However, today was different. Due to road works, the council was always digging things up in order to make John's life even more difficult, his usual route was blocked off. John knew the city well enough and decided to take a short-cut through a back street to re-join his usual path a little further on. As he walked down the back street he came across a bookshop that he had never encountered before. The bookshop looked as though it had been there for hundreds of years. It had a black Victorian frontage, a small window that displayed yellowing volumes and it had a table outside with boxes filled with battered paperbacks, mainly of a romantic genre. The sign above the shop read,

     Devlin's Books: Antique and Curious Volumes Emporium. Est. 1866

     John stopped dead in his tracks. How had such a fertile seam of print existed, without him mining it? John hurried inside. He pushed the heavy door open, the cascade of a small tinkling bell heralded his entry to the cavernous, gloomy shop and the heady scent of undiscovered volumes plucked at his nose. A wizened old man, who appeared old enough to have been present at the grand opening of the shop, sat crouched and hunched behind the counter. He greeted John with a kindly smile and piercing blue eyes.

     "Welcome. I can see you are an aficionado of the printed word. Please feel to browse, I am on hand if there is something special that you seek."

     John mumbled some words of thanks, not really one for social interaction and keen to get into the piles of dusty tomes. So with pleasantries over, John threw himself into the search. Picking up an armful of books in a short time and setting them on the counter, so as to free himself up for more.

     After a time John had completed his search and stood contented as the ancient proprietor calculated the total and bagged up John's choices.

     "Will that be everything?" He asked smiling.

     "Erm, yes I think so."

     "It's just… No never mind."

     "What?"

     "Well, if you're interested. I have something very special that's just come in."

     The antique bookseller (in both senses of the word) took a leather-bound work out from under the counter and offered it gently to John. John examined the book. It was in excellent condition, but it contained no publication date. This didn't matter to John, as long as it was a good story, he was happy.

     "What's it about?"

     "This is about everything, this book will change your life." Said the purveyor, rather cryptically.

     "And the cost?"

     "Ah, the cost is high, if you make bad choices, but I can see you are a collector, someone who will cherish this work, so I will gift it to you."

     John, who never got anything for free and had seldom been on the receiving end of kindness, was speechless and rather overcome.

     "Tt-hank you," he stammered. He scooped up his purchases and left.

     He retired to the pub, he didn't even bother with his usual haunts, where he bought a pint of bitter and assessed his haul of new acquisitions. He set the antique volume on the table and stroked it lightly. Then, tentatively, he lifted it up and examined its bindings. He opened the book and took a sniff of its pages. It smelt divine. A cross between wet paper and burnt paper, with a soupçon of must, added for taste. John looked around. He had two cardinal rules when it came to his books. First, he always read in the safety of his own home, and second (the most unbreakable rule), even if he wasn't enjoying the book, one must persevere, read cover to cover, and never skip ahead. The pub was almost empty, so John thought he could perhaps snatch just a few pages and break the first rule.

     He opened the book to the title page, it read,

     The Book of Morpheus and Thanatos

     The next page had a beautiful plate, covered by a thin page, that depicted a face, half that of a dreamer and half of a skull. The next page was the first chapter. John looked around again, no one to bother him, or ridicule him for reading in the pub. John began to read…

     John loved to read. He loved reading because it took him away from his humdrum existence; his loneliness, his boredom, his mundane job, and his non-existent love life.

     "Excuse me." John was jolted from the book. He looked up to find the barman standing at his table.

     "Yes?"

     "I hope you don't mind me bothering you, but you're always in here with books…"

     "And?"

     "Well, I'm something of a bibliophile myself. Might I have a look at that singular volume you have there? It looks very tempting."

     "Erm. Yes, I suppose so." Said John reluctantly.

     The barman examined the volume delicately.

     "This is an extraordinary work. I wonder if I could take it off your hands."

     John snatched the book back.

     "No. It is not for sale." He snapped. John put the book in his bag, finished his drink, and made his way out of the pub.

***

     John drove home. When he reached the car park, possibly for the first time ever, there was a free parking space! Today was proving to be one of the best days on record. He entered his flat, threw the bag of books on the floor, and sat down to consume the ancient tract with vigour.

     John lived in a one-bedroom flat, just outside the city centre. The flat had once been quite roomy, but the acquisition of hundreds of volumes made the flat shrink considerably. Every available inch of space was soon filled with books. John was not a hoarder, but having spent several magical and intimate hours with a book, the novels had become friends and John, who had no real friends, thought it rather rude to abandon these printed pals.

     John wasn't much for cleaning. Due to his library, there was little in the way of floor space to hoover and he only did the washing up, because he only had one plate, cup, knife, fork, and two teaspoons. He had never cleaned the oven and the frying pan was thick with fat, which certainly added taste to any food cooked in it, but looked revolting. The bathroom was a disgrace. It had a thin film of grease, which obscured the lime green hue of the suite, and the toilet, having never seen the brush, looked like the inside of a teapot. John had terrible dandruff and as a result, the build-up of snowy dust was twice what any normal human would produce from the natural shedding of skin. It is true, John's surroundings certainly contributed to his discomfort, both in terms of space to stretch out (which didn't help John's bad back), but also the fact that John knew full well that really, nobody should live in such squalor, but he never seemed to get round to doing anything about it.

In chapter two the main character, John's namesake had entered a lottery and won quite a considerable fortune. It seemed that despite an initial strikingly similar state of affairs to himself, the main character had gone on to have little in common with him, which was just how he liked it. John paused his reading to make a cup of tea. Only to discover that he was out of milk. Begrudgingly he popped out to the corner shop to resupply.

     The corner shop, not unlike Devlin's Books, was a cramped emporium that stocked a little bit of everything. John often mused that it was called a corner shop, not because of its location, but because it attempted to corner the market in terms of convenience shopping. The shop smelt funny. It was a bizarre mix of decaying fruit, lemon-scented cleaning products, and the dry smell that a birdcage emits when not cleaned out for some time. It was lit by flickering fluorescent strip lights that buzzed like lazy bees and the blue fly killing light washed everything in an eerie azure haze, like a Picasso painting from his blue period. The proprietor, who John only knew as 'The Misanthrope Guffogg', was a miserable man, who was never helpful and smiled only when people were subject to some misfortune; like slipping on a spillage, snaring their cardigan on a sharp shelf, or his particular favourite, when people banged their faces on the door, which opened outwards, as opposed to the usual inwards opening of shop doors. John often imagined that Guffogg had done this on purpose, in order to inject a little pleasure into his otherwise wretched existence. John liked Guffogg, not despite this misanthropic bent, but because of it. John saw in Guffogg a kindred spirit, someone who had also failed in life and therefore gleaned pleasure from little victories over those happier more successful people who gloated and demonstrated their wonderful lives, which only served to highlight his own failures. Guffogg had a twin brother, who ran a shop about a mile away. Brother Guffogg was a wonderfully sunny and pleasant man. He was helpful, polite, and relished the opportunity to interact with his customers. It was almost as though the twins, when they split in the womb received all the best and worst of human attributes, one had received all the positive human qualities and the other all the negative ones. John didn't like Brother Guffogg.

     John walked up to the counter to pay for his milk. There behind the counter The Misanthrope Guffogg stood unsmiling biting his nails and spitting the bits on the floor. Whilst John waited for Guffogg to notice him stood there, he stared at the large array of scratch cards that were displayed. John never gambled, even a raffle made him think twice.

     "Yes?" The Misanthrope Guffogg had finally acknowledged John's presence at the counter.

     "This milk please and I'll have a number six please."

     "You won't win. No one ever wins. I must have sold hundreds of these cards and no one has ever won." Sneered Guffogg.

     Now, this wasn't entirely true. Of the hundreds of cards that he had sold, there had been a proportion of people who had won. However, because Guffogg hated scratch card winners and made the process of redeeming the winning ticket so horrible, nobody ever went into his shop to cash in their tickets, which suited The Misanthrope Guffogg.

     John paid and left the shop. He slotted the scratch card in his pocket and walked back to the flat.

     Once back at the flat, John made himself a cup of tea and sat back in his chair, setting the scratch card on the table next to the book. John sipped his tea and stared at the card. John felt a thrill of excitement, at this moment the card had the potential to be a winner, but he knew from a lifetime of disappointment that as soon as he scratched it, it was a loser.

     John finished his tea, set his cup down, and picked up the scratch card. He rummaged in his pocket for a coin. He paused. He enjoyed the minutes where he was sat in front of ten thousand pounds, soon he would be sat in front of a useless bit of card that had cost him two pounds. Finally, he began to scratch off the metallic coating. Match three to win. A £5, a £1, £10,000. On the next line a £1, a £10, and a £25. On the final line, a £5, a £10,000 and a … John could feel the disappointment rising in his throat, which had become dry and scratchy. John put the card down and made another cup of tea. He sat back down and opened the book. He read a few lines and stopped. He looked back down at the scratch card. What's the point? He scratched the coating off for the final number, £10,000. Another loser. What had John been thinking? John picked up his cup. Like he could ever win anything. But wait… John looked over the numbers again. The empty mug of tea dropped from his hand with a thud, spilling the residual tea on the soiled rug. This couldn't be. John looked at the numbers again. John stared in disbelief at a card that had won £10,000. John's brain ached and his hands shook. John went into the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey, which he gulped down so fast, he nearly threw it back up again. John returned to the front room, expecting to find neither the book, nor the scratch card, but there they were.

***

On Monday morning, John was back at work in the Insurance office, where he toiled for little thanks or recognition. John didn't tell anyone at work about his uncharacteristic good fortune. Secretly, he rather liked the feeling of superiority. He especially enjoyed the fact that Tim, whom he hated with an unbridled passion, was sat in his cubicle with his smug face, completely oblivious to the fact that he, John, was quite well off. He wasn't a millionaire, but he felt like one. John never won anything and this obscure turn of events made him feel like the luckiest man in the whole world. John wondered what he might spend his money on. Books? Well obviously, but even John couldn't spend ten grand just on books, could he?

     "What you smiling about Johnny-boy?" John was shaken from his reverie by The Arse Tim, who called John Johnny-boy, which John hated.

     John could pay someone to kill Tim with the ten grand. How much was a contract on someone's life and where would you go to put one out?

     "I wasn't smiling. I never smile." Frowned John.

     "True dat." Said Tim, annoyingly. John hated young people's shocking disrespect for proper pronunciation and words.

     "Was there something you wanted, Tim?"

     "No, not really. It's just you were smiling and I thought maybe you'd finally cracked. You know gone insane in the membrane." Tim sang the last bit of the sentence, which riled John.

     "Yes, ha. Good one." Nodded John. Tim slapped John on the back and wandered off laughing to himself.

     At lunchtime, John sat in his car and read the book. John occasionally did this, as technically he saw his car as an extension of his home, a safe place, where he could read uninterrupted. In chapter three of the book, The Protagonist John pitted himself against a work colleague, who always put him down and took credit for his hard work. This had a resonance with John, as this was exactly how Tim featured in his work life. John looked up from his book, to see the hated Tim walking across the car park, having popped out for lunch. John considered starting the car and running Tim down, but decided against it, John was not an impulsive person, as a rule, and the repercussions of such an act were obvious. John turned back to his book, as always, John would find solace in getting revenge on Tim through the actions of the fictional character, even if it meant returning to his own life afterward, where Tim would again be back on top.

     After lunch, John was back in the office. He'd been working hard to get the figures together for a meeting with a valuable client. John looked up from his work to see Tim the Toad stood in the staff kitchen vigorously shaking a can of pop. John went back to his spreadsheets. He finished his work and picked the large ring binder up and made his way to the conference room, passing the staff kitchen on his way.

     Tim swooped in.

     "I'll handle this, Johnnyboy. Here have a drink." Said Tim snatching the binders from John and handing him a can of pop. This was typical of The Toad, he always took the credit for John's extensive labours. John looked at the pop, Coke, John never drank Coke. So he set the can down on the kitchen side, next to another, and went back to his desk.

     After a few minutes, there was a commotion coming from the conference room. The valued client was leaving and Stuart the head of the department was apologising, dabbing the client with a handkerchief, while Tim stood sheepishly in the doorway. It appeared that Tim had grabbed a can believing it to be the safe one and gone into the meeting, upon opening the can it had sprayed its contents all over Tim and the client. Tim's unkind attempt to belittle John (as the shaken can was meant for John) had been his undoing. John was well pleased and the disgraced Tim walked awkwardly to the toilets his white shirt soiled by the brown sticky stain of shame.

***

     The Book of Morpheus and Thanatos

     Chapter Three

     John had a renewed sense of confidence, or perhaps it was just a new sense of confidence. His victory over the scourge at work had enabled him to walk with his head held high and he thought new clothes were needed to befit his new stature and air of authority. Clothes maketh the man and a man's finery is his measure.

On Saturday John didn't go book shopping, he went clothes shopping. Taking inspiration from the book, he had come to the opinion that his tired suits and shirts that had once been white but had long since lost their lustre, were in need of replacement. As the book said, 'a man's finery is his measure'.

     John bought two new suits, one a light faun and one black, a selection of shirts some a brilliant white and some a deep black. He bought a black tie and a cornflower blue one. He bought new shoes and invested in a new satchel. He had started to take the book with him wherever he went and although he found great comfort in its presence, it was a pain, as it didn't fit in his pockets and so he had to continually hold it to his chest. The satchel was its new home when out and about. The satchel had a strap, so John could sling it over his shoulder leaving his hands free.

****

On Monday morning, John wore his faun suit, white shirt, and blue tie to work. In the office, his new apparel was turning heads. His clothes were even provoking comments like, 'Wow, John. You look great' and 'Nice suit'. Of course, Tim made an attempt to mock him,

     "Johnnyboy. You look like the man from Del Monte." To which John replied, 'yes' with a wink, which amused several people in the office and seemed to put The Toad on the back foot. Ever since Tim's pop incident, he had, seemingly, lost his hold over John and his popularity in the office had dwindled. John, on the other hand, had begun to notice that people smiled at him, exchanged pleasantries, and held him in an odd high regard. John attributed this generally to his new clothes, but this newfound respect had begun to kindle a small flickering flame of confidence within him. Nowhere was this more apparent than when he found himself talking to Sapphy in the records room.

     Sapphy's full name was Sapphire, she was, at least in John's eyes, an understated beauty, who spent her working life in the windowless catacombs of the records department. She wore bright floral dresses with pastel cardigans, which stood in stark contrast to the blunt bowels of the building where the records department was situated. John liked Sapphy, or rather John thought he would like Sapphy. Given that he had never really spoken to her before, other than to request some file, or to return one. John had hitherto liked Sapphy from afar, imagining what she was like, conducting hypothetical conversations with her in his head. And yet, here he now was, discussing a book he had spotted on her desk and talking to her, actually talking to her, about something other than work.

     Enjoyable as this new ability to converse with Sapphy was, John was forced to cut short their discussion on books. He had left the book in his desk drawer and didn't like to leave it unattended for any protracted amount of time – Tim, he suspected, rooted through his drawers on a regular basis. So John returned to his desk, assuring himself that the next time he and Sapphy spoke, he might ask her to go for a drink.

***

A week later John's flat burnt down. In truth, he should have seen it coming. In Chapter Four of the book, The Protagonist John had suffered a similar fate, and his life had, as the book put it, been cleansed in a purifying inferno of new beginnings. John was unsure whether his life had been so cleansed, rather than just drastically upturned.

     John, being in insurance, did at least have such comprehensive cover that he was able to buy a new flat outright, replace nearly all his belongings and stay in a hotel, at the insurance company's own cost, until the details were finalised. John thought he had had a lucky escape, he was at work when the electrical fault had instigated the fire. Not only that, but John had the book with him and so it too was spared from the uncompromising flames.

     John's new flat was almost brand new. It had its own designated parking space, which no other resident was permitted to use. The flat itself was roomy, fresh, and above all, clean. It even had a little balcony, which afforded John excellent views of the city. It was close to amenities, closer to work, next to a park, and a stone's throw away from Brother Guffogg's shop.

     Brother Guffogg's shop was a stark contrast to The Misanthrope Guffogg's. It smelt clean, was well laid out, well lit, well-stocked, and inviting. Even the door opened the right way. Brother Guffogg was keen to help and always of a sunny disposition. John had witnessed him take great pleasure in cashing in a winning scratch card and Brother Guffogg's nails were well-manicured and unbitten.

     John's life, it seemed, was vastly improved. He filled bookshelves with well-chosen volumes, rather than buying in bulk. He had joined Sapphy's book club, went to the quiz at the local pub, and took regular walks in the park. John had been trusted at work with one of the most illustrious clients on the books and Tim was appointed his assistant. He had replaced his wardrobe with fine light coloured suits and one black one for funerals. Although exactly whose funeral he would be attending was a mystery, as he had no living relatives and his newfound friends were far from death – or at least he hoped as much.

     It was at this point that John considered abandoning the book. John was not a superstitious man, well not staunchly superstitious and what influence on his recent good fortune the book had had was, in his view, negotiable. But still, he could not bring himself to relinquish the book. It could be argued that John secretly attributed more sway to the book than he was willing to admit to himself. It could also be suggested that John merely saw the book as a talisman, a totem and that his good fortune had been his own doing. It could simply be, that John liked a good read and the book was certainly that, irrespective of the strange parallels between The Protagonist John and himself, The Real John.

***

The Book of Morpheus and Thanatos

     Chapter Five

     Over the following months, John's heart blackened. He partook too much of the grape and grain, with a Bacchanalian appetite. He began to return to his former self where the written word was to be acquired not relished. A callousness jaded his soul and a hate began to fill his ways. His gait awkward, a testament to his unkind bearing, and his posture bent in pain and cruelty. His hope had abandoned him and a poison of pessimism coursed through his veins. John had chosen unwisely.

     John read these lines, whilst constantly shifting in his seat, his bad back was a constant gnawing ache, which even heavy drinking did not quell. He had begun to make mistakes at work, which he blamed on The Underling Tim, who had received a written warning. He had been barred from the pub and quiz respectively. He never went to book club meetings anymore and rarely heard from Sapphy. His new flat had begun to fill with books, just as the washing up filled the sink. His dandruff seemed worse than ever and showed on the shoulders of his black suit, which he wore every day.

     John now knew that the book was responsible for everything. He would go about his daily life, which was now littered with tragedy and misfortune, only to come home in the evening and read the same occurrences befall The Protagonist John. He dared not throw the book away as in Chapter Eight one line stood out; For John to part ways with the book was undeniably a death sentence and one that would be swift and unerring. There was only one thing for it, break the cardinal rule, and skip to the last chapter.

***

The Book of Morpheus and Thanatos

     Chapter Ten

John's time had come. He had been given everything, a new beginning that few receive, but he had chosen to continue on a path that could only lead to destruction. And so it was that on Thors day he met his end. Leaving his employ in an automobile, he drove along the main street of the unfeeling city. At a crossroads, once again John chose unwisely a route to certain death and assured his passage to hell.

     John shut the book with a thud. It was Wednesday night. There must be some way of avoiding this portent and outwitting fate. John's mind raced and he spent most of that evening and night considering every possible way of avoiding the prophecy coming true, for surely though it was written John might have a chance to change things. He swore that if he got through this, he would mend his ways, return to that kinder John and that he would burn the book to cinders.

     On Thursday morning John put the book in its satchel and walked to work. His back ached, his legs wobbled and his eyes darted about trying to identify any hazard before he met it. He took an elaborate route to work, avoiding the main streets and sticking to pedestrian areas where possible. He had to set off two hours early to compensate for the obscure course he had planned the night before, changing it several times, just to be sure.

     When he arrived at work he immediately put the book in his desk drawer and remained in the office all day, sending Tim out to get his lunch. As the day wore on, nothing happened and John began to doubt the sanity of fearing his untimely death, based on a book. By five o'clock he had all but dismissed it. That said, he still felt the possibility of something happening gnawing away at him from somewhere in his head.

     John was just starting his walk home when Tim drove up to him in his car.

     "Johnnyboy… Sorry, John. Can I give you a lift?" He called through the window.

     John's back was agony and after a few minutes of thought, he accepted. However, just to be safe, he insisted that Tim take 'the back way', the reason for this he had said was to avoid rush hour traffic, which seemed as reasonable a reason as any for Tim.

     They had been driving for five minutes when a cold horror began to chill John to the marrow.

     "The book. I've left the book at work. We'll have to turn back." He hissed urgently.

     "Book? What book?"

     "Turn this car around. We must go BACK." John screamed frantically, grabbing the wheel of the car.

     "Jesus John. Calm down."

     Tim took a few turns and headed back to the office.

     "What street are we on?" Enquired John.

     "Main street."

     "What? WE MUST GET OFF THIS ROAD."

     John seized the steering wheel, the car screeched through a red light and into an oncoming lorry.

***

Tim awoke in the hospital some days later. He examined his surroundings. A white room with a small television, some cheap-looking flowers, some manky grapes, and a few cards. On the bedside table sat a few books. Tim winced in pain.

     Tim did not like reading. He much preferred watching the film adaptation, or at a push, an audiobook read by an actor with a soothing voice. In many ways, Tim was proud that he hadn't read a book since High school. It would need to be quite the gripping story for Tim to read a book.

EPILOGUE

When Tim finally returned to work, some three months later, he was greeted with sympathy and kindness. John's death had been tragic, despite the fact that John had caused the accident. It was also good fortune that Tim had survived despite the insane actions of John that fateful Thursday.

     Patterson, from senior management, came down from the eighth floor to see Tim was settling back in.

     "I wonder Tim, if… Well, it's a delicate matter…"

     "What is it, Mr. Patterson?"

     "Well old John had no family and so there's been no one to collect his effects. I wonder since you and John were such great friends, whether you'd like them."

     "Of course Mr. Patterson. Thank you."

     Tim walked over to his desk. Tim wondered, had they been friends? John was odd and had nearly killed him, but old Johnnyboy wasn't that bad. Fuck that, he was a prick.

     Tim rooted through the box of meagre personal items from John's desk. In amongst the tat, he found an old book. John was always reading. God, that bastard loved to read. Tim tossed the book in the box and went to chat with Sapphy in the records room, these dowdy girls were easy pickings.

     On his walk home (he had not replaced his totalled car), Tim stopped to have a pint in the pub. Why he had carried the box of John's stuff back with him and not just chucked it in the first skip he encountered, was something of a mystery. He thought he could probably just leave it in the pub, it was someone else's problem then. He sat there with his pint and looked around him. The barman seemed to be watching him and seemed particularly interested in the box of John's shit that he had next to him. Tim stared down at the book, he doubted it was worth reading. On the few occasions Tim had attempted to read a book, he had fallen asleep almost immediately.

     Tim picked out the book and opened it to the first chapter…

The Book of Morpheus and Thanatos

     Chapter One

Tim did not like reading. He much preferred watching the film adaptation, or at a push, an audiobook read by an actor with a soothing voice. In many ways, Tim was proud that he hadn't read a book since High school. It would need to be quite the gripping story for Tim to read a book.