In advance of the new book launch Shari Low has reviewed the book. the full review will be out in the next few weeks but she sent me an extract:
“Cracking premise, blistering action and swarms of dodgy bad guys in suits – The Catalyst is an explosive riot that keeps the suspense dial turned to high from beginning to end .”
Thanks Shari.
It looks like the new book – the Catalyst – will be launched on the 22nd of May at Waterstones in Argyle St.
Tour of America continues (well short tour of America continues). Itinerary – Glasgow – New York – Denver – Colorado Springs – New York – Glasgow. Followed by trip to Manchester next Tuesday (oh the glamour).
Cool – Craig Robertson and myself are appearing at the Left Coast Crime Festival this week. http://www.leftcoastcrime.org/2013/ All the way to Colorado Springs – I’m sure that’s a song somewhere.
Having neglected my internet duties I thought I better get my backside into gear. Having been taken on by Gallus Press for my new book see www.olidapublishing.moonfruit.com – I owe a a big thanks to Allan Sneddon. My new novel – The Catalyst is due out March 20th 2013. I can’t give you sneak peak yet but I can post up the blurb from the back of the book:
The Catalyst by Gordon Brown
‘Transforming their darkest thoughts into action’
‘Craig McIntyre, ex US military turned bodyguard, has a powerful and uncontrollable affliction: his mere presence removes people’s inhibitions, transforming their darkest thoughts into action.
When a US senator sees the unique potential to create the ultimate assassin he orders a covert agency to capture Craig and Craig’s wife, lorraine.
in an attempt to mould him into a lethal weapon, the senator has Craig drugged and tortured and forces him to witness Lorraine’s murder.
Craig escapes and, distraught at the death of his wife, he vows to kill the senator. But he has to act fast because the agency has orders to hunt him down and bring him back: dead or alive.’
I’ll post up the cover soon.
The distillery became a media hot spot. Charlie did more interviews than Usain Bolt after breaking a world record. TV and radio adore a ‘hero and ‘Quick Question Charlie’ became ‘Have a Go Charlie.’ The internet caught fire and with the speed only the digital world can deliver Charlie went global. A Facebook page was set up. #haveagocharlie became the number one spot on Twitter and a young pupil from the local school snapped together a website and Charlie was immortalized in pixel form.
The next day the newspapers spread Charlie over the front pages. ‘Four drinks and you’re out cold.’ ‘ It’s a ‘whisky’ game working in a distillery.’
A US TV network phoned and offered him a first class ticket to New York to appear on the morning breakfast show. They threw in a weeks’ stay in a hotel and a VIP tour of the Big Apple. But Charlie declined. He had always wanted to go to New York but he had his reasons for staying.
So it’s Monday and I’m opening the gate. So I should have retired on Friday. So Nora isn’t too happy. But the publicity from the raid has put visitor bookings through the roof and if ever I had questions worth answering I have them now. Especially when they’re going to name a whisky after me.
Charlie walked into the distillery thinking that when retirement beckoned it would be worth the wait. But that day now felt a long way in the future.
The End
The bottle was curving to the ground and Charlie had to bend to catch it before it could smash on the concrete. As he did so Number Three hit him but flew into the air as he tumbled over Charlie’s bent form. Charlie stood up and turned round but the gang member was already getting to his feet. Charlie hadn’t the time to reach for more bottles. ‘Please forgive me.’ The prayer made to the God of whisky. He sighed before smashing the forty year old bottle onto the head of Number Three. Crystal and whisky exploded into the air and the engraved top spun over the roof of the Merc.
The last gang member hurtled through the shop door and found Charlie standing over the bodies of his three colleagues. Carrying two bags in one hand the fourth gang member had a leather cosh in the other. He took one more look at his comrades and raised the cosh to attack. Charlie was defenseless. Too far away from the boot for more bottles and, out in the open, he knew his luck wouldn’t hold for a fourth time. The last man started to leap forward and stopped – his head the centre point for a firework display of gold and silver as Tony neatly stepped from the shop behind him and brought down a bottle of seventeen year old on the man’s head. The man dropped to the ground.
Whisky bottles 4 – Thieves 0.
Charlie started a wide smile.
As the man in black stood there Charlie cracked the top of the bottle in his hand and offered it up to him. ‘Fancy a taste.’ Charlie took a slug from the bottle, stepped forward and spat the whisky into the eye slit in the man’s hood. The man screamed, throwing his hands to his face. The sound of the scream brought the driver out of his door and Charlie lifted another bottle and, using muscles that had lain dormant for years, heaved it at him. At one time Charlie had been a dab hand at throwing rocks over his house. It took co-ordination and a fair effort to do that. Now the practice paid off as the bottle caught the driver square in the face and he crashed to the ground.
The first man was still screaming and Charlie casually walked over to him and swung the bottle onto the crown of the screaming man’s head. He collapsed like a wet sponge.
Number Three ran out of the door and tried to take in the scene. In his hand was a crafted crystal bottle. Charlie recognised it as the forty year old. A precious thing. Charlie began to reach into the boot for another bottle but, unlike his two companions, this one was quick on the uptake. He charged at Charlie, throwing the forty year old at him as he came. Charlie had a choice. Dodge the attacker or save the forty year old.
Charlie chose the latter.
Over fourteen thousand six hundred days without incident. Like those signs they put up in building sites. Fifty one days since the last accident only around here fifty one days was nothing. Not in a world where some of the whisky distilled today might not touch the inside of throat for another half a century. Around here things moved slowly. Took their time. Like the whisky. Slow. And no one spoiled that. Not on Charlie MacKay’s’ last day.
Charlie had reached the boot of the car. Six bags lay scattered, bottles spilling from their insides and that made him madder. No way to treat fine whisky. He reached into the first bag and pulled out a bottle of Tea Pot Dram. A fine whisky. A tribute to the drams that the distillery fold used to get many years ago. Lovingly recreated in memory of the days when all ‘our boys’ helped themselves to three large drams from the canteen teapot each day. A damn fine whisky indeed.
Another gang member raced out of the door and crunched to a halt when he saw Charlie.
Later on Charlie wouldn’t’ t be able to say exactly why he did it. The policeman taking the statement had been amazed that a man of Charlie’s age had taken on four hardened criminals.
‘You did what?’ was the first question out of the detective’s mouth when Charlie had told the story.
Charlie had looked at him, eyes moist. ‘Such a waste, such a bloody waste.’
Starting at thirty pounds a bottle, whisky in the shop rolled all the way up to a forty year old Glengoyne at three and half grand. Thousands, tens of thousands of pounds worth of whisky sat in the shop – maybe even more. Charlie didn’t know how much the Merc could take but the gang clearly thought it could hold enough to make the whole thing worthwhile.
Charlie was now less than ten yards from the rear of the smoking car. The first two out hadn’t seen him because they were focused on the whisky but that wouldn’t last. The next one out could spot him and Charlie had no idea what that would mean – other than not good news for Charlie McKay. Not good news at all.
Charlie started walking again. Standing still was a stupid option. He didn’t know what he would do when he reached the car but the sight of the gang emptying the shop had dipped his blood in hot lead. This was his distillery. His home for forty years. A place he loved. Full of wonderful memories. Not a place that he wanted sullied with some cheap cons who fancied a quick couple of quid. This was supposed to be his day. His last day. A special day. Not a bad day. He couldn’t remember a single bad day since the morning he had walked into the distillery in the early seventies.
Charlie was damned if that track record was going to be ruined today.
He hoped young Tony was ok. Tony had only started three months ago and was a quiet lad. He liked to open up shop. Quiet. That was Tony’s style. Quiet. Only now it wasn’t so quiet. Not in Tony’s world. Some more angry words sprang from the shop door and Charlie hesitated. What in the world was he doing? The gang might be a bit cockeyed raiding a distillery but that alone was good reason not to mess with them. Whatever they were up to he could just let them be. The car was primed to go. Pray that young Tony would be ok and just watch them rip rubber as they vanished. Better still take the number of the car and use his mobile to call the police. ‘Robbery in progress officer.’
The door flew open and one of the gang emerged carrying three full bags and yanked open the boot of the Merc; dropping the bags in before grabbing some more empty ones. As he ran back to the shop a second man flew out and threw three more bags into the back of the car.
The crash of glass hitting glass as the bags bounced on the boot floor told Charlie all he needed to know. This crew were here for the whisky. Things made a bit more sense now. The shop was rammed with Malt Whisky. Expensive Malt Whisky.
Charlie had no idea of what the stock might cost. He had never thought to ask.
As the car raced at Charlie he didn’t think he could be seen and, even so, how interested in an old tour guide would the driver be? Charlie suspected very interested so he scrunched himself as low as he could. The driver used the wider bit of the path in front of the barrels to u-turn. Charlie stared at the windows through a gap but the black theme even stretched to the tint on the car windows and he could see nothing. The Merc headed back, drew up next to the shop door again and waited.
It seemed to Charlie that the car hunkered down when it stopped. Ready to leap forward. A dark beast waiting to strike.
Charlie knew he should act. Was surprised that no one else had appeared. Even this early the distillery had workers in full flow. Charlie had the feeling that his last day might be a touch more memorable than he had anticipated.
He walked towards the car keeping to the left and out of sight of the rear window. He expected the door to open and the driver to appear, gun in the air shouting at him to get on the ground, but as the distance to the car closed Charlie reckoned the driver was focused on what was in front and not what was behind.
He could hear noise from inside the shop. Shouting and clinking. Raised voices mixed with glass on glass.
Charlie wondered what in the hell was going down?
The car slammed to a halt outside the shop and Charlie stared as three men exited the car. Two from the back and one from the front passenger seat. Hoods. They all had hoods on. Black hoods on top of black jumpers. Black was the dress code for the day. Black trousers and black shoes and each of the three were carrying a clutch of black canvas bags. The three men in black hammered through the shop door leaving the Mercedes to pour exhaust into the cool morning.
Charlie sat there. Stunned. Confused. Wondering what in the hell was going on. The scene in front of him had the feel of some old gangster movie. The lads out on a hit. But this was a distillery – not a bank. The shop wouldn’t have anything other than the morning float and that was hardly worth getting all ‘Goodfellas’ on the place. Maybe what he was witnessing had a more innocent explanation. A plausible reason to haul an E class Merc into the distillery and empty out three men top to tail in black. A movie? The distillery was a set and Charlie hadn’t been informed? But where were the cameras, the filmmakers – the production crew?
A mistake. It can happen. Some drugged up team who had mistaken a whisky distillery for the local branch of RBS?
April Fool – but a bit late?
The Merc spun its rear wheels and headed up stream.
Charlie’s heart beat hard and he squatted down.
He also took the opportunity to learn as much as possible from as many people as would indulge him. ‘Quick Question Charlie’ had been his nickname. ‘Sorry Pete? Just a quick question?’ ‘Mary I’ve got a quick question.’ Quick question had become QQ and the balloons in the swanky hotel had all been printed with a double Q. Even the solid silver Quaich had been engraved ‘To QQ the answer is we will miss you.’
When Charlie was offered a small promotion two years later he took it but he already had his eye on the visitors. Questions worked both ways and Charlie had a natural way about him that visitors loved. No question too hard or too trivial and before long he had taken up the role of tour guide. A rare position back then. Sure, nowadays, there could be up to twenty of them on the go. After all fifty thousand people a year came to see the magic going on inside the copper and wood. But back then he had been king. Still was. Or rather would be until five o’clock today. The king is dead. Long live the king.
The day was cranking up for a hot one but in the shade of the glen there was still a touch of ground frost from a chilly mid summer snap the night before. Charlie swung his legs against the wooden barrel, beating out a rhythm with his heels.
Charlie jumped when the black Mercedes screamed into sight.
He drifted up towards the shop, passing the white buildings, some built when Queen Victoria was still one monarch in the future. He looked up at the ventilator that sat above the old malting rooms and smiled. His Japanese Crown. No longer used, the pagoda shaped ventilator was a well kent sight for the whisky enthusiast.
He reached the shop but didn’t enter. He didn’t want to look at the rows of fine whisky, lit by spotlight, cocooned in fine wood. It would just remind of him of what he would miss. He passed the visitor centre with its balcony hovering above the waters of a small lake and followed a stream up to the bottom of the waterfall that poured down at the far end of the distillery.
Hidden from view he planked himself on one of the wooden barrels that lay scattered on the banks of the stream and stared back at the place he had worked for most of his adult life.
Twenty four he had been when his father’s friend told him that Glengoyne were looking for some manual labour. He had been lean and fit back then. Six feet tall and not a scrap on him but muscle and bone. A sharp dresser and one for the girls. Labouring at Glengoyne had provided the pennies he had needed to lord it up in Glasgow city centre once a week. He loved the new job.
Charlie took to Planet Whisky like a child to a toy.
The leaving do had been a mess. A swanky hotel in the west end. As much food and drink as anyone could ingest and a room full of friends. But Charlie’s heart hadn’t been in it. He kept imagining it was someone else’s do. That it wasn’t him that was leaving. At one point, a few drinks to the wrong side, he had begun to believe it. Convinced himself that this really was someone else’s exit bash. He had cheered up and made a fool of himself by mucking up the leaving speech. Confusing everyone by thanking them all for coming to his best mate Jim Laidlaw’s leaving do. Jim was the most confused of the lot.
Charlie looked over the road beyond the gate at the storage buildings in the distance. He had been here for four decades but there was whisky lying in the stores that had been laid down before Elvis had his first number one. Charlie was a youngster compared to some of the barrels that oozed the angel’s share out year after year.
He didn’t even have anything to do today. He had been due to finish a week ago but when one of the other tour guides had fallen sick Charlie jumped at the opportunity to work one more week. But it had been a mistake. Charlie wasn’t needed. All the goodbyes had been said and when Charlie reappeared, awkward was the most used word of the day.
Charlie had never felt so unwanted.
The distillery opened at seven in the morning. Charlie rolled the gate home and sighed. Last day syndrome he called it. He’d been telling people about it for over a year. Ever since he had decided enough was enough and that his wife of thirty years deserved to see more of him than the whisky world allowed. Last day syndrome. Not to be confused with de-mob syndrome. That was reserved for those who don’t love their jobs. For the many out there who dreaded the alarm that each day brought them back to the reality of life.
For Charlie there was no feeling of elation as his last day approached. As the clock ran down, instead of cutting back, he had ramped it up. Putting in unpaid overtime. Filling in at weekends. In the last month there wasn’t a spare hour that he hadn’t grabbed. ‘You’d bloody live there Charlie!’ Nora was right. He would have loved to live there. But all good things come to an end. At least that’s what he had told himself when he informed the girl at HR that he wanted to call time on his job.
He’d expected a little resistance. ‘Why do you want to quit Charlie?’ ‘Have we done something Charlie?’ Not that his colleagues hadn’t been surprised. But rather than challenge his decision they had taken the light hearted route.’ I thought they’d bury you here.’ ‘The place will collapse when you go.’ ‘Have you informed the papers?’
Charlie felt cheated.
As part of Bloody Scotland I was asked by Glengoyne to write a short story of 3,000 words and publish it daily in twelve ’250 word’ chunks. The story itself was the easy bit but limiting each day to exactly 250 words was tough. A lot of editing later and ‘Bottle’ appeared. The short story was originally published as inspiration for the Bloody Scotland Glengoyne Short Story competition.
We received 232 entries from round the world for the competition and if you want a copy of the best 19 click here http://www.bloodyscotland.com/worth-the-wait-download/.
Well done to Sarah Reynolds who won the competition.
I’ll start publishing the 250 word daily pieces from tomorrow and do so every day.
Enjoy.
With Bloody Scotland approaching next weekend (14th to 16th September) I’m looking forward to a number of things. Not least a great array of authors and events. For myself I’m chairing the Fresh Blood session on the Saturday at 12.00pm with Anna Smith, Sara Sheridan, Frank Muir and John Gordon Sinclair. Should be great.
I’m also introducing the author’s dinner on the Friday night and nine people will have to suffer me as a reward for sitting at my table (there are ten tables with an author at each).
But the left field event of the weekend is, in celebration of 125 years of Sherlock Holmes, Bloody Scotland is presenting a dramatised adaptation especially commissioned from Ron Butlin of an all time favourite short story, The Red Headed League. In a unique one-off performance,the cast will consist of ten leading crime writers. And I’m to play Duncan Ross.
Check it all out at www.bloodyscotland.com
Ten – part 22.
He walks over to the other door and unlocks it. It’s a black curtain beyond. A foul smell leaks from the darkness and he moves quickly. He wraps his arms under my emaciated body and lifts me as if I were candyfloss. He reaches the threshold to the next room and stops. ‘Thanks for trying.’ With this he tosses me into the void. I crash to the floor and the door is slammed.
I lie, too weak to move. Wanting to stand. Wanting to shout out. I try to scream but my vocal chords can raise little more than a rattle. I roll onto my back and breath. Shallow gulps that hurt. I flop my right arm out and my fingers land on something cold and hard. I twist my wrist and feel at the object. Smooth but with knobbled ends. I pick it up and feed it through my fingers. I drop it and search around and find more. Many more. They click and clack as I rifle my hand through them. Some are dry but some are slimy and as I slide my hand further some have bits of cloth attached and others have bits of something else.
I move my foot and kick a large stone. Only it’s not a stone. It bounces away smacking into something hollow.
I pull my hands back and scream. The first real sound in an age. A deep primeval scream.
Around me the other victims wait for me to join them.
The End.
Ten – part 21.
The Bearded Man shifts his bulk to sit closer to me. ‘Do you know that this is one of the slowest distilled whiskies in Scotland. Most run off between ten and twenty litres of the stuff a minute. Not here. Five. Eight litres a minute. Everything about the whisky takes longer. They sun dry the cask wood in Portugal, fill it with sherry, leave it for three years, decant and then use the cask for the whisky. Some of the barrels in the store are half a decade old. Elvis was new in the charts when they were first laid down. Everything done slowly. And that’s where I got the idea. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Time. That’s all I needed.’
He stands up. Bones cracking and a deep, draft of air whistling through his lips as he stretches. ‘It takes over ten years to make my favourite tipple. Maybe fourteen if you count in the cask. Maybe a hundred if you count the time it took for the tree to grow that the cask comes from. But ten is good. Ten years is time enough. Ten is exactly what I need for payback.’
‘A decade owed to me by a backpacker and then I’ll be happy. But it isn’t going to be you. Maybe it’ll never happen. After all I’m not getting younger. But I’ll keep trying. Ten years in this hole in return for losing me the best job I ever had. Sounds fair.’
Ten – part 20.
‘I used to work here,’ says the Bearded Man. ‘Many years ago. A tour guide. Great job. I loved it. Lived for it. I used to be a bus driver before that. Loved that to but the job here was magic. But I got a bit careless. I like my whisky. I like the older ones. But my favourite is still the ten year old. Magic. I used to take a few bottles home. Not much. Not that I didn’t deserve them. After all I was the best tour guide they had. People told me that. Anyway someone grassed up on me. A visitor. A backpaker.’ He growls as he says the word. ‘ Spotted me collecting my bottles from my little hide and asked someone how many bottles the tour guides got to take home? Dropped me right in it. Fired. Me?’ He spits on the floor. ‘I told them that I’m the best guide they ever had and how could they possible lose me. I took them to tribunal. Well that failed. My next-door neighbour phoned them the day before and told them about my collection of whisky. Louse. The police found my stash at home and next thing I’m up in court. A few bottles that’s all I took. Well maybe more than a few.’
‘Three months I did in BarL. Three months and not a hope in hell of me working again. All because of a nosey backpacker.’
‘I spent a year working on my revenge.’
Ten – part 19.
‘Happy Christmas.’ I don’t bother to look up. I don’t move much now. Even going to the toilet seems too much effort. I live in a world that exists between this one and the next. Floating. Waiting. A parcel is dropped next to me. I don’t even open my eyes. I’ve stopped eating. It just seemed the natural thing to do.
‘I need to talk to you.’ The Bearded Man must be standing right next to me. ‘Look at me.’
I don’t.
I feel the knife on my finger and roll over. My hair, matted and wrapped round the top of my arm almost blinds me. I try and swipe it away but it’s too much effort. I can see through it a little. I look at him.
‘You’re doing well. Better than most,’ he says. ‘Not quite the record. Not quite though. But that’s better than most. Better than most. But you aren’t going to be the one. Good as you are you’ve given in. You might surprise me but I doubt it. You’re not eating and that means your weight is all wrong. Time to move on I think. New blood.’
He kicks at the dirt looking down at the muck around me. ‘Sorry it had to be you but one doesn’t get the girl if one doesn’t step up to the mark so onward and upward.’
Next to the parcel he places a small scrunched up ball of silver foil. ‘They’ll help. If you want them to.’
Ten – part 18.
‘Happy Christmas.’ The Bearded Man has a brightly wrapped present under one arm, silver bow and all. He passes it to me. I drop it on the floor. ‘Open it.’ I don’t move. He glides over the room in an instant, drops his bulk on my outstretched arm and places his knife across the second knuckle of my small finger. ‘I’ll not ask twice.’ I nod and he gets up.
I take the parcel and open it. Inside is an old Barrat’s shoe box. I pull off the lid. Lying inside is small calendar courtesy of the distillery.
‘So you know the date.’ He smiles as he says it.
***
I’m sick. Burning up sick. My head is grinding out a headache that threatens to open up my skull and my guts are a toxic acid bath. Skin hot to the touch I shiver like a bike on a cobbled street. The mound of aspirin and five two litre bottles of water left for me are all gone.
I want to die.
***
The fever has gone. I’ve lost more weight and the Bearded Man isn’t happy. ‘You need to eat.’ I feel so far away from eating.
‘You’ve lost too much weight.’
I look at him. So what? ‘I…’ It’s the first word I’ve uttered in months. The Bearded Man does his ghost move trick and pain screams up my arm as the top of my small finger on my left hand is removed with a practiced slice of his knife.
Ten – part 17.
When the Bearded Man next appears he is carrying a set of bathroom scales under his arm. ‘Stand on these,’ he orders.
I struggle to my feet and stand on them. Two stone down on my fighting weight. I slump back to the floor.
‘Too much weight loss.’ With these he retreats through the door and returns with a half dozen bags of food. ‘Eat all of this by the time I come back or I slice one of your fingers off.’
Then he’s gone. I split open the bags and find a mix of junk food and soft drinks. You could feed the Broons for a week on the contents. I’m not hungry but the thought of losing a finger forces me to dig into the first sandwich pack.
Three days and the food is gone. I’m bloated and the bucket under the stool is overflowing. The Bearded Man returns with the scales. ‘On again.’
I feel my stomach wobble as I stand.
‘Better,’ he says. He looks at the bucket. ‘I’m not emptying that. Make a hole in the floor and bury it. He leaves two more bags of food and drink, crinkling his nose at the smell. ‘Your doing well.’ Then he’s gone.
It takes me a good few hours to dig out a hole in the corner with my bare hands, deep enough to take the bucket’s contents. I drag it over to the hole. Spilling some of it.
I wretch as I tip it in.
Ten – part 16.
A single window, high up, has an old curtain nailed across it. It sheds light on a second door. There is a room beyond this one but the door is locked. My clothes are rotting upon me and I spend most of the time lying in a ball. Sleep my only escape. I crave sleep and from somewhere deep inside I crave a far longer and more permanent sleep. The tools are lying around. Shards of glass. Enough to slice skin. I’ve piled them into one corner and covered them with dirt. They could be weapons against the Bearded Man or they could be my get out of jail free card.
Outside the planet is going into deep freeze. The blanket does the bare minimum to stop me freezing. I have dug a small pit and pull the earth over me at night.
Apart from the Bearded Man there’s no sign of a functioning world beyond. No one comes along to check the cellar. Thinking back to the night I was brought here it can’t be more than a hundred steps back to the distillery road. A hundred small steps to freedom.
The next time the Bearded Man appears there’s snow on his shoes. He has a bundle in his arms and throws down a thick sleeping bag that needs washed. I crawl in. Silent. He drops a dozen Mars Bars and four two litre bottles of water on the floor. ‘This needs to last you a week,’ he says.
Ten – part 15.
Night and day no longer matter. They mean nothing. Time is a concept. Not a reality. I was released from the manacles and stocks at some point. My arms and legs flopping to the ground. An eternity before they began to respond.
When they started to work I crawled to the door and worked at the wood and handle but it is carved from a solid oak tree and the bolts, hinges and lock are industrial.
Every day I listen for sounds outside but only wind, rain and animals keep me company. Where in the hell is everyone?
Each time the Bearded Man appears he has a plastic bag of drink and food. When he freed me from the wall there were two bags. Stuffed with snack food and pop.
He clears the soil bucket when he remembers but the smell in the room must be painful. I’m immune. A filthy blanket I found in the corner keeps some of the cold out but the temperature drops by the day and the light around the door is present for shorter and shorter periods.
I tried shouting one day. Breaking the rule. I was still shouting when the Bearded Man walked in. He pushed me to the floor and used his knife to carve a small slice out of my shoulder. Standing up he looked down on me, eyes burning. ‘I told you no noise. Make another squeak and I’ll remove your manhood. Understand.’
Since then I’ve played the silent monk.
Always nice when you get sent a picture of someone reading your book. The fact he’s a great friend is even better – trust me your best friends can be your biggest critics. Thanks Andy.
Ten – part 14.
In the Bearded Man’s other hand is a plastic bag from the Co Op. He drops pulls a baseball cap. From the bag. The San Francisco emblem is fading on the front. Sitting on top of it is a plastic holder. We are in American bleacher world. The holder will take two cans of beer and curly straws meet at the peak and drop down waiting for a mouth to grab them. He rams the cap on my head. Removes a can of coke. Pops the ring pull and places the can in the holder above me. He shoves the straw into my mouth and I suck like a baby on their first bottle. I drain the can in seconds. The Bearded Man pulls a sandwich pack from the bag and splits the cellophane. He tears off a chuck and pushes it into my mouth. I chew. He feeds me the rest of the contents, chicken salad, in stages.
‘When you learn to behave you can feed yourself.’ His voice has lost the edge from the night before.
‘For f…’
The knife is at my throat. The speed of his movement ghost like. He nicks the skin on my neck. ‘Did I say you could talk?’ I don’t move. He lifts the knife away.
‘The rules are simple. No noise and you live. Noise and you die. Understand?’
I nod.
‘Good.’
He cracks another Coke and rams it home. ‘Take it easy on that one. I may be gone sometime.’
Ten – part 13.
I’m seated on a stool and it feels like there is a hole in the middle of it. My trousers are round my ankles and both feet are fixed to the floor. Cold wood against my buttocks and feet. I struggle to move but I’m fixed tight. In the dim light supplied by the cracks in the door I inspect the fixings that hold me in place. Ancient manacles, from your best Hammer House of Horror movie, wrap round my wrist and are held on the damp, stone wall by rusting chains. My feet sit in stocks held shut by a brass padlock and fixed to the floor with bread roll sized bolts. I don’t have to figure hard why I’m sitting on a stool with hole and my pants at my ankles. I struggle against the restraints but they are rock solid.
My mouth is dry. A dusty carpet. Sucked of moisture. I try to shout out but the noise is an ant’s fart. My tongue roots around for liquid but swollen and spilt it finds none. My body’s desire for water doesn’t seem to stop it needing to vent some. My gut is drum tight and I’m fit to burst. I try to hold on but after twenty minutes I let rip and torrent bounces of metal beneath me.
For a moment the relief is wonderful and then the door swings open and the Bearded Man walks in. This time he has a hunting knife in his hand.
Ten – part 12.
I yank my fingers clear and something scuttles away. A mouse? Rat? I keep my hands off the ground. I want to shout out but not yet. Not quite yet. I need the Bearded Man to be gone. I count to a thousand in my head and decide that is no where near enough. I pick a random figure. Two thousand three hundred and forty seven. After that I’ll shout myself hoarse. But off course I don’t. I’m too scared.
At some point I feel my eyes close and I fight it. Sleeping with rats waiting to gnaw my eyes out is not a good agenda item.
An hour later my eyes close and my head drops for the last time.
I’m gone.
***
I wake up as a hand grabs my face. A wet cloth is slapped over my mouth. A sickly sweet smell engulfs me. I lash out and my head is pushed down – scrubbing in the dirt. I feel woozy and twist my head. I see the door. Light beyond. Framing the Bearded Man’s bulk as he presses the clawing cloth to my lips. Gasping I helter skelter my way down to unconsciousness.
***
As I rise from the darkness I feel like my meager dinner is coming back. I try to throw my hand to my mouth to catch it but it doesn’t want to move. I’m confused. Unsure. My arm is pinned. Both are. Splayed out like Christ on the cross. I’m starfished against the wall.
Ten – part 11.
Total darkness isn’t something that many sighted people deal with well. A cosy bed in a dark room is one thing. Being thrown into a cellar is another. The absence of light plays tricks as the cones and rods in my eye sockets play fireworks. I slither my foot through the dirt and draw back as my toe catches something sharp. I decide to squat down. Blood seeps down my cheek and the broken tooth will start to bitch soon.
I clear a space in the debris of the floor as best I can and cross my legs. Thinking is the order of the day but none of this makes sense. Where in the hell are the workers in the distillery? Who leaves a stranger asleep in a strange place? Kidnapped at gunpoint for walking in the wrong field. Where’s the sense? Where’s the good reason? I breathe deep. Filling the bottom of my lungs. Inflating them until my chest moans and curses. Hold it. Let go slowly and try and calm my over-clocked heart.
I open my mouth and let my jaw hang. Someone once told me it improves your hearing. The wind outside is picking up but the sounds is muffled. Like a sound through a thick dish cloth. A drip snips at stone somewhere. Other than that the world is dead.
I dig my fingers into the earth and rub it in my palm. Wet. Gritty. I extend my arm to explore further.
Something touches my fingers.
Ten – part 10.
It’s amazing what a loaded 12 bore can do to make you overcome a gubbed ankle. My pace is dictated by the pressure of the barrels. Drilling into my skin. The Bearded Man is in a hurry and there will be a dance floor full of bruises around my spine to deal with if I get through this. He coughs. ‘To the right.’
‘I can’t see.’
‘You don’t need to see – just walk.’
My feet are turning to blocks as the lack of shoes sucks the heat into the cobbles below. I want to inch forward but the Bearded Man is urging me to take up one hundred metre pace. My toe takes a brick wall full on and I shout out.
‘Shut up and work your way to the left.’
I grab at the stone wall and Marcel Marceau my way along the brickwork. My hand hits a right angle and I stop. ‘Keep going. Follow the wall.’ The Bearded Man has done this before.
Four turns later and I feel like a blind mouse in a maze. My hand hits wood. I hesitate. ‘Take another three steps and stop.’ I obey and with a click a lock is thrown. ‘Inside.’
‘Look…’
The barrel of the gun burst my cheek open and shatters a crown I’ve need seeing to for a while. ‘
‘IN. NOW.’
I stagger through the doorway and feel cold earth beneath my feet. A shove in the back and the door is slammed shut.
Ten – part 9.
‘Don’t move. Not an inch.’ The voice is familiar. ‘Walk towards me. Slowly.’
I stumble forward. Cold stone passing across my palm as I steady myself. I can see nothing.
‘Keep walking.’
I find my voice. ‘What the hell.’
‘A little payback for a trespasser.’ Headlights wash over the scene picking out the gun man. Fat, bearded – now in a Driza-Bone ankle length coat. Voice still in the upper octave and no use to a big man. The double barreled end of the gun is pointing right at my gut. The light flicks out and we are in dark-again land.
‘Follow my voice.’
I should run. He can’t see me but my busted ankle would make more than a slow walk impossible. At this range he couldn’t miss. But would he risk a shot? There could be a dozen people hiding behind the windows and doors. And why would he shoot? Because I’d accidentally trampled on his precious sod? Who kills for that?
Nutters.
That’s who.
Real long term matured nutters.
That’s who.
I take another step. My feet trying to ignore the order from my head. Stomach churning and spitting hot fat I take a small heel to toe.
‘Quicker.’ His voice dances up a notch. This is exciting him. I lift my leg to plant it a little further forward and I feel air move and the smell of old cigars drifts past me.
Then there are two bores of gunmetal in the small of my back.
Ten – part 8.
The moon finds a small button hole in the clouds to peak through and I see the outline of a cat at my feet and shake my head, trying to kick out at the beast. I begin to hobble down a small hill and I’m deep in distillery land. Ancient, small windowed buildings rise on either side and the smell of distilling is strong. High on my right there’s the shadow what looks like small pagoda – a familiar sight to distillery visitors. My limited knowledge of the industry knows it is some form of ventilator but as to how it works or why is beyond me. The road opens out and light from ahead gives me some more vision. A car cruises by and I realise that there is a road a hundred yards further on. The doorways around me are shuttered on either side and light leaks from a few.
I spin on my good foot, convinced someone is right behind me. I even raise my hand to protect my face but there is no one there. Only a puddle of light from an upstairs window.
There must be someone around.
A click.
My eyes give up nothing. The moon has gone. Beyond the puddle is pitch.
Another click and a scrape.
I step away. Dragging my bad foot and leaning on the rough wall for support.
The snap of metal finding a home with metal pings around the walls.
The sound of a shot gun snapping closed.
Ten – part 7
I awaken lying on a sofa with a blanket wrapped round me. It’s dark outside and I can’t sense anyone nearby. I sit up and my chest informs me that it’s not happy at the fall down the waterfall and I bite my lip to stop screaming at the pain. I’ve no idea of the time and given I never wear a watch I search the room for a clock but come up empty. I swing my legs out from the blanket and wait for the rush of blood to pass before standing up. I’m sure someone must be nearby. After all you don’t leave strangers alone in the heart of a distillery.
The clothes I have on are all but dry but my coat, shoes, waterproof trousers and back pack were taken away when Arthur brought me in. I check a few doors but they are locked and the whisky tasting room is dark. I try the front door and it opens. Bare footed I limp onto the small path and down onto the road that winds through the distillery. The sound of water from the stream behind is carried by the wind and I can see no lights from that direction. Above the clouds are thick as a wet duffle coat and the dark is almost total.
I grab at the wall for comfort and wait for my eyes to adjust. Where is everyone? Why leave me on my own? Something rubs at my leg and I yelp.
Ten – part 6
A jovial man with a black jumper stretched over a well fed gut is looking down on me. Words are embroidered on his left breast. ‘You won’t get much swimming done in four inches of water.’ He smiles as he talks. ‘Need a hand out?’
I nod and he reaches down and I struggle to lift myself out of the stream. The water I‘ve soaked up adds pounds to my clothes.
‘Daniel’s the name, ‘ says the jovial man as I flop on the ground. ‘And there’s a entrance with a gate, path and everything if you ever want to come in the way most visitors do.’
I’m still checking for the busted parts of my frame but apart from the howling ankle and some nasty pains around my chest I seem remarkably free of consequences.
‘I’m one of the tour guides around here,’ says Arthur.
‘Around where?’ I ask.
‘The distillery.’
I smile. ‘Well the distillery’s on my list of ‘to do’s and a dram wouldn’t do any harm.’
He smiles back at me.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting in a comfortable front room of a small house that the distillery uses for visitors. The room next door is an Aladdin’s cave of malt whisky and the table that sits in the middle is set out for a whisky master class – or so Daniel tells me. A small dram of malt whisky is nestled in my hand and the worst of my wet clothes are drying somewhere.
Then darkness.
Ten – part 5
My back pack bounces of rocks and I tumble forward. Beneath me a waterfall drops away. A narrow twisting hose of high pressure water sliding into a small glen. I try to grab at something to stop my fall but the rocks are worn smooth and when my head smacks on an outcrop I curl up and try and ride out the fall. I pinball down the slope and hit the bottom with a wet slap and an injection of pain. Water pours into my jacket as I lie in the stream at the foot of the waterfall. I let the water wash over me as I try and unscramble my head. I force myself to sit up and water pours either side of me, crashing over my legs. I have pain registering in three or four places. The worst in my left ankle which feels like someone is pumping it full of hot lead. I need to get out of the water. It may be late summer but the ice cold of the water is draining heat and my cheap walking clothes are proving about effective as a cotton hanky in keeping me warm and dry.
The stream channels into an artificial race about twenty yards down stream from where I’m sitting and beyond I can see a glass framed balcony sitting above a small lake with white buildings beyond. Whisky barrels lie scattered on a path to my right.
‘Do you want me to phone an ambulance son?’
Ten – part 4.
‘Now get off my land.’
‘But,’ I say.
‘Right now you idiot.’
‘Now there’s no need…’
‘Get of my land NOW.’ His teeth are badly stained and the words are spat at me with breath that smells like a mix of garlic and Stilton. I climb over the fence. All the time he holds the gun in his left hand. Swinging it back and forth. As if waiting for an excuse to use it.
‘One of you nearly shot me.’ I shout as I retreat.
‘Pity we missed,’ he shouts back before turning away to join his buddies. I’m left seething. I want to go back and square up but a shotgun has a way of drowning your machismo. Instead I turn my attention to the walk ahead.
If I’ve got my bearings right I’m on track to make a short climb up a twelve hundred foot plug of forty million year old volcanic rock the hill sits above a couple of distilleries. It’s on my list of must do’s for this trip. That and a tour of one of the distilleries. I try and forget the man with the gun and get back to enjoying the scenery, my own company and the anticipation of the dram that will conclude the distillery tour.
I dismiss the man with the gun, cross a muddy patch in the field and hop another fence. My feet plunge into water before the rush of a stream takes them from under me and I’m airborne.
Ten – part 3.
I drop to the ground as the sound of the gun shot echoes in my ears. A second shot sounds and I hug the earth. I wait for more. Nothing. Then the birds, silenced by the report, begin to sing and a dog howls in the distance. I raise my head from the dirt and scan the horizon. Nothing. I work my arms under my chest and push up; ready to drop back down at the slightest noise. I hear the sound of people talking being carried on the breeze. Twist round on the ground. A line of men carrying shotguns are walking towards me. I begin to stand up. Holding my hands high and waving. The chatter stops when they spot me. One man breaks from the line and strides towards me.
He is north of twenty stone with a thick beard that rests on his chest. He has a deerstalker on his head and is clad in plaid shooting gear. For his size he moves easily and eats up the ground between us.
‘’What in the hell are you doing her?’ His voice is a touch high for the bulk he carries.
‘Trying not to get killed,’ I say.
‘Well why in the hell would you walk onto a shooting range?’
He points at a sign next to the fence I just climbed. ‘Danger. Do not enter.’ Below it is the symbol of shotgun.
As he points his left eye twitches and he raises his gun an inch.
Ten – part 2
I’m not a seasoned veteran when it comes to hill walking but I get by and I’m long in the tooth enough to be dressed for a Scottish autumn. Waterproof and warm being the dress code. My only concession to the expensive end of the hikers wardrobe is a pair of Brasher Supalite GTX walking boots. A gift from my wife. A hint that I should get out of the house more often. Everything else comes from the bargain bins of half a dozen shops at the height of the January sales.
Last night I slept in my tent but tonight I’m determined to snooze in some comfort. With the exception of a brief tour round a nearby distillery I want to press on and get as close as I can to Stirling. Hoping to find a hotel on the way. The fact that I have no idea what hostelry might be near by reflects the way I chose to hike. I have no plan.
This is my first break in nearly two years. Work has been tough. Seven day weeks the norm. Last year I had a ninety three day stretch without a break. The manufacturing plant that I’m in charge of building is now back on track but at one point my company was on the line for late delivery. The penalty clauses would have sunk us. And sunk me.
The bark on the tree next to me explodes followed by the single crack of a gun shot.
Ten – part 1
The door to the cellar lies open. A hand draped across the threshold. Dull light leaks from a single window high up, but not enough to penetrate to the cellar floor. Darkness swallowing the arm. The ring finger is missing. Severed. Wet slabs of stone are spotted with blood.
The smell in the room is rich. A familiar scent. Bakeries, wet dog and freshly mown grass familiar. It hangs in the cold air. A sour note mixed to perfection with sweet. Promising bitter and smooth on the tongue. As if the cellar door were the door to the local pub. The smell is embedded in the wood and stone. One hundred and eighty years to do so. And now it’s joined by tang of copper. The smell of blood.
The storm outside is a distant thing. The peak passing more than an hour ago. Rain smacks the window and, hidden by shadows, a hole in the roof lets a steady stream of water flow down one wall. A heavy set man, more fat than muscle, kicks the arm into the dark and slams the door shut.
The cry of a land locked seagull bounces around the room. Then the storm spits out one last breath and the wind rattles the window. The man stretches out his arms and sighs, as if rising from a chair after watching a long movie. He rubs his distended stomach and glides to the room’s other door and locks it behind him as he leaves.
I’ve just finished the short story for Glengoyne to be published in their web site in daily ’250 word.’ chunks. When it goes live I’ll place a link.
As I’m always up for a challenge I’ve agreed with Glengoyne to produce a crime short story in serial form on the run up to the Bloody Scotland festival. This will be published on their website on a weekly basis. This necessitates a visit to the distillery before I kick off and potentially a grueling lunch and tasting of their fine whisky – well someone has to do.
We launched the Bloody Scotland Glengoyne Short Story Competition today at Blythswood Square - see http://www.bloodyscotland.com/competition/
We announced the main sponsor for the Bloody Scotland festival and launched the website at www.bloody-scotland.com today. Even had my photo taken with Alex Gray and Lin Anderson.
After further digging around in the bottom of the old suitcase I’ve unearthed another half finished story. While waiting for feedback on the latest novel I’ve taken to tinkering with the new find. A kind of therapeutic thing. Strange how words written years ago take a life of their own. I’m struggling to remember when I wrote most of it – or why? The main characters are all over the age of seventy and dysfunctional in the extreme. The setting suggests that I was living in England at the time but that could just be a trick of my fading memory. Certainly the village it is set in has more than a passing resemblance to one I used to live in.
Time to tinker on and maybe even finish it off.
I took the Christmas break as an opportunity to do a bit of early Spring cleaning. And failed. Not through lack of effort but through a surfeit of distraction. This distraction came in the form of old stories that have lurked in a pile, buried in a suitcase (well more of a flight case really) and hidden from view for more years than I can figure. My first ever attempt at a novel lay at the bottom. A book that starts out on a sliver of paper nicked from a local Greek restaurant, while on holiday in Crete, and finishes in a blue hard back jotter. Hand written in far neater script that I can now achieve it was the original point and shoot manuscript. No planning, no idea of destination and no fear. A simple thought. A stranger hauling a back pack through the scrubland of an island gave rise to the impulse to write.
I remember the moment I saw him. I was standing on the back of a rented jeep; enjoying the wind and sun and unable to communicate with the others in the car. The back packer flashed by and given we were so far from civilisation I began to wonder where he had come from and where he was going. A drifter. An innocent drifter about to find his life on the line as he stumbles into the wrong town at the wrong time. Classic western stuff but with a Sci-Fi twist. I haven’t reached the end yet and I can’t remember what happened but I’ll let you know. After this one there are three more to be unearthed and I’m now wondering if it’s ok to get excited about reading your own work????
After twenty issues of the local magazine Fiona, the person behind, My G76 has decided to call it quits. As such A Brown View on Life is no more (see elsewhere on the site for the published ones). Ah well all good things come to an end but if the mood takes me I may just pen one or two for the hell of it.
Waterstones have chosen ’59 Minutes’ as one of their promotional books for Christmas – good news.
The following is the synopsis for my next novel – if it ever sees the light of day – I’ll publish the first chapter soon.
Set in modern day Iraq and the USA, THE CATALYST is a 77,000 word thriller about Craig McIntyre, ex US military turned bodyguard, who has a powerful and uncontrollable affliction: his mere presence removes people’s inhibitions, transforming their darkest thoughts into action.
Craig discovers he’s the unwitting catalyst for violence when a prostitute murders a diplomat he is guarding in Iraq.
As the violence around him escalates Clive Lendl, the head of a clandestine US agency, discovers Craig’s curse. Seeing the unique potential to create the ultimate assassin and backed by a US senator, Lendl captures Craig and Craig’s wife, Lorraine. While torturing and drugging Craig, in an attempt to mould him into a lethal weapon, Lendl forces him to witness Lorraine’s murder.
Craig is rescued by Charlie Whyte, an ex Navy Seal when an attempt to assassinate the head of an African state goes badly wrong. Distraught at the death of his wife and mentally scarred from months of torture, Craig vows to kill Lendl and the senator and bring an end to their depraved scheme. But he has to act fast because Lendl has ordered the agency to hunt Craig down and bring him back: dead or alive.
The launch of Bloody Scotland took place today. the following was posted up by Stirling University – one of our partners in the festival:
A starry line-up of crime writers gathered in Stirling’s Smith Museum & Art Gallery today to launch Bloody Scotland, an International Crime Writing Festival which will take place in Stirling on 14-16 September 2012.
Writers in attendance at the launch included Ian Rankin, G J Moffat, Stuart MacBride, Anne Perry, Lin Anderson, Allan Guthrie and Craig Robertson. Ian Rankin took to the floor to applaud this, the first Scottish literary festival to celebrate Scotland’s most popular fiction genre. And to prove how Stirling is a perfect location, he revealed that his next novel reaches its finale here…
The festival has support from Stirling Council, Creative Scotland, and will work alongside Stirling’s existing Off the Page festival, which we reported on last week. Excitingly for us, the festival is also organised in collaboration with the University of Stirling’sCreative Writing courses and the Centre for International Publishing and Communication.
We’ll be working with Bloody Scotland on Creative Friday, hosting masterclasses, workshops, and a publishers’ and agents’ forum. More details to come… and don’t go down any dark alleyways in the meantime!
This summer my family and I decided to take a holiday on Mars. Red rocks, miles of desolation, mountains, no plants, – you know – Mars. As a result I can confirm a few facts and clear up a few misconceptions.
Firstly, there is life on Mars. In the main goats and donkeys. There’s no fresh water – although there’s a ready supply of beer and Indian food. The currency, should you choose to visit, is Escudos but they will accept Euros. The only practical mode of transport is a moon buggy (although at a push a Toyota Land Cruiser might suffice). It can get hot during the day – 100+ Degrees Fahrenheit (to use old money) is not uncommon. It’s also a fair hike to get there from Glasgow and, at the moment, there is only one flight a week.
Interested?
Ok so maybe we didn’t go to Mars but if someone ever wants to shoot a movie about the red planet they could do far worse than film on Boa Vista in Cape Verde. I defy anyone to spot the difference between the southern half of the island and Mars (apart for the goats and donkeys.)
I also predict that Cape Verde will be one of the hottest tourist destinations for Europeans in ten to fifteen years. Ten islands a few hundred miles off the coast of Senegal. Miles of beaches. Caribbean sunshine and, in the main, un-spoilt. It’s probably what the Canary Islands looked like in the 60’s. Watch this space.
A tip if you do go – don’t hire a car. Unless you are a world four by four expert, in need of rattling every bone in your body, don’t do it. The best way to describe the roads, save the new one one built for the hotel we were staying in, is to imagine a badly cobbled lane that someone has taken a jackhammer to and that’s the M8 of Boa Vista. Outside of this you are talking full blown, hard-core off-roading. I should know as we hired a Suzuki Jimny – look it up – the world’s smallest four-wheel drive car. It had wheel wobble that made me fear for my life and the sort of suspension that I used to fit on the skateboards I made when I was eight years old.
We enquired as to what there was to see on the island and were reliably informed that we needed to visit the site of a shipwreck in the north. The fact that the island is only twenty miles long and it took us two hours to get there is testament to the lack of maps, roads and directions.
We eventually arrived, courtesy of a very patient local lad we bumped into at the petrol station and the help of a German family who had hired a proper off road vehicle and driver, to find a stunning beach, resplendent with a decaying ship.
The ship was beached in 1968 and had been carrying food stuffs, general merchandise and large quantities of adult magazines. I had a quick hunt around just in case some issues of the aforementioned literature was still to be found and, as I flew home, I was left wondering at what an island with such a tiny population would have done with said magazines especially since, according to one resident, there was in excess of two tons of them.
Two tons!
Maybe I should have looked harder.
’59 Minutes’ has been included in the Ticket to Read Summer Reads for Scottish Libraries – good news – see http://www.booksfromscotland.com/News/Scottish-Events/Summer-Read-Selection-2011
Click here for an interview I did with Allan Guthrie on his excellent blog. Allan Guthrie – Criminal – E
Nostalgia – it’s a thing of the past? I was running a Social Media event on Thursday and some of the stats would scare you.
- Linked In – 90 million members and someone joins every second.
- Facebook – 500 million members and 23 Billion minutes a day spent on the site.
- You Tube – 36 hours of video uploaded to the site – every minute – if it was a country it would the third largest on the planet.
- Twitter – 1.4 billion tweets a week and 300,000 people a day are joining the site.
- Blogs – 200 million in existence and 1 million new blogs are started every day.
- 23% of all time on the Internet is Social Media = e-mail is 8% and falling away. Prediction is that stand alone e-mail will vanish in ten years – it’s already old school.
And just to show you how fast the world of books is changing
‘Sales data from US publishing houses shows that total ebook sales in February were $90.3m (£55.2m). This makes digital books the largest single format in the US for the first time ever overtaking paperbacks at $81.2m. In January, ebooks were the second-largest category, behind paperbacks.
America’s ebooks enjoyed a 202.3% growth in sales in February compared with the same month the previous year. Print books fared much worse by contrast, with the combined category of adult hardback and paperback books falling 34.4% to $156.8m in February. The children and young adult category of print books fell 16.1% to $58.5m.’
Change – it’s not going to stop.
Great news. My publisher has been working hard and Falling is now available as an eBook – click here.
Coals to Newcastle. Sand to the Sahara. Add to that – Crime to a Crime writer. With swift slight of hand by a fellow train passenger, I’ve just become the victim of a real crime and I’m now one iPhone lighter than I want to be. The sheer brazen way in which the perpetrator half-inched my phone when it fell to the carriage floor amazes me. I’m mid type on my laptop when I hear a thump. ‘My phone!’ I think – given it was resting on my bag I assumed it had fallen off. I close the laptop, check my bag and notice that the person behind me seems to be rooting around beneath my seat. By the time I stand up he’s sitting upright and tries to look surprised when I ask if he has seen my phone. ‘Why did you drop something?’ comes the reply. The look of innocence convinces me that maybe I was mistaken so I go through the ‘I’ve lost something routine’.
Check bag. Check jacket. Check bag again. Check pockets. Check floor. Empty bag. Re-check jacket. Re-check floor. Empty bag once more. Check floor once more. Pause. Consider where else it could be? Come up blank and go through the check and re-check thing all over again. Ask one of the other passengers to phone my phone – they do so three times – answer machine only. Back to the check thing.
A dozen phone calls to various lost property offices and the British Transport Police and I’m more convinced now, than ever, that the person sitting behind me on the train has flogged my phone down the pub for fifty quid!
Of course I could have lost my phone. I doubt it, but I can be forgetful. Every time I leave the house my wife awaits my return – which is never more than sixty seconds later – and looks on as I hunt for forgotten keys, phones, briefcases, jackets, wallets etc. Hotels around the land now possess a range of my clothes, toiletries, chargers and assorted bric-a-brac. Pens lie in my client’s offices never to be collected. Half finished books lounge by pools in foreign lands. All in all I have to admit that I’m cursed with the forgetful gene. But I’m not the worst.
Many years ago I worked in a garage pumping petrol. It was the good old days when self-service was still a thing of the future. It was a Sunday just after lunch and a man in an Austin Allegro rolled in. I fill up the tank. £5 to the brim. And he looks at me. I’ve seen the look before. No money. So what does he do? He asks his seven year old kid to jump out the car and, before I can object, drives off shouting that he’ll nip back for his wallet and the kid can act as collateral.
Half an hour later, and with the child full of lemonade and crisps, there is no sign of dad. I ask the kid ‘Where’s your house?’ and he informs me that ‘It’s near the school’ just as the Allegro reappears – burning rubber. The passenger door flies open and the mother rushes up to me to reclaim her child. I smile, she looks at me and points to the car. ‘He forgot about our son. He was heading off for golf when I asked him where John was? Can you believe my husband?’
Back then the answer was no. Thirty years on – the answer is probably yes. But please don’t tell my wife.
The lads and myself are not long back from our annual pilgrimage to the beautiful island of Gigha. When I say lads I may be stretching the definition a little but our behaviour, over the four days, can often have more in common with a herd of teenagers than a clique of quadragenarians.
Some of us have been going to the island, on and off, for thirty years and the squad that descended upon the isle this year are now on their fifteenth consecutive long May bank holiday trip. As with most men of our age we have embraced our ever blossoming OCD to great effect and each of us has our allocated tasks to perform. So well-worn is our desire for order that we have reduced the need for communication prior to the trip to zero because we all know exactly what is expected of each other. Food, accommodation, drink, transport, the kitty – even the weather are all the responsibility of set individuals.
Weather?
Yes we have our own resident Weather God in our midst. For the avoidance of doubt his job is not to forecast the weather – that would be a mundane use of his talents. His job is to improve the weather. In fact his job is more than this. He is singly tasked to ensure that the temperature is pleasant and the rainfall slight. Each year he’s instructed by us all to do whatever it is a Weather God does and ensure that Gigha is blessed with the sort of weather normally reserved for small Carribbean islands.
The intriguing thing about this bizarre request is that in the last fifteen years he has yet to let us down. For fifteen years we have climbed hills, lounged on beaches, drank in beer gardens and played golf without the need for waterproof clothing or the feel of a thick fleece upon our persons. Statistically it’s an anomaly of extraordinary proportions. We are, after all, talking the west coast of Scotland in late April/early May. We should be delighted if we enjoy even the odd day of sunshine but our Weather God stares at the sky and dares the clouds to darken our frivolities. And so far they never have.
Go figure. If we were to reveal this fact to the public at large we could have our own entry in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Our Weather God could easily become the Uri Geller of 2010’s. His skill could transform our fortunes. Think of the demand for someone that can ensure that perfect wedding day will not need brollies or that the local fun day will require an extra large stall selling sun-tan lotion. William and Kate even benefited from our Weather God’s will this year when he gave a quick glance at the telly on the Friday and no rain fell in London.
Of course it could be that I am using rose tinted glasses to look back over many years of good times on the island with my friends but, deep down, I know this is not the case. Deep down I suspect there is more to it all and I’ve already asked if our Weather God would work on four days of sun from the 27th April to the 30th April 2012. As such please take advantage of this event and book a barbeque for that weekend. No umbrellas will be required.
Scott and I did a special Laid Back from the Isle of Gigha - click here to listen – http://soundcloud.com/brown27/laid-back-may-13th/s-jcmxf
Foreigner, Journey and Styx. Not a London based legal firm of lawyers but three ageing giants of the 1980’s US rock scene. Resplendent in tight jeans (or for the brave – spandex), capped sleeve tee-shirts and topped off with long frizzy hair this trio, along with other ‘legends’ such as Reo Speedwagon, Chicago, Asia, Huey Lewis and the News – the list seems endless – represented a world of excess wrapped in the Stars and Stripes. I mention them because I have been arm twisted by a friend into seeing the triple act in full flow this summer, well let’s be honest here – almost full flow. They are not quite in the Zimmer territory of some of the 1960’s bands on tour at the moment – but I’m not counting on witnessing any Dave Lee Roth trademark, ten feet high, leg splits.
What I am expecting is an audience that has, like yours truly, never quite let go of the 80’s. Not that I haven’t tried to divorce myself from the decade. Sometimes I can go months without playing OMD’s greatest hits. I even forgot the words to Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood once – but rescued the situation by playing it thirty times on my iPod while in the gym – damn fine gym track by the way.
Beyond music I still have every note, folder and book from my university days. Why? Good question. They have lain untouched since my graduation, twenty-seven years ago and I suspect that they may still be there, providing I’m still here, twenty-seven years from now.
It’s not a desire to stay young that drives this behaviour. Rather it’s my reluctance to let go of certain items. LP’s (for the young amongst you LP’s are Long Playing vinyl records) videos, DVD’s, books – I still have every one that I’ve ever purchased or been gifted. I can go on holiday with a dozen books and unless they are all in my bag on the flight home I feel cheated.
But I have a dilemma. A digital dilemma. As the proud owner of both a Kindle and iPod I now ‘own’ books and music that lack any tangible presence. My Virgin TV box is full of movies that are nothing more than one and zeroes on a hard drive. The radio show that I do every few weeks is no longer stored on a tape but is hidden in the guts of the station’s computer.
As such my hoarding is now moving from the physical to the electronic and I have a vision of me sitting in my dotage, surrounded by cracked and broken MP3 players, flaky PC’s and a pile of rusting hard drives.
But what’s to become of me with the next wave of content distribution – streaming. A world where Stephen King’s latest book or OMD’s fourth comeback album will exist in the so called ‘cloud’. What will I own then? A password? A user ID? Or maybe, just maybe, I will be able to stand next to some non-descript server in a darkened warehouse, stroking the metal casing – knowing my ‘virtual’ music and books live there. Digital tourism at it’s most extreme. Then I will wait for the day that the server is consigned to the scrap heap and I can offer to purchase it, take it home and, happily, continue my hoarding ways.
Every second Friday I forget about the day job and, armed with a friend of longer standing than we both care to mention, take up the mantle as DJ’s on the local community radio station – Pulse 98.4. We enter the studios at three o’clock and pre record a two hour show of laid-back music (imaginatively entitled Laid Back with Gordon and Scott) and at five we move to live mode and host the drive- time show for an hour.
If you’re one of the poor souls who have heard us, you’ll understand why we have acquired the Smashy and Nicey tag. But we like to think that we put some care and attention into both programmes. We prepare before hand. Well, Scott does. He has become the king of Wikepedia in his pre show research. I fully expect him to pop up on TV sitting in that famous black chair to the introduction – ‘Mr Ballantyne you have two minutes on your chosen subject – Laid Back Music 1950 to the present day. Who reached number 9 in the US country Charts in 1967 with ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me?’’
My research tends to be limited. In fact my co-host’s view is that I just talk rubbish for three hours. Our audience is unknown. The station has no research budget to speak of and, as such, we rely on anecdotal feedback and the odd text – you can text on 0753 898 4984 or find us live on www.pulseonair.co.uk – oops force of habit.
So, in a 21st century orientated experiment I decided to employ the power of Social Media to see if we could stretch the listening boundaries of the station. Well when I say me I really mean a friend who lives in Germany and happens to have an international Facebook profile. Using her network we trailed the show with her friends and, at five o’clock, waited to see what feedback we got.
The result was a global jamboree. Individuals from Singapore, Uganda, the USA, Germany (off course), Spain and Australia are now official Pulse 98.4 listeners. Which is impressive when you consider it was six in the morning in Sydney, two in the morning in Singapore and ten in the morning in Los Angeles. As to what use the traffic report for the M77 or the gig guide for the West of Scotland would be in those countries is hard to fathom. And the news story about the new bin lorry that East Renfrewshire Council had just purchased will no doubt be the talk of the steamy in Kampala. I’m also sorry to report that the request for “Tú mirada me hace grande” by Maldita Nerea. (currently riding high in the Spanish charts) beat the Pulse 98.4 record library.
What they thought of the Glaswegian accents will have to remain a mystery.
Oh and just in case you are wondering who did chart with ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me’ in 1967 – you lose two points if you said Dean Martin. It was, of course, that star of screen, Robert Mitchum.
I’m trawling through looking for favourite quotes. So far I like -
‘Creativity is the defeat of habit by originality.’ Arthur Koestler.
I’m appearing with Karen Campbell at The ‘Wee’ Fish and Chips Crime Night at Milngavie Bookshop on Monday the 21st of March. Details will be avilable soon at: http://www.milngaviebookshop.co.uk/bookshopevents.html
I was recently asked to join two fellow crime writers, Alex Gray and Tony Black, on a visit to Barlinnie prison. We were asked to do a reading for some of the prisoners to be followed by a ‘question and answer’ session. Alex has been on a number of these before but I was new to the whole prison thing.
Thirty expectant prisoners listened to the three of us read from our various books before we all gathered for a photo and some chat. To say we were facing a critical audience was a bit of an understatement. In a previous event Alex Gray had been reading from her last book, entitled ‘Five Ways to Kill A Man’, when she mentioned the title. There was a cough and one of her audience was heard to whisper – ‘I know a lot more than five ways!’
But our audience was both attentive and inquisitive. Leading to quite a bit of banter. After the reading Rhona Hotchkiss, the deputy governor, was kind enough to offer us a short tour of the prison.
Constructed in 1882 the prison is Victorian architecture at its most effective. Built when space was more of an opportunity than a challenge it could double as the set from Porridge in many places. Two prisoners to a cell is the norm. I spent a couple of minutes inside one of the cells used for those on their first night and it was enough to convince me I don’t want to become a resident.
The whole complex is a maze of buildings, walkways and walls. With nearly a hundred and thirty years of history behind the establishment there are stories attached to every inch – ghosts (the third last man to be hanged in Scotland, Peter Manuel, still switches on the call light from his cell), infamous, (the building where Abdelbaset Mohmed Ali al-Megrahi was held on arrival is nicknamed Gaddafi’s Cafe) and the famous (Andy Scott – the artists behind the Heavy Horse on the M8 – is working with prisoners to put their own horse in the gardens this year) means there is more than a book to be written on Barlinnie – a whole series awaits.
There is an overriding sense of politeness to outsiders from both staff and prisoners. More so than you would get walking through a five star hotel. Of course we could have been getting special treatment but my overall impression was of peace and quiet – not what I had expected.
My summation of the day – interesting, intriguing and instructive but I’ll not be in a hurry to go back – one day in prison was more than enough for this man.
Well the reading at Barlinnie Prison made the papers – see The Sun. An eye opening day. Alex Gray and Tony Black were the other writers on the visit (http://www.alex-gray.com/ and http://www.tonyblack.net/).
I think I’ll do my next Brown view on the visit.
Should be interesting doing a reading in prison. I can’t decide what to read but I’m sure that a chapter from 59 Minutes – a book where a criminal gets his revenge might just go down well (or maybe not?).
Yesterday’s Herald carried a piece in Ken Smith’s diary on the upcoming reading at Barlinnie:
‘WE note that crime authors Alex Gray, Tony Black and Gordon Brown are visiting Glasgow’s Barlinnie Jail on February 15 to talk to the inmates about the pure escapism of reading fiction, although that’s perhaps not the escapism some of the audience might have in mind.
We only mention it as having Gray, Black and Brown under the same roof makes it sound like a Scottish version of Reservoir Dogs, but of course, being Scottish, it is not as colourful as Hollywood’s Mr Pink, Mr Blue, Mr White and Mr Orange.’
Back in Black.
As spring threatens to blossom did you noticed the predominance of black clothing this winter? I can’t tell if it has always been this way or if I’m just noticing it more. It was as if someone famous had died and we were all in mourning. I’d guess that half the individuals I saw on the street were, in part, clothed in black. Yet, and here is the strange bit, when I walked through East Kilbride shopping centre the clothing shops were not awash with black garments. They were (and, ladies, this is the official top ten colours for spring) a rainbow of Honeysuckle, Russet, Coral Rose, Peapod, Blue Curacao, Beeswax, Lavender, Silver Peony and Silver Cloud. For the lads, and I have this on good authority, we should be wearing Barberry, Firecracker, Turf Green, Beeswax, Linen, Russet, Regatta, Blue Curacao, Lavender or Flint Grey.
You will notice that at no point does black feature. I looked up the winter colours in case there had been a mad focus on the darkest of dark shades. I mean, maybe the January sales had been one giant ‘funeral-cortege’ and I had missed it all. But no – black was not a winter colour.
In fact black hasn’t been a season’s fashion colour for years. As such I am left with the inescapable conclusion that although many of us step heavily in the footsteps of the fashion gurus of this world, we do not renew our wardrobe anywhere near as often as the fashion police would demand. Gok Wan can pontificate all he wants about the importance of new clothes in changing your life but as far as I can work out most of us are wearing old clothes – seriously old clothes. How else can you account for the dominance of a colour that hasn’t seen a cat walk in a decade?
Do me a favour. Go to the place you keep your coats and lift out your favourite (no doubt black) coat and consider how long you have had it? A year. Two? More. I’m not a betting man but, and lads this is so much more likely to be you than the girls, some coats have more than ten years behind them. Why? Lack of cash? Laziness? Love?
Well US Senator Jim Hargrove has a theory. He recently sited (and this is gospel) that an old fraternity brother of his had been wearing the same trench coat for twenty years. Why? Because, as was observed by this respected member of the US political landscape, the coat owner in question has been smoking marijuana for the last two decades. Seriously. Marijuana?
Now I don’t know if the trench coat in question is black. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t but does this mean that if your next-door neighbour/friend/colleague (delete as necessary) has been wearing the same coat since the eighties that he/she has a serious narcotic addiction?
Does this potentially explain the sea of black that flowed down our streets? Think of the consequences if it did? Answers on a postcard! Oh, and while your out buying the stamp, see if you can dig out a non-black coat and maybe we can add a little colour to these depressing times. Personally I fancy one with just a hint of Beeswax.
Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and his new novel ’59 Minutes’, published by Fledgling Press, is now out. For more info visit www.gordonjbrown.com.
I’m down to my first solo live outing on the radio this Friday. I’m on 5.00pm to 6.00pm Drivetime show on Pulse 98.4FM or live on www.pulseonair.co.uk.
Eek.
Religious Tea
When I was young the background music to life was the whispering bubbling of a kettle coming to the boil. This was born of two grandmothers who saw tea as more essential than air and held the drink in the same tones of reverence that the religious reserve for their God. Tea was a beverage for every conceivable occasion. From birth to death – tea was the one constant. Every disaster and every celebration had to be accompanied by a cup of fresh brew. On my grandmother’s planet the gap, in time, between cups of tea was so infinitesimal that it held a mathematical definition all of its own.
And tea came with rituals that were engraved on the front door of their homes. Loose tea – never tea bags. Warm the pot first. Leave to infuse for at least a month. Cup – with saucer of course and never, ever, a mug. Milk before tea and then sugar. Stir for another month. Leave for a heartbeat. Take an appreciative sip. Utter the words ‘that’s a lovely cup of tea’ and reach for the biccies/cake/bun* – (*delete as necessary.)
I was weaned on tea and the sad truth is that few kids nowadays drink the precious liquid. Too challenging a taste. Fizzy drinks are easier on the palate, they are less hassle and heaven forbid that a child would be asked to handle hot water! I entered the hallowed halls of tea before I could walk. My first cup of tea was not even a cup. Made with the same care as one destined for the best china but at the last minute diverted and poured into my bottle. Too milky, too sugary, too cool – but it was tea. Sucking it through rubber must have been ok because it started my life-long love affair with the stuff.
My mother has inherited the tea-worshiping gene and her fervour, along with two ‘tea addicted’ grannies, has given me a zeal for the stuff that borders on the obsessive. I have never knowingly refused a cup. I see it as an affront. My intake can be north of ten cups a day, but , and sorry Grans, for me it has to be a mug – oh and I prefer tea bags (I can hear the sound of distant tutting as I type this).
‘I’ll just put the kettle on’ is such a great phrase. It presages everything that is good about life. In the good moments it is the bonus ball that will make you a millionaire. In the bad moments it is the super sticking plaster that will fix all.
If there is a way to sum up the power of the almighty tea leaf take the following as a case study.
Let me start by pointing out that the cardinal sin in the world of tea is to rise from a chair, with others around you, and make a cup for yourself without offering to do likewise for those nearby. For a few years I worked at STV where I was notionally in charge of the station’s marketing, viewers enquiries and the voice over team. We all sat in an open plan office around tables that accommodated six people. Sitting next to us was our colleagues that looked after the programme scheduling. As such, and it did take a few months to convert people to the correct tea etiquette, a trip to the office kitchen could easily result in the requirement to make a dozen cuppas. I think the record was fifteen. Did anyone complain? Did the flow of tea ever stop? Were we better off for the tea run? Answers – no, no and yes. A powerful brew.
Tea for me is the ultimate bonding agent, a polite way to bring people together – a relationship maker. Am I over-playing its importance? Well let me just make another cup of tea and I’ll tell you some more.
By the way do you take milk and sugar?
The Six Man Sledge
On the 14th and 15th of April 1931 over 87.5 inches of snow fell on the town of Silver Lake in Colorado – all in a period of twenty seven and half hours. As far as I am aware, not one driver attempted to get in his car and drive off without first removing some snow.
Compare that with November/December 2010 in Glasgow where a fair proportion of drivers got into their cars, switched on the windscreen wipers and drove off with a crown of snow on their roof that would struggle to get under the rail bridge at Busby.
But this is not a rant fest and I’m not going to go off on one (even if such driver’s should be removed from their cars, keys confiscated and their licenses revoked). I make the point because the cold weather sent me on a nostalgia trip. As I write my daughter is off to the park for a bout of sledging. I adored sledging – not that I had the premoulded sleek sliding machine that she is dragging behind her. No, the pinnacle of my ingenuity was to sneak a six by four feet slab of Formica out of our house – blissfully unaware that it was intended to form the top of our new kitchen table.
It was the ultimate multi person sledge. Sitting at the top of my road, and we are talking the Mount Everest of the south side here, six of us sat astride the shiny surface. (If you want a sense of perspective on what is to follow take a trip to Simshill and stand at the top of the Farne Drive looking down to Old Castle Road).
The night was perfect. The road was clear of cars – as it always was back then. The snow was deep and untouched. The sense of anticipation was thick and it took only the smallest of nudges to set us off. With no steering and nothing to hold onto we clung to each other as we gathered speed. A lot of speed. Ski jumping type speed. We lost the first passenger as we passed our next door neighbour’s house at around thirty miles an hour. Numbers two and three were thrown clear as we mounted the pavement and bounced off a garden wall at closer to sixty. Number four was ripped from our bosom when his outstretched arm clipped a lamppost. By now we had topped the ton. Two of us hung on – zipping backwards at close to the speed of sound – hearts racing, screaming into the iced air. The one downside, and it was a big downside, was that my road ended in a T junction and, with no possible means of steering around the corner, we exited the road, crossed the junction, hit the kerb, executed the perfect take off, flew into the garden of the house at the foot of our hill and died.
Well, not quite. What we actually did was drag the Formica back to the top of the hill, picking up the lost passengers as we climbed, and set off again in, as it turned out, a vain attempt to reach the bottom with six bodies on board.
As I remember it we tried to well past midnight but somehow we never managed to keep the six of us together for the whole trip.
There is a side story to this. The following morning, in the bright white of a snow lit day, the Formica top that had performed so heroically did not quite have the pristine shine and ‘fresh out the wrapper’ look of the previous evening. In fact it had more scratches than a nineties DJ and more chips than McDonalds. I can’t remember my father’s reaction but I think I may have wiped the bad from the good that day to preserve the wonder of the six-man sledge.
Out of sheer curiosity I’ve just checked online and a six foot length of Formcia can be had for a hundred quid at B&Q – expensive but I wonder if I still have the contact details of my five friends from back then…
The University of Scotland magazine – West has reviewed my latest book. I’ve posted the review below or you can click on http://www.uws.ac.uk/alumni/west-viewer.asp.
BANG ON THE HOUR
REVIEWED BY HELEN SEDGWICK
59 Minutes, the second novel from crime
writer Gordon Brown, gives us the unlikely
but exciting story of a petty Glaswegian
criminal who becomes one of the most
powerful crime lords in the UK. From
modestly violent beginnings as a gun for
hire in 70s gang-infested Scotland, ‘Riko’
narrates his rise to infamy with sharp bursts
of brutality, surprising observation and more
than a light sprinkling of humour. But all
does not end well for our ambitious Riko; just
as he has reached the top, he is sent right
back down again and finds himself plotting
revenge from his cell during a decade and a
half in prison.
On his release, he records his desperation,
obsession, and plans for vengeance on a
Dictaphone – recordings that appear have been
typed up for our benefit. But who are we?
And why have we been presented with this
questionable diary?
With plot twists that keep the pages turning
fast and an array of suspicious characters
without a morally decent thought between
them, the answers remain elusive for the
majority of the book. Descriptions of Glasgow
and London are vivid throughout and the
cities seem, for all their grim gore, surprisingly
recognisable; despite not being a crime lord
myself, I suspect I have walked the back streets
with the best of them. If you fancy a bit of sun,
there are some blistering scenes in Spain as
well, ensuring the backdrop never becomes
stale or over familiar. The diary entry style of
the second half keeps the pace up, and the
conclusion arrives with a satisfying boom that
ties up all the loose ends in one big bodybag.
If you like your thrillers fast and your criminals
with severed spinal cords, you’ll find this a
cracking read.
Falling has been put up for voting in the People’s Book Prize – so if you fancy supporting me click on this link – http://www.peoplesbookprize.com/book.php?id=494.
A big thanks to David at Hyndland Book shop for the opportunity to do a reading at the store. Good fun and a nice evening.
Chewing Gum for the Mind.
I was checking on upcoming TV programmes a few weeks ago and noticed that the first ten Star Trek films were being shown back to back (well almost) on Film 4. So I hit the little red button a few times and set my machine to ingest twenty three hours of Trekkie fodder on to the hard drive. (Who knows how these things work – but then again I’m still stunned that you can pause live TV!)
I’ve seen all the films before – in some cases multiple times. So why record them – and worse still – after twenty three hours of down time – why watch them all?
Then again, why did I, one Christmas, ask for every James Bond film? Why do I start watching Doctor No, go all the way through to Quantum of Solace and start again at the beginning?
Why?
Escapism.
The need to get away from the day to day.
Or as I like to call it – chewing gum for the mind.
What’s yours?
I have many more.
This list could be much longer but, in my case, will never include the likes of DIY, gardening, car cleaning, cooking, decorating, maintenance, taxi driving (or as it is called in our house ‘giving the kids a lift’) or anything else that can have the word chore attached to it. In my book these are not moments of escape but the domestic equivalent of going to the office.
And talking about the office I’m off to work shortly but, if I time it just right, I will catch the dulcet tones of Jenni Murray on Women’s Hour where I believe they are planning to discuss the merits of ‘real bread’ – wonderful.
Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and his new novel ’59 Minutes’, published by Fledgling Press, is now out. For more info visit www.gordonjbrown.com.
I’m due to be on Clyde 2 on Sunday the 24th October – sometime between six and ten – on the Mike Riddoch show. You can get it on 1152AM or online at http://radioplayer.clyde2.com/
My family and I were on our way home from a weekend visiting friends in the Midlands. After a brief shopping stop at Gretna – signs appeared on the motorway informing us that the M74 was closed at Junction 8. A quick bit of map reading, and my wife tells me to exit at junction 9 and we will take the back way home.
Good plan.
Unfortunately Junction 9 doesn’t have an exit going north – it is one of those junctions with an on ramp going south only.
As such we soon come across two lines of traffic that are, to all intents and purposes, parked. We are going nowhere at speed. With nothing to do but occasionally nudge the car forward a few yards I start to people watch. It’s not normally something I get to do while driving and, after a while, I realise that sitting in a queue reveals a lot about a person. I suspect that there is a doctorate to be had in understanding the behavior of people in such a situation, A situation, and lets be clear about this, where you really have Hobson’s Choice – wait it out – but that doesn’t seem to sit well with some people.
I spent a good hour trying to devise some sort of classification- well what else was there to do?
Category 1: The Lane Jumper – with two lanes to choose from people in this category will squeeze into whichever lane is moving quickest. It doesn’t seem to occur to them that it makes no difference. They are all wing mirrors and indicators – forcing their way back and forth slowly but ending up almost exactly where they started. Only they have elevated their blood pressure a few points and hacked off the drivers around them. Annoying meter score – 7/10
Category 2: The Fresh Air Music Fiend – despite the vast quantities of carbon monoxide swirling around - the queue is a signal to open every window wide and, because you can, turn up the music. This is done in the mistaken belief that everyone else will be so impressed by your musical selection that they will see you as some sort of rock guru – WRONG. Annoying meter score – 5/10
Category 3: The Emergency Lane Bandit – ignoring both the danger and illegality of using the emergency lane these people hammer up the inside – clearly with some inane justification in their head for doing so. What can you say about this? Idiots isn’t even close to strong enough. Annoying meter score – 10/10
Category 4: The Power Nappers – with movement as rare as a Scotland away goal, falling asleep is always a danger. Take the man in the soft top MG a couple of cars front of us. Twenty minutes in and he goes for a kip – the queue moves – a honk of the horn from the car behind – and does he say thank you? – nope – a flick of two fingers – wonderful. Annoying meter score – 4/10
Category 5: The Dreamers – this is me. Another world beckons and I’m gone. Off to planet Gordon until my wife nudges me to point out we should be on the move. Annoying meter score – ask my wife?
All in all there is a probably a sit com in here somewhere – so if you are stuck in a jam sometime in the future feel free to send me a note of any new categories you spot – just click on www.gordonjbrown.com.
I have a number of readings coming up over the next few months and more to be confirmed:
Tuesday 16th November – 6.00pm – - Hyndland Bookshop – 143 Hyndland Road Glasgow, Lanarkshire G12 9JA - 0141 334 5522
Saturday 4th December – 12.00pm – Bookpoint – 147-149 Argyll St Dunoon PA23 7DD - 01369 702 37. Web – www.dunoonbookpoint.co.uk
Monday 17th January – 6.00pm – Books in the West – 89 Main St, West Kilbride, Ayrshire, KA23 9AP 01294 824872 – Web – www.booksinthewest.com
This review of 59 minutes in the Daily Record is great -
59 Minutes – Gordon Brown – Shari Low – Daily Record – 02/10/10
http://blogs.dailyrecord.co.uk/sharilow/
What a great night at Waterstones last night. Thanks to everyone that turned out on a damp Tuesday night to listen to me waffle on. A big thanks to Waterstones for hosting the night. I’ve put a few photos from last night below.
For info this is what is going out to the media – just in case you are interested:
WHEN IT COMES TO REVENGE – TIMING IS EVERYTHING
‘59 Minutes’ is a high pace crime thriller set in Glasgow and is Gordon Brown’s second book, following on from the success of his debut novel ‘Falling’ last year.
The Glasgow Herald wrote of ‘Falling’ – ‘Brown keeps a skilful grip on his material in what turns out to be a very promising debut novel.’ and his second novel fulfils all expectations and more.
’59 Minutes’ tells the story of a Glasgow criminal as he rises to become one of the most powerful crime lords in the UK, only to have it all ripped away from him . Imprisoned then reduced to a life on the street, he becomes hell bent on vengeance.. Tough, hard-hitting and pulling no punches, Gordon Brown makes his tale come alive in a way that is likely to be admired by established crime writers and readers. He has produced an exciting successor to his first novel with an action-packed tale guaranteed to keep readers turning the pages until the very last page.
‘Great stuff- 59 Minutes is a pacy, intriguing crime thriller with a stunning conclusion’ Helen Fitzgerald author of crime novels ‘Dead Lovely ‘ and ‘My Last Confession’
Richard Draycott, editor of The Drum writes: ’59 Minutes is an edge of your seat thrill ride from the first second to the last nail biting moment. Hold on tight, it’s one hell of a journey with an explosive twist. Brilliant!’
Gordon Brown was born and lives in Glasgow – having spent twenty five years in the sales and marketing world working on everything from alcohol (he was Director of Brands at Tennents) to global charities and from TV to lingerie.
Gordon started out life packing shelves for Sainsbury’s before moving to Canada to join the brewery business. He set up his own marketing business in Glasgow called Circuit Break (see www.circuitbreak.co.uk) in 2001. He has an honours degree from Strathclyde along with a MBA from Nottingham Trent University and is married with two children.
Gordon is launching ’59 Minutes’ in Waterstone’s, Sauchiehall St, Glasgow on Tuesday 21st September at 6.30pm.
ISBN: 978-1-905916-25-2
To receive a review copy,arrange an interview or place orders for the book, contact:
Fledgling Press
7 Lennox Street
Edinburgh
EH4 1QB
Phone 0131 343 2367
e-mail: zander@fledglingpress.co.uk
www.fledglingpress.co.uk
The launch of 59 Minutes will take place at 6:30pm at Waterstones on Sauchiehall St, Glasgow. If anyone wants to come along just let me know or turn up on the evening.
Ok so it’s all getting a little hectic. The new book is out next month and I’m finalising the launch date. I’m setting up some signings and posters arrived yesterday. Bookmarks are on their way and I’ve already had orders from WH Smith, Waterstone’s and a range of independent book shops. It is also available at www.fledglingpress.co.uk and www.amazon.co.uk.
I’ll update the site with further details as they come on line.
Back cover blurb for the new book:
‘When it comes to revenge – timing is everything.
Enter the world of a Glasgow criminal as he rises to become one of the most
powerful crime lords in the UK, only to have it all ripped away from him. Imprisoned,
then reduced to a life on the street, he becomes hell bent on vengeance.
‘59 Minutes’ is a high pace crime thriller and is Gordon Brown’s second book,
following the success of his first novel, ‘Falling.’’
The new novel, ’59 Minutes’, has just rolled of the printer and is to be launched soon – however you can get advance copies at www.fledglingpress.co.uk.
I’ll post up signings, launch etc shortly.
A few weeks ago I, through a combination of work, pleasure and stupidity, flew home from holiday in Turkey and, almost immediately, spent six days driving to Manchester, to Birmingham, Stratford-upon-Avon before turning north to Harrogate and finally back home.
I stayed in two hotels, a guest-house and fell asleep in the car half a dozen times. I grazed my way through Sainsbury’s bought sandwiches, Tesco bought pasties and Shell bought Coca Cola. I rose no later than seven and went to bed no earlier than midnight.
I became a wrong turning junkie and visited some of the unsung sights of England. For example I enjoyed the delights of the waste disposal centre for Central Birmingham. I circled the Morrison’s car park in Stratford three times looking for the exit and paid a brief visit to someone’s flooded front garden in Bollington.
I created a new way to negotiate a one-way system just south of Macclesfield, tried to fill my diesel car with petrol and made an attempt to pay the bill with a Makro card.
My luggage for the trip contained more shirts than I needed but I short-changed myself on pants and t-shirts. I forgot to take toothpaste, deodorant and shower gel but I could have held a fire sale of dental floss and after shave.
I decided to use the hotel gym to offset the late nights, and dropped a weight on my toe. Not to be discouraged I tried the gym again two nights later where I duly emptied a glass of water down my front and, a few minutes later, sat in the puddle.
One hotel wanted sixty pounds for access to the WiFi (sixty quid!) but a neighbouring hotel was free. I logged onto the freebie and it took an hour to download ten e-mails – by which time my lap top battery had run out.
On three occasions I walked to my next appointment without a jacket – and it rained. On two occasions I wore a jacket and the thermometer hit the mid seventies.
I gave one elderly lady directions in Harrogate – even though I had just arrived and it has been twenty years since I was last there.
If you wish I can also pass on ten post-codes where O2 mobile phones don’t work.
I have little or no recollection of any of the motorway miles and managed to think that Thursday was Wednesday for most of the day.
When I got home I discovered that I had lost two novels, a couple of pairs of socks, half a dozen pens and a piece of paper with a very important phone number on it.
I was on the point of moaning about all this to my friend in the pub when he pointed out that he had just returned from Basra in Iraq where he had flown on six flights, passed through twelve x-ray machines (five of which he had to negotiate just to get out of Basra airport), spent a sleepless night in Amman airport in Jordan watching the news and had stayed in a hotel in Basra that would have pleased Norman Bates.
Add to that the inherent danger in visiting such a place and I realized that, all in all, mine was a very normal trip by comparison.
I’m sitting listening to Armin van Buuren’s Unforgiveable from an album called Cream Future Trance. I love my Trance Dance music and, as I approach my fiftieth birthday, it seems that I am somewhat of a sad old man that won’t let go of his youth. At least that is what I’m told on a regular basis.
I’ve never been one to reach a period in my life and stop listening to new music. I don’t see the point. Sure I still listen to music from years ago – put it this way I’m going to see Status Quo, OMD and the Psychedelic Furs in the next few months – so I’m hardly rejecting my younger days. But, if I have a personal hobby horse (and I have many), I despair of people who not only reject, but actively avoid new music. You know the type. The Beatles fan who still thinks Dave Lee Travis is on Radio 1. The ABBA freak who thinks T in the Park is a picnic for old ladies in Rouken Glen. The people who perceive downloading as a fancy word for getting the trunk out of the loft.
iTunes has been a revelation to me. To others it is a product available from Boots to help them breathe easier. These are the same people that find music genres a mystery. Emo stars in Sesame Street – doesn’t he? Ambient is the temperature for a good bottle of red wine? Garage Rock is a collection of minerals from the trip to Ayr beach.
OK I can see why some people don’t move on. Why should you? You like what you like – right? But think of it this way. What if, back then, Mick and Keith had taken the same tack.
‘You now what, Keith? I like listening to the easy swing of Mr Glen Miller. Let us not form a pop group as I am happy with his clarinet and saxophone led tunes’
‘I agree. Mick. And, for me, the dulcet tones of Jim Reeves will satisfy me until I breathe my last.’
Your Rolling Stones fan wouldn’t be so much stoned as stoneless
iTunes just dowloaded its 10 billionth track. Not all of them are new but maybe, just maybe, there was the odd good one amongst the newer stuff. And maybe, just maybe, it might lead to a whole new world of music that you never knew existed.
I have a suggestion. If you know someone that lives in a musical time warp ask them to walk into HMV, go up to the assistant and say the following:
‘I am a fan of (insert your favourite band(s) name(s) here) and I am looking for similar music from new bands.’
No big risk there. No need to invest in the latest Chilled, Retro Boogie, Hip Hop, Rock fusion – just ask them to pop on the CD they suggest and listen. You can do the same thing from your armchair with iTunes – type in your favourite album and then simply click on the section that says ‘Listeners Also Bought.’ I just entered ABBA Gold and seemingly I would like Lilly Allen, Duffy, Black Eyed Peas, Mika, and Coldplay. And, if you are interested, Armin van Burren brought up OceanLab, Above & Beyond and John O’Callaghan – I have no idea who they are but my Visa card is already burning a hole through my laptop.
Go on try it – what is the worst that could happen?
Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author with his second novel – ’59 Minutes’ coming out in August. If you want a bit more info why not visit www.gordonjbrown.com.
We are creeping ever nearer the launch of ’59 Minutes.’ Best bet, at the moment, is mid August. I’ll get the cover up on the site as soon as possible.
This is my latest article for my local magazine – MY G76 – see www.myg76.com. For more articles click on Writing and then on A Brown View on Life.
A Brown View on Life 8.
Holidays.
My fifteen year old son has just put the last full stop on his fourth year exams. He tripped through the front door with a smile on his face and the look of someone who is just discovering what the phrase ‘de-mob happy’ really means.
I watched his demeanor and memories flooded back. It has been a while since I sat exams and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to hand in that final paper, and walk down a road that now seems to be more akin to a bouncy castle.
It has been much longer since I handed in a paper and knew that summer now beckoned. All seven weeks of it. Or, as I remember it from my school days, all seven years of it. The endless days stretching before me like so many dominos in a row – just waiting to be toppled in glorious slow motion.
What did I do with all that time? What would I do with it now?
I suspect that today I’d treat the school holidays a little differently. When I was young I would be up and out of the door before the birds had moved to full song. Today I’d probably lie in bed and sigh deeply. Back then I would play from dawn to dusk – stopping only to take on food and juice. Nowadays I’d drift from the bedroom to the telly, drink tea and contemplate the fact that the lawn needs done. As a kid I’d treat every day as an adventure. Now I’d treat every day as an excuse to treat tomorrow as an adventure. Off course tomorrow would never come.
But some things would be the same. I’d lose track of time. My thought processes would shrink to the point that my IQ score would be in single figures. Tasks would remain undone, beds unmade, hair uncut – goofing off the norm and I would revert to my youth at speed.
How can I be so sure? Well I have proof. Each year my friends and I partake of a lad’s weekend and, each year, I sprout acne, talk nonsense and act like a spoilt teenager – and that’s before the car has even left my driveway.
Wonderful.
Off course there is the downside to this. At some point, and it always seems too soon, it will be time to re-enter reality. A tight stomach, churning gut, gloomy head and a desire to find a way to extend the holiday ad infinitum. First day back at school/first day back at work – not much difference and then the countdown begins to the next break.
So would I really like to return to school holidays?
What do you think?
I thought I was at the end of the edit process and then things went a little south. The new book decided it didn’t like the way I was treating it and after another read through it made it clear that it wanted me to work on it a bit more.
It’s like having a new baby. you just think you have got the darn think to sleep and then it wakes up, demanding attention.
So I pulled out the bottle, filled it with some milk, heated it and pushed it into the mouth of the ever hungry wane.
It drank it up and asked for more. So I gave it more and after a few more read throughs it is now sleeping with its uncle (in another world – the publisher).
I’m not sure if it will sleep through but i’ve put it to bed and hopefully it will gently slide towards the printer – but i’m not betting on it.
Final edit done. Now with publisher. Cover agreed. Launch date to be agreed. time for a cup of tea.
I’m off for a sunny weekend of crime and, well more crime, at the Harrogate Crime Festival at the end of July. Hopefully I’ll have a copy of the new book to take with me as we are at final edit. I must dig out the cover and put it on the site.
Click on Writing and a Brown View on Life for another episode from the Brown side of life.
Silence is golden or ignorance is bliss or … anyway I’ve ben remiss with the blog. The new novel is at final edit and will soon be heading for the printers – by soon I mean sometime in the next few months. We have a cover design we are happy with and a cracking strap-line – more soon. I need to change the sample chapters on the site as they are now out of date and I’ll do this soon.
GB
