Good news. After a solid three hour partially jetlagged transatlantic session with Green Wizard's cover designer, Dark Dawn Creations, we made massive progress with the paperback cover and it should be ready over the weekend.
Thank you, Dawn :-D
http://www.darkdawncreations.com/
The paperback version of Once Upon A Time In The City Of Criminals should be ready for sale, therefore, on Thursday 9th April
I will reveal the cover on this page tomorrow lunchtime if it is ready.
The usual suspects will receive a review copy from me but once again, I will have 25 copies to give away to NEW readers prepared to give me an HONEST review.
Not everyone likes my stuff - my books are generally set in a Poundland-infested English city, not in London and/or LA, I don't follow 101 rules (in fact I take great pleasure in breaking them), some of my characters are pretty amoral people (and I focus on them for no apparent reason), I work on the margins of society most of the time and I have found that contrary to the music and arts scenes, Indie writing is VERY conservative - so if you do take a book and dislike it, I WANT TO KNOW.
Seriously.
If you take a PB from me, I need you to review it on Amazon. It's only fair. You can of course review it anywhere. Your blog, Goodreads, the features section of the Oswestry Lettuce Journal, the letters page of Practical Pantomime Horse, Gold Coast Surfer, the Friends of North Dakota Society Magazine etc, but I need to boost my Amazon reviews as a priority and that.
Last week's blog contains loads of info on the book itself, so have a read and see whether you fancy it. Hope so.
Ta! If you would like a copy, leave a comment below or mail me, if you know my address.
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Extract: Here's an extract from City of Criminals. This is from possibly my favourite chapter in the whole book. It's called Omar Jelly. Three rascals negotiate a deal to buy contraband, difficult to obtain, prescription drugs. It takes place in Nottingham Market Square (just next to the tram above), and later, after much drinking, concludes in a crack den.
Pike is walking up toward the Starbucks and he has
someone with him, a tall geezer with a goatee and a long white jacket, a thin
white Arab duke I am pleased to see, the ostensible purpose of my visit to
town.
It’s Omar. He’s ambling along as if he owns the city, the Sheikh of
Nottingham, Land of a Thousand Nights. Next to him, Pike is wearing a
lemon yellow Adidas tracksuit, topped off by his Hackett cap. Ready as he ever
is to steam into an imaginary posse of Swindon or Rochdale except those days
are long gone and everyone who goes to Notts kisses and cuddles in the seats.
It’s not the old days. Those days have long gone. You get more agro at the
Panthers now, and Ice Hockey is a pastime for spectators with learning
disabilities.
We shake hands in turn. Pike
is upbeat.
Gentlemen, rather than discuss our business in this monstrous
atrocity of a British autumn day, he says, I suggest we disappear to the Magic
Spoons for a swift pint.
We agree, particularly as the pub is right next to
us. I have no idea why Pike is talking like this, unless it is to
impress Omar, whose swarthy, olive countenance is a picture of abundant health
in comparison to our pallid complexions.
The rain spits in our faces and I am
glad to get inside, past the porch next to the patio dining area, past the old
blokes in anoraks who smoke foul smelling roll-ups and stare at the passers-by
going about their daily business. Even at ten past eleven, the place is jammed.
Average age of the punters in there is fifty and with that I’m being charitable.
I feel youthful. The gaff, like most Magic Spoons around the country, but
particularly this one, stinks of ennui, misery, hopelessness, depression and
despair. It smells of bacon too. My mouth is watering despite where I am. I've not eaten since yesterday afternoon.
Pike knows I drink Thor’s Hammer when I am in town.
Omar too joins in with the thick, amber-coloured West Country tipple. He leads us to a table right at the back next to an
old couple who look a little like old time comic couple Arthur Mullard and
Queenie Watts. They sit nursing pints of session bitter, arms folded, staring
into some infinite point in space.
How many times in their married life have
they done this? A million times. A million times a million.
We three talk bollocks for a while – football, racing,
gossip, news – and then Pike, impatient as ever cuts to the chase and addresses
Omar.
Enough of this idle chat. Terry here can’t sleep
and he’s in the market for some nice Rowntrees Jelly. Can you assist my very
good friend in this matter?
Indeed, I can, he replies. I happen to have several
strips in my top pocket right now. Don’t need them at the moment. I am in a
delightful phase of my life, in the company of a nice local lady from West
Bridgford.
Bread and Lard Island, Pike replies. Nice ladies do
tend to come from Bread and Lard Island.
Yes they do, and my Cartier is helping me to sleep
quite nicely, Mr Pike. I am a bad, bad sleeper usually.
Sorry, Pike says. What did you say her name was?
Cartier.
We look at him.
Cartier, Pike says. After the watch?
Are you guys taking the piss? Omar retorts, smiling.
Us? Pike says, gesturing. Heaven forbid!
That’s good. Cartier is a wonderful lady and we are in
love. Anyway, one week in the summer, perhaps early July, I went three nights
without a moments sleep and I started to believe everyone was out to get me. It
caused considerable problems at the University. That was it. Went to the see
the doctor the very next day. He couldn’t have been more understanding. Next
night, I slept for fourteen hours. These sweeties do the trick.
Omar speaks English with an Arabic tinge, but it’s not
completely Eastern. He’s spent the last few years much closer east in Bristol
and you can select the soft, elongated vowels as much as you can detect the
essence of Cairo.
Therefore, I don’t need my prescription at the moment,
he continues. As you’ve discovered, Terry, unless you see an old family doctor
who doesn’t care because he’s about to give up the medical caper for a life
making galleons out of matchsticks, the average sawbones has tightened up on the
distribution of jellies quite considerably.
You’re not kidding, I say. Where I live, safecracking
is easier.
I understand why, Omar says. These can be lethal.
Illegal in eight countries and restricted in fifty more.
He removes the two cartons from inside his jacket
pocket. Long white boxes the size of a pen case with a light blue lid on each
end. Temazepam written in plain black letters.
How much? I ask
To you, a pony a box.
F**k me. Pike says. Twenty five quid?
Fifty quid the pair. It’s the going rate. I’ve got an
offer on them from a Libyan at the University. He’s all right but he’s always
boring me with Quantum Mechanics this and Archimedes Screws that, because I
made the fatal mistake of telling him I once studied engineering. Always
talking about reconstructing Libya. Boring b****d! He wants me to go and work
with him over there but no way will that ever happen. I hate Libyans. Camel
s*****s! Fifty quid is the price, sir. I am but a humble student and my lady
and I are off to Ascot.
Yeh, okay, I say. Fifty it is.
Omar offers me his hand and I take it. He wants me to
haggle but after last night, I don’t need the stress. I simply want the
jellies. I peel off two twenties from my roll and take a tenner from my wallet.
I place the money on a stool and Omar takes it, leaving two long boxes in its
wake. Standing, Omar tells us he’s going to buy more drinks. He disappears to
the bar with his confident swagger.
I know full well that Omar has told us a
pack of lies.
There’s no insomnia issues. He has the inside track on
a supply of contraband NHS medication from somewhere up North and he has had it
for years. Every time you buy something from him, you get this Moroccan
bazaar spiel and sometimes I think even he believes it. It certainly helps if
the Filth pull him, not that he’s taking much of a risk. Six months suspended
and a sizeable fine would be my best guess at the maximum penalty and that
would be for theft rather than dealing. I have never heard if Omar deals in
Doom or Horse or Base or Chang or anything like that, but for all I know, he
may do, as I don’t know him that well. He’s more Pike’s friend and he’s said
nothing.
I have no idea whether he has a girlfriend called Cartier or not.
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Reviews:
Interesting stuff about the book:
Terry Tyler's Quarterly RoundUp: Her Top Ten Books:
Georgia Rose Interviews Me: (Quite frank for Indie!)
Brenda Perlin's Brooklyn and Bo Chronicles - Early Interview
Reviews of other work:
Amazing review of Carla by EL Lindley
Emily of Rosie Amber's Review Team Reviews The Night Porter
The Wizard's Cauldron:
This Week's Wizard's Cauldron with the wonderful Barb Taub
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