Dear Mr. M.,

I'd like  to start by telling you  that I'm doing  better now. I do so because  you probably have  no idea that I was ever doing  worse. Much worse, in fact, but I'll get to that later on.

Mr. M. is being  watched. As a famous writer, he is no stranger to the limelight, although interest in his work has been  dwindling of late. His print runs are smaller than they used to be, as are the crowds at his bookshop signings . . . Our narrator clearly takes a keen  interest in M.'s work, and indeed in every aspect of his life. But what exactly are his intentions? And to what does Mr. M. owe the honour of his undivided attention?

Our narrator seems  to be no stranger to murder, while  his own  story appears to bear more than a passing resemblance to the plot of Mr. M.'s most famous novel: a teacher has an affair with a student, only  to be brutally murdered by the girl and her teenage boyfriend. The body  is never found.

That's the problem with fiction: in real life, bodies  have  an awkward habit of turning up. Mr. M. has used some  artistic licence, and our narrator is not pleased, not pleased  at all. And just before he fades into obscurity, he's prepared to give  Mr. M. one last review. And it's unlikely to be a rave.