All Quiet on the Orient Express

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really bothered. It was actually quite nice to have something proper to do for a change, and so as soon as I'd dumped my groceries in the tent I set off up towards the house. The narrative structure is clear and logical, but seems to have its own logic that is slightly different to the one we use in this world. For example - no-one seems to bat an eyelid if someone dies. There is no evidence of a police force (or, come to think of it - a fire department or ambulance service). It is as if each town in a Magnus Mills novel is a self-sufficient unit where law is monitored and administered by the people within it, who have their own ideas of right and wrong and don't need anyone to tell them any different. There's a bit of a 'Stepford Wives' feel to these places. Having said that - everything that is meant to be clear is clear and if it is not clear then the author probably intended it to be so. He fell silent for a moment, and when I looked up I saw he was gazing across at my tent. I'd been crouched down painting for quite a while now, so I stood upright to give my knees a rest.

Nobody did, so after a few minutes spent gazing at the water I continued my journey along the shore. Finally, I arrived at the north end of the lake, passed through a kissing gate, and walked across a deserted

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Of course, it doesn't happen. His protestations grow weaker and weaker with each of Mr. Parker's polite requests, until finally he doesn't even bother to resist. After a short time, a pattern is established: ''I suddenly realized

to the gate. The tea now being ready, I poured it into my tin mug and added milk. A few moments later, when I again looked towards the gateway, the schoolgirl had gone. Behind the hedge I could see the roof of a blue minibus inside as it drove away, and then walk up the concrete road towards the house. This time she took no notice of me at all. After she'd gone I went across to the gate to see if she'd left any footmarks on the green The money arrangements aren't too clear, but there's always something to do and the narrator doesn't really worry about thinking too far ahead.In ''All Quiet on the Orient Express,'' Mills revisits the struggles of the downtrodden. But this new novel is more a parable of entrapment in which devious occurrences force the unnamed narrator out of his dreamy passivity and into passes, but there was a limit to how much enjoyment could be derived from this, especially with all the cars travelling nose to tail everywhere I went. Admittedly the roads would be quieter now that the majority of tourists I couldn't leave it like that, not right in the middle of Mr Parker's front entrance. So after some consideration I decided to paint it into a square. I marked out the shape with a piece of chalky The narrator's odd mix of lethargy and willingness to go along with almost anything (and a certain eagerness to please) lead him ever deeper into a serf-life.

All Quiet on the Orient Express is the second novel by Booker shortlisted author Magnus Mills, published in 1999. As with his first novel it is a tragicomedy with an unnamed narrator dealing with apparently simple but increasingly sinister situations.out. He'd be in proper overalls as well, whereas I was clad only in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. My equipment consisted of no more than a brush and a tin of paint. Obviously an amateur. Someone who'd been roped

Well, factory's probably the wrong word,' I said. `It was recycling oil drums. You know, cleaning them out, getting rid of the dents, painting them up.' in for a lunchtime drink, though, as I didn't want the day to dissolve into an alcoholic blur. Once I'd bought my supplies I would have to think of something else to do in the afternoon. stone, using one of my tent poles to get a straight line. Then carefully I began filling it in. By the time I'd finished doing this the gate was touch dry. I stood looking at the new green square and wondered if I'dNot that I was bothered by all this. The vehicles that went by were few and far between, and their passing broke the monotony of the job. It was actually taking much longer than I'd expected, and although That's quite expensive really, isn't it?' he remarked. `Just for you, your tent and your motorbike.' The same sort of thing happened every time a vehicle went past on the public road. There wasn't much traffic, but occasionally someone would go by, and they always eased up a little to see who was painting After taking a shower I zipped up the tent and set off on my lakeside walk, going out through the main gateway, then across the public road to another gate leading into a second field. Until yesterday this to do except `take it in', and, to tell the truth, I'd already had enough of that. I'd ridden round and round the area a few times on my motorbike, going along the edge of lakes and traversing high mountain