The boy knocked lightly on the door. “Grandfather?” he called.

“Rupert, my dear boy. Come in, come in.”

He entered the dark room, closing the door quietly behind him before making his way over to stand beside the bed.

“Well, up you come, lad.” His grandfather held out a hand to help steady him as he kicked off his shoes and scrabbled onto the large bed.

“It's my birthday,” he announced, shuffling over to lean against the mountain of pillows propped-up against the headboard.

“Yes, I know. Seven years old, you are becoming quite the grown-up young man, aren't you?” the old man said proudly. “I have something for you.”

“You do?” Rupert asked eagerly.

“Under the pillow,” his grandfather replied, smiling when the boy began to grope about eagerly beneath the pillows, finally drawing out a large book.

“What is it?” he asked, turning the book over in his hands and stroking the soft, well-worn leather.

“It's a fabulous story.” His grandfather's eyes grew distant, his lips curving into a soft smile as he continued, “My God-father gave it to me when I was your age and it has been my favourite ever since. I used to read it to your mother when she was a child; every year at Christmastime.”

“It's very big,” Rupert said, thumbing dubiously through the pages. “I'm not sure that I could ever read so much.”

“One page at a time, my boy,” his grandfather replied with a chuckle. “Every book is a marvellous adventure that is taken one page at a time; the joy is in the journey, not the destination.”

Rupert smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” he said, trying not to let his disappointment show. Unlike his parents, his grandfather usually gave the most wonderful and frivolous of gifts, and he'd been wishing so hard for the beautiful silk kite he'd seen in the toy shop window on their last visit to London.

*****

Rupert turned away from the window and the procession of black cars that wound their way slowly up the drive and out onto the street. He threw himself onto his bed and buried his face in his pillow, his small frame shaking as he sobbed.

Eventually he cried himself out and fell into a restless, exhausted sleep, only to wake a short time later from a bad dream. Sitting up and rubbing at sore, tired eyes, he noticed the book laying forgotten on his bedside table and reached out to haul it onto his lap. Hugging it to his chest, he breathed deeply, inhaling the rich, musty scent that was a combination of the soft leather and the thick, heavy paper that his grandfather had handled countless times over the years. Swallowing hard against a fresh wave of tears, he settled the book once more in his lap, stroking the cover reverently before opening it and turning the pages to the beginning of the story.

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.