per year. How any reader can sift through so many options and figure out what’s real and what’s not is beyond me. These books will flood the market. It’s already happening on eBook sites. It’s getting harder to tell what’s AI and what’s not as the technology gets more sophisticated, and they do that by stealing real authors’ books and using them to train their algorithms. I despair for the industry. For the writers, whose entire bodies of work have been copied without their knowledge or consent. For the readers paying good money for books under the assumption they’re written by an author, not a machine.’
‘Golly. It’s shocking. And you’ve been ostracised over standing up to that? It makes no sense.’
I grimace. ‘Well, there are some who think I didn’t end the live on purpose, so I could take down an author – but I’d never do that. There are moments I worry I might have called out an innocent person, and that would be unforgiveable. I never meant for our private conversation to be heard and when things got out of hand and I got doxxed I felt it was best to get out of London for a bit.’
I go on to explain to a rather flummoxed Brian what doxxing is. ‘But what if this person Tia isn’t real? What if your suspicions are correct?’
‘How can I prove it? It’s not like she’s going to say, “OK, you got me!” People using AI prompts to compile a book are supposed to disclose it on third-party sites like Amazon, but I don’t see that also being advertised for readers that they’re buying AI-generated “books”. No, Tia’s going to keep pumping out books and raking the money in while she, he, droid, can. Who knows if there are hundreds of techy types also trying their hand at this already? And it’s not illegal! I believe that AI “authors” and the platforms that sell these books need to be transparent so readers can make an informed choice, but so far, there’s no sign of that happening.’
Brian shakes his head. ‘I’m so glad the Wi-Fi here only works when it wants to. What on earth is the world coming to?’
‘Right?’ I laugh. ‘Well, the sketchy Wi-Fi takes some getting used to.’ It’s a hard habit to break, the pull of my old life. I find myself reaching for my phone to check my Bookstagram page and remembering there’s no Harper’s Book Haven any more.
There’s my secondary backup account that I haven’t had the heart to deactivate. Only my very close book buddies know that account exists, which I only started when my main account got temporarily disabled for violating community guidelines because I said ‘smut’ too many times on a post about a spicy book that was a little risqué for my tastes.
‘I bet. Well, you’re in the right place now, Harper. This island, I swear it’s got magical powers. Maybe it’s the cocktails, and the people, but everything seems to work out for the best and soon all those worries float away with the tide. I’m going to read my book under the shade of a palm tree and forget all about how the world is progressing at a rapid rate of knots outside these islands.’ Brian shakes the book and struts away, singing ‘Hotel California’ under his breath. ‘Oh, one other thing.’ He turns back to me.
