The Reading List Read online

  THE READING LIST

  Sara Nisha Adams

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  Dublin 4, Ireland

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Sara Nisha Adams 2021

  Grateful acknowledgement to Andrew Nurnberg Associates for permission to quote the line here from To Kill A Mockingbird © Harper Lee, 1960

  Jacket design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Jacket illustration © Aleesha Nandhra/Darley Anderson Illustration Agency

  Sara Nisha Adams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008391324

  Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008391348

  Version: 2021-06-01

  Dedication

  In loving memory of Granny, Grandad, Ba and Dada

  For Mum and Dad

  Love you lots x

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Reading List

  Part I: The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

  Chapter 1: Mukesh

  Chapter 2: Aleisha

  Chapter 3: Mukesh

  The Reading List: Chris

  Part II: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

  Chapter 4: Aleisha

  Chapter 5: Mukesh

  Chapter 6: Aleisha

  Chapter 7: Mukesh

  Chapter 8: Aleisha

  The Reading List: Indira

  Chapter 9: Mukesh

  The Reading List: Leonora

  Chapter 10: Mukesh

  Part III: Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

  Chapter 11: Aleisha

  The Reading List: Izzy

  Chapter 12: Mukesh

  Part IV: The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

  Chapter 13: Aleisha

  Chapter 14: Mukesh

  The Reading List: Joseph

  Chapter 15: Aleisha

  Chapter 16: Mukesh

  Part V: Life of Pi by Yann Martel

  Chapter 17: Aleisha

  The Reading List: Gigi

  Chapter 18: Mukesh

  The Reading List: Indira

  Part VI: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

  Chapter 19: Aleisha

  Chapter 20: Mukesh

  The Reading List: Izzy

  Chapter 21: Aleisha

  Chapter 22: Mukesh

  Chapter 23: Aleisha

  Chapter 24: Mukesh

  Part VII: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

  Chapter 25: Aleisha

  Chapter 26: Aleisha

  Part VIII: Beloved by Toni Morrison

  Chapter 27: Aleisha

  Chapter 28: Mukesh

  Chapter 29: Aleisha

  Chapter 30: Mukesh

  Chapter 31: Aleisha

  Chapter 32: Mukesh

  Chapter 33: Aleisha

  Chapter 34: Aleisha

  Chapter 35: Mukesh

  Chapter 36: Aleisha

  Chapter 37: Mukesh

  Part IX: A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth

  Chapter 38: Aleisha

  Chapter 39: Mukesh

  Chapter 40: Mukesh and Aleisha

  Chapter 41: Aleisha

  Chapter 42: Mukesh

  The Reading List: Naina

  Author’s Note on The Reading List

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  THE READING LIST

  2017

  THE DOORS ARE NEW: automatic open. Fancy. That has changed since Aidan was here last. The first thing he notices are the sparse rows of books – when he’d been younger, smaller, the shelves seemed to never end, teeming with books of all shapes and sizes. Even when he’d been a teenager, working here over his summer holidays, this place had been a sanctuary for him and, though he’d never have admitted it to his friends, he’d loved getting lost between the stacks and stacks of reference books. Maybe he is just looking back with rose-tinted spectacles, imagining some kind of magical, bookish wonderland that has never really existed. But now, at 22, no longer a boy but a man, here he is again, looking for a place to hide – from the world, his friends, his family.

  The librarian looks up for a moment as he steps through the doors, and smiles. Aidan is greeted by silence. In his memories, this place was never silent. Obviously, it is a library … so it has always been quiet, but there had been that hum – of people shuffling about, of kids whispering to their mums, people flicking pages, moving chairs, wiggling around, coughing and snuffling too. Today, barely a sound. Someone tapping out a text on their phone. The librarian drumming away on that clunky old keyboard. Nothing else. Recently, he has spotted posters about saving Brent’s libraries stuck up on community boards: in Tesco; at the gym; even plastered near the Tube station, advertising cake sales, knitting clubs at the library, sit-ins, petitions. But it has never crossed his mind that Harrow Road Library needs saving. In his mind, it is popular, well loved, but now that he is here, his heart begins to sink … maybe Harrow Road Library will be the next to go.

  He wanders over to the fiction shelves, the crime section, and runs his fingers over the spines, landing on Black Water Rising by Attica Locke. He has read it before, years ago. Maybe even more than once. As he starts to turn the pages, looking for an escape, memories rush in … of Attica Locke’s Houston, the city alive, vibrant, dark, full of contradictions and contrasts. Today he needs that kind of familiarity, he needs to step back into a world where there are scares, twists, turns, but a world where he knows how everything will end.

  He needs to know how something will end.

  The table he once curled up at as a kid is gone, everything rearranged. Nothing is going to stay the same just to please him, not here, not in his life. This is another bad summer. But as the words of the story wash over him, he traces the sentences with his fingers, trying to recreate that feeling of being grounded, rooted to the spot, nothing more than a body, reading words, allowing his mind to wander elsewhere. He can feel the story take control of his mind, pulling him away. His own thoughts, his worries, that voice, begin to buzz at the back of his mind, and eventually they become nothing but white noise.

  When he was younger, his mum would bring him here with his little sister, Aleisha; Aleisha was always more interested in playing and she’d kick and she’d fuss and Leilah would have to take her outside. Aidan would never have more than a few minutes of alone time, but those few minutes calmed him, they stopped his mind racing, they helped him breathe, to escape … whatever he needed most.<
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  A loud thwack alerts him to someone beside him. He averts his gaze, keeping his eyes on the page, unwilling, for now, to allow someone else to break his spell. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a large stack of books piled high. A barricade.

  There’s a scraping of a chair, and scraps of paper are pulled from a bag, creased receipts, a library slip, the back of a crossword puzzle, leaving a crumpled cloud of white on the desk beside him.

  He tries hard to quieten his breathing as his neighbour begins to mutter almost inaudibly. He can’t tell if it’s a song, or a tune, or complete nonsense. He spots a pen poised above the first scrap; then follows a rhythmic scratching of biro.

  Aidan keeps his eyes fixed on the page, running over the words in his book, taking them in, trying to conjure the feeling he’d had the last time he’d read these words in this order.

  For minutes, Aidan allows his focus to flow in and out of the book, into the library, and then out onto the road, over to Wembley. He wonders how his mum is doing now. Has Aleisha noticed he’s vanished? He brings his mind back to the room, back to the library, to the person sitting beside him, scribbling as if their life depends on it.

  And then, suddenly, his neighbour stands up abruptly, leaving a heap of little folded pieces of paper littering the desk. He watches from the corner of his eye as slips of paper are pulled into a line, as if in slow motion, a finger tapping each one in turn … counting one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight … Then the scraps are all tucked away into the first book, at the top of the pile – he sees now that it is To Kill a Mockingbird.

  His neighbour’s hands rest for a moment on the cover of the book. Aidan realizes he hasn’t turned his page in a while. He wonders if they realize he’s watching. He wonders why he’s watching at all. Then, a moment later, their arms, wrapped in a thick, black sweater, reach forward and pull the books towards them. With a soft groan, the pile of books is swept from the corner of his eye and he hears the swoosh-swoosh of shoes against the tacky library carpet, shuffling towards the front desk. He allows his mind to return to his story.

  When he eventually stands up from his chair, the evening light is streaming through the window, and the library looks exactly how he remembers it: magical. It feels like a miracle, but he’s never believed in those before. The sun is casting long shadows on the scruffy library, dousing everything in a warm amber – it looks as if it has been carved out of gold. He tucks his chair in, lifting it up, trying not to make a sound – though there is barely anyone left here to disturb.

  Then he spots one lonely folded scrap of paper sitting on the desk beside him – the crossword puzzle.

  He turns his head to the left, to the right, and slowly over his shoulder. No one is watching him. His arm reaches forward, pulling it towards him, and he unwraps it – one fold at a time. His fingers treat it delicately, it is barely thicker than a cigarette paper. He doesn’t want to break it. He thinks of the person, his anonymous neighbour, writing, scrawling, intent.

  As he unfolds the final corner, the mystery is suddenly revealed. The lettering is neat, looping, warm, inviting.

  Just in case you need it:

  To Kill a Mockingbird

  Rebecca

  The Kite Runner

  Life of Pi

  Pride and Prejudice

  Little Women

  Beloved

  A Suitable Boy

  To Kill a Mockingbird – the first book in the massive pile. He runs his eye down the list. It doesn’t mean anything to him – just scribbled words on scraps of paper. But, for a moment, he thinks about taking the list with him, popping it in his pocket. He stops himself. This small scrap of paper, so neatly folded, is nothing more than a stranger’s reading list. What does he need with something like this?

  Instead, he lays it back on the table, and packs up his book, sending Attica Locke a secret thank you, and tucks it back on the crime shelf, for someone else to enjoy. He heads out of the library, the doors closing automatically behind him. He turns once more, and he can see the note sitting exactly where he left it. The shadows of the library close in behind him; the books read and unread forming a barrier between him and the list. As he steps away from the library, he feels the peace, the silence, slide away from him, as he heads towards the lights and sounds of the city he calls home.

  PART I

  THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE

  by Audrey Niffenegger

  Chapter 1

  MUKESH

  2019

  BEEP. ‘HI PAPA, IT’S Rohini. Sorry sorry to be calling you again but you know how I worry when you don’t pick up or return my calls. We’re going to come and visit you on Friday, me and Priya, so let me know if you need me to bring anything, food or drink. I’m not convinced the food you make yourself is nutritionally balanced, Papa – you need to eat more than just mung. And remember it’s bin day today, black bins only today, ha. Green bins next week. Call Param at number eighty-seven if you can’t do it, okay? I know your back has been playing up.’

  BEEP. ‘Dad, it’s Deepali. Rohini told me to give you a ring because she hasn’t heard from you. She said to tell you it’s your bin day today so remember, okay? Not like last time when you had to run out in your dressing gown in the morning! Call me later, okay? I am going to work now, okay? Bye. The twins say bye too! Bye, Dada.’

  BEEP. ‘Hi Papa, it’s Vritti. You doing all right? Wanted to check how you are. Let me know if you need anything. I can come round soon, just let me know when you’re free. I’ve got a busy few weeks, but can sort something out, yeah?’

  And just like that, Mukesh’s day started like almost any other Wednesday: with three identical voicemails from his daughters – Rohini, Deepali and Vritti – at the unsociable hour of 8 a.m., before they started work – often Mukesh wasn’t even awake by then.

  On another day of the week, he might have called each of them in turn, to let them know he was on top of his bins, even if he wasn’t, and that he had no clue who Param at number 87 was, even though he did – he liked to keep them on their toes. But he had no time for that today.

  Today was his shopping day. Naina had always done the shopping on Wednesdays. To deviate from that routine now would be wrong. First things first, he checked the fridge and the cupboards, organized just the way Naina had liked them to be, by which he meant not at all. Just as he suspected: he needed okra and mung beans. He loved mung beans, regardless of what Rohini said. He had never cooked much when Naina was alive, except in the last few months of her life, but he knew a few recipes off by heart. They kept him going. What did he need with ‘nutritionally balanced’ at his age, anyway?

  As he stepped out of his house, slamming the door behind him, the midsummer heat bowled him over. He had worn too many layers again. And he always felt the heat. Some of the other ‘elderly’ people at the mandir laughed at him – when they were too cold, Mukesh was too hot. He worried about underarm sweat patches, though they would often say, ‘Mukeshbhai, why do you worry about such things? We are old now. We don’t mind.’

  But Mukesh did not want to be old, and if he stopped worrying about sweat patches, belching in public, that sort of thing, he might stop caring about other more important things too.

  He adjusted his flat cap, which he wore whatever the weather, to make sure the sun was out of his eyes. He’d had this cap for fifty years. It was wearing away and wearing out, but he loved it. It had outlasted his marriage and, while he didn’t want to be a pessimist, if he lost it, it would be like losing another fundamental part of himself.

  Every week, the walk up the slight hill from his house to the high road got a little bit harder, his breathing a little bit shallower, and one day he would need to order a Dial-a-Ride for the five-minute stroll. When he eventually reached the top of the hill and turned left, he took a deep breath, steadied himself against a bollard, readjusted his mandir-branded canvas bag, which was slipping off his shoulder, and carried on towards his usual grocery shop on Ealing Road.


  Ealing Road was a bit quieter on a Wednesday, which was why Naina had nominated it as her shopping day. She always said it reduced her chances of bumping into someone she knew, which had the potential to turn a ten-minute shopping trip into an hour’s social catch-up.

  A few people wandered in and out of the shops that had beautiful mannequins showing themselves off in the window, draped in jewels and bright material, but the majority frequented the fruit and vegetable stalls, or hung around near the Wembley Central mosque. Mukesh waved to his neighbour Naseem and his daughter Noor, sitting on a wall sharing a packet of cassava crisps between them. They hadn’t spoken for more than a few minutes since Naina had passed, but whenever he saw Naseem and Noor, they never failed to brighten his day.

  Mukesh finally reached his favourite shop, overflowing with all sorts of vegetables, fresh and fragrant, kept in the shade by the awning. It was swarming with shoppers and buggies and children. Mukesh felt a little bubble of panic in his throat. Nikhil was standing in the doorway, as though he had been waiting just for him.

  ‘Hey, Mukesh!’ Nikhil was 30, and the son of an acquaintance from the mandir. So really, he should have called him ‘Mukeshfua’, meaning uncle, as a sign of respect, but Mukesh let this slide, as he often did. He didn’t want to be fua to this young man, who still had all his original hair, all his original teeth, and was a while away from the muffin-top belly Mukesh had been sporting for the last ten years, steadily maintained by a diet of rice, mung and kadhi. He liked feeling like Nikhil’s friend rather than his doddery old uncle.

  ‘Kemcho, Nikhil,’ Mukesh replied. ‘Can I have mug, plenty of it – and some bhindi too?’

  ‘Wonder what you’re making today, eh, Mukesh?!’

  ‘You know what I’m making.’

  ‘It was a joke. You know mung and okra don’t even go together, right? Make something different. For once, Mukesh.’ Nikhil mock-rolled his eyes, a toothy grin on his face.

  ‘You know, young man, you should be calling me fua! I must tell your mother of your rudeness.’ He smiled to himself. Even if he tried, he’d never be able to earn the respect Naina had once had. She had been the public-facing figure in their marriage. She’d run the satsaangs at the mandir on Saturdays, and led the bhajans. The younger ones and her peers looked up to her.