Ireland

Set in the early 1980's, I HEAR THE SIRENS IN THE STREET is the second book in a trilogy built around Sean Duffy, a Catholic cop working in the reality of Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland in the middle of The Troubles. This is when neighbourhoods and towns are divided by religion and loyalty, when unemployment and community disaffection are soaring, and local cops check under their cars for bombs every single morning they head out for work.

It's a bit disconcerting to think that this is a timeframe that many of us know well, although it's now regarded as "the past" or historical. After all, this is my teenage, young adult years. Hence there's much that resonates, even in another country. The music, the clothes, the vinyl LPs. The way that Duffy's evenings are spent with the record collection, because TV is so dire, there's not that much difference between my rural Australia and his Carrickfergus. There is, however, a big difference when it comes to the society in which Duffy is operating. The Troubles override everything. The tensions between religions and alliances are palpable, and the isolation of the unemployed and the powerlessness of people playing out in violence and disruption is visceral.

The complications of the plot in this book are partially the complications of that life, a torso in a suitcase, the need to track down an identity, and a murderer fighting for focus every day with sectarian violence, police station bombings, neighbourhood division and the pressures of political interference. The picture drawn is clearly a society tearing itself limb from limb, and for a while it almost seemed like the idea of a limbless body was some sort of fascinating metaphor. But, as in real life, there's nothing glorious or meaningful about yet another self-interested, self-involved murder and somewhere, deep under the layers, it all comes down to one of the same old same old - money, sex, influence or power. Having said that, there is a bit of heavy lifting going on towards the end of the book and whilst some readers might find some of the plot elements a little bit dodgy, for this reader, it didn't require too much effort to just go with the flow.

As a central character, Sean Duffy is a keeper. He's flawed, complex without being complicated, very real and profoundly likeable. The situation in which he lives his life is stark and beautifully drawn. The dialogue and interaction between the characters is absolutely pitch perfect, you can see, hear, feel these people's presence. The writing is glorious, the books are littered with the most lyrically beautiful passages, particularly where McKinty steps up to describe the worst of possible circumstances and events.

For this reader, I HEAR THE SIRENS IN THE STREET is possibly not quite as perfect as THE COLD COLD GROUND, in the same way that I sometimes ponder whether the Scottish Play is not quite as perfect as Hamlet.
 

It really shouldn't work. Even in something as dark and noir styled as EIGHTBALL BOOGIE, there should be limits. Sure, hero's can be wise-cracking, dry, lone wolf investigators, or "Researchers". They can obviously have fraught personal lives, and goodness knows Rigby's personal life - what with a son he adores and an on again-off again live in partner, mostly pissed off with him in the extreme  falls at the very least, into complicated territory. They can have mates that can be turned easily, enemies around every corner, cops, crooks and all. They can even be somewhat risky friends to know. They can have decidedly dodgy family members but somehow keep waiting for the Chrismas cards to arrive. But really, can they possibly be shot, bashed, thumped, beaten, shot, beat up a bit more, and shot again (I lost count), and not have the reader feel the occasional WTF moment. Apparently, when you're this reader, and it's this book, you can.

Who knew.

It's undoubtedly something to do with the crisp, sharp, pointy, sticky, dark, hilariously funny writing throughout the book. It really got to the point where I didn't care if the hero got shot yet again, as long as he rose to his feet with a nice little aside out of his mouth. I confess at one point I was worried about the beatings - but if I'm being honest - only because of the possibility of a broken jaw and what Burke would do to keep the hero wise-cracking. At no stage did I worry for his longevity, and he really is the sort of engaging character that you'd like to think is propping up a bar into his dotage, as long as it's not my local. Sure the plot probably needed a tourist guide, a very good torch and maybe a cheat sheet, but I ... simply ... did ... not ... care. I loved the whole package and frankly, had a ball reading it. Giggled like an idiot at points.

This is Declan Burke's first book, which I cannot believe I've not read before. Especially as I'd loved The Big O.

You'd think I'd know these things by now.

To be honest, I'd read Ken Bruen's to do list, shopping list, just about anything he writes. (I live with this odd fantasy that his to do list would be terse, pointed, poignant, unapologetic, tense and yet hilarious... but I don't get out much and my mind tends to wander into odd places).

As is also normal with any Ken Bruen book LONDON BOULEVARD is not for the squeamish. Unapologetic, brutal, violent and very in your face, it is as always, equally touching and somehow hamfistedly gentle. Mitch, fresh out of prison, has a soft side, particularly when it comes to his sister Briony, a fragile creature. Whilst he comes out of jail to an apartment, creature comforts and the small complication of a job with a local loan sharking outfit, Mitch prefers to look after himself. He branches out into the role of handyman to the glorious, Norma Desmond copycat Lillian Palmer. Hence LONDON BOULEVARD is also not a book for the prudish - as sex with elderly, slightly bats actresses is one thing; but to be honest the close attention that butler, caretaker, bodyguard and more, Jordan, pays to his mistress's every need was ... weird from the start.

Life for Mitch meanwhile gets more complicated as his sister's desperation, betrayal, the desire for revenge and the madness of just about everybody around him means that he is caught between a rock and a very very hard place. LONDON BOULEVARD is another classic Ken Bruen novel - sharp, brutal, funny, touching, discomforting - delivered at break neck pace, not guilty of the use of an unnecessary word.

When your favourite authors start dying even the most reasonable reader should be forgiven for becoming a nervous, obsessed, idiot hoarder of books that can, after all, be re-read should the unthinkable eventuate.  Despite an overwhelming desire to continue this hoarding behaviour, eventually the yearning for books like CALIBRE becomes too strong and, as a result, I'm no longer hoarding CALIBRE.  (DISCLAIMER:  I have no information whatsoever with regard to Mr Bruen's state of health... it's just that he's a favourite author and there's always the chance that any one of my favourite authors could beat me out the door....)

I'm not 100% sure what called me to this book over the last few days, but I found myself inexplicably incapable of looking past it when scanning the shelves for a little something to fill in a hot weekend.  Which plan failed dismally as I read it in a single setting.  Not because the book is 192 pages long, because it was so extremely, gloriously readable.

Of course we're talking Bruen here, so it's rapid-fire dialogue, recited by unconventional characters, with a healthy disdain for the rules or much in the way of propriety.  There's also the most marvellous dark, dry humour - personally I thought Sergeant Brant's method for becoming the British equivalent of author Ed McBain had a weird sort of merit, although I doubt his colleague, who was being set up for a systematic fleecing of his ability, would agree....

CALIBRE, as with all of Bruen's novels, is not for everyone.  We're not talking straight-forward police procedurals here, nor are we necessarily talking much in the way of complicated plots.  What we are talking is a sense of noir, of the dark side, of black humour and somehow, disconcertingly so in some places, realism.  Favourite author or not favourite author I'm going to have to snap out of hoard mode and get back into reading (and re-reading) all of Bruen's books.

THE COLD COLD GROUND arrived announcing the beginning of a new series, with a new character by Adrian McKinty and I was intrigued... and worried.  It's been stinking hot in these parts, so I'm already sleep deprived.  I wasn't sure I could cope with another all night reading session.

So I got cunning, and started the book early in the day.  And ended up with an all day reading session.  Simply could ... not ... put ... the thing down.

THE COLD COLD GROUND is therefore obviously another outstanding book from this outstanding writer.  It is, however, a rather different viewpoint and a different timeframe to previous books.  Sean Duffy is a Catholic copper in a Protestant police force in 1981 Ireland.  A tricky job in a tricky place.  A place where, as a cop, your early morning routine is coffee, brush, dress and check under your car for mercury tilt bombs before you drive to work.  Where there are places that you simply do not go unless you are in a armour plated police 4WD.  Even then you can get caught, and will get shot at - with malice and a clear intent to kill.  There's no messing around in this world.  It's dangerous, your life can turn on a look, or a thought, or just simply being in the wrong place with the wrong name.

In the middle of this climate of distrust and fear the idea that there could be a serial killer lurking, targeting gay men is strangely a novelty.  There's a line in the book about most serial killers being able to satisfy their urges by joining one of the paramilitaries.  Needless to say this is not a book that pulls punches.  It's restrained sure, but it's pointed, carefully drawing out the story and the sub-threads, subduing the delivery to make sure that you get the points being made.  And there definitely are points which you will feel are being hammered home hard, but at least it's done with a book of poetry.  Take, as an example, the opening paragraph:

"The riot had taken on a beauty of its own now.  Arcs of gasoline fire under the crescent moon.  Crimson tracer in mystical parabolas.  Phosphorescence from the barrels of plastic bullet guns.  A distant yelling like that of men below decks in a torpedoed prison ship.  The scarlet whoosh of Molotovs intersecting with exacting surfaces.  Helicopters everywhere: their spotlights finding one another like lovers in the Afterlife.  I watched with the others by the Land Rover on Knockagh Mountain.  No one spoke.  Words were inadequate.  You needed a Picasso for this scene, not a poet."

This is exactly the sort of thing that goes on throughout the book - drawing a picture of that time in Ireland that's stark, clear, sobering and moving.  Drawing a picture of the life of Sean Duffy that's memorable, alone, not quite a lone wolf, but definitely a man who dances to his own tune.  Not exactly brave in the face of all comers, but good and right and quietly determined.  Not completely stupid, not an energiser bunny, not a man given to flights of fancy, he's alone, lonely and ever so slightly sad.  

He's also a man that just fits into this portrayal of Northern Island.  Whilst there's no forgetting that the book is about the solving of the deaths of two men - shot in quick succession, the strange juxtaposition of each other's hands beside their bodies, seemingly signalling something paramilitary, both men's backgrounds pointing elsewhere, it's also a book that cleverly sets up a lot of information about this character.  His background, his decision to put himself seemingly in an impossible job in an impossible place.  But once the investigation gets going, and the intricacies and expectations of life in Northern Island start to play themselves out, the actual solution is considerably less clear cut than it initially seems to be.  

Ultimately what THE COLD COLD GROUND does better than anything else is show how complicated life in that time, in that place could be.  How the politics of power, hate and influence play themselves out, how a copper in a small town can hang on and try to make a difference in a world that's - frankly - gone completely and utterly mad.

It was rather pleasing to see DUBLIN DEAD, mostly because O'Donovan's first book, The Priest, actually managed to get me to rethink my "over serial killer" books stance.  So no pressure on this one... at all.

There is some reference back to The Priest in DUBLIN DEAD, which is unavoidable really given that both books feature journalist Siobhan Fallon and policeman DI Mike Mulcahy.  If you've not read the earlier book, that shouldn't put you off completely, as there is some recapping of what happened, particularly to Siobhan.  Whilst it should be enough to allow new readers to not get lost, and returning readers to avoid rehashing old events, the scope of the tentative friendship / attraction between Fallon and Mulcahy could be a little less clear.  That's probably the only flaw in the rationale of the book - whilst it's not unknown for journalists and policemen to co-operate for expediency's sake, the level of connection between these two could be confusing without knowing how the working relationship got started.

What is substantially different in DUBLIN DEAD is the nature of this plot - which is multi-threaded and based around gangsters, drug dealing, an inexplicable suicide, an armed hitman and a missing woman.  Obviously in this sort of book, you'd be perfectly entitled to assume that these threads are going to end up somehow connected, but even allowing for that expectation I must admit I did not see how or where O'Donovan was going to be able to do that.  Especially as the book does take a while to get going, so a lot needed to happen in a hurry to tie off the events.  The earlier part of the book is spent teasing out the various connections, Fallon and Mulcahy both coming to the centre from a range of different threads.  As in the first book, there is another Spanish / Irish connection ... this time because an Irish gangster dies in Spain, at the same time that Irish police are looking into a massive drugs haul on a yacht off the coast of Cork.  There's obviously something in these connections that the author likes, or maybe it's more common in Ireland and Spain than we know about in this corner of the world!

One of the most interesting aspects of DUBLIN DEAD for me anyway, was the comparisons with the earlier book.  The switch from the enclosed, creepy serial killer storyline to drugs, gangsters, hitmen and violent murder gave the author a nicely complicated plot to pull together.  Compared to that very personal feeling of threat of the earlier storyline, DUBLIN DEAD had a wider scope, a greater capacity for a true thriller style chase, and somehow a threat that seemed less personal and more professional, a hitman, after all, just doing a job.  That change in focus also meant that there seems to have been a subtle change in the author's viewpoint.  The two main characters - Fallon and Mulcahy are under pressure undoubtedly, but somehow because the threat was more professional (measured / deliberate) which seemed less personal (unpredictable / mad / off kilter), it seems that there was an opportunity for a bit more exploration of personal vulnerability and frailty.  

I remember thinking after The Priest that these two could make a very interesting duo into the future, and DUBLIN DEAD is still encouraging that feeling.  Whilst I really enjoyed the first book, I found DUBLIN DEAD to be even better, so now I'm hoping for not just a third book, but a fourth and maybe more in the Fallon and Mulcahy series.

Not having read any of Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl books, I'm guessing from the author's own description of that series as "Die Hard with fairies", that PLUGGED has a hefty dose of the same sort of humour but this time for adults.

Certainly part of one blurb I read "the crime caper so outlandish, so maniacal, so wickedly funny, it could only come from the mind that brought you Artemis Fowl" set expectations pretty firmly.  

There's definitely something deliciously perverse about the scenario of this book - an Irish, ex-pat bouncer whose girlfriend is murdered in the car park of the seedy casino that he's just won in a game of Poker.  Not that I'd agree with the use of "girlfriend" - that seems a little more what Daniel McEvoy hoped was going on with Connie than what she'd actually agreed to.  Winning your own business also might seem like an opportunity, and Dan certainly starts off with the best interests of his new employees at heart, but he's distracted.  Partially by his barking mad upstairs neighbour who seems to think he's her long lost husband.  But really his major problem is his dodgy hair transplant surgeon has gone missing and Dan's new hair plugs itch.  Well maybe that and the fact that he's managed to make an enemy of one of New Jersey's most ruthless drug-dealers, he's been framed for a crime he didn't commit, his only ally seems to be a cop-killing female cop, and all this getting shot at is likely to start him pulling out his hair - which he really cannot afford to be doing right now.

So, a slightly manic plot and a slightly bizarre situation which, luckily proved hugely entertaining and very very funny at points.  The crying with laughter bit helps a lot as well as this is such a busy busy plot, there are some rather desperate attempts to keep the whole thing on track and tied up at points.  Which frankly I didn't much care about.  

This is a good old fashioned caper novel, with a wonderful, try hard sort of bloke at the centre who truly is a very likeable character.  There is a good cast of equally eccentric individuals surrounding him, but somehow, they seem to sort of work in the world that they inhabit.  Definitely intended as sheer entertainment, PLUGGED, really delivered that component in spades.  It is a caper though, it is intended to be funny, so don't look too closely at the details.  PLUGGED probably should have come with a warning that reading in an area with other people may get you some startled looks because you really should find yourself laughing out loud frequently.

There are some books that it is just flat out a relief to finish.  Too much sleep deprivation and the dust bunnies can start to look like they are moving into formations for the final onslaught.  FALLING GLASS really cheats a lot.  Having become a somewhat besotted Michael Forsythe fan, I did think I could approach FALLING GLASS with the vague hope of keeping reasonable hours.  He plays a bit part only in this book after all, with the action centred around enforcer Killian.  Should have known better.  McKinty writes that brand of dark, violent, no holds barred, tempered with touches of raw and magnificent humour, Irish noir that makes me forget to feed the dogs and forces me to remind myself that no normal person is still awake at 4.00am convincing themselves that just a few more pages won't hurt.

There are differences between Killian and Forsythe.  Killian is an enforcer, rather than a straight out hitman.  He looks for solutions to problems, and he's not above using some elegant albeit somewhat crafty ways of getting results for whoever is paying him.  He's also looking for a way out.  A chance to retire and enjoy the good life, it's his expertise in finding people that don't want to be found that means Forsythe recommends him for a big job.  A very wealthy Irish businessman, Richard Coulter, is prepared to pay big money for somebody to find his ex-wife and return his two young daughters.  Fed the line that the ex is a drug addict who is going to endanger the girls, Killian is attracted by the sheer size of the pay packet - retirement seems just that bit closer.  Of course things are going to get complicated, and of course there's going to be more than meets the eye to the wife's disappearance.  The fact that there are a few elements to the plot of this story that are predictable is neither here nor there - this is a book about the journey.  Killian's journey from enforcer to retiree.  His journey from it being all about the money, to an understanding that there are some things that are more important than money.  The journey from being the chaser to the chased.  

Along the way there's a wonderful sense of the Irishness of this book.  Killian is a tinker, a traveller, a background that he can't get away from, a lifestyle to which he can return with absolutely no questions asked and all kindnesses forthcoming.  The landscape in which the action takes place, the weather, the characters that everyone rubs up against in the chase go further to making such a strong sense of place.  The humour, the outlook, the language, the tone - it's all very very Irish.  As is the ending.  Spectacularly Irish, utterly unresolved - it's an ending that's probably going to drive some readers bats and made me joyously happy.  Because I still love Michael Forsythe - and not just because he's a bad guy - but I also love Killian - not just because he's complicated.  And I don't know if he'll be back in another book.  And now that's keeping me awake.