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Messy Business – Books, Writing, Stuff

Books and books and books …

After Call Work: Verbal Warning by Ryan Bracha

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Ryan Bracha’s After Call Work made me laugh and cringe all at the same time. Told from the perspective of socially inept Barry and party girl Penny, the novel puts you in a cheap white shirt and sends you off to one of the worst jobs you could find – customer service in a call centre. Barry’s failed suicide bid and Penny’s terrible one night-stand with the workplace knob and Lothario, brings the main characters together in a train of comedy, pathos, heart, and vile shenanigans.

Bracha has a golden touch in the way he twists his characters, and so shifts your sentiments. So, Penny goes from loveable to making you want to smack your head at her stupidity, back to loving her again. The real achievement is in Barry’s character. My sentiments morphed from wanting to pat him on the head as you would a sad-eyed donkey, to actually wanting to bully him, to feeling guilty about such thoughts. He’s a complex character whose friends are all online wrapped from reality by a video game. He has no physical pals to keep him in the real world, and so he views what’s outside his computer screen through a sickly treacle and a strict moral code which makes his colleagues squirm from, or attack him with some strong language. It’s tough and compelling to read.

In contrast, Penny’s a joy. Despite her online humiliation and the growing disaster, she is foul-mouthed, funny, and not embarrassed by her sexual appetite (except if her parents know about it). She can be rough, funny, and full of heart. You warm to her as soon as she shows concern at Barry’s treatment after his suicide attempt. You want to spend time with her.

The plot is great, but it’s the character choices which turn the pages, with plenty of comedy gold coming from the drug dealer Barry shares a house with, and the two warriors who bring World of Warcraft to the real world.

Whatever job you can’t stand right now, here’s a novel to make you think twice about quitting so you don’t end up in a call centre. Bracha details the soul-sucking nature of the work and the terrible behaviour it induces, or is forced upon you, so well that the idea of being stuck in an office with such people might just be enough to send you out of an upper floor window.

A cracking read. Can’t wait for the next two installments in the series.

You can buy After Call Work: Verbal Warning from Amazon US and Amazon UK

An Excerpt from Moorlands, available now

Moorlands is now available – the paperback is out soon. Big thanks to Christopher Lucania for the cracking cover, top man Ryan Bracha, Mark Wilson, Ed James, Carmen Amato, Aidan Thorn (check out the fantastic Paladins), Sheetal Contractor, and my wife for her patience with my avoiding chores while writing the bugger.

Below is an excerpt. Hope you enjoy it.

Moorlands_Cover_for_Kindle

London Road once smelled of chips, cheap beer, and piss. You could still smell it all when the wind tossed the aroma around. Now I sniffed my way past classy Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Thai, and Vietnamese restaurants. I wouldn’t mind eating in one at present, but I knew I’d foot Brendan’s bill. The tatty Peacock pub across the road had to do. I entered beneath the pub’s swinging sign, the animated bird’s feathers as dowdy as the establishment.

Dim wall lamps and a couple of bare bulbs hardly exposed the night’s shadows. Talk from every corner lifted and merged with an old ABC classic. It all mushed senseless in my ears. I arced my back, rested my belly into the bar. I didn’t see Brendan.

The barman crowbarred a smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Two John Smiths, please.”

I expected Brendan by my side the moment beer clacked the bar’s top. I glanced over my shoulder just to check the entrance – expected his nose in the air, helpless to resist the smell of generosity. Wish I hadn’t. I caught Stan – sat at the table in the bay window, surrounded by three burly fellas, one of them familiar. Stan’s nod as good as chinned me. I turned back to the bar, took a sip, pretended I’d not seen him. Stupid, because I’d held his stare. Got pulled into those tractor-beam blue eyes set in his dagger face. I might even have nodded back.

Stan didn’t drink at pubs like this. He ate at fancy restaurants, drank at their bars, socialised at members-only establishments. What brought him here? My eyelashes blinked a dozen times at the same tempo as my heart. I breathed deep, pepped up some surprise, and turned to scan the area again. He nodded a second time. This time my mouth popped an ‘oh’ shape. I turned my eyes into saucers, let my eyebrows reach for the dirty chandelier. I made half a move towards him, but hesitated. His demeanour had invited nothing. I grasped my beer. My hand shook. Hoped it didn’t cause spillage as I lifted and pointed at it, a gesture to see if he’d like me to buy him one.

He shook his head, light and barely perceptible. It signified more than rejection. He disapproved. He must ask why I spent money on booze – a diversion from his pocket. I sipped on the beer, held my position, defied his disapproval. The fat man by his side had the Hitchcock outline I’d seen outside the disused factory in Attercliffe, but the dim lights might have played with my eyes.

I realised I fondled the phone in my jeans. Couldn’t help but slide it from my pocket. The phone’s screen acted as balm to my eyes, an escape from the surrounds which scratched my vision.

A voicemail from Brendan relieved fear that it came from the man sat in the bay window, whose eyes tracked every shuffle I made. Brendan couldn’t make it. Something last-minute had turned up. I didn’t expect a woman had diverted him from our meeting. I couldn’t imagine he had a job interview to pull him from his free pint. The bastard had stood me up for TV.

I shook my head, angry at groups of friends who drank together, laughed together, talked bullshit together. I scoured Twitter and Facebook again, must have been the fiftieth time this day. I checked trends, Sheffield hashtags, Sheffield and crime hashtags … I found nothing, but I could have entered the wrong word combinations. Sometimes this shit comes under weird and obscure tags. Worried for George’s mind. I turned by degrees away from Stan’s glare. I needed a long gulp of beer to drown the cringe induced by how I imagined George’s lesson today. Had he gone through the motions, or ranted at the kids? I could imagine them, like all of us, resting chins on palms, wrists all limp from sleep-desire as he droned about the Tudors, or Hitler, or whatever mad tyrants they taught now.

I drank Brendan’s pint, and that turned to another. A shot arrived from nowhere. Stan raised his glass when I checked behind. He wasn’t so bad. He’d been good about the money I owed, about the job which went so wrong. I’m sure he’d extorted money from a few insurance scams, but look at him: a model of respectability. He stood in contrast to the berks I still call my friends. Tommy had gone missing for years and came back like his soul had swum in oil swamps. He’d emerged all Kurtz. I wondered if his blood would spout the black stuff if I cut him. Brendan, on the other hand, a man lost – always tired from the shit he lugged around the warehouse all day, and paid shit for the privilege. George taught a subject he loves to a bunch of kids who had no idea what the past meant or why they had to know about any of it. And now Bernie’s left him. Fool. Should have stopped worrying about those little fuckers and concentrated on his clever missis.

I downed the shot in Stan’s honour, winced at the burn and the bitter tang as it clawed at my tongue, and slammed it on the bar as if I had company in a drinking contest. I thought about getting out of there, but the place had livened up. Bodies nudged me. Hands raised to get the barman’s attention. Maybe George should do this job. Laughter peeled from all sides like glorious church bells. Made me smile. Made me hide that smile again as if I intruded into other people’s private jokes. I expected Charlotte had gone out with friends tonight, so I stayed, alone among people.

I downed another pint. My view became letter-box shaped. I thought it my third, but I could drink a Russian horizontal, and the buzz which vibrated through my skull made me think this one added up to the tenth. How time flies when others are having fun.

I think I smiled at a blonde who had shuffled by my side. She ordered wine and shots. Wore a tight white dress, which seemed an invitation for stains. Her first glance my way seemed the kind you reserve for a bum on the street, where you just want to walk past and pretend they’re not there, but you must look because he’s human after all. Then she unzipped her pursed lips, and her eyes screwed into sympathy.

Couldn’t stand it, so I stood straight and turned my whole being to face her, a social soldier awaiting inspection and approval.

“Hiya, love.” I had to shout above the white noise.

“Are you okay?” She lodged a hand on my arm, I think to keep me steady as the room spun.

What a shambles. I’m barely into my thirties and ten pints of John Smiths had got the room disco-balling.

“From your friend.” The barman planted another shot by my elbow.

“Sheers.” I turned back to the woman and laughed. “Wouldyer like to join me?” I reached for her arm, missed, embedded my face on her shoulder. My chin rested on a boob. I might have fallen asleep on it for a moment, but she pushed me upright. She seemed full of care. Dunno why – I’d just copped a feel.

Some bloke, an inch shorter than me, asked if she needed assistance. My snort asked what his problem entailed. He bristled, thought the little woman needed his muscle. I sneered at him for the gentle shake of her head. Told him to move along. Nothing to see here. The knobhead showed me the whites of his eyes from behind her, mad at the attention she gave me. I showed him the glories of my white teeth, forgetting I might have peanut bits in the gaps.

“You’re a nut, Larry.” She slapped my chest, all playful.

“What?”

“You’re … a … nut.”

I screwed my eyes tight, focused hard through the tiny aperture, and nearly spat those peanut bits across her face in laughter. I grabbed the shot Stan had sent, held it tight thinking I could drop it any moment, and gulped it down. “Erin, babes.”

The bar seemed to rise above. The chandelier pulled away. Its dirty light sparkled like a thousand stars before my lids blacked everything out.

Moorlands is available from Amazon

 

Cutter’s Deal by Julie Morrigan


I finished this book at about 4.30am on a fevered morning when I couldn’t get to sleep and I was sweating like a pig-dog. The book did not help that fever. Gordon Cutter is a gangster with a one track mind for revenue streams. He sees people as tools to increase his streams and power and he’ll do some grimy shite if anyone gets in his way. 

In contrast to this psychopath, the other narrators – siblings Livvy and Jack – are a pair of naive kids just looking to get the family back on its feet after their dad has been laid off. They’ll take anything just to get food on the table. 

Cutter has plans for them both and it’s not the glamour either one of them expected. 

Julie Morrigan has created a foul character in Cutter. The book doesn’t shy away from graphic beatings and murder, and delves into paedophile rings involving the local great and good.

The book will make you scratch and fidget and look away. It’s bloody horrible. And really good. 

You can buy Cutter’s Deal at:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Moorlands now up for pre-order and other news. 

Moorlands_Cover_for_Kindle

Been a hectic spring. Aidan Thorn’s magnificent Paladins came out, which features a tale of mine (Jabs and Uppercuts). I’ve not shifted my eyeballs from Moorlands for the past few months, which is now on pre-order (released on 30 May), and now I’m arm-deep into Bullets, Teeth & Fists 2, a bunch of short stories, flash pieces and novelettes populated by bastards, sweethearts, and those caught inbetween, which should be out sometime in June.


All exciting stuff.

In the meantime, I’m reading Julie Morrigan’s terrifying Cutter’s Deal – which has had me flinching even when I don’t have my head in its pages. Paul D. Brazill, Thomas Pluck, Carmen Amato, Mark Wilson, Ryan Bracha and Ed James are next on the list.

Thanks to Chris Lucania for the Moorlands cover – the gent, Ryan Bracha for formatting, and the to-the-point Mark Wilson for blurb advice. Grand, every one of them.

The short blurb:

A missing sister, an emerald-encrusted ring, dodgy friends, and money-induced cracks in the family shake Larry from the jaded husk he’s become.
Torn between greed and sentiment, can Larry gain peace from old friends – and find Sophie alive?

The Long Blurb (for those who want a spoiler or two):

A missing sister, an emerald-encrusted ring, dodgy friends, and money-induced cracks in his family pull Larry from the used-up husk he’s become.
His sister, Sophie, is missing and his step-dad, Bill, wants him to use his criminal skills to find her. Larry’s in debt to Stan, who has hidden his dark side well. Larry’s discovered the worth of a ring he stole from Sheffield mayoral candidate and ex-neighbour from childhood days, Terence. It will pay his debt if only he can get his hands on it. Problem – it’s with Bill, who won’t give it back until he finds his sister.
As time runs out on paying Stan his money, Larry fears his sister is more than avoiding everybody. His nerves are stretched at multiple suspicions, from friends’ roving eyes to a suspicious one-night stand.
Torn between greed and sentiment, can Larry escape Stan’s horror – and find Sophie alive?

You can pre-order Moorlands here. 

Gabriel Valjan caps Paladins with a Beauty

Gabriel Valjan’s Back in the Day ends this Paladins adventure – and caps it beautifully. Valjan, from and residing in New England, Gabriel has a pen glued to his hand with all the works he has out there. His Roma series stretches to six and those who know had him on the shortlist for 2010’s Fish Short Story Prize. You’re going to love Back in the Day.  

Paladins is a bunch of short stories written by a bunch of criminals (minded), curated by our Fagin, Aidan Thorn. All proceeds go to The Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation. The book is in honour of Henrietta Furchtenicht, who battles the condition (and keeps her husband in check).

I hope you all get involved. 

You can buy Paladins from Amazon US and UK

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