Adrian McKinty interviewed by Len Wanner

Interviews 1 Response »
Jul 312011

These would seem to be the days of the second Celtic Twilight. A century after Yeats and Co. Ireland has again become a source of inspiration with writers such as yourself making Irish crime fiction something more than mock-Americana. What brought you to the genre?

Crime fiction was the genre that I fell in love with as a kid. The style, the panache, the verve of the 30’s American writers in particular was something I really enjoyed reading. I just loved being in that world. The rainy LA of Raymond Chandler, the hip San Francisco of Hammett, the California dreamscapes of James Cain and from a little bit of a later period the dusty West Texas small towns of Jim Thompson.

Whose work has most influenced your writing and what do you wish to accomplish as a writer of fiction?

The American writers of the 30’s I mentioned as well as Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, JG Ballard, Flann O’Brien, Patricia Highsmith, Angela Carter, Iris Murdoch and Cormac McCarthy are big influences.

You grew up in Northern Ireland, got yourself a degree from Oxford and found your way to Harlem, the setting of your novel Dead I Well May Be. In what portions have life and academia gone into you writing?

I suppose studying twentieth century philosophy and existentialism had a bit of an effect on my writing. In the absence of a god or an external moral authority the individual must carve out his own sense of ethics. Most of my characters have adhered to this dictum for better or worse in their lives.

The title of your debut novel Dead I Well May Be is a line from “Danny Boy”. The song has become the unofficial anthem of the Irish Diaspora, and calls to mind the sentiments of parents who see their son off to war. “But when ye come, and all the flow’rs are dying / If I am dead, as dead I well may be / ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying / And kneel and say an ‘Ave’ there for me.” Is this story the Irish retelling of Everyman?

To be honest I always liked the tune of Danny Boy much more than the lyrics. It’s a beautiful, complex and ancient melody. But I do like that second verse of the song and the line seemed so appropriate that I had to use it in the context of the novel. I do like it but I’m also a bit embarrassed by it.

Michael Forsythe, the protagonist of Dead I Well May Be, leaves Belfast for organised crime in the States only to end up in a Mexican prison. Your writing is at times hilarious and at times sparse, at others it tells of horrendous violence but it is always poetic in its deep sensitivity for a fractured humanity. It is not unlike that of Ken Bruen. Were you inspired by Ken and his experience of a similar jail in Brazil?

Funnily enough I didn’t read any of Ken’s stuff until 2004 when Dead I Well May Be was being published by Serpents Tail. Pete Ayrton the publisher sent me all of Ken’s ST novels. I remember reading Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice and thinking “Yes, yes, this is what I’m talking about. He sees what I see!” Bruen has subsequently become a big influence to me not just for his writing but also for his courage and his generosity too. Dead I Well May Be was autobiographical to some extent, although unlike The Guards I did not end up in a Mexican Prison!

I was, however, an illegal immigrant in Harlem for 4 years and did end up working with the usual low rent Mafioso who control the black economy in the states. Their dialogue and actions often went straight into the book.

The hallucinatory stream of consciousness that defines Michael Forsythe’s escape through the jungle is reminiscent of Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. “Your skin is hanging from you and your hair is falling out, you are in rags caked in blood and filth. But you are a holy fool.” Is the clarity Michael finds during this near death experience an encomium on the power of the human will to survive or your criticism of a culture of violence?

Dostoyevsky has had a profound influence on me. Dostoyevsky is one of the few nineteenth century novelists whose concerns seem completely contemporary. The Idiot, Crime and Punishment, Brothers Karamazov and A Raw Youth were big totems of my university years, but The House of the Dead made its way into Dead I Well May Be on several occasions. The rest of that quotation you refer to above talks about St Antony and the Buddha, I think – or perhaps it got cut in the final version – who seemed to reach transcendence only by pushing themselves in extremis.

Here in the jungle Michael seems to have reached that same state, but of course when he gets back to New York, unlike the Buddha and St Antony nothing has changed. The transcendent was only fleeting and in a way it was meaningless. To me this is a more honest appreciation of such moments and human nature.

The political dimension of Michael’s second and third appearance in The Dead Yard and The Bloomsday Dead moves Irish issues into focus, especially the Peace Process. With Ireland’s political climate changing faster than the weather, the interesting question is to what extent your work is an attempt at coming to terms with the past – can crime fiction be Vergangenheitsbewältigung?

Yes. I agree with those who say that crime fiction is a useful medium for looking at society in general. You can use the tropes and conventions of crime fiction to explore social strata and mores in a way that literary fiction cannot. Because you are bound by certain rules and must draw within the box you have to exercise your critique in a way that doesn’t annoy your reader. The writer of literary fiction has no rules, no box and can write about whatever they like in any style. I’m not ready for that freedom yet, especially when I see the flabby, pretentious stuff which some people are producing at those high altitudes.

When Ian Rankin called for British crime fiction to take a hard look at society and its discontents, did you second his motion?

This seemed a silly thing for him to say. What crime fiction is he reading? Agatha Christie? That’s all good crime fiction does.

Ireland has had an interesting few years since the 1980s, not to go too far back at this point. After a protracted national divorce case the country grew up in a frenzy and, if you’ll forgive the image, she is now suffering all the ill-tempered adjustment issues of a teenager from a broken home. Is this 21st century Ireland a template for crime fiction?

Geography is always going to have a large impact on our small divided island, but the big developments for me have been wealth, which has utterly transformed Irish life, and the collapse of the Catholic Church as a source of authority. No one could have seen either of these developments in say the 1960’s, but they did happen and the impact has been extraordinary. Ireland used to be like nineteenth century Spain, but now the mood there seems more like Denmark or Holland.

Of course things are ‘different in the north’ and I’m not completely convinced that we have buried sectarianism forever. I have a feeling that the 2021 census is going to show a Nationalist majority in N. Ireland and then what happens?

The country does have an international reputation for its political tensions and sectarianism. Was it a question of timing rather than popularity of the genre that critical voices should find the crime novel to address these issues?

No, I think this subject was just too touchy for a long time. It was a growing confidence that allowed people to explore this territory without – often literal – fear.

Orange Rhymes With Everything is set during ‘The Troubles’. Having dealt with that defining chapter in Irish history you’ll have to forgive two questions: how troubling was it to write about this part of your country’s recent past – and – is there anything left that is too sensitive, challenging or difficult as for you to write about it?

Orange Rhymes With Everything was enjoyable to write. I allowed myself an indulgence in terms of subject matter and style and unfortunately – or fortunately – I’ve never allowed myself to go the whole hog again, largely because that book found zero audience whereas my crime fiction books have enabled me to become a full time novelist. I would like to return to The Troubles one day, but – apparently – few people want to hear about that dark time just at the moment. I am confident, however, that this attitude will change.

Regardless of whether it will or not, I will definitely do another Troubles novel at some point. I have to. I grew up in a Protestant Council Estate in the north Belfast suburbs during the terror of the 70’s and in the aftermath of the Hunger Strikes in the 80’s. If I think those experiences have completely left me then I’m only fooling myself.

How important is a strong sense of place to you and your writing?

Place is everything to me. Place comes before character in my writing. After spending a few weeks in Cuba I knew I was going to write about the island before I had a plot, characters or any idea for a book. The place got into my bones.

Which Ireland are you writing about?

The Ireland as I see it. Tourist Ireland, druggie Ireland, rural Ireland and of course Ulster which I visit every year and am always surprised by for good and ill.

Is there a recognisable quality that defines Irish crime fiction or is its popularity owed to the general endorsement of all things Irish?

Black humor seems very Irish to me. It’s something you find in English writing too, but there it is cased in an ironic stance. Irish writers tend to celebrate the joke for the sake of the joke. Irish writing seems very similar to Brooklyn Jewish fiction in my eyes. The gag is all and the worst thing, the very worst thing you can say about someone is that they “have no sense of humor.”

With so much talent spread across so little space, is there a sense of community at least amongst Irish crime writers, one that might include even émigrés such as yourself?

It does feel like a sense of community. I love it and I find the other Irish crime writers very supportive of me and one another. It only becomes a problem when I’m asked to review novels by people I know that are friends of mine. I’ve had to rescue myself many times and I’ve lost a lot of paychecks because of it.

Back to your work: In Fifty Grand you write about Detective Mercado, a lady with a troubling family situation. What was it like to write from a woman’s point of view – did you enjoy the research?

I got some shit from reviewers, saying “how dare you write about a woman” which made me laugh. How dare I? Who are you, the Holy Inquisition? Such a ridiculous comment. I enjoyed everything about the writing and research of Fifty Grand. I’d do another book in Cuba if I wasn’t 10,000 miles away now. I adore the place, although it’s very much in the spirit of Catullus: odi et amo.

Having traveled extensively yourself, does it come naturally to you to write about such vastly different places and cultures as Cuba and Northern Ireland?

Cuba is not so different to Ireland in say 1950. A repressed populace, a moribund politics, a heroic aging generation, extreme poverty, corruption and across the water an alternative land full of hope and possibility, if you can only get there.

You also write YA, young adult fiction. How different was your approach to writing when you wrote The Lighthouse Trilogy?

Utterly different. The YA books were fun to write and not at all the torment of my other novels. I take crime fiction seriously, perhaps too seriously, and the YA allowed me to actually enjoy the writing process.

You’ve said that if you were to create a cult like Werner Herzog has with the ‘Rogue Film School’, you would only have a single book on your reading list. Why would that be Philip Larkin’s Collected Poems?

Ah, I see you’ve been reading my blog. I was only kidding about the cult. I’m serious about Larkin though. Philip Larkin seemed like a minor poet when he was alive but since his death he has grown in stature. I think he is the voice of the twentieth century in a way the more showy poets like Eliot and Yeats are not. Larkin identifies the essential bleakness of the human condition in a bracingly honest way and does not give us any real hope. Literature won’t save us, love won’t save us, even music won’t save us. I like Larkin’s truthfulness, simplicity and clarity. You don’t get a lot of that these days.

What would you like your own writing to be read and remembered for?

I don’t really think about things like that. I doubt that anyone will remember anything from our era a thousand years hence. If we’re lucky, Philip Larkin, Kafka and Bruno Schulz will be studied by academics and future historians. If we’re unlucky it’ll be Dan Brown.

In the meantime – and in your lifetime – you have achieved considerable international and critical acclaim. Never mind foreign applause, though, the Irish are hardest on their own. What is it like to be a successful Irish writer?

You’re not kidding. The Irish Times has hammered me for every book I’ve ever done. I wrote a novel called The Bloomsday Dead which is a crime novel romp through Ireland on, er, Bloomsday. It’s the third part of a trilogy and The Irish Times hired a Joyce scholar to review the book and his conclusion was – he hadn’t read parts 1 and 2 – that none of the novel made any sense and that I wasn’t as good as Joyce!

Not, as good as Joyce! *Wipes tears from eyes.* Is anyone? Only in Ireland would they even think of doing something like this. As Bernard Shaw said: “Put an Irishman on a spit and you will always find another Irishman to turn it.”

CLICK HERE FOR THE ONE BOOK EVERYBODY SHOULD READ: Falling Glass

Posted by Len Wanner at 7:31 am Tagged with: , ,

Adrian McKinty’s ‘Falling Glass’ reviewed by Cormac O’Siochain

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Jul 292011

Adrian McKinty’s fifth novel, Falling Glass, is an absolute joy to read. Witty from the outset, the narrative concentrates on retired gang enforcer Killian’s return to the field for one last job; neck-deep in debt, he’s lured back to track down a millionaire’s wife in return for a big payout. With style and panache, the story moves at breakneck speed from page one right up to the genuinely impressive finale. Perfectly evocative of both local scenes and global vistas, the author’s allusions to a world of consummate darkness take on a far bleaker hue than similar novels in the psycho-killer vein. This is entirely due to a willingness to situate them in reality: Mexican narcotráfico beheadings; the white slave trade; paedophilia. With a deft hand, the Carrickfergus native skilfully evokes the modern global village from Bangladeshis in Ballymena to Russians in Roscommon. This is an important aspect of the narrative – Ireland’s place in the greater global context. Yet despite the fact that McKinty decides to exploit the morbid fascination with which the IRA tends to be regarded, it’s never done in a cheap way. In fact, a great strength of the novel is that Northern Ireland is depicted as more than just a disposable backdrop to its most infamous denizens. Ulster is instead given fair treatment from the stout hardiness of its people to the wild beauty of its countryside.

Such dedication to hard-working characterisation is present throughout Falling Glass, the text full of small touches which keep the characters human, all stock caricatures left at the auction house. Even the most cartoonish of figures are invested with some level of humanity, granting them a blessed, horrific sense of authenticity. The millionaire’s fugitive wife Rachel Coulter is invested with a real sense of pathos; one really feels the character from the book’s onset, her tough demeanour earning our admiration whilst concurrently provoking irritation. Rachel has a touch of Ree Dolly to her, the ice-sharp heroine of Daniel Woodrell’s Winter’s Bone, remaining the caring matriarch whilst prey to both Killian and the mysterious Russian hitman, Markov. An ultra-modern killer, ex-military with a complex code of honour and nerves of steel, the inclusion of his personal life and a past which tortures him ensure that he never becomes a dismissible 2D villain. Ultimately, it’s Killian who provides the real draw here; making him an itinerant (a tinker or Pavee, as the text terms them) is a bold move, and a great one. It adds an air of the exotic to the familiar aspects of Killian, even for those to whom Ireland presents no mystery. He is fantastic as the reluctant hero, the gun for hire with a heart of gold. Surprisingly philosophical, ritualistic even, Killian is akin to a modern day back-alley shaman.

Falling Glass contains a multifaceted resonance common to the comic book genre, reminiscent of the graphic novels of Garth Ennis, evocative perhaps of Cassidy from his classic Preacher series or even Hellblazer’s John Constantine. McKinty’s use of language is superb; a paragraph describing the lighting of a match becomes a masterclass in descriptive prose. This is a real strength of the author: poise. Effortlessly balancing the reader on a knife-edge within the mean half of a page, curiosity piqued at every turn, a suspect thread hanging loose at every seam… Meanwhile, expert plotting, deep empathy, and a strong story ensure that the reader remains keen to witness each thread unravel. Nothing is spelled out and there are frequent little extras hidden within the crystalline prose, multifarious cultural references coming hard and fast. This is exactly what this brand of contemporary hardboiled fiction requires – symmetry, presence, and an aching familiarity. All told, the author’s tendency to overestimate the reader is an extremely satisfying aspect to his writing.

Big, bloody, violent, and convincing in its colour, McKinty’s prose bleeds bright red in gouts of cinematic candour. Smart, comfortable similes turn up the corners of your mouth, putting you right between the pages in a manner which is clever but never smarmy, funny without being glib. There’s an endearing dusting of real Ulster charm here, a certain hardy merriness and a keen sense of bullshit to McKinty’s writing – and that’s meant in the best possible way. It’s utterly Irish in its willingness to spin a yarn a mile wide, executed so stylishly that you’ll not just buy into it, but buy the author a pint and beg him to continue. Rather than regressing to an (all-too-common) regrettably post-millennial Celtic chic, this novel instead evokes a sense of the ‘now’. This is the real modern Ireland, free from crass paraphernalia but with reassuring cartoon stylishness.

Easy to read, full of deep juicy symbolism, and with a lyrical ear, Falling Glass keeps its reader ensnared throughout. Never predictable, never reneging to a humdrum connect-the-dots farce, its plot is so overarching, so well thought-out, that it’s reminiscent of the heyday of Tom Clancy or John Grisham. McKinty shows his experience by setting up rivalries and bringing showdowns to a point, rather than leaving them festering in a cheap attempt to add depth. He also provides a refreshing, original, and timely reappraisal of the nomadic traveller clans of Ireland, not overly romanticised or sensationalised, merely distinct from common (mis-) conceptions of the Pavee. In short, Falling Glass is a crime novel for both genre aficionados and those who reckon they don’t read crime novels: highly recommended.

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:12 am Tagged with: , ,

Alice Thompson’s ‘The Existential Detective’ reviewed by Phoebe Ladenburg

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Jul 272011

In The Existential Detective Alice Thompson follows many of the psychological and emotional themes explored in her debut novel, Justine, winner of the James Tait Black Memorial prize. In her new novel, reclusive private detective William Blake is hired to investigate the disappearance of Louise, wife of the genius scientist Dr Adam Verver. The investigation leads Blake through a distorted and confusing journey that reveals itself to be inextricably linked to the disappearance of his own daughter many years before. As the mystery unravels, the reader is taken on an undulating ride in which reality, fantasy, and desire become one and the same.

The plot line and premise of the novel are straightforward: set in a decaying seaside town on the outskirts of Edinburgh, there is a small cast of characters and very little variety of location. This tightly contained setting allows a full immersion in the thoughts and subconsciousness of the characters. Thompson creates a claustrophobic and intense atmosphere which affectively mimics the reality of the depressed and lonely Blake, and as we move deeper into his mind we understand that Blake’s obsession with his daughter’s disappearance has left his world distorted and bleak.

The characters range from National Gallery curators, blind mystics, games arcade workers, and fish shop owners to prostitutes and singers. This makes for a lively, at times somewhat fantastical, backdrop and adds to an almost child-like enjoyment when reading this novel. However, it also means that the story can seem over-simplified and may have benefited from a more covert or intricate unveiling of the mystery.

‘What ifs’ aside, The Existential Detective is a thoroughly good read. Thompson snares you right at the beginning of this unusual novel, and you’ll be at its equally unusual end before you can thank her for it. You might even want to read it twice. Personally, I was left with delicate traces of the characters and their emotions for days.

Posted by Len Wanner at 10:16 am Tagged with: , ,

Megan Abbott interviewed by Len Wanner

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Jul 252011

What brought you to crime fiction?

I was a reader of true crime from a young age, and came to crime fiction primarily through a love of film noir.

Whose work would you say has most influenced you and your writing?

James Ellroy’s, without question. He was the first writer I read who seemed to pull the lid off the world for me.

Can you put into words why you write what you write?

I guess the most basic answer is that those are the worlds I’d like to occupy, even if just for a little while. I write to sink myself into those worlds. For a little while. And then escape them.

When you wrote Die A Little, were you thinking of it in terms of homage to the hardboiled writers of that era?

No. I’d been reading a lot of hardboiled writers, especially Raymond Chandler, at the time and it definitely influenced by style, the mood, as did film. But “homage” might mean the book was more about my experience with other books than about the story. And, for me, for better or for worse, the book is always about the characters.

That said, how important is a sense of time and place to you and your writing?

Very important. To a fault. Mood is my biggest weakness, and bringing the reader, as best I can, into the world in my head is the main reason I write. My favorite authors are experts in that: you read Elloy’s The Big Nowhere, and you are so completely in his version of 1950s LA that you lose all sense of where you are, what era you’re in. He swallows you whole.

How much of you is in your protagonists?

I guess I’ve always been of the belief that all your characters are, in some way, you. It’d be hard to write them convincingly otherwise. But they tend to be aspects of my personality, and in high relief—thankfully, because things generally don’t go well for them.

What was it about the flair of an almost forgotten world that made you want to write Queenpin?

Mostly, it was a fascination with the minutiae of being involved in low-level rackets, and what that was like for the few women who were. The details of how bookmaking works, that kind of thing, completely intrigued me, and the ways women negotiated power in those worlds.

Did the Edgar award change things for you?

Those things are hard to tell, for me at least. I do know I’m so grateful for it.

If modesty allows, do you mind venturing a guess as to why your work is so appealing to a growing and international readership?

I have no idea! In fact, I’m always surprised to find anyone who’s read any of my books. What I can guess is that there’re some readers out there interested in the same things I am, and that always feels good.

Do you have a personal favourite amongst your own novels, perhaps one you would recommend to a first time reader of your work?

I don’t. When asked, I usually recommend different ones to different readers based on their interests – e.g., if they love Hollywood, I’d recommend The Song is You, if they like pulp, Queenpin.

Crime being the thematic catalogue of a crime writer, how did your job description change when terrorism put a new dimension into our Western ability to imagine the unimaginable?

Well, I’ve only been published a few years so I can’t answer that question precisely. Of course, the unfortunate truth is the unimaginable has been around for centuries or more, taking different and horrible forms. There are always fresh horrors and tragedies on large scales. It’s the pain of living, of our world. I think we cling to art, including books, to help us through these things. I do. I think I read more now than ever, for all kinds of reasons – to escape, to investigate, to try to understand, to celebrate language and story and character. Books matter; I’m not talking about mine, here, mind you!

So much for the context in which noir and hardboiled crime fiction have recently been charged with glorifying violence. Are such critics citing isolated examples to charge writers such as yourself for prurience only to hide their deeper anxiety about an aesthetic of violence?

I don’t know. That’s a great but complicated question. I think there are many reasons and they vary depending on the kind of book facing the charge. Frequently it’s the tone of the violence that provokes, either because it’s very realistic and spare and thus maybe feels uncomfortably real, or it’s in the service of a satirical or purposely over-the-top approach that may be misunderstood. There are always going to be books that walk, or cross the line, though. And, like every book, these books are not for all readers. I have my limits as a writer and a reader, but I don’t expect anyone else to hold to the same ones.

Is it the epic perseverance of its protagonists that best defines this genre – perseverance in a world where there is no healing but constant movement towards it? Is crime fiction stoicism with a skill for spectacle?

That’s very interesting. I do think the survival impulse in noir is too often ignored. While death often hangs over the ends of noir fiction, there’s usually someone who endures, mightily. And the end of the journey isn’t healing, as you say, but it’s persistence. It’s persisting in spite of the darkness viewed, which is a kind of strength.

On a lighter note, what is it you enjoy most about writing?

Research. I love to burrow into strange corners and learn about things like tuberculosis, betting, cheerleading, anything I can.

Do you have a writing routine and a set of writing rules you’ve come to trust?

I am slow, so I need to allot myself hours and hours to write just a little bit. I can’t jam it in, so I have to block out whole days or nothing happens.

Have any of your books been optioned for film? What role do you take when it comes to adapting your work?

Die A Little and Queenpin – and my role is minimal. I haven’t been involved at all with Die a Little, but I’ve had some great conversations with Todd E. Kessler, the writer who’s taking on Queenpin, for television.

For what kind of reader do you write?

I don’t write for a specific reader. But I always try to imagine I’m telling a story to someone, confiding in them, whispering in their ear.

Whose work can you recommend as crime fiction that could change your life?

Daniel Woodrell. Not strictly crime fiction but everyone in the world should read him. I wish I could read him again for the first time.

Is there anything you know now that you wish you’d known when you started your writing career?

If I’d known what I know now I might not have done it! It’s a hard business. But there are immense rewards. While I still have a job, I do get to spend large amounts of my time talking to people about books. And that’s pretty much a gift.

CLICK HERE FOR THE ONE BOOK EVERYBODY SHOULD READ: Queenpin

Posted by Len Wanner at 8:51 am Tagged with: ,

Megan Abbott’s ‘Queenpin’ reviewed by Cormac O’Siochain

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Jul 242011

In Queenpin, Megan Abbott takes hardboiled noir back to her bedroom and has her wicked way with it; she strips it down and ties it up, ensuring that it will never be the same again. These are the girls who Raymond Chandler never knew quite as well as he might have liked to… who Walter Mosley got close to, very close to, but never this close. It is utterly refreshing.

The story is ostensibly that of a bright young ‘50s girl: savvy, intelligent, hungry for excitement, but lacking the street smarts she thinks she’s got. And she’s hot; her narrative voice, her sass, her cleverness – it’s hot as hell. The plot heats up fast and accelerates from there to the finish line, never stopping for breath. We follow our young narrator’s quicksilver apprenticeship to Gloria Denton, a gangster moll twenty-to-thirty years her senior, electric with deadpan eyes and a cool brow. There’s no moral decline and no spectacular fall; our heroine never bothered buying-in and accepts the consequences from day one -all she wants is more, always more. There’s a thin, surgical edge of visceral desperation which creeps in midway through the novel to replace the earlier sense of wanton daring. The relationship between the two central females has a challenging, sexual, almost abusive tone, the young apprentice caught between stark helpless admiration and a mad consuming terror. The characters are a uniformly remorseless bunch, hard-headed lifers who know the wages of sin yet still try to run. We watch and we grin as our heroine slides deeper and deeper into the criminal underworld, downplaying a tell-tale association here, turning a blind eye to a warning sign there. She breaks all the rules, most especially those which she makes for herself. The odds keep stacking up and the violence, when it comes, is neither glorified nor overstated. It is desperate, messy and undignified, with a quick shot of drama and a lot of blood.

The author’s true skill is in allowing the reader to see more than the narrator will admit to herself, to feel as if we know her better even than the writer herself. Yet she keeps just enough from us, preserving the exotic allure of our anti-heroine. And though we know something’s coming, we’ve no idea what, when, where. Keeping the fires stoked, Abbott knows just when to throw in some filth, and not just a suggestive fancy-tickler, not just a ripped-stocking backseat tumble, but honest, forthright, filthy allusions to raw, aching sex that, to their credit, never deviate into crassly pornographic territory. Just enough is left to the imagination.

With an economy of sentiment wrapped in gorgeously luxuriant prose, the author holds court from the opening sentence onwards: the entire novel is a seduction. The eloquence displayed is so daringly arrogant that one soon neglects to really admire the elegant style, the story itself being entirely absorbing. Megan Abbott constructs fantastically believable living, breathing archetypes – the bulletproof blonde, the chronic gambler – and then rips the shroud away to reveal the raw, hulking, fallen humanity beneath. Rather than signposting, Abbott trusts her reader, credits her audience with intelligence. Reading Queenpin, one becomes a co-conspirator, a trusted confidante. Or perhaps not trusted – perhaps just convenient, simply present after a whiskey sour or three. The seductive tone is alluring, attractive, yet reckless. Sharp as a blade, though it’s unclear at whom the sharp end is pointed. It’s a wonderful stew of clichés and sucker punches, marshalled with considerable strength in the most convincing manner. Abbott has an alley-poet’s way with words, all blustery alliteration and sordid slickness. Her similes are divine:

‘Somehow she saw something in me, something in the face like a bar of soap, plain, unshaped, ready for dirt. Made for it!’

Abbott has no fear of coarseness, as it’s a vile world we’re dealing with, yet she refuses to sling curse words about or gratify easy allusions to cheap thrills. She saves them, savours them, deploying them at only the most appropriate moments. There’s a lecherous charm to the novel that feels akin to conducting an affair; a sense of danger, of guilt, of irresistible urges tinged with self-reproach. The vernacular speech is second-to-none, utterly convincing, the dialogue rapier sharp and keen as a knife.

Holding a lyrical air as reminiscent of Nick Cave as it is of the heavyweights of detective fiction, there are considerable depths to Queenpin and Megan Abbott. If she continues in this vein she will have claimed her place alongside the greats within the decade.

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:09 am Tagged with: ,

Lee Child’s ’61 Hours’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Jul 232011

At a time when bad crime novels tend to dominate the market – much to the distress of a discerning reader – it is comforting to know that Lee Child remains as engrossing as ever. While there is no question of his latest offering being comparable to his truly great novels (namely Killing Floor and Tripwire) 61 Hours continues what has become an annual celebration for the millions of devout Reacher fans worldwide.

Jack Reacher is very much the modern knight. He travels across America and unerringly finds a damsel in distress. He adheres to a strict code. He carries nothing more than his wallet and replaces his plain, functional clothing only when absolutely necessary. Property, material wealth and the notion of settling down to a routine life hold no appeal to the retired military policeman. His dabbling with a house in a previous novel ended badly and merely served to reinforce his desire for a nomadic existence. It is of little surprise to his readership that he encounters an elderly woman in danger when the Greyhound bus he is traveling on breaks down in the small town of Bolton, North Dakota.

This nondescript town could have featured in numerous Stephen King books; it is rural American life. Whatever the criticisms of Child’s minimalist use of language may be, here the author captures the life of the town in a manner more ‘literary’ authors would be incapable of. Bolton is located beside a maximum security prison and it has generated much needed income for the impoverished community. The local police are protecting a key witness and, of course, require the services of Jack Reacher to aid them in their efforts against arctic adversity and weather conditions. Reacher steps up, once again, to protect an innocent victim of circumstance and cruelty.

Speaking of which, the villain in 61 Hours seems to have been influenced by such 1980’s cinema classics as Commando. Whatever fear he may instill in his fictional foibles, in this reviewer he instilled the lingering expectation of a cameo from a muscle bound Austrian with an even less developed sense of humour. This villain, ‘Plato’, is a South American of vague origins who is feared in his homeland. He has built a reputation on brutality that stands in contrast to his diminutive stature and name. As in the majority of Reacher novels, the villain is of subsidiary importance. We want Reacher to be challenged. We want to fear for his wellbeing. While we may delight in his violence and ability to inspire fear simply by entering a room, we also want extended fight scenes with at least a possibility of Jack not surviving, let alone winning hands down. In Plato we have a seemingly weak threat. The inescapable physical confrontation is typically one sided. Reacher is a mountain. Plato cannot possibly be seen as a viable danger to our beloved hero, which is perhaps why the novel, unlike most of Lee Child offerings, has relatively few fights. Yet when the inevitable showdown does arrive it is well worth the wait. Reacher is at his best when confronted with a target that he can quash.

The ending of 61 Hours is left unresolved, the reader is unsure as to the fate of Jack Reacher. It has become, inevitably, a bestseller and the winner of the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year award. The character retains his mass appeal. His charms are not yet diminished on an audience that awaits the arrival of the latest episode like a child awaiting Christmas. He offers the purest form of escapism, the notion of being answerable to no one and riding out of town the hero on a horse (or Greyhound bus) with another dastardly individual vanquished. He stands at 6.5 and weighs between 220-250 lbs, allowing us all to be that bit bigger than life as we eagerly await his return in a matter of weeks.

Posted by Len Wanner at 7:37 am Tagged with: , ,

George Pelecanos’ ‘The Way Home’ reviewed by Donal Tannam

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Jul 222011

As a younger man your reviewer often bought Long Playing records purely on the strength of reviews in the New Musical Express or Empire magazine. Sometimes disappointment followed and sometimes the record in question did not figure highly in the same publication’s end of year list of best albums released in the previous 12 month period. It is often safer to review on mature reflection even though the popular press and public obviously demand a review close to the time of release.

In the case of George Pelecanos The Way Home at least four or five fictional novels have passed my way since so I think I am in a safe position to give a review that I can stand over in 5 or 10 years’ time. The novels I have read since are by some of my favourite authors (Ed McBain, Michael Connelly, Lee Child, and Stephen King) and so it is understandable that some of the details of The Way Home have since slipped my mind. But I still remember clearly the emotions that the novel stirred in me and the way I was almost reluctant to finish it for fear of the literary void which would follow.

In this post MTV, Twitter generation it is probably fair to say (though not necessarily fair in itself!) that Pelecanos is as famous for his work with TV series The Wire as he is for his substantial catalogue of novels. As I believe that anyone who reads two or three of his novels is either converted already or beyond conversion by my humble efforts, I will address the next few lines to the uninitiated. If you watch The Wire without fast-forwarding to the infrequent but shocking outbursts of sudden violence, or without falling asleep (!), then this book is for you.

We know that The Wire is peopled by some genuine ex-criminals which helps promote the sense of authenticity, and although I really have no hard evidence (as I live in Ireland), the characters in The Way Home ring equally true to me. The main characters in the novel are an Irish-American father and son, both about the same age, respectively, as myself and my own son. We both loved the novel and both related to the characters in it. Pelecanos can still remember what it felt like to be a teenager kicking back in a friend’s automobile, and he obviously can write about a father’s emotions with an equal ring of truth.

The Way Home may not be quite a crime novel in the same way as The Wire can have entire episodes with little or no obvious action, but there is a crime or two lurking within the pages. There is also a moral dilemma for the son who, after doing his time for teenage transgressions, finds a stash of loot in the course of his straight time. As he says himself “I’ve seen this movie before” and although we know that if the stash stays put there will be no real action, we are rooting for the kid to do the right thing. This criminal stash is the first and only plot cliché in this marvelous novel and things take unexpected turns after the find.

Again from a personal perspective, your reviewer has only recently started using a mobile ‘phone but I have started to store names in the Contacts section with a preface as to what their status is. In the novel, the boy is laying carpets for his father’s firm in an effort to go straight and one of his clients enters his number under the Contact name: Chris Carpet. This renaming of the character is a delicious device which enables a character in the future to pin-point the means by which the villains traced Chris “Carpet”. And yes, although this is at times a novel about family, redemption and personal moral choices, Pelecanos has as usual provided a pair of delightfully decadent villains for us to hiss and boo at.

There will be no further plot giveaways in this review; all I can say is treat yourself to some quality time with The Way Home. Maybe it’s because I am growing older with the author, but I believe he is maturing wonderfully as a writer and creating characters that live and breathe for as long as the book is in your hands. The critics tend to agree with me and have waxed lyrical about his most recent publications. The Way Home is definitely one of his best ever, if not the best. Ask me again in five years!

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:51 am Tagged with: ,

Grant McKenzie’s ‘Switch’ and ‘No Cry for Help’ reviewed by Sharon Selby

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Jul 202011

Grant McKenzie, Scottish-Canadian author of thriller crime fiction, has just released his second novel, No Cry For Help. His debut, Switch, was a genuine page turner and introduced McKenzie as a master of suspense, with a knack for timing and delivery. Combined with fast-paced action and short cliff-hanger chapters, Switch grips the reader to the very last syllable. The plot follows Sam White and Zack Parker, an unlikely pair of heroes, as they pit their wits against a diabolical villain who has kidnapped their families. Though he has demanded a ransom of one million dollars, the kidnapper isn’t particularly interested in the money. His object, rather than profit, is to push his victims until they break. It is not long before Sam and Zack realize that the kidnapper is seeking retribution for an offense that connects them in their past; as they attempt to solve the mystery of the event that connects them, the two men are required to perform a series of rapidly escalating criminal acts if they are ever to see their families again. Worse, these acts are meticulously designed to attack the very things the heroes hold dearest and of which they are most proud. The reader is drawn in by sheer momentum as the characters are forced to re-evaluate their own standards of integrity and ethical behaviour. As the characters’ morals are relentlessly compromised, the reader must also wonder (as the novel’s tagline demands), “How far would you go to save the ones you love?”

Although the novel’s plot keeps the reader engaged, McKenzie sacrifices character development and occasionally tests his readers’ willing suspension of disbelief in order to maintain the pace. Neither of his heroes are presented with much complexity: they are angry and afraid, but there is little depth in the portrayal of these emotions. McKenzie also struggles with his female character, Jasmine Parker. Although we are told that she has read books about psychology and we watch her efforts to intellectually (and occasionally physically) best her assailants, she ultimately plays the role of ‘protective mother’ and little more.

McKenzie has more success with his second novel, No Cry For Help. Once again, he presents us with an ordinary guy who is forced into extraordinary circumstances. This ‘ordinary guy’ is Canadian bus driver, Wallace Carver. The novel begins with Carver and his family on a weekend shopping trip to the United States. Carver sends his wife and two sons ahead to the shops to take advantage of the sales, using the excuse of an injured leg to indulge in coffee and pastries while he waits for his shoppers to return. When his family fails to make their appointed rendezvous, Carver panics and turns to the American police. The police find no trace of the missing woman and children; in fact, Carver discovers that someone has gone to great pains to make it appear that he crossed the border alone. When the authorities prove ineffectual and no ransom is demanded, Carver takes matters into his own hands. Again, a terrifying chain of events is set in motion as Carver fights for their lives… and for his own.

Once more, McKenzie demonstrates his gift for adrenalin-driven action and unexpected plot twists. However, No Cry For Help goes much further in terms of character development, particularly of his hero. There are moments of genuine humour and camaraderie between Carver and those who assist him on his quest. Carver’s inner life is much more evolved than the characters we meet in Switch; McKenzie’s presentation of this character’s confusion and conflicting emotions allow the reader to become more emotionally invested in the events as they occur. McKenzie does not quite escape the limitations of stock characters in the creation of his villains, but again he uses those characters well.

All in all, McKenzie’s forays into the arena of crime fiction are promising. Both novels will scratch the itch of any thrill junkie; No Cry For Help is particularly satisfying. As McKenzie really begins to hit his stride, it will be interesting to see what he comes out with next!

Posted by Len Wanner at 6:28 pm Tagged with: , , ,

Peter James interviewed by Len Wanner

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Jul 182011

What are your thoughts on the current state of crime fiction?

I get very annoyed at the snooty literary ‘establishment’ that sneers at all commercial fiction, and quite forgets it is the commercial fiction of the past 3000 years that has survived, not the elitist stuff. Three years ago the Chair of the Booker Prize said, “Hell will freeze over before a crime novel makes the Booker Shortlist.” So he would have excluded Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Charles Dickens, Graham Greene…

I believe the current success of the crime genre reflects the quality of writing and the realization by readers that the best way to examine and reflect the world in which we live is through the crime novel genre. If Shakespeare were alive today he would either be writing Coronation St or crime novels, as would, in my view, all these great past writers. You’ve only to look at Shakespeare’s canon of work – over half his plays contain a trial scene!

Aristotle said that every tragic play had to have a Hamartia – a character with a tragic flaw – an Anagnoresis – a critical discovery – and a Perepetia – a sudden reversal of fortune. I think if he was writing today, he would be writing crime novels as exactly these same rules apply!

What does the issue come down to as far as you’re concerned?

Would I rather be classed as a literary’ writer and have maybe five thousand people in the whole world read my turgid work, and scratch their heads afterwards, or would I rather take the Devil’s shilling and have 50 million people read my books?

What’s the appeal of crime fiction?

I think one of the big appeals of the genre is that it enables readers to experience crime vicariously. At one level it is like the ride on the ghost train, where you know, despite whatever horrors await, at some point the doors will bang open and you will be back out in safe daylight. At another level it allows readers to ‘rubber neck’ horrific things without the churning stomach they would get reading the same thing in the papers. And I have a theory that another of the deep rooted pleasures of the crime novel is that it taps into our survival genes. It enables people to study victims and learn from them. Ok, she got murdered because she didn’t look around when she entered the car park… so when I enter the multi-storey behind Sainsbury, I’m not going to make that same mistake…

Would you agree with genre classifications in that the crime novel is about the extremes human beings are capable of?

No, I very strongly disagree with this line of thought. A crime novel is at its heart an examination of the differences between people; the difference between the criminal and his victim, the criminal and the police, different cops within the police. Sure, some crime novels, such as Silence Of The Lambs, examine extremes – skinning people and the monster Lecter. But they are much more about society and the world we live in. I’m sure that is part of the appeal of the Stieg Larsson Millennium Trilogy, or the books of Ian Rankin, for instance.

What’s unique to the point of view from which crime novels look at the world?

The police have a unique and privileged view of the world – they see it from what I term ‘the other side of the curtain’ – whether it is dealing with a domestic dispute, a violent street gang, a rape victim, a child killer or a drug addict, their work embraces every imaginable facet of our world and the impacts it has on people. This is what makes them so fascinating to write – and to read – about.

How would you describe your own work? Do you have a particular reader in mind when you write?

I have no ‘target’ reader in mind at all. I’m writing the kind of books I like to read myself – thrillers which are more than just a plain thriller – books where the reader learns things about the world we live in, about the human race, about why people do the things that they do. A truly satisfying book for me is one that leaves me feeling wiser; these are the kinds of book I write.

If crime novels are the current affairs of art, do you see yourself as a newsreader, a juryman, or perhaps a tour-guide to modern culture?

That is an interesting point. Certainly, crime reflects the society in which it exists. Look at the amount of gun crime in South Africa and the USA – a direct product of guns being easily available. And in the UK, as our world becomes more and more high-tech, the old style burglars of houses are becoming dinosaurs. Much richer and easier pickings are to be had from electronic crime such as Internet fraud – and you don’t have to stay up late and be out at all hours and risk getting bitten by dogs, etc…

As a writer dealing with crime and the fear of it, what are your thoughts on our current culture of fear?

I think our current culture of fear is a direct product of the media. The reality is that more children were abducted and murdered by someone who was not a member of their family in 1928 than last year.

Does the genre’s recent focus on CSI and post mortem identification indicate a paradigm shift? Are we concerned with genetic data now that we have access to it, because we see the gene as the secular soul?

I love your concept of the ‘secular soul’. But I don’t think it applies here: The genre’s concern with post mortems is simply that with advances in forensic science, the focus in a major crime, such as a homicide or stranger rape has shifted from the crime scene to the path lab. In the days of Agatha Christie, the crime scene was everything. But now more major crimes are solved from evidence found on or in the body. That is the reason why rape victims themselves become official ‘crime scenes’ the moment the police are involved.

How important is a strong sense of place to you and your writing?

Place is hugely important in the crime novel. For such a book to work, the setting has to be rooted in the real world. Almost every successful crime writer has a strong sense of place in his or her writing.

Looking back at your years as a writer, how do you feel about the characters you have created? What’s it like to accompany them and watch them become different people?

Every time I start a new book I feel like I am returning to wonderful old friends! The feeling grows stronger with each book. I often think about what they are up to between books, as well. For instance, I imagine DS Norman Potting, going through his fourth divorce, having lunch on his own on Xmas day, sitting forlornly in the window of an Aberdeen Angus steak house, trying to chat up the waitress.

CLICK HERE FOR THE ONE BOOK EVERYBODY SHOULD READ: Dead Like You

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:36 am Tagged with: ,

Peter James’ ‘Dead Like You’ reviewed by Conor Tannam

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Jul 182011

In Peter James’ novel, Dead Like You, Brighton is confronted with a rapist who may have disappeared over twelve years ago. A series of horrific rapes have taken place which bear a significantly similar modus operandi to attacks that occurred in late 1997. Is it the same attacker resurfacing or is it a copycat who has been inspired by the man the press dubbed ‘The Shoe Man’? A hugely entertaining and fast paced thriller ensues in which the reader is introduced to suspect and victim alike.

This is a genuinely creepy crime story where detailed descriptions of sexual assault are presented to the audience in an uncompromising fashion. The author’s strength lies in his ability to make the sudden violence that rape entails seem plausible. An attack by the pier seems all too easy for the assailant when it occurs at a packed seaside attraction. Likewise the villain uses social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter in order to gather information about his victims. Peter James brings the open nature of these websites and the information we choose to share into sharp focus.

In his sixth outing Detective Roy Grace remains haunted by the disappearance of his wife despite being in a happy relationship. The nature of these horrific crimes against women ensures that there is little motivation needed to chase the attacker. Intense media pressure and a new boss mean that Grace must put aside his life at home in order to focus on what is fast becoming a widespread panic.

Jumping as it does between the initial attacks and the present day, the novel moves at a rapid pace, while the dialogue and occasional moments of humour help to alleviate the considerable tension throughout. As is so often the case in James’ work, this novel provides an insight into police procedures and the difficulties that often stall police investigations. A particularly grisly exhumation lingers in the memory long after the book is finished, and the streets of Brighton come alive as the police attempt to catch the attacker before he strikes again.

Dead Like You is a well-paced and captivating read. Despite its relatively lengthy nature, the plot and details about the various suspects and victims ensure this is a thriller that is difficult to put down. What sets this excellent book apart is the level of research that the author has clearly conducted into police work and the levels of information we all too often share with the world via the Internet. In short, this is a book that should grace the bookshelf of every fan of the modern thriller.

Posted by Len Wanner at 9:27 am Tagged with: ,
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