Books - Lots Of Them

It's March tomorrow - the year is slipping away fast and those deadlines are creeping up and snapping at my ass from all directions. My current reading list is not helping me feel uber-positive about actually reaching them but no matter.  Here's what my current physical world reading list looks like:

Worthy of note here are the top two on the stack that Eleanor brought home from a swift trip to London yesterday and as soon as I'm done with Advent, I'll be diving in. Advent is actually well worth investigating - running along the same lines as Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising sequence, it's well put together, if not a little too similar to Dark to really sing - still, it wouldn't be the first time an entire plotline had been re-imagined for a generation that missed the original. How many of you have actually heard of Susan Cooper anyway?

(Note: if you're going to hunt it down, there's some great covers for the book from the original run which makes it look like exactly what it is (an original and exciting pagan-esque adventure - here's the cover for Over Sea, Under Stone) and a re-release which makes it look about as interesting and original as an empty soup tin that you should be ashamed to show up anywhere in public with. You can see that here. God only knows what they were thinking - I hope somebody at the office got suitably punished but probably not.)

I digress - Chris Holm: I read the first couple of chapters of Dead Harvest while I was waiting for Eleanor to finish up swimming. It looks great fun and I can't wait to really dig in. The covers look like this:

and I just noticed that the third book in the series, The Big Reap is due out in July. That cover look like this, so watch out for it:

When she handed them to me, I thought she had been lurking in back street junk shops again, but the idea to go back to a classic Penguin type design is not as easy to pull off as it might appear. I guess once you're rolling with the concept and you know it works, it's a different story. Anyway, the rather excellent work comes courtesy of a design company called Amazing15. That's a link their company right there but for a whole blog post on Holm's covers, simply go here. Mr Holm himself can be found here. Hats off to Angry Robot for harvesting the whole concept too.

Jealous? Just a little. Maybe.

How they managed to pass me by for all this time though... I'm not sure. Something is amiss there. It's not like me to not pick up on a book that's right up my street and has a killer cover. Weird. I think Mr Holm and I could become friends... maybe some day down the road when I too have navigated what seems to be a seven year right of passage onto the world's shelves (which isn't so far away now I look back - man, I took some hefty wrong turns along the way), we'll find out.

Or I could just say fuck it and drop him an email like I normally do...

 •••

That was longer than I intended. I'll post. Before I disappear to write some more - a shot in the dark: on the off chance that anybody passing by knows where I might be able to contact the illustrator Basil Gogos, please drop me a note... it's for something to do with the day job.

Big Saturday

It's been quite a week. Work continues on various projects and (pleased to report that) various projects are all very healthy - though I might have had a little meltdown mid-week. I'm hoping that's something all writers go through and also hoping that it will pass. It's not constructive to throw all your stuff out of the window. My interview with Andrew Kaufman is now available to read at The Void right here - I think that might be part of the reason for the meltdown. It's a little like listening to Led Zep before you go into the studio and then wondering why the hell nothing is good enough but it sure as hell beats listening to the Ramones and then thinking you come up to scratch. Anyway, I've kept this offline for a long time, but if I can keep everything on schedule, here's a little something you can look forward to later in the year. It's from a book called The Twisted Root that I've been working on in between other things, but the time has come in which I actually need to get a first draft wrapped up by May to hand over for first draft illustrations - which is the very thing I thought I'd show you:

I am really excited to be working on this more than I have been - it was going well, but once this (along with a couple of others) came in, that really set the fire going in my head. This is my friend Henrik Gallon who is so incredibly brilliant, I am most often speechless. More on this in the coming weeks - I must get a schedule type thing going so that I can leak my own information.

MUSICAL INTERLUDE - FOR FATHERS GONE, FOR THOSE WORKING HARD AT IT AND FOR THOSE STILL TO BE:

Man that's a good song - great band too. For what it's worth, I never got the chance to say goodbye to either of my fathers. Give your old man a call just for the hell of it.

Anyway, here's some more Black Stone Cherry to raise the mood:

•••

Talking of Dads, sometime last week, Eleanor picked up about three months of newspapers from hers to use for the various animal houses kicking about the place. They've been in the back of her car until I brought them in a couple of hours ago. I started to leaf through them in search of er... well, I'm not sure what I was looking for but I did find a few cool articles and learned that this is totally the best way to read the papers. In one big three month stack, giving yourself no more than about 20 minutes with the whole lot. Somewhere in amongst all of this was a great interview with Gary Barlow (and now I look, I find it's from October 2012 - maybe there were more papers than I thought).

Over the last few years, I've kind of grown to really like Mr B. I wouldn't mind an hour with him myself to run up some words. This interview, it's kind of about reinvention (though for my money it could have been a lot more about reinvention - but it was for the Sunday Telegraph) and it struck me that the only way to stay on top of any game is through reinvention - and the game is even putty in your hands if reinvention has been your guiding principle since day one.When nobody knows what to expect, nobody expects anything - the rules then are that you have to take it as you find it and like it or not like it.

A good example of this is David Bowie and Marc Bolan. Bolan might have those perfectly crafted gems and some fine moves but (as much as I love that stuff) it's hard to listen to his entire body of work before it starts wearing a little thin. Bowie on the other hand - I don't always like everything he does, in fact, some of it I don't like at all - has albums for many occasions. I suspect that unless you start out being like this and then find yourself in business with a record company or a publisher, you will have a hard time changing tracks later on. When people invest money, they expect money back - and when people expect money back they usually fall into line with the thing that made them money in the first place.

I'm throwing that out there because it seems to be a good idea to keep yourself moving if you want to do the thing you do until they stick you in the ground. The alternative to this is eventually becoming  a parody of yourself - and nobody wants that. Do they?

Maybe if you're a one trick pony, it's all you've got.

Books, Paris, London, Monsters and a New Book

I'm sure I meant to post days ago but kind of got distracted by the day job - still, it gives me a nice opportunity for something I really like. Excessively long posts. Let's get it on: First of all, inspired by a purchaser of Black Dye who let me know he would be reading it just as soon as he had finished reading Orwell's 1984, I thought I might investigate Down and Out in Paris and London - and it turns out that it's worth more than a cursory glance. In fact, it's pretty excellent - which makes something of a mockery of the statement I made here but I've never been afraid of being wrong. Yesterday I also picked up a copy of a book called Business Model You because a) it's really well designed, was curious and the guys in the bookstore were scowling at me and b) I can never resist a book that suggest it might be able to suggest a better way of doing something that how I currently do something. Pending.

I also saw a title that looked pretty interesting, although I can't remember what the hell it was called now - it shouldn't be too hard to find if you're interested. It's about the editor of the Guardian who decided in what little spare time he had, he would master a notoriously difficult piano piece within a year and play it in public. I guess the book is made a little more interesting by the inclusion of the Guardian breaking the phone hacking scandal at the time and a man's already precious time suddenly becoming even more so. The dude has kids too. I think I'm going to have to take a drive this evening a pick that mother up. It's got me thinking that something insanely difficult like that would be good fun while under pressure.

There won't be a book in it, for that would be ripping the man off but borrowing the idea is appealing - not a piano piece though. I'm kind of thinking that even though my guitar skills are limited to writing my own songs and (occasionally) rhythm parts, they certainly don't extend to something that I consider to be difficult - and long. I need to think about this, but if anybody has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

Anyway, nearly finished That's Not A Feeling and Born Weird now as well - it's the weekend and that means book shopping (though by the time I post this, I might have that under control).

Time for a break - here's a great movie poster done with panache and style:

That would be courtesy of Laurent Durieux who has a whole ton of great art right here, but this must by far be his best piece - simply stunning:

•••

On my various trips around the web, I quite often 'call in' on people who I really like - authors and bands mostly - and it still surprises me how widely they spread themselves. Am I really wrong in thinking that your website is where you live online? Is having pages strewn across the digital universe the equivalent of having a house in London, Paris, New York and Syndney? I guess it would be reasonably acceptable to me if the content were the same across the board, but man, if you don't check in on all these people's different houses, you're likely to miss something. Got a new novel out? Tell the world on twitter and tumblr - but forget to update your official site and you've missed your core. Or is that the point after all? That your core will always go to your house and the other places are clip-joints for passers by who might happen to like what you say on that particular day?

Maybe I'm over-thinking it but the more limited my time becomes for - willingly - soaking up what others have to offer, the more places I seem to have to check out in order to keep up. And yeah, I'm using a bit of kit to filter them in. I think I shall strip it down and start again because technology must have the answer.

•••

SUNDAY.

I came back to post today and find that I had filed Friday's post as a draft. I had intended that but I just forgot it was there. No matter.

I spent most of the afternoon finishing up a final draft of my interview with Andrew Kaufman - which is now done. It currently sits on the desk of Mr Shaw, my (temporary) editor as I asked him to check it over. A note on this: you may be wondering if, as an editor, it's weird having an editor - and the answer is yes, it most definitely is. But I wanted a second opinion as, due to the subject, I feared I had gotten carried away. Stopping just short of 4,000 words, I could have gone for twice that but steering a proper ship through stormy seas, I have become at least a tiny bit respectful of word counts.

If all goes according to plan on the editing front, that will go live tomorrow. I'll let you know - as will many other people no doubt.

Following this, I planned up the horror book I'm working on again. I didn't like how it bunched itself up in the middle so I stripped it back to its bare essentials and then started to strap it back together - and for now, it's fine again. Flatplanning magazines and books is a lost art these days. Some of the magazines I look at seriously need to go back to school - and a lot of them are from publishing companies that should know better. Calm. Calm. All I have to do is make the one that I'm in charge of work properly. Anyway, I'll probably change it again before we're done but so far, so good and it looks excellent (even if I do say so myself).

•••

I bought a few books this weekend. Certainly more than I intended to. I bought a copy of Gossip in the Forest by Sara Maitland and two others that I'm actually not going to tell you about. I've had this idea kicking around my head for a while now and they're to do with that. If it works out, I'll take the blinkers off it soon and cross-link it here. I also remembered that for Christmas, Rhiannon bought me a copy of a book called Advent by James Treadwell, so I lay in the bath with it to see what it was like and was there until the water was cold, so it's safe to assume it's actually pretty good.

I have more work today and it's just clipped Monday morning here. I'm not sure this post makes as much sense as it should but I'm going to hit the button anyway...

Big Ears, Big Noise and Big Art

In an attempt to make life not all about work when the kids aren't around, Eleanor and self have been looking into adopting some donkeys. One would have been fine but apparently they come in pairs. First of all, you need a field, which we haven't got - but her folks have. A big field at that. Not only is it a great grassy expanse of field but after the fire of a few years back, since the rebuild, there's now also some handy stable type buildings. Actually, not so much 'stable type', it is a bloody stable. Built by a stable company who specialise in stables. You would have thought a suitable place to keep them would be the worst of your worries but there's a spanner in the works. Seems that her folks aren't so keen on having a couple of donkeys hanging around the house. I don't think I'd be able to say no personally but all is not lost. I'm pretty sure that with enough pestering, they'll cave in eventually. How can anybody resist looking out of the kitchen window and seeing these guys:

Lots of work behind the scenes going on here, but having interviewed Andrew Kaufman yesterday... no, it was the day before wasn't it... I am avoiding the task I like least in life. Transcribing the damn thing - and that's nothing to do with anybody that I've spoken to, I find it a total chore no matter how much I enjoyed doing the actual piece. Couple that with the odd grimace at how often I like to interrupt people to lead them down roads I want to go down and you have yourself a mexican stand-off. Still, got to be done, so I might as well make a start. Maybe I've got better since I realised I did this (interrupting) but I doubt it. Just keep telling yourself, it's the destination that matters and not how erratically you drove to get there.

•••

One of the only blogs I check in on every single day as I've said before is Gaiman. This is mostly because he's both entertaining and posts almost everyday. I kind of like that in a writer. He's writing regardless of what it is. Today somebody asked him about how he dealt with time frames and being under pressure to write when he maybe thought he didn't 'have time' - this is how the enquirer saw their own lot as somebody who wanted to write a story but was finding it hard. Today, he gave the best answer of his online career and it went like this:

"Nobody else is going to do it for me, and if I don’t write it it won’t get written. I’ve got 12 short stories to write over the next 3 days, I have to make it home 1200 miles despite a record blizzard hitting my destination, and I’m probably going to have to do quite a bit of writing sitting in airports waiting for delayed flights. I’ll probably do it because I don’t have any other choices. Like I say, no-one else is going to do it for me."

And that, is the word on the street.

•••

<MUSICAL INTERLUDE>

This, is simply beautiful:

•••

Those who visit often (or even those who don't but scroll around a lot) will know that I'm an art lover. This week, one of my favourites out there, Brian Ewing, posted some great new monster material at his store and some of it looks like this:

...and I think you should invest heavily. Also on my travels (am in the middle of a project which has lots to do with monsters at the moment), I came across the Deviant Moon tarot. I stopped buying tarot decks once I had Dave McKean's Vertigo deck but this one matches - and may even surpass it. Here's some of the insanely cool images from the deck:

You're right. Got my name written all over them huh.

•••

I wonder of I can twelve short stories in three days.

<ON THE DECKS TODAY>

The 10 'Weapons' tracks from My Chemical Romance.

Stand Still, Look Pretty: The Wreckers

Cuttin' Heads: John Mellencamp

Andrew Kaufman: Born Weird

Not that I forgot or anything - more like I forgot to blog about it. I have an interview with author of Born Weird, Andrew Kaufman this evening. I've haven't looked forward to an interview with anybody so much in years.Go read something he wrote. Start with All My Friends Are Superheroes or better still, The Tiny Wife. It comes with an iron clad guarantee that you won't be disappointed. Expect post to be edited later.

Black Dye White Noise update

New stocks arrived yesterday of Black Dye White Noise looking all shiny and new which is always exciting. This is the batch with the updated softback covers to line them up with the Raised on Radio design ('management' said this was a smart thing to do and 'management' was right), so if you happen to have one of the previous versions, there ain't many of them knocking about anymore, but I'm not changing the covers on the hardback version of it. That's a step too far - when they're gone, they're gone but right now, there's still stocks available.

On which note, I got an email query yesterday asking whether the books were available to buy as hard copies. That query came from within this very site - so, I guess I had better review how that info is displayed here. Maybe it's time to boot up the bookstore page I've been toying with. It's been at the back of my mind for a while but its a good 'n valid point, so thanks Will... file under pending.

There is more blog to come but there are demons in the machinery of the upload images process. Back later - meanwhile, you can do this:

On the decks today:

Wonderful, Glorious - Eels

The Afterman: Descension - Coheed & Cambria

The Thief Of Always

For reasons best known to the forces of random, what began with a quest to find a picture in a book of a gryphon on its hind legs (some homework assignment for Rhiannon), a couple of hours later I found myself re-reading The Thief Of Always. I hardly ever read a book twice and the first time I read this was when it came out and it was also the only time. I don't think the time I started reading it to Rhiannon years ago counts - she was way too young and I should have known better. I've always loved the illustrations in the book and this morning, I found this which is an excellent insight into how to build a book cover that means something: And I feel that says everything that needs saying about book covers in no small way. In amongst all of the talk about self publishing, how easy it can be, the chatter about the business of publishing, author margins, amazon vs the world and all manner of other things that actually have nothing to do with the beauty of a book - things like this have got lost. But this is why I love great books. This is why I have so many of them.

I'm not saying all of those other things aren't important in some way but when a lot of thought goes into the visual image you have of a book, it amounts to the difference between 'something you read' and 'something that buries itself in your heart'. What does it take, really? Another couple of months on the schedule to last a lifetime?

If you've never read this, then you should. Don't go standing for any cheap paperback nonsense either. This is one to hunt down as nature intended. Please don't ever make it into a movie - though I guess if that was ever going to happen, it would have by now. Hellraiser aside, whenever a studio gets hold of a Barker novel for a movie adaptation, they succeed in making the most wonderful fiction into gnarly garbage.

•••

Which in a round-about kind of way has brought me to a shuddering halt on a few things I had previously thought important. Must make a copious amount of coffee now in order to get thoughts previously considered to be in order, back in order.

It's The End Of The Week As We Know It

Yesterday, a good idea took a big step forward. I've been toying with a concept for publishing in a new way for a while now and last night it all came together. There's still a lot of work to do behind - and in front of - the scenes and if I've learned anything on this planet it's that you can't just play the end game. You need to have what else the game entails in mind as you approach something you can show people or it will stall pretty quickly. Thus: sometime soon, this will launch itself into the realm of the iPad:

I'm really excited about it - I don't expect it to go ballistic, in fact I have tempered my expectation into submission but I do expect it to be very cool and for the first few months, that will be good enough for me - there's some seriously cool material in the pipeline.

[MUSICAL INTERLUDE]

Do my ears deceive me or does the new Stereophonics single sound like Journey circa 1986 in rehearsal? While we're on the subject of things that involve the ear, my buddy Kahn (who has started a cool movie type blog thing here) turned me on to Ellie Lawson. If you're a rdio.com user you can find that right here. If you're not a user, you'll have to find it yourself and that will teach you to not keep up with great ideas.

•••

SOME STUFF LYING AROUND THAT WILL HELP PASS A FRIDAY AFTERNOON BECAUSE YOU'RE ONLY PRETENDING TO WORK:

I have too many books to use book ends but if I only had six books, this would be my choice. Or perhaps this one:

Here's a really good reason to use notebooks instead of a computer to write your opus on. Marcel Proust did this - and I can't be the only one who thinks they're pretty cool:

Pretty sweet H.P. Lovecraft sketch anybody?

And that's all I got for you today...

I think.

Judging stuff by its cover.

It's a weird world out there - I went out to grab some food & books last night and found myself talking to the manager of Waterstones who amused me with the following tale of a humanity that is surely doomed: Earlier that same day, some guy had come into the store and stolen one of the kindles that were on display. You know the ones - they're quantum locked to a desk-type surface with security wires hanging off the backs and to actually steal one means snapping it off the display unit. This is worth mentioning because apparently, after doing this, he went outside, changed his hat and came back in and stole another - I'm guessing they know this from the post-mortem security cameras. What in the world are you going to do with two broken kindles that have security pods drilled onto the back of them that are locked down to 'display unit' mode for all time? I totally understand how a man could be stupid or desperate enough to give it a try once... but twice? If he'd gone into HMV, which is the next store along, he could have had a try for an iPad or a Nexus which would at least have been worth something aside from a criminal record if he'd pulled it off.

This is evolution in regression surely.

•••

I've been on a tour of my literary heart today - looking for a little chicken soup for the soul (though yesterday I happened upon a pork and chipotle soup which my soul was very interested in, though admittedly, it doesn't have the same sort of ring about it for a best selling book). Here's Mr Kerouac with the wisdom of the day:

"In the end, you won't remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain"

Which leads me nicely into this mention of Paul Rogers who has illustrated an edition of On The Road with an illustration on every page. This, I have got to get my hands on - especially as I just gave my copy of On The Road away because I didn't like the cover (mostly), but it was more important that somebody else read it for the first time than me having it on the shelf. Here's a cool sample of what's in store:

You can see more of it here, but ultimately, just go buy a copy. Er... I'll find out where that might be from and report back. (I am now wondering if it's even a real world project - more research needed methinks).

 •••

This is pretty cool too, though I'm not sure what Kurt himself would make of it:But it's not a patch on this, which in spite of it coming under the banner of 'really fucking important', I had never even heard of before this morning. Here's a link to the article about Maurice Sendak illustrating The Hobbit - see what we missed, what could have been, what might lurk in a drawer somewhere:

Onwards...

Scenes from the President's Coffee House (1)

The eagle-eyed among you will have noticed that I've added some new sections to the front end of the site - or maybe not if you're doing the rss thing, but I'm sure you can find you way around just the same. Of note today though, is the first essay to be added to Scenes from the Coffee House. I'd be interested to hear what you think. There's a lot going on here right now with many words to be pinned to one another for scheduled books but I'm in the mood for a good batch of postings all the same.

Tomorrow.

Right now, I have a date with my second favourite movie of all time (yep - of all time) - All The President's Men. (Movie poster redux below from Adam Jurseko).

When The Music's Over - An Introduction

It's no secret that I love music. Life would be pretty dull and quiet without it, but there's a lot of albums that I've never listened to properly, especially from the sixties and seventies. What better way to investigate them than to dig them up and take a look back at whether this stuff was actually any good or not... first on the cards is that loveable rogue (or so I'm led to believe) David Crosby.

Talking Heads - An Introduction

This is a new project that I'm starting on soon with a friend who can do better tech than me. A little early with the navigation icon for sure, but that sort of thing makes me get on with stuff. What's it all about? Well, that would be telling but let's just say you're gonna have to arm yourself with an i-device to check it out.

When The Music's Over - An Introduction

Does this appear in the right place - if you're looking while I'm building... go away and come back later!

Book Design

Every now and again, when the wheels in my head stop spinning, I sometimes kick back and mess around redesigning some of my favourite book covers. Nothing too serious, but it keeps the saw a little bit sharp for the future. Click into images for a larger view.   

The Dark Side Of Me

An entry to the blog for myself so that I don't lose it, but feel free to watch and share... sorry for any adverts that nobody cares about.

We shall return to normal service shortly...

Snow, A Goat and a Polypropylene Dinosaur.

If you're stuck for something to do on a snowy day, here's my top three ideas. All of which worked out very well for me thanks: 1. Have a shave. A proper one in which you take all your facial hair off and start again.

2. Watch Forbydelsen III (The Killing) - all ten episodes of it one after the other with no breaks. I forgot I had this bagged up but watching it in a big block is the only way to go.

3. Commit to finish up a project that was almost there but not quite and apologise profusely to the guy at the other end who has been waiting for it for far too long.

It's snowed for about 10 hours solid here today and I have used my time wisely. After points 1 and 2 above, I un-earthed a bunch of half finished and almost finished drafts of The Ballad of The Goat Faced Boy and actually finished it, laid the script out and deposited it safely into the hands of Mr Poole who has been waiting very patiently for me to do such a thing. Let's see what happens next. I rather suspect very excellent things... I shall strike it from the work list until it comes to back to me later in the year and press on with the next unfinished piece - which according to the plan is wrapping up Raised on Radio. Good. I'm more than in the mood for that sort of thing right now.

•••

Last week, I was asked to take part in a speaking event in Canterbury called Digibury - details are here. I have to say, if you ever wonder exactly what it is you're trying to say to people in your digital space, work at getting invited to a similar event because it will sharpen your mind in a flash - or at least force you to think about it. Sometimes I suspect I think too much because now I'm sitting here wondering just what it is that I'm saying to people - this is a good thing. I probably should think about it more than I do but in a separate conversation I had with somebody about a year ago, said person suggested that your site (or mine as we were being quite specific about it) should be delivered 'more like a magazine' as this is how my head works.

Which is what I did/am doing/will continue to build. I think.

Only now I look at myself with outside eyes (a skill everybody busy working on themselves should develop immediately), I am wondering if that's really what's happening. Sit yourself in front of the mirror. Give yourself 15 minutes. Tell yourself about what and how you do what you do for the whole 15 minutes and make it interesting. Can you fill 15 minutes? Are you interesting?

Good questions huh? I've confused myself with that, so am choosing to move on - but all the same, let me know if you're coming to the event and say hi. Somewhere along the line, I think I promised to bring sweets...

•••

Last month, during the birthday/Christmas season, Eleanor bought me what can only be called a "build your own massive dinosaur lamp kit". It came in something that looked like a pizza box and the instructions...

Well, I don't normally look at instructions but there was no question that this particular set were more than worthy of attention. I got so into the build that I tried to remember to document it each step of the way. If you don't want to know the results, look away now. Here's the head:

Then came the body and some arms:

With a bit of a struggle, you attach the two things together and already it's looking like it might be very special when it's finished:

I forgot to take a picture of the big round body because I was too impatient to get to the tail and installing the bulb holder part of things:

I forgot to take pictures of the leg build too - probably because I could see the end was near. Eventually, it looked like this - 1 meter tall and pretty cool:

In the big scheme of things, it's easily the most fun thing I've built in about 30 years. It's hard enough to make it interesting to get on with but not so hard that you want to give up and walk away. If you fancy your chances with the beast, you can get one here - where they also have other great stuff (though obviously, nothing can ever be so great as a metre tall build your own polypropylene dinosaur lamp).

On which note, I'll leave you with this. The return of the mighty Californication (at least over in the US):

Calling Inhabitants Of Planet Earth - This Is Stupid

This afternoon, I was fixing up Rhiannon's new phone with a better deal than the paltry scraps that t-mobile think is acceptable and the guy on the other end told me that she would get 5000 free texts included in the bundle and then asked me if I needed to upgrade that to 10,000 texts a month - to which I responded: "Jesus - who the hell can use 10,000 texts a month... or 5000 even," to which he then said:

"You'd be surprised. I had a guy on the phone yesterday wanting to upgrade his 10,000 texts...

Afterwards (and no, she didn't get anything close to that), I sat down and worked it out. 10,000 texts a month? On a 30 day month, that's like 333 texts a day. Which amounts to something like sending 20 texts an hour (worked out based on a 16 hour waking day more or less). I haven't got the fastest fingers in the world but what the hell can  you have to say so often that's short enough to not take up your every waking moment. If the guy was texting anything of value, let's say it took 20 seconds. By my (very off kilter) calculations, that must be half of his waking hours spent texting because he surely has to read a text that came in first to respond to.

What kind of job has this guy got? Who is he texting that is obviously texting him back in equal amounts? How many times a day does he have to charge his phone up? What sort of things does he say? Why is this guy allowed outside?

Let's also assume that this isn't an isolated incident because - as the guy told me - it was something that happened just yesterday.

Jeez.

•••

Busy writing today - I'll leave you with the latest instalment from The Roth Show:

Best Books Of 2012:

Or rather, the best books that I read during 2012. Some were still hot from the delivery truck when I picked them up, others could possibly be from 2011 and sat on the shelf for longer than intended. Hey, it wouldn't be a list that I made if it was well organised would it: 1. The Tooth Fairy - Graham Joyce 

OK. Having done my research for this post, I see that The Tooth Fairy came out originally back in the mid nineties. Too bad. It's still the best book I've read all year. It's kind of what you think it might be like, but then it goes and does so many different things and walks so many unknown paths that it really is difficult to describe - and it's wonderful on all those levels. I've seen some rough as hell covers for it though. Ignore them. It's an out and out giant slayer.

2. Up Jumps The Devil - Michael Poore

I picked this up at the airport in Colorado (a woman from Derby sold it to me who pinpointed my birthplace accent - I thought I had lost that long ago) and I stripped it down on the plane, train and an automobile. Obviously not whilst driving. Great character, great time spanning story, a slick sense of humour (an American that gets irony - totally worth the entrance fee) and generally a brilliantly fun  - dare I say - laugh out loud novel to lose yourself in for hours on end. Great cover design - bonus!

3. The Lighthouse Keeper - Alan K. Baker

This sounded like every book I would never read. A book about a lighthouse? Written by somebody who sounds like he might be a news-reader? Be fooled no longer. This one is a stealth bomber. Weird as hell. I didn't have clue where it was going, not even on the last page and that's because although it's about er... weird shit that goes on at a lighthouse, the book is more about the keepers themselves and therefore more about human nature and as we all know, when humans are trapped on a rock with a lighthouse and weird shit occurs, anything can happen. And does. Almost as bad a cover as Tooth Fairy but not sure what I would have done differently if faced with the task...

4. Say You're Sorry - Michael Robotham

Sometimes, you simply need a book in which people get bumped off and you can't figure out who it is or why. This is my crime pick of the year because I read it one day and that's a good enough recommendation as you'll get. With a superb lead character who's not a copper or damaged in the way that coppers normally are, the whole Joe O'Loughlin series is worthy of a lot more attention that they're getting. Get off your sofa, go find some and read them in order. No comment on the cover of this - professional "look at me I'm a crime novel' design going on here. Which is what's called for. Michael... write more... faster please.

5. The Wrath of Angels - John Connolly

Well. There's no show without punch and I still say Connolly is the best writer in the country. I think this deserves to be higher on the list but circumstances meant that I picked it up day of release which wasn't necessarily conducive to me paying the best of attention. Thus, it took me a while to get started with it. My fault, not his. If I started it again today it would be a different story. If you're not familiar with Charlie Parker, best go and log onto janetandjohn.com or lookatmepetthedog.com because you're no reader friend of mine. The best crime series, let me think... since McBain's 87th Precinct plus added supernatural elements that mean... well, I still haven't figured out what they mean but it doesn't matter. 'Fucking incredible' is as good write up you'll find. The covers? Pretty good - when the series started they were different and I had never seen anything like them but they brought them into line for the 'stupid people'. I'll let it pass simply because what goes on inside the pages is so damned good.

6. Manhood For Amateurs - Michael Chabon

My latest flame. Currently reading his entire catalogue one after the other. Something I've never done with anybody before. Chabon is phenomenal but something of an acquired taste. This particular book is a collection of essays on being a father - which is as far from as dull as it sounds as I can get. Quite honestly, Chabon is the kind of writer that makes me wonder why I even entertain such dreams but he's so good that you can't help but hand out large plates of respect. He's probably a great guy as well. Bastard. Nice selection of covers on both sides of the Atlantic - which makes a change. He also has out of control hair. I think we should be friends.

7. Gods and Beasts - Denise Mina

Is Denise Mina still the UK's best kept secret? I see a pattern emerging with myself for detective fiction in which nothing is the same as it has been for far too many years with regards to UK crime. Anyway - I'm not going to say anything about this. Go discover her for yourself. There are too few surprises in life without me taking the few that remain. Nice covers too. I can spot a Denise Mina at fifty paces. That's a good thing.

8. Falcons of Fire and Ice - Karen Maitland

I really mean this: Karen Maitland is not for everybody. You'll have figured that out during the first paragraph of any of her books. But if she strikes the chord with you, each and every one of her books comes as some kind of gift that fell off a godlike cloud. Totally unique. I have never read anything like her stories and I adore every single one for all the right reasons. Stellar stories with massive amounts of thought goes into the production right down to the paper and the typeface - and the covers... what can I say about the covers? Among some of the best work ever laid on a cover? Without question. I'm talking hardback here, you don't get the same effect with the paperbacks. Why isn't this at number one on the list?

9. Every One Loves You When You're Dead - Neil Strauss

Strauss returns which a collection of interview snippets with seemingly everybody in the whole world. Strung together with a loose theme, this is one for pop culture guzzlers to get their teeth into (and it serves Klosterman right for not writing something I could put on the list). The guy writes so well, I'd punch him in the mouth if I didn't want to shake his hand for setting the standard the rest of us culture types to attempt to live up to. Like Chabon, he's seems like a genuinely great guy too. I shall not however call him a bastard because he has no hair at all and has therefore suffered enough already. Cover? Not great. Good job I didn't judge it from the cover or it would still be on the shelf.

10. The Prisoner of Heaven - Carlos Ruis Zafon

Zafon. At this point in the run, I'm hardly likely to be able to talk you into loving the man and his work, so if you've been playing the 'Shadow' game, you'll already have been here and nodded sagely to yourself. If not, see the advice at the end of number five. I like these covers even though I think I shouldn't. That means they're working. Ignore me. I'm just bitter than nobody asked me to have a go at them.

•••

An interesting list. I need to tidy it up some thoughts. Nesbo didn't make the list because I didn't think The Bat was very good (for obvious reasons if you're a fan). Rankin returned with Rebus and I made the mistake of going for it on audiobook from audible - where it's read by the most annoying Scot on the planet. Truly dreadful but it's Rebus so I'll return to that one by purchasing something with pages in it. Shit cover. All the Rebus redesigns are shit. I hate them. True fact. That's a lot of hate for a set of book covers but they look cheap and disrespectful. Clive Barker's Abarat: Absolute Midnight nearly made the list but I'm just waiting for another instalment of something that isn't bloody Abarat to be frank. Me and the rest of the world. It will come. Gaiman has been a bit quiet. Was the Graveyard Book this year? That was a good read, but I've read so many kids books this year that I thought I might do a separate list... not that it was strictly a kids book I guess.

It's not right of me to actually name the worst book of the year is it but I think it was Daughter of Smoke and Bone. I made it through maybe a chapter and then decided to wash my hair instead. Sorry. That's the way it crumbles sometimes.

What did we learn here? Two things I think. 1. Brilliantly written original books need great covers so that people will be inclined to pick them up and investigate more. 2. People called Michael write really good books.

Le Fin.

The Angel Who Overslept

10 NOVEMBER 1995 I lay out of sight on the back seat of the car listening to Lyndsey pepper the air with some choice phrases as she tried to get the car to move faster. If it didn’t hurt so freaking much, it would have been funny. Nobody hijacks an old '64 VW Beetle as a getaway car. Nobody lifts a Beetle for anything except maybe some spare parts if you happen to own one yourself. But Lyndsey had stolen a Beetle. An orange Beetle at that. As I climbed into the back spewing out language that Harvey Keitel would have raised an eyebrow to, she turned the radio up louder to drown me out where we found Lennon dishing out some Instant Karma on an all night rock station. Classy.

If we made it the hospital before I died, it would be a fucking miracle. If the explosion in my gut didn’t kill me first, then her driving would surely finish me off. Man it hurt. I’m surprised my teeth hadn’t shattered down to stumps I was biting down on them so hard.

We’d been through the plan a dozen times at least. It was so simple a child could have understood it. Hell, she was a child - what was I thinking of. It wasn’t so much breaking and entering. We called it 'justice'. Twelve months ago, a hit and run driver had taken her mother away and left the two of us alone together. Shit, I couldn’t even take care of myself and at sixteen, the last thing Lyndsey wanted was to be taken care of. On this we agreed to disagree.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know we found ourselves in this predicament for good reasons and that we weren't bad people. We wanted the bastard dead - and now he was, but I had shot him from four inches away like the amateur I was and as he went down, he’d twisted the gun around on me and stung me good and proper at close range too. The bullet had gone straight through me taking what felt like my liver or kidney with it - and if it hadn’t, it must be damned close. I’m glad it wasn’t my own car I was leaking over.

Lyndsey ground the clutch pedal into the floor and grated around looking for fifth.

“There is no fifth Lynds.”

“What do you mean, no fifth? What kind of frigging car is this!”

“Well you fucking took it!” I growled.

“It was unlocked - what did you expect me to do?”

“OK, OK, just don’t drive it into the ground before we get to the hospital.”

The words had hardly even left my mouth when there was a sickening thud followed by the sound of breaking glass and the Beetle coming to a very abrupt halt. Next thing I knew, Lyndsey was screaming hysterically, pounding her fists against the wheel. I, on the other hand, had made it into the footwell. If you’ve ever been in the back of a Beetle, you’ll know how small a space that is. I was surprised I got down there actually and I was now lodged in quite firmly. Ah, the good old days of car manufacturing when not only was it not compulsory to wear a seatbelt in the rear, but they didn’t even bother fitting them.

“Lynds? Tell me what’s going on.”

Between sobs, she came up with: “Oh Jesus, Daddy. I think I’ve hit somebody! I’ve killed somebody - I didn’t even see him!”

I talked her down a little and she calmed not a jot.

“Get out of the car and take a look honey. Don’t touch anything, don’t do anything, just take a look and come back and tell me what’s out there.”

She pushed at the door and pretty much fell out. From what little I could see, she wasn’t badly hurt. I think the amount of hairspray she was wearing took the brunt of the glass imploding. I promised myself I would never say another word. I heard her crunching glass underfoot as she walked around the car, acutely aware that we wouldn’t be going any further than this judging by the shape of the bonnet pushed up where the windscreen should be. Hey, maybe it was a good thing she took the bug. With the engine in the back and all, thank heaven for small mercies.

She reappeared and flipped the seat up to talk to me. The tears were running wild now. “I’m sorry Daddy. I don’t know what to do. We have to get you to the hospital but there’s nobody around and I can’t drive this anymore and… and…”

I held my hand up for her to take it, which is when we noticed him at exactly the same time. The figure sitting in the passenger seat that is. This was probably because whoever it was categorically hadn’t been sitting there a few seconds earlier. Lyndsey dropped my hand and backed away from the car. I can’t say I blame her. I on the other hand, had no option but to stay right were I was.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I wasn’t in the best position in the world to be asking questions in that tone of voice, it just kind of came out that way. The figure said nothing at first, then turned slowly to face me. What at first I thought was a man, apparently wasn’t. Now, I wasn’t so sure it was even human. Rather than looking at me, it looked into me. I in turn studied its face - or rather the place that its face should be - only to find it had many. Not all at the same time obviously, but it was constantly changing subtly with every blink of an eye. I must have been hurt worse than I thought.

It reached down and lifted my hands from my stomach and I let it. Fuck it. I was going to die here anyway. I just hoped Lyndsey was running like the wind and whatever it was about to do with me would buy her as much time as she needed.

It placed an oversized hand, palm down on the leaking hole in me and my whole existence exploded in a searing, blinding white heat. I reacted like a baby and screamed loud enough to empty a forest.

And then there was no pain. I was a goner.

In hindsight, I should have realised that no afterlife in any religion, not even in the craziest drug-induced cult, would have boasted an afterlife that looked and smelled like the back of a VW Beetle.

Which meant only one thing. I wasn’t dead.

What’s more, I wasn’t hurting either. I checked myself with my hands, pressing hard into my stomach. Nothing. No pain. Gain! It wasn’t the regular rhyme but right now it suited me just fine. I reached my arm up and my hand scouted for the seat release. With no small amount of grunting, I released the catch, pushed the seat forward with my head and slithered out onto the road.

I lay there for a moment and checked myself over again while I was still horizontal. I didn’t want my insides slipping out of me and all over the tarmac. I could see Lyndsey cowering beneath a tree out of the corner of my eye. She hadn’t seen me. Or maybe she had and was keeping her distance anyway. I can’t say I blamed her.

I appeared to be just fine. I stood up, for some reason brushed at the sopping wet blood that was still on my shirt and then leaned my palms on the top of the car to talk to the guy-thing in the passenger seat but it was empty.

“Lyndsey. Lyndsey!” I yelled in one of those whisper type shouts that would fool nobody. I motioned for her to come over and seconds later we were both standing in front of the Beetle, marveling at the man-type dent our visitor had made in the bonnet. It was in the shape of two legs with maybe a little crotch thrown in for good measure. Whoever, whatever it was, had done a good job on writing it off. He’d done an even better job of disappearing which is something that we should have been doing before the dawn broke and people we really didn’t want to be speaking to showed up.

We did look for him, admittedly not very hard but it was the effort that counted. It was too weird and far too unexplainable for either of us to answer each others questions, so we simply didn’t bother and over time, it became an 'unspoken event'. So much so that even though I thought about it everyday, even I began to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing.

18 AUGUST 2002

I spread myself out over the picnic blanket, not really caring that I was sharing it with some of nature’s finest scavengers. The sun was beating into my face and life was good in a ‘tea in a flask and limitless cakes’ kind of way. Lyndsey had grown up fast. Here we were with her kid on his fifth birthday and he was growing up fast. I have to admit, I found it all pretty fantastic. I was going places as a painter with more than a few exhibitions under my belt and she was making a real go of her latest career working for some television production company. I should know what their name is but I don’t have a head for details. Never did.

Little Nicky seemed to having a good time too. I can’t say the same for the birds he was chasing. There were some other people up here too but out here, souls all look the same. I love this place. I don’t know why it’s called Lands End because it doesn’t end at all. Perhaps it’s just as far as a place namer could be bothered walking before they turned around and went home. I dropped my sunglasses back onto my nose and closed my eyes to soak up some of the good stuff.

I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, it was getting dark and I was by myself. I raised myself onto my elbows looking around for Lyndsey and Nicky. Maybe they had gone for a walk. I put what was left of the picnic in the cool bag, picked it all up inside the blanket and threw it in the back of the camper van. They couldn’t and wouldn’t have gone far without Lyndsey waking me up.

I headed over to the edge of the wood which is the way I would have gone exploring only to find Nicky sitting cross-legged by himself at the edge of a pot-hole. I forgot this place was littered with them. We used to come here as kids, me and my cousins. Back then, we had the fear of God put into us about them with over the top stories of what was ‘down there’. Sometimes, we’d get here and see groups of men armed with hard hats and rope go exploring but it was never something that I wanted to attempt myself.

Now, to get to Nicky, I had to go closer to them than I ever had before.

“Nicky?”

He looked up at me and then looked back into the hole.

“Don’t lean too close there buddy!”

I whipped him up into my arms and took a nifty step back away from the hole.

“Where’s Mum gone Tiger?”

Nicky looked back over his shoulder and pointed to the hole. I frowned and took his hand in mine. I jiggled him around a bit like grown-ups do to kids for some reason. “That can’t be right can it buddy? Where did she go? Back to the car? Chasing birds?”

Nicky pointed to the hole again and said:

“Down there.”

My brain kicked into some gear that doesn’t really exist. I ran back to the camper with him, dumped him into the passenger seat and drove over to a reasonable distance from the hole. Close enough to watch him through the window and close enough to try and check this crazy shit out.

I checked him one last time, gave him a pointless thumbs-up and then got down on my hands and knees to get closer to the edge. This sort of shit scared still scared me. Lying flat on the ground, I poked my head over the rim. Black. Good thing I’d pulled the torch from the glove box. I flicked it on and it helped me to see even more black, only a bit further down than before. Not helpful.

I raised myself up on my haunches to consider my next move and there it was. Standing on the other side of the hole. Looking at me and not really looking at me at the same time. It stretched out its hand to me which somehow made it all the way across the mouth of the hole. I didn’t reach out to take it. That would have been too weird, but that’s not what it was doing. It got hold of me by... well, I don’t know what it had got hold of me by but the next thing I knew, I was standing in the dark.

Man, it smelled bad wherever this was. In my heart, I already knew where I was but I turned the torch on all the same to check. Yeah - that would figure. At the bottom of the freaking hole. I shone the torch around. Nothing but wet rock. Even though I could see the evening coming through the mouth of the hole above, I shone the torch up there and then down the walls. Now I knew why those guys used ropes and wore hats. It would be like trying to climb up the neck of a bottle to get to the top. A wet bottle at that. Man, I was confused. What the hell was the point of dropping me down here anyway?

“Hi Dad.”

Lyndsey. Of course. I was shining the torch mindlessly at the floor which was just about the only place I hadn’t investigated.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah - no problem Lynds but, for crying out loud, what the fuck are you playing at down here? I’ve left Nicky in the camper by himself!”

Seeing she was safe, anger was spilling over.

“Well,” she announced, getting to her feet. “I didn’t actually fall. Much as you didn’t fall, you grumpy bastard. I’m just here. Being as you didn’t fall either, we can probably assume I got here the same way you did.”

That shut my mouth. Couldn’t argue with that logic, mad at her or not. We stood not saying anything for a moment. She broke the silence first.

“It was real wasn’t it. That thing in the car from way back. We didn’t make it up did we.”

It was a statement not a question.

“We probably should have talked about it, huh. But no, we didn’t make it up.”

“Fuck.” She spoke for both of us.

I shone the torch around some more. We obviously weren’t going upwards anytime soon but there was a ‘road’ we could take that went further down. With less options than a death row inmate, I took Lyndsey’s hand and we took tentative steps down the path.

Crouched almost double for hundreds of yards, we came to a part of the hole that was bigger than the rest where we could stand up. There wasn’t much to see though, or so I thought at first. More wet walls, maybe a few fly type things buzzing around but not much else. Apart from a bundle of rags dumped in the corner. Lyndsey gave them a kick as she was standing next to them and they didn’t quite behave as they should. I put the torch beam on them and Lyndsey shrieked back at the skull that was silently shrieking at her. God knows how long it had been there but it didn’t look good. Feeling brave, I crouched and inspected it a little more closely. It was a woman.

Correction. It had been a woman - either that or a man who had been wearing a bra before he died. Jesus. How long had she been down here and why did she have her hands cuffed behind her back? The cuffs had long since slipped down the wrists but I felt it was an educated guess that this was the case. I’m not normally good with dead things, though my experience only extends to animals in this domain. Now that the flesh had left the building, working with a skeleton seemed to be fine. I guess it didn’t look like it had ever been alive. Funny the way your mind works.

“Dad - there’s something sticking out of its back pocket.”

Sure enough, when I looked, there was the corner of what looked like a wallet showing itself from the 501s. Curiously, I actually took the fact that they were 501s on board quite seriously. I had worn them for years and felt vindicated that my faith in them as a lasting product was valid. I pulled the wallet and and flipped through it.

It was a tiny thing with just two cards in it and something that possibly used to be paper that hadn’t stood the test of time quite so well as the Levi’s. Lyndsey came to view them over my shoulder as I pulled them out of their little slits. I handed one to her and tried to make sense of the other one myself, but the torch was showing signs of fatigue, so I gave up and handed it to Lyndsey who still figured it was worth the effort. I was about to suggest that we should start thinking about making a plan to get out of here, when we were.

Out that is - and it was still comparatively light too. Lyndsey hadn’t even noticed we were back on solid ground for as I turned I saw that she was still squinting at the cards with what was left of the torch light.

“Lynds...”

“Hang on a minute Dad - I think I can almost make out a name.”

“Well come and make out a name in the camper. There’s lights in there and your son is probably wondering where you’ve been.”

I didn’t feel like I should say anything else to her. She could adjust to this and figure it out just as I had. I got into the drivers seat and looked at the clock. I couldn’t be sure but I don’t think we had been away for any time at all - not even a few seconds. Nicky certainly didn’t appear to think so.

I didn’t have to ask if we all wanted to go home now. I didn’t even care truth be told. I wanted to go home, so home it was. There were no objections when I started the camper and pulled away. From the back, Lyndsey reached over the front seat to strap Nicky in and then rummaged in her bag and came up with some biscuits. I didn’t even know I was hungry until she dropped the packet into my lap.

We drove in silence. Munching.

Later that evening, with Nicky in bed, I lay on Lyndsey’s sofa looking at the cards that belonged to a Grace Lewis while Lyndsey battered away at a keyboard at the table behind me to see if google really did hold the keys to the universe - the answer to which of course is that they do. A couple of minutes later, populated by ‘Oh my God’s’, she began to read to me.

“Apparently, she went missing three years ago - but you’ll never guess who she was married to...”

What actually happened is irrelevant to the story. Rather a bi-product of our mysterious friend. Sometime later, a very grateful and humble Mr Lewis handed over a large sum of cash out of gratitude, which of course we took gladly. I paid my car loan off with it and give the rest to Lyndsey. She’s probably wasted it all, but that wasn’t the point.

Nor was it the end of the story. What happened next was the end of the story - or maybe I'm just hoping it is.

7 FEBRUARY 2008

I was looking vacantly out of my bedroom window when it started. The snow that is. Moments earlier, it had been a crisp night, but not cold by any means. The next thing you know, the snow was beginning to lie thick as blankets one on top of the other on the ground. Within an hour, as far as I could see was a total white-out. It was going to be a cold few days ahead if it continued like this.

The snow brought with it a sense of impending doom. Over the years I had come to learn that some kind of ‘doom’ was more than likely coming anyway - always coupled with a visit from our extraordinary friend. Since the pot-hole incident back in ‘02, there had been maybe half a dozen lesser incidents in which he had chosen to become involved. There were a couple in 2005 that didn’t include me but saved Nicky and Lyndsey from being in a far worse scrape than they would have been otherwise.

There was also one memorable time in 2007 too when I hit a patch of black ice on the most lonesome stretch of road you could even imagine whilst driving back to Inverness airport after an exhibition on Skye. I guarantee that one wouldn’t have ended well. We kind of got used to having it around. Would it be so bold as to say we began to take it for granted? Probably not. In fact, it would be pretty honest of me to admit it. In recent years, we had even discussed its origins. Angel or alien - those were the main trains of thought and who could blame us. There was little other point of reference to run with. Neither seemed to fit quite right enough for us to hang our hat on though but what would you suggest?

It would appear and disappear at will. No time ever seemed to pass during these incidents either and yet, neither did time appear to stop. Which is a good thing - that would have been a step to far.

The snow gave up its assault mid-afternoon on the following day. Nicky and Lyndsey trekked over to my place not long after and we made a plan to go collect some wood from the forest that both of our houses backed onto. Virgin snow and layered beyond measure, we hit the woodland with the sledge and a length of rope. If you’ve ever tried to carry wood home for burning yourself, you’ll know just how essential these two items are. A couple of brutal snowball fights later, we began loading what sticks we could find onto the sledge - and yes, I know we could never have used them for fuel. The point of the trip wasn’t really the wood, it was the collecting of the wood as a family that meant something to us.

Nicky was pretty adventurous these days and it was something that I encouraged, much to Lyndsey’s displeasure. He found himself a tree and whipped up it like a squirrel.

“Hey, guess what! There’s a birds nest with eggs in it - in the winter! What kind a bird would lay eggs in the winter?”

“Can you get over to it safely?” I shouted up to him. “See if you can shimmy over there and see what kind they are.”

I got a punch on the arm. Nicky wriggled his way along the branch. Then, just as he raised himself a fraction to look into the nest, there was an ear splitting crack that filled the silence as the branch split in two.

Time appeared to slow down. It’s amazing how many things can happen in a few seconds really. I remember looking at Lyndsey and her looking at me. I remember watching Nicky fall through the air and to the ground just like he would have in a movie. There were sounds coming from all three of us and then - remember all that time that had slowed down I spoke about? Well, it has to go somewhere and today it was condensed into a sickening tenth of a second thud as Nicky’s head hit the roots of the tree that were visible above the snow.

I’d never heard anything like it. Blood splattered across the snow very much in real-time as Lyndsey and I simply stood there waiting for an answer. It was unreal. In hindsight, I think we were both in shock. I never really knew what that meant until then, but we both genuinely seemed powerless to do anything. Seconds later - if indeed it was that long - it, (or that ‘fucking thing’ as it became known after this), appeared at the base of the tree, arms outstretched.

When I think back now, it appeared to be confused or maybe even disappointed in itself. Whereas once I could have honestly said that it always appeared with an aura of majesty - for want of a better word - today, it was all gone. It was there in body but the spirit was nowhere to be found. Its numerous ever changing faces glanced down at Nicky and I swear it groaned. Not human by any means but the intonation was certainly that of a groan. Lyndsey fell to her knees, cried and babbled like a river. I - for all my guilt - simply stood and watched. I’m not sure what ‘it’ was doing. It appeared to be thinking very hard. So hard was it thinking, that it didn’t see Lyndsey get to her feet and round on it with no small amount of bile.

She began pounding at its chest and face with fists clenched so tight, they must have been as solid as marble. A long string of guttural and foul language came from a place I have no desire ever to see again. It stood right where it always had and took every broken pound from her.

I think I was still expecting the 'expected' to be brought forth. It was time to pull something spectacular out of the hat, but nothing came. Nicky didn’t magically sit up. There was nothing. Lyndsey fell to the ground pounding at nothing now. It was gone. Whether it was gone forever, I don’t know. Part of me thought it would be better if we never saw it again, another part of me felt a little sad that we might not but I don’t know why. Maybe some of that sadness came from how we had come to rely on it only to be let down. If it had never been a part of our life, would one of us been there to catch Nicky a little quicker? I don't think so.

Truth be told, I wouldn't even be here at all.

SWARM

It was Ryan’s first day at school and he didn’t want to go. Not at all. He knew that as soon as he stepped into the playground, all the other kids would laugh at him. For a start, he’d never been out of the house in short trousers before and the pair that were hanging on his wardrobe door loomed down on him and had darkened the last few days like an eclipse. He had toyed with the idea of hiding them or even throwing them away, but he couldn't do it to his mother after ‘all the sacrifices’ she had made. The fact remained though - this would be the third school in as many years for Ryan and he didn't see how this one would be any different than the others. Kids were kids and kids were mean. It was a harsh, sweeping statement but one that Ryan knew to be perpetually true wherever he went these days.The short trousers were the icing on the cake, but there were other things he was not happy about either. His new military style haircut, the tiny room that he now occupied in their tiny house in the middle of nowhere, the embarrassing small yellow car that they now owned... it was all so far removed from what they used to have before Dad left. Even though his mother told him relentlessly every single day that it wasn't his fault, he knew that it was really. There was nobody else in their family whose fault it could be. At nine years old, Ryan had developed a guilt complex far in excess of his years. He had taken so long over his cereal this morning, spooning the milk and letting it drip back into the bowl many times over, that his mother had eventually taken the bowl away and forcibly dragged him upstairs by the wrist to get dressed. After the statutory squabbling, huffing and puffing, Ryan finally conceded to parent power - “If you don’t get dressed, I’ll take you in your pants” - and put on the dreaded trousers. If it was possible to put a pair of trousers on badly, then Ryan achieved it with merit. They were a little bit turned to the left and he had even managed to screw up one of the legs so that it looked shorter than the other.

“Every other boy will be wearing them, it’s part of the uniform”, she told him as she straightened them out, but he didn’t care and certainly didn’t believe her. She ran her hand through what was left of his hair in a loving gesture before combing it again for about the fifth time that morning. It still sounded like the stupidest idea ever. What kind of school would make children wear short trousers when the term started in September?

To be fair, his mother had done her best to make it sound appealing. She had bought him a new lunch-box – the one that he wanted with Wolverine on it and had even gone so far as to include the occasional bribe with the addition of sweets and chocolate. Her biggest concession though had been the very dark glasses she had found for him on ebay complete with wraparound sides. There were times, even at nine years old, when he knew he was being exasperating for the sake of it. It couldn’t be easy bringing up a child on your own. He had heard that on TV once and he almost understood. James, who before they had moved, lived a couple of doors up the street, had a dad as well as a mother. Then again, James didn't appear to be a "bloody liability". If Ryan had been able to see, he might have thought he looked pretty good with his X-Men Cyclops style shades and haircut, but Ryan was as blind as a rock.

Most of the time.

Ryan’s mother finally got him in the car. Strapping himself into the front seat, he purposely 'looked' out of the window, ignored his mother and wondered if she could see the reflection of his sulking face. Obviously not, for she hadn’t said a word to him. Even the radio brought no joy to the car this morning. Sometimes they would sing together if it was song they both knew and those were the times when Ryan was at his best. Music put him in a different state of mind. Everything was calm when music played.

Ten minutes later – each one of them filled with the agonising silence of a family row - and they had almost reached the school. She pulled up far enough from the gates so as not to be noticed and sighed deeply a she turned off the engine and rolled her window down a couple of inches.

“Come on. You’ll be fine. It doesn’t matter if they laugh at you. I’m sure you’ll find some friends who are just like you and eventually you’ll find some other kids to laugh back at – that’s what happens at school. You’ll have a great time.”

“Mum - I'm never going to find any friends who are just like me. There is nobody else 'just like me'!"

“It will come honey. I chose this school because they said it was a good place for kids who are different. Do you want me to take you in. I promise it will be OK.”

Ryan knew she meant it this time – she reserved that tone of voice for those moments when he had taken her all the way to the edge. He felt around the footwell and picked his cane up off the floor. He hated it and was looking forward to day when he could have a dog instead but they didn't allow dogs in schools, so the cane it was.

For all her nagging, Ryan’s mother thought he looked very grown up in his uniform with his school tie and his little cap (which was another thing he hated but had actually forgotten about until she put it on his head at that very moment). It had been a rough few years and this was a landmark event for both of them. She had meant to take a photograph. Maybe tomorrow. She wished she could let him know that simmering just below the surface of her impatient demeanor this morning, was no small mountain of pride. Her beautiful baby hadn't quite turned out as any of them had planned but she still loved him more than life itself.

"Come on. I'll walk with you to the gates."

Ryan didn't say anything but got out of the car knowing full well he was never going to get out of this. As they walked through the gates and into the playground (for she could be just as stubborn as he), his mother grimaced at the words he was whispering to himself. Muttering almost silently under his breath as he had many times before, he chanted:

“Please don’t laugh at me, please don’t laugh at me, please don’t …”

She was beginning to feel a little guilty, but this was something they had to get over otherwise all hope would be lost. They had almost reached the steps that led up to the main building – the sacred point at which parents stopped being in charge and school took over. She had watched the other parents many times over in her last year of scouting - standing every day in the same spot as they waved their kids goodbye or welcomed them back with a smile. There were lots of other new parents and kids here whose eyes were also filled with trepidation. For once, she felt as though she wasn’t totally alone. Ryan was standing very close to her still when she heard the galloping of small feet coming up behind her.

“Ha ha! Look, I told you he was weird.”

Three young boys – maybe in the year above the Ryan – were standing in front of them, pointing at Ryan, who was still chanting his mantra under his breath.

“Hey freak! Why don’t you go back where you came from!” yelled the ugliest of the trio - and he was really ugly - loud enough for almost everyone in the playground to hear.

“He's a freakazoid!”, taunted the next in a high pitched tone that made him sound a lot more feminine than his troll-like frame actually was. It hadn't occurred to Ryan that they were winding him up and there was no way they could actually see behind his glasses to discover exactly what it was that he was hiding. The third boy however, who was evidently more curious, went and stood right in front of Ryan and took the glasses clean off his face to get a good look at what a blind kids eyes really looked like.

Ryan, who obviously didn't see this coming, swept into panic mode. He stopped chanting his mantra and switched to another. The words came out so fast, they hardly even registered in his head:

“Oh please no. Not today, not now. Please no, not today...”

But it was too late. The wasps that had lived in his eye sockets since the day he was born, left their nests and took flight. It was a sight to behold. What appeared as a great dust cloud twisted above Ryan’s head like a tornado as a deafening hum took over the playground. The loudest boy - the instigator of the sudden drama - stood very still as he wished with every wish he had left that everybody was looking at the black and yellow twister and not the wet patch that was pooling around his hooves. Then he began to run.

With the boy screaming like a banshee, the wasps – possibly 600 of them - pursued him across the schoolyard. He zigzagged across the playground and around in circles, but boys were not put on this earth to outrun wasps. Not even boys who were half boy, half zebra. They tangled up and buried themselves in his hair, invaded his open necked shirt and burrowed deeply into his blazer pockets. Some went up his trouser leg, others crept into his ears, but none of them stung. Some of them even managed to evade his swishing tail to settle at that end of him, waiting for the word.

Then the world went very quiet as the boy passed out beneath the year two classroom window, from which two teachers watched nervously with the windows shut. The other two boys had also run off, but in different directions.

The ugly boy, whose even uglier father was waiting in the car watching the action unfold, opened the window a slither and shouted; “Run!” He waited until the boy was but an arm’s length from the car and opened the door. The boy dived onto the passenger seat and the door was slammed shut behind him. But wasps are not stupid and not so easily outwitted. Some invaded the engine through the ugly over-sized grill on the 4x4, while the others went to find a way in through the exhaust system. The boys quick thinking ugly father gunned the engine and the exhaust battalion were spewed out onto the street, but it was too late. The first troops had found their way into the air conditioning system and were in the car, doing what wasps do best.

They gathered around the boys mouth and some loitered in his schoolbag close to his lunch. A dozen or so began to explore his nostrils as he had sat there screaming with his lips sealed tighter than if a dragonfly had flown past and sewn them shut. Now, he sat paralysed with fear not knowing what to do for the best. If he had been able to move, he would have seen his ugly father proving himself to be a very brave man by diving out of the car and leaving his son to fend for himself.

Meanwhile, the third boy had taken refuge on the climbing frame. Boys can be pretty stupid sometimes - even those of a troll-like size. You can no more out-climb a wasp than you can outrun them. The wasps buzzed around his head and they seemed content to circle him for the time being, although on closer inspection he would have found that they had also begun to congregate around the leg holes of his short trousers. The more he batted at them, the closer they seemed to come.

For only the second time in his life, Ryan was able to see again. Tears rolled out of his deep brown eyes and down his face with happiness. The only thing he was capable of was to look up at his mother as though it was the last time he might ever get the chance. Kneeling down she hugged him tightly and whispered:

“It’s OK, everything is going to be OK.”

Ryan hugged her back just as tightly and said

“Really?”

“Really. I think we had better call them back don’t you? I don’t think there will be any more laughing at you for the time being.”

“You promise?”

“No. I don’t make promises I can’t control, but I think there’s been enough excitement for one day.”

“Can I look at you a little bit more?”

He pushed his mother away slightly and held her at arms length while he gazed deeply into her eyes.

“Love you”, he said with a grin.

She returned his smile, hardly able to see her son for the tears that had gathered and replied, “Love you too kiddo.”

Ryan took a deep breath, clenched his fists and summoned the wasps back to him. They seemed reluctant for a moment, enjoying their new found freedom but eventually, as surely as they had left, they returned to their twin nests. The playground was wrapped in a stunned silence. Nobody looked at Ryan or his mother, but very silently, they began to file into the school as the bell rang as if on some God given cue.

“You’ll be fine now. Go on. I’ll see you at 3 o’clock,” she said, handing him back his cane.

“Ok. See you later.”

Picking up his lunchbox and bag off the floor, he followed the other children up the steps, hoping his mother wouldn’t notice he was no longer wearing his cap. He was the last one in, but just before he went on to begin his first day at school, he turned and raised his glasses just an inch or so, spilling out a couple of hundred of the wasps who knew exactly what they had to do.

Silently pursuing the car in which the ugly father rode, they entered through a now open back window. Silently, they all sat on the back of his seat, just below the headrest and waited for a sign. If there was one thing that Ryan despised more than the cross he must bear, it was a father who was never around when his kid needed him.