Sample Sunday – A couple of extracts from Burn, Baby, Burn.

An early version of my novel won an award – best first novel in the history of the world, or something of that ilk – I’m shaky on the details. The lead judge, a senior buyer for Waterstones, said these two passages ‘shocked me to the core.’ See what you think – here’s a link to the book on Amazon Kindle: -

Burn, Baby, Burn on Kindle

 

Snake’s Tale.

The handles of the pliers were coated with orange plastic.  “For Christ’s sake,” Snake rasped. “Mister cool, Mister fucking G.Q. designer label suits brings pliers with fucking orange plastic handles.” The irrelevant thought was swept away on a tidal wave of relief as the pliers, cool against his bruised skin snipped the tight wire.  Snip, snip, that’s all it took. The fresh agony of returning circulation doubled him up, mouth gaping in a silent scream. Marcus threw him a cloth-covered bundle. “So, Clive’s not talking to anyone? Never goes out? That’s good. I can find you. I can always find you, junkie. You’d better have told me the truth.”

Snake scrabbled to open the bag as his tormentor left. His precious works, his most important possession, no, the only things that really mattered to him. The twisted and blackened spoon, still bearing the crest of a fast food chain, the stem bent at right angles allowing the scoop to remain level. Syringe and needle in a metal cigar case, the same needle used repeatedly, cheap disposable lighter, a grubby cotton wool ball, a small twist of foil and the precious white powder. His torn and bleeding fingers, like filthy blackened claws, remained rock steady, as sure and tender as the hands of a mother with her infant. The act transcended pain, suffering, deprivation, all that mattered was the release and the needle was the key.

Snake scooped pooling water from the floor with the spoon. Boiling would make it sterile. He transferred the powder to the bowl of the spoon, never, ever, spilling a single grain, his cupped hands shielding the precious cargo from a nonexistent wind. Safely accomplished, the bent spoon hooked over a protruding nail, he flicked the lighter, adjusting the flame. The bitter-sweet pain as he delayed bringing the flame to the spoon brought a nervous giggle to his cracked lips, sweet agony knowing he finally had the power to end his pain, his longing. No surgeon brought more concentration to his work than this, the pale, greyish mixture bubbling with the heat.  He looked at it longingly, the delay now unavoidable, shoot that stuff while it’s still hot, and it would be fucking goodnight.

No gritty residue in the cooling liquid, a good sign. He knew better than most that heroin at street level is cut many times, adulterated with baking powder, cement dust, ground up chalk, even fucking Ajax, whatever was handy. The absence of obvious contaminant was a good sign, but ultimately irrelevant.  Snake knew he would take it no matter what it looked like, regardless of the debris that accompanied it. He’d take it all.

He removed the hypodermic from its container, the needle still blackened with scabs of dried blood, pushed the needle into the ball of cotton wool and lowered it carefully into the bowl of the spoon, soaking up the liquid.

The veins in his arms and legs were useless, covered in scabs and ulcers.  He had started with the small veins on the soles of his feet, hoping in those innocent early days to avoid the obvious bruising and heavily tracked arms of the addict, but all were useless now, veins receding from the threat of the invasive needle, retreating into flesh. He removed his shoelace and tied it round the stem of his penis, pulling tight, wincing as he slapped the prominent vein to make it stand proud. He muttered to himself, lost in the precision of a familiar routine.

“Make sure you’re in the vein, always check for blood. Miss the vein it’s a fucking waste.” There was no one around to hear, but the sound of his own voice soothed him.

He never felt the needle, but as he pressed the plunger, his eyes widened as the rush began. The kick was instantaneous. Never like this, he thought as the veins behind his eyes burst and he slumped to the floor. His heart seized instantly as the pure grade uncut heroin flooded his blood stream. Snake was dead before his head hit the cement floor, needle still jutting from his penis. One more drug culture victim.

Here’s the second piece under consideration for reading to the Literary Society. These two sections were singled out by a reviewer while the manuscript of Burn, Baby, Burn was in its infancy. A senior buyer for Waterstones, his encouraging remarks were of great benefit at the time. Writers are constantly beset by self-doubt and being told by a senior player in the book industry that my writing had shocked him to the core was a massive encouragement.

*****

Clive’s Decision.

“Clive, Are you coming out to play?”

The voice reached Clive’s ears moments after he woke to the smell of smoke wafting up the stairs. The voice was unmistakably that of Marcus, even though he’d not heard him speak since they were both children. He’d expected to hear that voice, expected Marcus to reappear in his life, every day, every night, especially every night. Now Marcus was here. In the house.

Clive scrambled from his bed, eyes wide as he moved quickly to the door and listened for sounds of an intruder. He heard nothing, but was not surprised. A full-frontal attack would be too obvious. Marcus would want him to suffer first, flee from the horror of the burning house to his inevitable death. Clive snarled with sardonic humour at the thought that, at the end, he’d out-smarted his pursuer.

Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe, Clive grunted with effort as he hauled a plastic bag over the raised decorative scrollwork. Inside the bag were short lengths of nylon rope, bought weeks previously and stored in readiness for this day. He tipped the rest of the contents onto the bed, a further piece of rope, very thin nylon, hardly more than cord, but immensely strong, an industrial strength plastic bag, thick rubber gloves, and a jar of cooking oil – Tesco own-brand, from their Value Range.

Smoke leaked under the bedroom door, but Clive ignored it. It didn’t matter, not any more. He walked to the door and listened with his ear to the crack of the door.

Nothing.

As he walked away, he heard the voice again. Closer now. On the stairs?

“Clive, are you coming out to play?”

Clive sat on the hard chair that he’d placed against the wall with no other furniture within reach. Grunting with the effort, he bound his own feet together, then tied them securely to the legs of the chair that was firmly screwed to the floor, leaning into the knots until he could no longer feel his feet. Smoke was filling the room now, but he remained absolutely calm. This final meeting with Marcus had been envisaged for some time and he worked with total certainty. Pulling the plastic bag over his head, he tied it securely with the slim nylon cord. He grimaced as the binding cut deeply into his skin, but the pain was immaterial. It would not inconvenience him for long. His next breath would also be his last as he sucked the plastic against his mouth, using up the air trapped in the bag. Working quickly now, he slipped his hands into the thick rubber gloves and doused them with the contents of the cooking oil and dropped the empty container at his feet. He’d expected the panic that came with his next attempt to take a breath, but the strength of his reaction surprised him. Hands scrabbling vainly at the knots securing the bag in position, oily fingers failing to find any purchase, his lungs burned and his temples pounded like a kettledrum. From what seemed a vast distance, he heard the voice once more. “Clive, are you coming out to play?”

Even as his open mouth sucked at the unyielding plastic, teeth ripping his lower lip, he was exultant at this final cheating of his tormentor. Hot salty blood from his ravaged lips trickling down his throat, Clive slumped, his upper body pitching forward from the chair. His bound legs twitching, he fell awkwardly, head slamming against the floorboards with a sickening crack. The first flames licked at the door frame, but Clive didn’t see them. By the time his room was consumed by the fire, he had been dead for some considerable time.