Boxed in

Ron Earl Phillips has announced the winner of his inaugural flash fiction challenge.  A small field, but I was delighted to hear my entry, Boxing Dumb, was the runner-up.  A nice pat on the back.  I'm still getting used to the short story format and the flash fiction challenges seems to be proving a good method of self-learning.  Thanks to Ron for hosting and the nod.

Review of The Arms Maker of Berlin by Dan Fesperman

History professor, Dr Nat Turnbull, specialises in studying German resistance movements during the Second World War.  He’s dragged from a library late at night by a FBI agent when boxes of stolen, classified documents are discovered in the summer house of his mentor, Professor Gordon Wolfe.  Strange happenings have plagued Wolfe in recent weeks and the FBI want to know the importance of the files.  Turnbull is only happy to help out; anything to get access to such interesting material.  At the initial court hearing, Wolfe hints that there is an important trail ahead, but before he can elaborate he is found dead in his cell.  The boxes reveal that Wolfe was an American agent in Switzerland during the war working for the future head of the CIA, Allan Dulles.  His job involved running agents in Germany linked to resistance groups.  There are are four files missing from the boxes; files that promise dangerous secrets if the various forces gathering to hunt down them down is anything to go by.  So begins a race across America, Switzerland and Germany as Turnbull tries to uncover the truth and a ruthless arms billionaire seeks to thwart his progress.

The Arms Maker of Berlin is a curious book.  It’s essentially an Indiana Jones-style hunt for important historical documents, with a tangle of individuals and groups also after the prize.  It’s a book that left me a little conflicted.  It really shouldn’t have worked.  The prose was workmanlike and sometimes clunky.  The characters were stock, and fairly thinly drawn, and the dialogue often wooden.  And the plot was pure fantasy and ridiculous in places.  And yet, despite all that it kind of works, in the same way as some Hollywood action films work – the Indiana Jones movies, for example.  It has goodies and baddies (and it’s not always clears who is which), a splash of romance, some intrigue and mystery, a dash of suspense and violence, and a veneer of historical respectability.  Which kind of compensated for the other shortcomings.  There are lots of better crime/thrillers concerning the Second World War from Philip Kerr, Alan Furst, John Lawton and others, but if you like an Indiana Jones-style yarn this might be for you.

The Map Reader cover design

We've been sent three mock covers for The Map Reader book.  We can either go with one of these three or ask to go back to the drawing board.  What do you think?  Which one do you like best or do you think we should ask for more options?

Lazy Sunday Service

A fairly hectic week. Had two minor operations - foot on Monday, chest on Wednesday.  They seem to have gone okay, though it would be more comfortable if I hadn't managed to tease open a couple of the five stitches in my chest.  A new dog arrived on Thursday.  We now have three in the pack - one who thinks he's the leader, but isn't; one that's been profoundly deaf since birth and refuses to recognise that there is a pack; and a new, confused one who's trying to work out what kind of crazy pack this is.  I'm sure it'll settle down soon.  Hopefully.

My post this week:
Review of Bangkok Tattoo by John Burdett
Decentralisation - halt, reverse, modify or proceed as planned?
Bugbears
Review of The Case of the Missing Books by Ian Samson
Short story: Boxing Dumb
Because what we really need is more zoned land
Review of The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett

Saturday snippets from Saturday's Child

Saturday snippets from Saturday's Child

Saturday's Child by Ray Banks is set in working class Manchester and Bank's does a pretty good job at immersing the reader in culture.  He has a good observational eye and a nice turn of phrase.  Some of my favourite lines from the first hundred pages or so:


"The way the story goes, Morris Tiernan once had a bad debt slit from arsehole to appetite"

"The girl looks like she has covered her face in glue and headbutted a bag full of ball bearings."

"A working class hero is something to be.  But then six bullets, point blank, and not one of them hit Yuko."

"I'm your Dad, but I wouldn't trust you as far as I could shit you, son."

Review of The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett (1932, Penguin)

Nick Charles is a former PI, now looking after the business interests his wife has inherited, and living a wealthy life.  Nick and his wife, Nora, have travelled to New York for the Christmas holiday, staying in a suite in the Normandie.  Rather than the relaxing break they were hoping for, they are dragged into investigating the death of Julia Wolf, secretary to eccentric inventor, Clyde Wynant.  Swirling round Nick and Nora, as he tries to determine who killed Wolf, are Wynant’s estranged family, his former partner, his lawyer, some low-life hoodlums, and the police.  All of whom seem to have something to hide and gain.  The only person missing is the one everyone wants to meet – Clyde Wynant; the thin man.

The Thin Man is a crime farce, written in an all-tell, dialogue and action style, with no excess fat in the prose.  There’s a lot of melodrama, with people storming in and out, kissing and making up; and lots of lying, deceit, manipulation and double crosses.  Nick Charles is the rock at the centre of all this carry-on; the tough, no-nonsense PI, who’s able to calmly and authoratively take charge and sort the wheat from the chaff, and is attractive to dames and admired by men.  He’s the guy that everybody naturally turns to for help, including the police.  The characterisation is well developed and Hammett keeps the dozen or so central characters swirling round each other, with the pace relentless without being excessive, and the plot twisting continuously.  The story had a little too much melodrama for my taste, but it’s an enjoyable hardboiled yarn nonetheless.

Boxing Dumb

This is my entry for Ron Earl Phillips' flash fiction challenge. The challenge was to write a short story that concerns receiving an unsolicited box and what's inside (the deadline is tomorrow, if you're interested in submitting a piece; prize is a copy of Needle Magazine). 


‘What is it?’

‘A box.’

‘I can see that,’ I said turning the small wooden box, little bigger than a matchbox, in my hands.  ‘What’s in it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Yeah, its empty, you know.’

‘So, what’s it for then?’  I ask flipping the lid to reveal an empty cavity.

‘For putting stuff in.  You know, like … things.’

I could tell this was going to be one of those conversations, you know, dumb and evasive.  Jimmy was head of the pack in dumb.  He was pretty good at evasive and shifty, but then he usually had good reason; he did dumb things.  Let’s just say he wasn’t the highest wattage bulb.  Still, he’s my brother and I’m a long way from florescence. 

‘So, why are you giving it to me?’

‘So you can put stuff in it.  To keep them safe, like.  You know, in case … I made it.’

‘You made it?’

‘Well, you know, I …’

‘You stole it,’ I finished for him.  Jimmy hadn’t made a single thing in his life.  The idea that he’d managed to create something as finely crafted as this was laughable; he’d have difficulty making a potato head. 

‘I borrowed it.’

‘What do you mean, you borrowed it?  Does that mean I now have to give it back to them?’

‘No, no, its yours.’

‘So, you didn’t borrow it then?’

‘Well, no.’

‘So, who did you steal it from?’

‘No-one.’

‘No-one?  Jimmy stop fucking about and tell me where you got the box.’

‘What does it matter?  I’m giving it to you.  As a present.’

Little alarm bells are now starting to tinkle two inches above and behind my right ear; exactly where it states ‘caution’ on one of those phrenology busts – you know, those heads where they’ve written on what each bit of the mind relates to.  If they did one for Jimmy half the spots would be blank, the other half downgraded.

‘It matters plenty, Jimmy.  What if I take my new box out in the wrong place; like in front of its former owner?’

‘You won’t.’  He refuses to look me in the eye.  ‘I promise.’

‘You’re lying, Jimmy, and you’re promises are worth shit.’

‘Look, I just found it, okay.  It was lying there, you know, like out in the open, so I took it.  They shouldn’t have … they should have hid it if they didn’t want anyone to take it.’

‘So, now its their fault that you broke into their house and took their box?’

‘I didn’t break in.’

‘So, you were a guest then, were you?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Kind of?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Jimmy, just tell me where you got the fucking box.’

‘You can put precious things in it.  Keep them safe.  You know, like … stuff.  Things, like.’

The alarm bells are now clanging like church bells, but once Jimmy’s decided he’s not going to tell you a specific thing he sticks to his guns.  I could take a baseball bat to him and he wouldn’t offer up the truth.  He’s like that.  Stubborn.  A convincing lie would be better than a bat, but then Jimmy’s lies are as transparent as a wedding night negligee.

‘What was in the box, Jimmy?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘It was nothing, like.’

‘What was nothing, like?’

He stays silent, scratching nervously at his chin.

He wants to tell me, I know he does.  That’s why he’s giving me the box.  It’s not a present; it’s his way of letting me know he’s fucked up and he needs help.  He won’t tell me who he’s robbed, because he can’t bring himself to, but he’ll tell me what he’s robbed.  He knows he’s been dumber than a sack of pheasants.  I just need to tease it out of him; let him feel that he was hoodwinked into letting up his secret.

‘So, it wasn’t worth much?’

‘No.’

‘Pawn Stars thought it was basically worthless?’

‘I didn’t take it to them.’

‘You take everything to them.’

‘I didn’t go to them.’

‘You always to go them.’

‘I couldn’t, could I?  What are they going to do with a …’  He trailed off.

‘With what?’

‘With nothing.’

‘Jesus, Jimmy!  Just tell me what was in the fucking box!  Do you want me to help you or not?’

* * *

‘Are you fucking nuts?’

Jimmy offered me the pinkie.

‘Get away from me with that fucking thing.’

‘It’s his finger.’

‘No shit.  What the fuck are you doing with his finger?’

‘It was in the box.’

‘Jesus, Jimmy, have you got a death wish?  Does he know its missing yet?’

My dumb ass brother has stolen Johnny K’s pinkie.  Johnny lost it in a knife fight when he was a young hood and he’s kept it as a kind of sick trophy.  The story is that the other guy lost a lot more, like his manhood.  Just the thought of JK’s blood soaked hands wielding that knife across the poor bastard’s groin brings tears to my eyes.  Johnny K is, if you hadn’t realised, a psychopath.  He runs every racket in the neighbourhood with an iron fist.

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘What the fuck were you thinking?  Don’t answer that; you weren’t fucking thinking.  Shit!’

There’s dumb and then there’s suicidal.  Stealing Johnny K’s pinkie was suicidal.  Involving me was tantamount to aiding and abetting murder.  We’re both dead men walking.

‘I … We …’

‘Just shut the fuck up, Jimmy.  I’m trying to think here.’

This was my own fault, I shouldn’t have insisted on knowing what was in the box.  I should have just taken the box, thrown it in the sock drawer and let Jimmy work out what he was going to do with the pinkie.

‘You better tell me how and why you stole Johnny K’s pinkie.’

‘I didn’t steal it, I …’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, borrowed it.  Save it for the jury or executioner.  Just tell me what that fuck you’re doing with it.’

‘Well, me and Pete Stewart were …’

I can’t help but groan.  If there’s anyone dumber than Jimmy, its Pete Stewart.  He wasn’t last in the queue when they were giving out brains, he was a no show. 

‘Look, Pete’s sound.  Johnny K asked him to do a wee job for him, and Pete asked me to help, you know, for a bit of tab money.  Just moving crates from his garage into a van.’

‘Crates?’

‘Yeah, these big boxes.  Heavy as hell.’

‘And what was in them?  Forget that; I don’t want to know.  So, you moved these boxes, then what?’

‘Then Janey invited us into the house; give us a drink and pay us, like.  She’s wearing this low cut …’

Janey is ten years younger than Johnny and is well aware of the kind of influence she can exert over men.  She flirts like crazy, though you’d want a death wish to so much as glance at her. 

‘The box, Jimmy.’

‘No need to be …’

‘The box.’

‘Well, it just sitting there, you know, on the mantelpiece.’

‘You’re in Johnny K’s house, and you decide to help yourself?’

‘It was just a box.’

‘Yeah, that he keeps his fuckin’ pinkie in!  It’s like his most prized possession.  Everyone knows about his pinkie!’ 

‘I didn’t know it was in that box, did I?  I thought it was jewellery or something.  I just slipped in my pocket whilst she was doling out the cash.’

‘Oh, god.’  What did I do to deserve Jimmy as a brother?

‘Maybe we could throw it away?’

‘Yeah, that would work up until the moment he comes looking for it.  It won’t take him two seconds to work out that either you or Pete took it.  At least if you‘ve still got it we can put it back’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘You don’t think, period.  We’re going to have to return it.’

‘Return it?’

‘Yeah.  Do you have a better idea?’

* * *

‘Couldn’t we just post it back?’ Jimmy asks.

Now he starts to think of alternatives.  It would be perfect except for the fact that we need to get it back before Johnny realises it’s missing.  Fingers crossed.

‘Shhhhhh!’

We’ve cleared the wall and we’re making our way through the garden towards the house.  Thankfully, Johnny doesn’t have dogs.  He doesn’t need them.  You’d have to be crazy to break into his house. 

‘Well, how about just posting through the letter box?’ Jimmy hissed.

‘Will you shut the fuck up, Jimmy.’

‘I’m just trying to help.’

‘Well, don’t.  Where’s the best place to break in?’

‘The front door.  The lock’s a piece of shit.’

‘The front door?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Jesus.’  What the fuck am I doing, creeping up to Johnny K’s house?  Jimmy made this mess, he should sort it out.  What is it with older brothers, always having to clean up after siblings?

‘And the place is empty?’

‘His car’s not here.’

‘Now what?’ I ask as we reach the door.

There’s no answer, but before I can turn on my heels, the door opens, Johnny K filling the frame, his shaved head glowing gold in the hall light.

‘I’ve been expecting you.’

‘You’ve been expecting me?’

‘You’ve got my finger?’

‘Er …’

‘You better come in.’  He stands back and ushers me in.  Jimmy’s nowhere in sight; no doubt a couple of hundred yards away and travelling fast.

‘I …’

‘Come-on.  Stop fucking me about.’

Reluctantly I step over the threshold, following Johnny through to a large kitchen.

‘So?’

‘I … Well, you know …’

‘I’ll swap you.  You give me your box, and I’ll give you this one.’  He produced a small, dark box from his pocket.

‘There’s no need for … I didn’t … It was …’

I pull his box from my jacket pocket and hold out my hand.

Johnny takes it and offers the other back.

‘I’m okay.  I’m sorry about … well, you know … the box.’

‘Take it.  You’ll need it.’

‘I’ll need it?’ I repeat, reluctantly taking my second unsolicited box in as many hours.

‘For your finger,’ Johnny says, taking a meat cleaver from a rack.

‘My … look Johnny, let’s not be hasty here.  I didn’t take your finger, my …’

‘Your?’

And that’s it; I’m in a corner in more ways than one.  Do I grass on my brother, putting him in danger at the same time as I reveal my own disposition for giving people up, or do I let Johnny cleave my pinkie from my hand for a crime I didn’t commit? 

Well? 

Family and honour or self-preservation?

Yeah, I know, impossible choice, right? 

But you have to pick one.

If he would only stop smiling maniacally I might be able to think straight.

‘You were saying?’ Johnny asks.

‘I …’ 

‘I think it’s a fair swap, don’t you?  One box for another?  An exchange of pinkies.’

‘I …’

How the hell had it come to this?  Two hours ago the world was on an even keel.  Well, as even as could be expected.  Now this.

‘You can pick the hand.  I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

For the life of me, I can’t understand why I am proffering my left hand.  What part of the brain controls self-sacrifice for dumb-ass brothers?  I bet that’s not on one of those phrenology skulls. 

Johnny has led me to a butcher’s block, placing my left pinkie on the edge of the board, my other fingers curled up out of the way.

‘This might sting a little,’ Johnny says, raising the cleaver above his head.  He’s clearly enjoying himself, his eyes twinkling with glee.  He’d dearly love me to make a break for it so he could use the cleaver indiscriminately.

My only thought as the steel flashes down is – I deserve this.  The only reason I’m there, swapping mementos, is because I suggested we come. 

And I thought Jimmy had an echo between his ears.