The Pursuit of Ordinary

Finalist, The People's Book Prize for Fiction. Longlisted, The Guardian's Not The Booker Prize.

Dan saw Natalie's husband Joe die. So why can he still hear him?

Homeless and afraid, Dan decides the only way to find out for sure is to track down Joe’s widow, Natalie. Can he convince her that her husband lives on inside him? Can they fight their growing feelings for one another as Joe, trapped inside Dan, grows evermore lonely and afraid?

Endorsements

"Original and compelling, The Pursuit of Ordinary is perfectly paced and beautifully written." Colette McBeth, author of An Act of Silence

An author with a truly compelling insight into the human condition. Siobhan Kennedy, Channel 4 News

Cooper has a rare knack for presenting flawed characters in a way that makes the reader care about them. Love Reading blog

This novel has a very striking premise which Nigel Cooper executes with great skill. He gets under the skin of his characters and gradually reveals the psychological wheels within wheels of his two main characters Daniel and Natalie. A fascinating read. Jane Lythell, author of The Lie of You

Nigel Jay Cooper has the ability to grip the reader in a fashion I have never before experienced. Lisa Doherty, Book Blogger, Rambling Lisa’s Book Reviews

Nigel's works have a knack of grabbing me and pulling me in so that I can't put them down. Nikki Murphy, Book Blogger, Nikki's Book Blog

A new voice. Fresh and different. Maha Diwan, Book Blogger, Mesha’s Corner

Meet the characters

Natalie

Lover or liar?

Natalie doesn’t dwell on Joe’s accident too much. She pushes it to the back of her mind where the murky things live, shadow creatures, scrabbling in the dirt for scraps. But she can’t help asking what Dan remembers from that day. The police came up with nothing, labelled it an accident. But someone is always to blame, somewhere, somehow. It’s like an insect bite she can’t help scratching. Even though she knows it’ll make things worse, she finds herself bringing it up again and again, wanting to talk it through with him, over and over. Dan wants to forget about it, of course he does. And so should she, but she can’t let it go. Can’t stop waking in the night screaming, feeling the weight of Joe’s head on her lap as she cradled him the road, covered in blood, listening to the sirens getting closer and closer as she tried to ignore the crowds of people taking pictures on their phones, like her husband was something titillating to be Tweeted, Facebooked or Instagrammed.

Dan

Ill or possessed?

‘Dad, I’m serious,’ Dan said, picking at the skin around his thumbnail—pick, pick, pick—until little spots of blood appeared, gradually growing, bulbous, full of life, scarlet bubbles of reality nestling on top of his skin, taunting him with their realness, a visual anchor to a life he could no longer attach to. ‘I think I’m going mad.’

The sounds of the house magnified, creaking wood, wind on windows, water churning somewhere, in the dishwasher or the washing machine.

‘Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, it doesn’t feel like me staring back. I stare and stare at my face and it doesn’t feel like my face at all. It doesn’t even look like me.’

Dan paused. His dad wasn’t looking at him, but Dan could tell he wasn’t listening to the TV any more, he was frozen, unsure what to do or say. ‘I don’t think I exist, Dad.’

Joe

Dead or alive?

At first, it was like a silent movie, everything moving too fast, a burst-eardrum vacuum in the aftermath of an explosion. Except there hadn’t been an explosion, there had been a car crash. Was it two cars or three? Then came the screaming and shouting. It was horrific, intrusive. Other sounds; someone must have called an ambulance, sirens were approaching, weaving their way through traffic, jumping red lights, wailing and crying in distorted blue grief. Cars were pulling over onto wet, puddled curbs to let them pass. Dan was there, standing gobsmacked in the road, but even he didn’t know how life-changing it would be, not yet. He could feel the buzz of electricity filling the air. His breathing was synchronised with the lungs of the other witnesses littering the pavement behind him, inhaling deeper and deeper and deeper, forgetting to exhale until it became painful. Lightheaded, like he might pass out. Life, in the form of death, had arrived on the streets of Brighton.