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456 pages, Paperback
First published September 5, 2017
Up-to-the-minute polling reveals that 86 per cent of readers who've reached this point in the narrative happily accept that Ian died when struck by a train, that he awoke in an afterlife that failed to correspond to popular expectations, and that he spent an unspecified period of time in a netherworldly mental institution. They also accept that he was accompanied by an Indian guide named Tonto while occasionally pursued by an undead philospher-assassin armed with an impressive array of lethal, high-tech gadgets. In short, these readers believe what they've been told. These readers are straight-shooting, early-rising, salt-of-the-earth types who like to take things at face value, trust their neighbours, pay their taxes, go to bed early, and never, ever, skip to the last page of the book.
They were agog. Or rather, Tonto was agog. Ian was merely puzzled, which I found shabby. I mean to say, I hadn't expected the man to clap his hands and leap about, as these excesses are beyond him, and I'll admit the chap had suffered a bit of a blow: he'd heard it suggested, moments earlier, that his wires had been crossed and marbles scrambled by malefactors unknown, and that his much-loved better half – one Penelope-Something-or-Other – might be somewhere in Detroit, still imperilled by the very parties who'd meddled with Ian's mind. A nasty jar, I'd imagine, and one that smote this Ian Brown like a tee-shot to the navel. It was for this reason, I perceived, that the above-named Brown, rather than receiving my revelations with excited yips and other demonstrations of the enthusiastic spirit, just sat quietly and goggled in that baffled way of his.
Their trip down the spiralling ledge didn't technically count as spelunking, but it was close enough cousins to spelunking that any marriage between the two would have violated consanguinity laws in any state whose anthem wasn't scored for banjo and jug.