Excerpt from The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The fat toddler slid his hands forward, almost touching Bea's. She made a show of counting the digits, then said "A hundred! No, ten!" The boy laughed. An older child, a girl, stood shyly back, sucking on her knuckles. She kept looking back at her mother, but the mother was looking neither at her children nor at Beatrice; instead, she was focused on a hand-held gadget.

"Oh, hi," said Beatrice when she saw Peter coming. She brushed her hair off her face, tucked it behind her ears. "This is Jason and Gemma. They're going to Alicante."

"We hope," said the mother wearily. The gadget made a small beeping noise, having analyzed the glucose levels of the woman's blood.

"These people have been here since two p.m.," explained Beatrice. "They're stressed out."

"Never again," muttered the woman as she rummaged in a travel pouch for her insulin injections. "I swear. They take your money and they don't give a shit."

"Joanne, this is my husband, Peter. Peter, this is Joanne."

Joanne nodded in greeting but was too bound up in her misfortune to make small talk. "It all looks dead cheap on the brochure," she remarked bitterly, "but you pay for it in grief."

"Oh, don't be like that, Joanne," counseled Beatrice. "You'll have a lovely time. Nothing bad has actually happened. Just think: if the plane had been scheduled to leave eight hours later, you would've been doing the same thing as you're doing now—waiting, except at home."

"These two should be in bed," grumbled the woman, baring a roll of abdominal flesh and sticking the needle in.

Jason and Gemma, righteously offended by the allegation that they were sleepy rather than maltreated, looked poised for a fresh set of tantrums. Beatrice got on her hands and knees again. "I think I've lost my feet," she said, peering nearsightedly around the floor. "Where have they gone?" "They're here!" cried little Jason, as she turned away from him. "Where?" she said, spinning back.

"Thank God," said Joanne. "Here comes Freddie with the food."

A hassled-looking fellow with no chin and a porridge-colored windcheater lumbered into view, several paper bags clutched in each hand.

"World's biggest rip-off," he announced. "They keep you standing there with your little voucher for two quid or whatever. It's like the dole office. I tell you, in another half an hour, if this lot don't bloody well—"

"Freddie," said Beatrice brightly, "this is my husband, Peter."

The man put down his packages and shook Peter's hand. "Your wife's a bit of an angel, Pete. Is she always taking pity on waifs and strays?"

"We . . . we both believe in being friendly," said Peter. "It costs nothing and it makes life more interesting."



"When are we gonna see the sea?" said Gemma, and yawned. "Tomorrow, when you wake up," said the mother.

"Will the nice lady be there?"

"No, she's going to America."

Beatrice motioned the little girl to come and sit against her hip. The toddler had already dropped off to sleep, sprawled against a canvas backpack filled to the bursting point. "Wires slightly crossed," said Beatrice. "It's my husband who's going, not me."

"You stay home with the kids, huh?"

"We don't have any," said Beatrice. "Yet."

"Do yourselves a favor," sighed the man. "Don't. Just skip it." "Oh, you don't mean that," said Beatrice. And Peter, seeing that the man was about to make an off-hand retort, added: "Not really."

And so the conversation went on. Beatrice and Peter got into rhythm, perfectly united in purpose. They'd done this hundreds of times before. Conversation, genuine unforced conversation, but with the potential to become something much more significant if the moment arose when it was right to mention Jesus. Maybe that moment would come; maybe it wouldn't. Maybe they would just say "God bless you" in parting and that would be it. Not every encounter could be transformative. Some conversations were just amiable exchanges of breath.

Excerpted from The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber. Copyright © 2014 by Michel Faber. Excerpted by permission of Hogarth Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.