‘Of course not,’ said Nora. She realised she was about to cave in and choose another life. She thought of the humpback whales. She thought of the unanswered message. ‘I wish I had gone to Australia with Izzy. I would like to experience that life.’

‘Very good choice.’

‘What? It’s a very good life?’

‘Oh, I didn’t say that. I merely feel that you might be getting better at choosing.’

‘So, it’s a bad life?’

‘I didn’t say that either.’

And the shelves sped into motion again, then stopped a few seconds afterwards.

‘Ah, yes, there it is,’ said Mrs Elm, taking a book from the second-to-bottom shelf. She recognised it instantly, which was odd, seeing that it looked almost identical to the others around it.

She handed it to Nora, affectionately, as if it was a birthday gift.

‘There you go. You know what to do.’

Nora hesitated.

‘What if I am dead?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, in another life. There must be other lives in which I died before today.’

Mrs Elm looked intrigued. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘You have died an infinite number of times before today, yes. Car accident, drug overdose, drowning, a bout of fatal food poisoning, choking on an apple, choking on a cookie, choking on a vegan hot dog, choking on a non-vegan hot dog, every illness it was possible for you to catch or contract . . . You have died in every way you can, at any time you could.’

‘So, I could open a book and just die?’

‘No. Not instantaneously. As with Voltaire, the only lives available here are, well, lives. I mean, you could die in that life, but you won’t have died before you enter the life because this Midnight Library is not one of ghosts. It is not a library of corpses. It is a library of possibility. And death is the opposite of possibility. Understand?’

‘I think so.’

And Nora stared at the book she had been handed. Conifer green. Smooth-textured, again embossed with that broad and frustratingly meaningless title My Life.

She opened it and saw a blank page, so she moved to the next page and wondered what was going to happen this time. ‘The swimming pool was a little busier than normal . . .’

And then she was there.

Fire

She gasped. The sensations were sudden. The noise and the water. She had her mouth open and she choked. The tang and sting of salt water.

She tried to touch her feet on the bottom of the pool but she was out of her depth so she quickly slipped into breaststroke mode.

A swimming pool, but a saltwater one. Outdoor, beside the ocean. Carved seemingly out of the rock that jutted out of the coastline. She could see the actual ocean just beyond. There was sunshine overhead. The water was cool, but given the heat of the air above her the cool was welcome.

Once upon a time she had been the best fourteen-year-old female swimmer in Bedfordshire.

She had won two races in her age category at the National Junior Swimming Championships. Freestyle 400 metres. Freestyle 200 metres. Her dad had driven her every day to the local pool. Sometimes before school as well as after. But then – while her brother rocked out on his guitar to Nirvana – she traded lengths for scales, and taught herself how to play not just Chopin but classics like ‘Let It Be’ and ‘Rainy Days And Mondays’. She also began, before The Labyrinths were even a figment of her brother’s imagination, to compose her own music.

But she hadn’t really gone off swimming, just the pressure around it.

She reached the side of the pool. Stopped and looked around. She could see a beach at a lower level in the distance, curving around in a semi-circle to welcome the sea lapping on its sand. Beyond the beach, inland, a stretch of grass. A park, complete with palm trees and distant dog walkers.

Beyond that, houses and low-rise apartment blocks, and traffic sliding by on a road. She had seen pictures of Byron Bay, and it didn’t look quite like this. This place, wherever it was, seemed a little more built-up. Still surferish, but also urban.

Turning her attention back to the pool, she noticed a man smile at her as he adjusted his goggles. Did she know this man? Would she welcome this smile in this life? Having no idea, she offered the smallest of polite smiles in return. She felt like a tourist with an unfamiliar currency, not knowing how much to tip.

Then an elderly woman in a swimming cap smiled at her as she glided through the water towards her.

‘Morning, Nora,’ she said, not breaking her stroke.

It was a greeting that suggested Nora was a regular here.

‘Morning,’ Nora said.

She stared out at the ocean, to avoid any awkward chatting. A flock of morning surfers, speck-sized, swam on their boards to greet large sapphire-blue waves.

This was a promising start to her Australian life. She stared at her watch. It was a bright orange, cheap-looking Casio. A happy-looking watch suggestive, she hoped, of a happy-feeling life. It was just after nine a.m. here. Next to her watch was a plastic wristband with a key on it.

So, this was her morning ritual here. In an outdoor swimming pool beside a beach. She wondered if she was here alone. She scanned the pool hopefully for any sign of Izzy, but none was there.

She swam some more.