Chapter One.

Most people drift through life without noticing they are alive. That much is obvious. Look around you, at the bus-stop, the office, the queue at the bar, the tube carriage, your living room. And how many of us, in the pursuit of what we think of as “a life” end up with the exact opposite? The treadmill of birth to school to work to death, perhaps interspersed with a graduation day here, a crying baby there, a hole-in-one here, a carriage clock there. Contrary to popular opinion, it’s pretty easy to judge what a life well lived is or isn’t. The proof isn’t in some phantom Huckleberry friend funeral, an imagined obituary, complete with tearful asides from loved ones near and far. The proof is in what you are doing right now, this exact moment, to make your life mean something.

And so, Clarke Double hit the streets, damp air clutching the back of his throat, morning horns echoing through the stalled traffic. Along Inverleith Terrace he went, clocking the paving slabs, dancing through the granite, and as he walked, Clarke thought about what he was, and what he could have been. This was easier to define in the negative. He knew that he was not a jet fighter pilot. He was not a beekeeper, or an archaeologist, or a scriptwriter or a graphic designer. He was not a semi-professional footballer, or a visiting professor of medieval history, or a reserve infantryman, or a journalist on a local newspaper. He was not a mechanic or a tour guide. He was not an up and coming chef.

Ahead, like a lighthouse in the desert, was the warm glow of Maria’s. The picture focussed in, edged with Vaseline, until only the lights of the café remained clear. The comforting aroma of coffee beans hit his nose as he stepped over the threshold. Maria’s was, truth be told, a fairly nondescript café. The eponymous founder had moved on years ago, off to Marbella or Torremolinos, leaving a trail of “Under New Management” signs in her wake. All that remained were the humorous plaques on the wall, tired truisms, you don’t have to be mad to work here, the chef is always right, today’s not your day, tomorrow’s not looking good either. The furniture was threadbare, and knocking tables and chairs squeaked and squealed as customers pushed and pulled themselves in and out of position. The air was thick with condensation, and the open door wheezed in smoke from the cigarette puffers pulling their jackets to their necks in the chill wind outside. Up at the counter stood four high chairs, normally empty as customers veered towards the tables, and it was here that Clarke parked himself most mornings to sit and stare in awe at Gracie.

Ah, Gracie. A gift from the Gods. She smiled as he walked up to the counter, flicking her pale blonde hair from the front of her shoulder to behind her ear. She was only little, and sometimes she had to stretch up on tip toes to grab the coffee on the top shelf, a ballerina on point, the outline of her slender frame and arched feet leaving Clarke reaching for air. He knew it was a forlorn dream. Gracie was out of his league. Not that he was too bad to look at. Any neutral observer would agree that he was reasonably well put together. Gracie though. What a creature. She had a purity to her, an unspoilt lustre that never seemed to tarnish. She didn’t have a TV. Not even bad news or shitty soap operas could get to her.

“Morning Clarke!” The sound of his name left him fluttering. He smiled shyly at her as he made himself comfortable on the high chair. “How’s life treating you today then, Mr. Double?” She didn’t have to ask for his order, already preparing the milk for his latte, in Clarke’s usual mug, which hung on the wall behind the counter.

“Ah, you know Gracie. Just the usual. Few bits and pieces to sort out first thing, but then the rest of the day should be plain sailing. Off out for Pat’s birthday tonight.”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I hope you’re not planning on getting too carried away, Clarke? You know I miss you if you don’t come in for your coffee in the morning.” She was teasing him, but he went along with it.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Gracie! Nah, we’ll just be having a few drinks after work, nothing serious. I’ll be in tomorrow like clockwork.”

“Like clockwork!” She chorused, a high song bird’s call, as she turned to finish off his drink, placing it neatly in front of him, gentle foam coursing through pale brown coffee. Clarke sipped, sat back, and all was well with the world.