Excerpt from All the Lonely People by Mike Gayle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Hubert hadn't liked the work at all—it was hard, dirty, and cold—but he was so determined to stick it out that it took a week and a half before Gus finally persuaded him to return to the Labor Exchange in search of something better. "That's the beauty of this country, Smiler," his friend had explained that evening as they sat smoking cigarettes on the steps in front of the boardinghouse. "You can walk out of one job at midday and have another by two!"

This time Hubert was firm with the clerk at the Labor Exchange, a portly middle-aged man who spoke with a trace of a lisp. He was open to any work as long as it wasn't on a building site.

"Here you go," the man had said after a short while looking through his file. "How does warehouse man at Hamilton's department store sound?"

Hubert had never worked in a warehouse before but he liked the idea of a department store. At least it would be indoors, he reasoned, which in this country was a definite plus.

"Very suitable," Hubert replied gratefully.

The clerk wrote out some details on a scrap of paper and handed them to Hubert. "Go to this address at six thirty a.m.—you can't miss it, it's just off Oxford Circus—and at the service entrance ask for the foreman, Mr. Coulthard. And whatever you do," he added ominously, "don't be late. It's not unheard of for Mr. Coulthard to sack people on the spot just for being a minute behind."

And so, clutching the piece of paper tightly, Hubert had returned to Gus's digs. After a meal of tinned soup heated up on the tiny range and some sad-looking ham sandwiches, he went to bed early, rising and dressing in darkness on the rainiest day of the year to board the 56 from Brixton Hill to Oxford Circus.

Taking a seat on the sparsely populated top deck, Hubert paid the conductor his fare and then slipped his ticket into his wallet. Determined to make the most of this respite from the rain, he turned up the collar on his now sodden overcoat, adjusted his trilby, its felt so saturated that he doubted it would ever return to its original shape, and rested his head against the cold, hard glass of the window next to him. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself the luxury of a half doze for the duration of his journey, but within seconds, despite the savage beating of the rain against the side of the bus, Hubert was fast asleep and snoring loudly as he dreamed of the Jamaican sunshine he had left far, far behind.

Waking with a start at the sound of the bus's bell, Hubert wiped at the condensation on the window to discover that he had missed his stop. Leaping to his feet, he raced downstairs and jumped off the bus at the first opportunity. It was now raining even harder than it had been before. Such was the extent of the downpour that even those with umbrellas were sheltering in doorways for protection, but it only took one glance at the watch his mother had given him on his eighteenth birthday for Hubert to realize that he could afford no such luxury.

With one hand holding his hat in place, he ran full pelt through the pouring rain, dodging past men and women scurrying through the deluge to work, and didn't stop until he reached the service entrance of Hamilton's. He was sure he looked a mess. He was so drenched that even the suit he wore under his overcoat was clinging to his every contour, and in spite of the biting February chill he was pouring with sweat, thanks to his dash across London.

Reaching up, he pressed the bell next to a door marked DELIVERIES: RING FOR ATTENTION and took off his hat in preparation to greet Mr. Coulthard, only to funnel rivulets of freezing-cold water from its brim down his back.

Hubert rang the bell several times more but could hear nothing in the way of response on the other side of the door. He pressed again even harder, wondering if the bell was working, and then stepped back several feet to examine the side of the building to make sure he was in the right location. Just as he was about to try walking farther up the street to see if there was another entrance, he jumped with surprise at the sound of a bolt snapping back, followed by the rattle of keys. The door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man with gray hair cut short at the sides, the longer hair on top neatly combed and Brylcreemed into place. Aside from a studiously maintained pencil-thin mustache, the man was clean-shaven. Under a navy-blue warehouse coat he wore a crisp white shirt and dark brown tie. His black oxford shoes were so polished that even in this dim light they seemed to shine.

Excerpted from All the Lonely People by Mike Gayle. Copyright © 2022 by Mike Gayle. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.