For the moral of this story is, we lived in a time without any. Andrew Billen recently remarked in the Evening Standard: “When they were young, the boys who wanted to write wanted to write like Martin Amis. Now that we are older, our pessimism less of an act, our cynicism bottoming out, we dream of writing like Richard Ford.” It’s an odd compliment to pay a Pulitzer Prize-winner – that he attracts a more authentically gloomy, more cynically assured kind of reader – and a cruelly backhanded tribute to Amis’s powers (note the pre-teen feel of “boys”, the presumptuous repetition of “wanted to write”). In tests, eight out of 10 people would probably aspire to their own style, rather than anyone else’s, but Billen’s phrase neatly touches on the under-acknowledged extent to which readers reassess writers as their identification with them changes. But people will believe what they want to believe, when it fills empty hearts with gladness.An eternal flame was set up, it was the least they could do in the circumstances There, the people cry and swear to be good. Some claimed to have seen a brilliant new star, others pointed out it was the warning light on a nearby city sky-scraper.

The Baron’s family gave all their money away, they were feeling so guilty Some people refused to believe Serafina was dead They said she made visits in the middle of the night. A Bosnian, whose hangover she’d healed, left a Kalashnikov rifle.Things never returned to normal. It was like Reservoir Dogs, except out of respect nobody shot anybody.The wake was wicked A local band did a drum ‘n’ bass version of Carmina Burana. The people sang and danced (Serafina loved to dance) and brought intimate personal treasures At her shrine, they laid cell phones and bottles of Bud. Most blamed faulty pipes from a dodgy deal the Prince had done.No one had ever seen the like of Serafina’s funeral. Diamond-bit drilling was silenced for the day and the DSS closed. They would have stopped public transport, but that had already been done in the Eighties.The Great Houses all came in Armani suits and dark glasses.

It was said he came from Clerkenwell, but I don’t think that should matter. He fell in love with Serafina at a function thrown by the Iraqi bank where the Baron had many connections In no time, he had whisked her away to his lofty penthouse. They were blissfully happy; he was a great shag and had serious wedge to help with the poor, being a property developer.They died while they were still in love In the Prince’s warehouse there was a massive explosion. Some said it was a bomb, a contract on them by the Baron’s firm.