Before Oswald, he will attempt to stop another killer: the father of Harry Dunning, the janitor at his school. First, though, he wants to try out another scenario – see how the land lies, both in 19. When he returns he hints that he will take on the job. Jake experiments with the portal, making a brief visit to 1958, where he drinks a root beer so delicious, it seems to mess with his brain. But now this intimidating baton must be passed. He planned on doing the job himself before the cancer. Yes, Al wants Jake to prevent Oswald shooting and killing President John F Kennedy on 22 November 1963 in Dallas, Texas. He hands him some notes: an exhaustive account of the movements of one Lee Harvey Oswald during this period. Al wants Jake to go back to 1958, and stick around until 1963. What's more, the lease on his diner is up, and when the landlord takes over, perhaps the portal will disappear for ever. Whatever he accomplished last time is instantly erased the minute he returns.Īl has called on the younger Jake – a man handily divorced and childless – because he is dying. The rules surrounding his passage to 1958 are complicated and contradictory. No one notices his absence because these trips last for only two minutes in 2011, even if he stays there for years. Al, you see, has discovered a portal to 1958 at the back of his pantry, and has been making regular journeys there for some time. One day, however, having been summoned to the diner by a mysterious phone call from its owner, Al, he discovers the real reason why the menu is so replete with bargains: the meat is bought at 1958 prices.

Jake Epping lives in Lisbon Falls, Maine, where he teaches high-school English and likes to hang out in a diner where prices are so low, the rumour is that the hamburgers are made of cat rather than best chuck beef. But there you have it: I wouldn't have finished 11.22.63 if I hadn't been reviewing it.

I had never thought to hear myself call King boring as a judgment, it's like saying that PG Wodehouse isn't funny. Narrative tension, ordinarily his greatest skill, has been ruthlessly sacrificed on the altar of pedantry. In love with his conceit – he has written a time-travel story in which a man can move between 20 at will – King has delivered a self-indulgent book that is too long (a whopping 740 pages), too complicated and too barmy for words. For in 11.22.63, his 49th novel, we see him fatally stymied by his own plot.

S tephen King is a great American storyteller – though not, perhaps, quite so great as some of our more posturing critics, keen to prove how 'down' they are with the masses, would have you believe.

11.22.63 by Stephen King