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It all began on the morning of Jonathan Valance's twenty-fifth birthday; a morning that he'd thought would be quite like any other until his mother sent him an unusual gift.

Maurice Cleaver, Jonathan's father, had started a writing journal in his final days, in the hope of leaving a record of his life, and a few words of advice for his unborn son.

It is called a 'writing journal' because it records the details of everything your life, including every place you have been, and every person you have met. It also has a section on any advice your parents would like you to know.

At first, Jonathan had been suspicious of his father's sudden collection of old papers and shoe boxes, which he'd filled with scribbled notes of everything from the weather to when you should have a shave. He kept his distance, but was determined to clear the house of all his father's belongings, even to the point of holding a match to some of the pieces of paper.

But Jonathan's father wasn't dead yet, though he was certainly heading that way; his last birthday had been a day he didn't want to remember, apart from the moment he'd sent Jonathan out for a day of shopping. A photographer had caught the image of a woman kissing him passionately, in front of a poorly lit window on a rainy day; surprisingly, he hadn't seen who it was through the window before he'd been handed the snapshot.

However, the photographs had turned up a few days later; in some they caught an irritatingly smug-looking businessman placing a hand on the shoulder of the beautiful couple, while the others were more romantic, showing the kiss or simply stark profile of a man whose eyes were closed.

Maurice always found it difficult to tell stories, but he was determined that his son would appreciate the gift he'd left behind.

At first he'd guarded the journal, making Jonathan swear that he'd only look at it when he'd gone through his school exams. But after the boy had strained his eyes through every day of summer without giving anything but a grunt to show he understood, he'd found it impossible to hide from him what his father wanted him to know from beyond the grave.

It was pouring with rain on Jonathan's twenty-fifth birthday, when he found his father's journal. A well-placed footstep in the wet-down-stairs hallway caused the door to creak slightly, giving the teenager's suspicions away.

Emerging into the hallway with the jumble of boxes and papers hidden under one arm, Jonathan slowly but surely approached the old man's bedroom.

He could hear nothing but the rain pounding incessantly against the thick panes of glass in the ancient windows of the ground floor of the terrace house, and had decided that the time was right.

The thumping of rain on the roof below sent his heart racing with that familiar, strangely excited feeling of anticipation, and he waited until he heard a creaking noise that he knew heralded the imminent fall of the ceiling boards in the bedroom above.