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

Coaxed into this exchange, the two strangers relaxed despite themselves. Within minutes they were even laughing. They were from Merton, they had diabetes and depression respectively, they both worked in a hardware superstore, they'd saved up for this holiday for a year. They were none too bright and not very fascinating. The woman had an unattractive snort and the man stank terribly of musk aftershave. They were human beings, and precious in the eyes of God.

"My plane is about to board," said Peter at last.

Beatrice was still on the floor, the head of a stranger's child lolling on her thigh. Her eyes were glassy with tears.

"If I come with you to Security," she said, "and hold you when you're about to go through, I won't be able to cope, I swear. I'll lose it, I'll cause a scene. So kiss me goodbye here."

Peter felt as if his heart were being cleaved in half. What had seemed like a grand adventure in the prayer room now bereaved him like a sacrifice. He clung to the words of the Apostle: Do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry. For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.

He bent down and Beatrice gave him a quick, rough kiss on the lips, clasping the back of his head with one hand as she did so. He straightened up, dazed. This whole scenario with the strangers—she'd engineered it to happen, he could see that now.

"I'll write," he promised.

She nodded, and the motion shook the tears out onto her cheeks. He walked briskly to Departures. Forty minutes later he was up in the sky.

2
HE WOULD NEVER SEE OTHER
HUMANS THE SAME WAY AGAIN.

The USIC chauffeur emerged from the gas station with a bottle of Tang and a spotless, supernaturally yellow banana. Dazzled by the sun, he scanned the forecourt for his tanked-up limousine and its precious foreign cargo. That cargo was Peter, who was using this fuel stop to stretch his legs and attempt one last call.

"Excuse me," said Peter. "Can you help me with this phone?"

The man seemed flummoxed by this request, jerking his hands around to indicate that they were both full. In his dark blue suit, complete with tie, he was overdressed for the Florida heat, and was still suffering some residual stress from the plane's delayed arrival. It was almost as if he held Peter personally responsible for the turbulent atmospheric conditions over the North Atlantic ocean.

"What's the problem with it?" he said, as he balanced the drink and the banana on the sun-blazed surface of the limousine's roof.

"Probably nothing," said Peter, squinting down at the gadget in his palm. "I probably don't know how to use it properly."

That was true. He wasn't good with gadgets, and used a phone only when circumstances forced him to; the rest of the time it would hibernate in his clothing, eventually becoming obsolete. Every year or so, Beatrice would tell him what his new number was, or what her new number was, because yet another service provider had become too frustrating to deal with or had gone bust. Businesses were going bust with alarming frequency these days; Bea kept up with stuff like that, Peter didn't. All he knew was that memorizing two new telephone numbers every year was not easy for him, despite his ability to memorize long passages of Scripture. And his unease with technology was such that if he pressed the gadget's call symbol and nothing happened—as he'd just done, here in the blinding limbo of Florida—he couldn't imagine what to do next.

The chauffeur was keen to resume the drive: there was still a long way to go. Biting off a mouthful of banana, he took hold of Peter's phone and examined it mistrustfully.

"Has this got the right kinda card in it?" he mumbled as he chewed. "For calling . . . ah . . . England?"

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.