RIP Iain (M) Banks

Picture of Iain M Banks taken from the
Banksophilia site

I didn't get on with Iain M Banks writing; it was the phonetic stuff in Feersum Endjinn that really did my nut (I find it so hard to read), but my husband, and a lot of my friends, are big fans.

I particularly admired the work he did on The Culture, and he had a lot of people who felt the same way, as you can see if you have a look at his Fan Page, Banksophilia.  Apparently he created the first draft of Use of Weapons in 1974, so he'd been working on The Culture for nearly 40 years.  He'd managed to work out the workings of a utopian culture we might all actually be interested in living in.  Would you want to live in The Culture?

I always liked the look of Iain Banks.  He looks like someone  who could be funny and charming, and maddening too.  He looks like someone you might want to share a beer with.  I really liked the way he announced his forthcoming death while he and his new wife were on holiday.  Why deal with the discussion?  I'm sure he had discussed it enough.  I also liked the fact that he concentrated on enjoying his last days.  I'm sorry there were so few of them.

Iain M Banks' death is a tragedy for his family and friends, but it is a great loss for all of us.  He brought optimism to British Science Fiction, and snuck Science Fiction into Literary Fiction.  He helped make Science Fiction more popular, and more normalised, and he had some great ideas.

So maybe I should try again.  What Banks book do you think I should read?

Book Review: Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

My first book review!  At last!

I didn't mean it to take so long, but it has taken me months to read this book.

You've probably heard of Cloud Atlas.  It's been chosen as a good read by Richard and Judy's book club.  It's been nominated for awards, and it's one of David Cameron's favourites (praise indeed).

It's lots of short stories in a chronological sandwich, and all the stories are connected by the characters being the same people in different lives (as demonstrated by a rather clumsy comet birth mark).  The characters refer to the other texts, which reminds me rather of Charlie Cook's Favourite Book by Julia Donaldson (which is a great kids book).

I enjoyed the middle of the book; the stories about Sonmi~451 and Zachry.  I really enjoyed the Sonmi~451 story, it's made me want to watch the film.  The Zachry story was good - I do love a bit of post-apocalypse, but it really annoys me when things are written phonetically.  I did get used to it eventually, but it was annoying, a bit like the marvellous Iain M Banks' book Feersum Endjinn, which is a great story, but I found it to be very hard to read (my husband found it easy, so it may well just be me).

I thought I should say, briefly, what the story is about, so I racked my brain and came to the conclusion I don't really know what it was about.  I read the blurb on the back to check and am none-the-wiser.  If there is a theme running through it it is of humanity's determination to underestimate certain sectors, whether it be on grounds of race, sex, education, employment, or any other kind of birth status.

This book is very popular, and, looking back at it, I can see that it's full of good ideas, and as I said, I did like the futuristic bits in the middle, but I found it a very difficult read.  While I don't think that characters need to be likeable I would rather they were engaging.  I found it very hard to care about the poisoning of Adam, the shenanigans of Mr Frobisher, or the ordeal of Mr Cavendish.  I'm usually a pretty quick reader but this took me months!  I bought Cloud Atlas just before Christmas and got lots of books for Christmas (and a few more since), so I've resented the time this has taken me.  Apparently Robert Smith (of The Cure) likes to read, but once he's started a book he feels the need to finish it.  He reserved special antipathy for a fan who sent him a dreadful book which he then had to wade all the way through. I'm not like Robert Smith, I have given up plenty of times, but I did feel I was wading through this one!  That said, I would really like to see the film.

Have you read the book?  What did you think?  Have you seen the film?  Is it worth a watch?

So I have a copy of Cloud Atlas to give away.  I know I've really sold it to you haven't I?  Would you like it?  Let me know.  I'm also wondering what to read next.  What do you think?  The choices are Trudi Canavan, JV Jones or George RR Martin (don't you love a choice that means I'm definitely going to get to read some fantasy :-)).  

A Silence of Three Parts

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The silence of the wind not stirring the leaves, as the night around the inn becalmed; the silence of an empty bar, glasses cleared away, messes mopped, the last of the lost items put into the box to be claimed, or not, the next day; and the silence of Jeremy, the landlord, pretending to sleep.

He pretended to sleep while he watched the woman creep into his room, looking for something. Where she had hidden was something Jeremy did not know. He had certainly locked all the doors, and all the windows, so the woman had to have hidden somewhere. Why she had hidden Jeremy did not know either. He was watching her, and wondering: should he rise up and confront her? Or should he just whack her with something? Whacking her seemed like a good idea. Luckily Jeremy was not the trusting sort, and kept a whacking stick beside his bed. He rolled over, muttering to try to make it seem that he was still asleep; letting his arm fall off the bed (where he took hold of the whacking stick). She froze, poised, watching to convince herself he was still asleep, and then , after but a few moments, she continued her search. She was going through his drawers! Unlikely to find treasure there.

She worked her way through the main chest of drawers, and came over to the bedside cabinet. Jeremy forced himself to keep breathing, counting the seconds in and out to keep it regular. He got a firmer grip on his stick, and as she bent down to look inside the cabinet, he swung the whacking stick. Unbelievably fast, she reached behind herself and grabbed the stick, stopping it, and rolling, using the momentum of the stick to thrust Jeremy up, up and out of bed, and him in his nightclothes, through the air, like some fat, badly put together seagull, to crash into the chest of drawers. That hurt.

This had not gone according to plan. Who was she? What did she want? At the moment, it seemed to Jeremy, that his best bet was to find out what she wanted, and to give it to her, if he possibly could. He suspected that otherwise, he was likely to get broken. Or more broken than he already was at any rate.

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This is the result of a writing exercise wherein you take as your starting point the first sentence of a piece of writing you like, and then create your own story from there.  I cheated, and used the first two sentences from Patrick Rothfuss' 2007 book 'The Name of the Wind', which you can buy in lots of bookshops, and probably for your tablet too.  There is a second book in the trilogy out, called 'The Wise Man's Fear', and another one is being written.  Patrick Rothfuss' story is a lot better than mine, and doesn't involve anyone called Jeremy.

I've been wondering about the woman in this.  I think she might be one of the characters from my Chaptershill big story, but what do you think?  Who is she?  And what is she doing there?

Sarah-Jane's story

Sarah-Jane's Story

On the headland, overlooking Douglas harbour, stand a row of tall Victorian terraced houses.  Most were small hotels when the tourist industry was still thriving, but now they have been split into flats, or bedsits.  The gardens are too steep, and the stairs too numerous for family homes, and there is not enough parking to go around.  In the early 1990s, when Sarah-Jane's story took place, most of those living on Head Road were young adults.  Many were unemployed.  There were drinkers there, and junkies too.  A youthful tide of people without other options.  The houses were mainly owned by big landlords, who didn't take good care of them, and their old glamour was faded and tired.  The tenants survived on low benefits, or low wages, kept heating to a minimum, and ate a lot of broth.

The night of Sarah-Jane's story was cold, with few clouds.  Stars shone, the constellation of Orion hanging with his sword ready to go to battle with the moon, which was nearly full.  Although it was December, there were no Christmas lights up on the headland, and the street lights were turned off at night, so the moonlight silvered the edges of roofs, the windows, and far below, the edges of the waves washing up the harbour mouth. 

Number 10 was nearly empty.  The bills had not been paid, and the tenants had been turfed out, but the landlord had let Sarah-Jane stay on.  She had been the only girl in the house when it was full, and had tried valiantly to fight the tide of neglect that the boys had pushed forward.  Now they were gone, and she could keep an eye on the place, until he was ready to do it up a bit and get new tenants in.  He was thinking of splitting it into flats, but would wait for the influx of Irish builders in the spring.

In the only room in the house with a still-functioning fire, Sarah-Jane lay sleeping under a pile of blankets and sleeping bags.  She couldn't afford to have the fire on at night and the heat leached through the massive single-glazed window, so she had all the blankets she could find on the bed.  She didn't like to be by herself in the house.  She'd liked the hustle and bustle and general madness of the boys being around, and she was always aware of how alone she was here.  She once slipped down a flight of stairs.  She wasn't badly hurt, but it had brought home to her that if she was, she could be stuck there for a very long time before anyone came.  Of course, she didn't have anywhere else to go.  She wouldn't stay otherwise.  However, she was working on it.  She was going to leave the island.  She'd applied to some universities on the mainland, and was waiting to hear back.  Her boyfriend, Dave, had said he'd come over with her, but she didn't know if he would.  Dave was great, but it felt more like a friendship than a relationship.  Mind you, some great relationships started out as friendships, so she would see what happened.

The old-fashioned alarm clock on the window-sill brought her sharply out of her sleep when it rang.  She had to get out of bed to switch the light on and check what time it was.  Three minutes to five.  She felt aggrieved that she'd not managed to get the tiny hand in exactly the right place, and so had missed out on three minutes precious sleep.  She hated being on Earlies.  Dave had helped her get this job, in the care home where he worked up in Ramsey.  She didn't have a work permit so it was really hard to get work on the island.  But The Ashes home was a bugger to get to, so they couldn't find enough islanders to work there.  Dave had been kind enough to switch his shifts to make sure he was on Earlies when she was, so he could drive her up there, but she had to get to his house in Onchan first, so she'd best get a move on.

The first thing to do was make the house seem lived in.  She turned on the fire, lighting it with a match.  While the match was lit she lit a cigarette and turned the radio on.  Then she ran downstairs and mixed the oats, dried milk, water, and salt for her porridge.  It all went in the one pan she was willing to use, and onto the hob.  She gave it a quick stir, poured and drank a glass of apple juice, then thought she heard something in the hall.  She turned all the lights on and went to look, to put her mind at ease.  The hall turned into a sort of bridge that went over the yard below to the street.  It was long, and it was dark.  She went along it, accidentally standing on the wobbly floor board, but stepping on the other side of it to 'surf' it flat again, to the front door.  She looked out of the peep hole.  It was pitch black.  She was being daft.  She checked the toilet.  There was a dribble of water going into the bowl from the cistern.  Maybe it was that.  Ash fell off her cigarette onto the floor.  She ran back to the kitchen to stir the porridge, then back up to her room, hating the darkness up and down the stairs that wound round and round like a snake through the middle of the building.  She locked the door, just in case, balanced the cigarette on top of the fire between drags, and pulled on her hideous uniform, while listening to the DJ on the radio playing requests for truckers. 

White knickers and bra, because anything else showed through.  Nasty 'honey' beige tights which were new now and would doubtless be laddered by the end of the day, and a too-short green dress, with her name badge pinned to it, and fastened with poppers, presumably to allow any idiot who wanted to to yank it open quickly.  She put a grey lambswool cardi' on top.  It was freezing out there, and she loved the soft material.  She wouldn't risk wearing the nasty white lace-ups she had to wear, and they were already in her bag, so she pulled her Doc Martins on, eschewing the top two holes, but wrapping the laces around the boots instead.  Nearly ready. 

Dressed, she stubbed out her cigarette, turned off the radio and the fire, and headed downstairs, leaving her bedroom door unlocked.  Although she locked it while she was in there, she didn't actually have the key, but she didn't have anything worth stealing either.  She put her coat on and then ate her porridge from the pan.  It was lumpy.  She kept close to the hob, for the warmth.  She rinsed out the bowl, spoon, and pan for tomorrow, grabbed her bag, and then thought she heard a noise from the old lounge.  This house was getting to her.  Would she go and investigate?  No, she'd already been on one wild goose chase, she'd best get out of it.

Outside it was still incredibly dark, and freezing.  The moon lit tiny fragments of ice on the path, but it didn't look too treacherous.  Even though the street lights weren't on up here at this time it still seemed a much deeper, denser, darkness lay across the road where the moorland began.  She couldn't even look at it now, although she loved looking out at it in the daylight.  She hurried down the hill.  No shortcuts here in the morning, the harbour bridge was open (to boats, so closed to people) until 6am, so she'd have to run around.  It wasn't especially windy this morning, although the island was always windier than most places, and she could hear the ting ting ting of taut ropes on masts as she came close to the fishing boats.  The tide was too low for them to go out yet, but the lads who were staying on their boats were up, eating their breakfasts in lit up cabins, providing tiny islands of light and warmth on this dark morning. 

As she came around the harbour and closer to the bus station the orange streetlights started to flicker on.  She broke into a run, she couldn't miss this bus.  She got there before it did, and lit a cigarette to try to make it come.  Standing under a strobing light, made to feel the darkness more somehow by being in and out of brightness.  Bits of rubbish were being blown about, each taking her by surprise.  She was on edge this morning, and longed for the light and relative warmth of the bus.  Maybe she could close her eyes for a few minutes.

She was halfway through the cigarette when it pulled in.  It was the chatty driver.  He wouldn't take her money, but she felt she'd have to pay in another way, putting up with his inane prattle, and thinly disguised flirting, until she got into Onchan.  Still, she was in, she was on her way.  She felt compelled to stand up beside the drivers cab, and as they went along the front she enjoyed looking at the Christmas lights in the hotels.  The giant squirrel up by the Villa Marina – the only squirrel on the island.  She loved coming back from work along the front, when she could look out to sea, which was just blackness and blinking lights here and there now.  When the wind really got up, and the waves crashed over the tops of the cliffs you would sometimes have to close the windows on the top deck for fear of having bits of seaweed land in your lap. 

He was yabbering on, about how he fancied nurses now.  She was offering vague 'hmms' and 'uhuh's, and was glad they were coming up the headland on the other side of the bay, into Onchan.  There were two ways she could go.  It was a bit quicker to go through the graveyard, but she usually got off at the later stop and walked along well lit streets.  She was just wondering if she could bear listening to chatty driver any longer when he stopped the bus at a stop where no-one was waiting, and grabbed her arm.  They were still the only people on the bus.  Still the only people in the waking world so far as she could see.  She looked down at him.  “Are you going to come out with me then?”  “No.  Let go of me.  I've got a boyfriend.”  “Oh come on, girl like you, you're not going to let that hold you back are you?”  He pulled her down toward him in the cab, grabbing at her coat.  She could feel the bloody poppers on her silly green dress popping open.  “Get off me!”  She wriggled her arm out of his grip, and fought with the concertina door, managing to haul it open before he was out of his driver's enclosure.  She jumped down, they were only a stop away from the graveyard, and she ran up the road.  The bus started juddering along the road as she was turning into it.

Bloody hell.  She was not in the mood for a graveyard.  It was still pitch dark, she could barely make out the path, but she would.  She walked bravely for a bit, but she felt like all her senses were trying to make up for her night-blindness by going on full alert.  Her heart was beating like a drum after the run in with the prat on the bus.  She was jumping at everything.  There was nothing for it, she was going to have to make a noise herself.  She vaguely knew the guy who was the gravedigger here from the pub.  Big guy, quiet.  He made compilation tapes for her.  Pretty good ones.  He said that he always made noise if he got worried.  She liked the idea that he got worried too.  She started a mantra: “I don't believe in zombies,  I don't believe in zombies,  I don't believe in zombies.”  Her heart was pounding, and she felt cold and hot at the same time, but she did it, she got through the graveyard without being attacked by a single zombie, and was out onto Dave's street, with his car there, engine on, warming up already.

He poured her a cup of tea, of course, while she went to the loo and did her poppers up.  He always had a pot of Earl Grey ready for when she came 'round.  It was lovely, but they needed to get a move on, so she necked it.  Gave him a hug.  His hair smelt lovely, and was still damp from a shower.  It would be nice to just stay here with him.  Warm, sweet, safe.  But not today.  Maybe things would be better when they left the island.

He got his stuff together and they got into the car.  She didn't tell him about the bus driver, he got a bit funny about that kind of thing and it wasn't like there was anything to be done.  The Kate Bush CD was still stuck in the CD player, and he'd turned the volume right down, but you could still hear her running up that hill endlessly.  The car took ages to warm up, but it was ready.  Dave must have turned it on before his shower.  She marvelled at how well organised and thoughtful he was.  She kissed him on the cheek, which surprised him.  His skin was smooth.  She supposed he'd just showered and shaved, but it still unnerved her, that this tall, handsome, capable man always seemed slightly soft to touch.

Dave drove carefully out of the village on the A2.  It ran all the way up the coast to Ramsey.  It was still dark as they drove along, the sun wouldn't rise until after 8, and they were due at work at 7am.  Dave was telling Sarah-Jane about what his brother had been doing the night before, and she was half listening, half watching the road.  Past the lights from the car all was blackness.  She hated winter.  Hated driving in the darkness, that feeling of hurling their bodies into the void.  They came up out of Laxey, and back out to the coastal road.  The drop, she knew was vertiginous.  In daylight the view was magnificent.  At night it was just scary.  She felt like Dave was going too fast, although she had to admit he was a pretty good driver.  Still, it wouldn't take much for an accident to happen.  She asked him to slow down, and he did, a bit, but not for long.  He was right, he'd driven this road many times.  He knew what he was doing. 

And then, suddenly, as if some malevolent force had flicked a switch, the lights went off.  Dave slammed on the anchors.  Sarah-Jane grabbed on to anything she could.  The car screeched to a halt.  Dave started swearing, and switching switches.  Turning the engine on and off.  Sarah-Jane was terrified but decided the best thing to do was to keep quiet.  Dave couldn't get any lights to work, although the car would still go.  “We can't drive on in the dark, but we can't wait here, or leave the car here” he explained, “it's far too dangerous.  If we can go really slowly and carefully, we'll get somewhere where we can get the car safely off the road.”  “Dave, it's pitch dark!”  “It's OK.  The moon's out.  I'll go slowly, and as soon as we can get off the road safely we will.  It's going to be OK love.”  He seemed so confident.  It was going to be OK.  They set off again, slowly, slowly, her eyes straining to see, he going all over the road, but getting there, slowly, and there was no-one else around to bump into them.  They'd been crawling along like this for a few minutes when the engine spluttered and died.  Dave started swearing again.  They'd run out of petrol.  The gauge hadn't been working for some time, but he was usually good at knowing how far they could go on what he put in.  Dave reckoned his brother had been 'borrowing' the car.  Anyway, it was what it was.  Sarah-Jane was secretly delighted that Dave had messed something up.  It helped her focus.  She had an idea, it was a bad one, but seemed better than anything else she could come up with: “How about I get out and push?  Like you say, we just need to get it off the road somewhere safe, and you're better at driving than me.”  Dave wasn't best pleased about it, but he agreed, so Sarah-Jane got out and went 'round to the back of the car.  Her eyes had had time to adjust to the moonlight, and it felt good to be doing something positive about the situation.  Didn't look like the tights would last 'til she got to work though!  Dave shouted that he was ready, and she leant into the car and gave it a good push, and again, and the third time was a charm.  She kept on, keeping up the momentum, feeling her body warming up with the exertion.

They only had about 100 yards to go to the end of the cliffside bit when she heard the bus coming up the road.  She shouted to Dave that the bus was coming, and he tried to get the car over to the side somewhat.  She started waving at the approaching bus, unbuttoning her coat to make herself more visible – surely this ugly green dress had to be useful for something?  The bus kept coming, not seeming to slow at all.  It can't have taken as long as it seemed to, for it all to happen.  She was waving both arms frantically, and then Dave was leaning out of the window shouting and waving too, but the bus kept coming inexorably on.  She saw it was going to hit.  It was too late to avoid it, and there was nothing she could do, except get herself out of the way.   She flattened herself to the cliff wall, and saw the face of the driver, the chatty driver, she realised she was shouting for him to stop, but he was grinning.  The bus hit the car, with a bang and a screech.  Sparks rose up from the side of the car as it ground into the cliff.  Stones rained down upon her.  The bus was blocking her view of Dave.  The bus stopped, and reversed a bit.  The back of the car was in a bad way.  Dave's door fell off as he pushed it open.  A panel fell off the front of the bus.  The driver got down, looking around.  Sarah-Jane ran to Dave to see if he was OK.  He was hurt, but not badly she thought.  But he did seem shocked.  She was bleeding from where a stone had hit her head.  The bus driver picked up the panel that had fallen off, and carried it on to the bus, closing the doors behind him.  Sarah-Jane asked Dave if he was alright.  “I'm OK, but I don't think that guy should be on the road!  We'll go report him to the police.” 

The car didn't seem to be about to catch fire.  Sarah-Jane reached across Dave's seat and got her bag out, searching for her cigarettes.  She'd forgotten about the bus for a moment, but as she lit her cigarette she heard it's engine judder into life.  For a moment she thought maybe she should catch it, but she went back to where Dave was leaning against the cliff wall.  Catching sight of the bus driver, watching her, still grinning, raising his eyebrows, as if to ask if she wanted a ride.  In answer she kissed Dave, and the bus went down the road  It took her the rest of her cigarette to convince Dave to leave the car behind and walk to the next house to call the police.  They hadn't got far when they heard the now-familiar judder of the bus coming.  This time they were terrified of being smashed into the cliff themselves, and so went to the other side, where there was a steep grassed slope down to the sea.  At least they could jump down, if they needed to, but it wouldn't be that bus, would it?

It would.  Of course if was.  The driver no longer grinning, determined, saw them straight away, and they scrambled to get onto the slope, but the bus sped up, and the barrier flew away, as the bus, and its new passengers sailed off the cliff, and down, down, down to the rocks far below. 

It was a while before emergency services were able to get to them, and by that time they were dead.  Let us hope they died quickly, and that Sarah-Jane's soul has managed to leave the island.

GOING TO SCHOOL

Bags packed, homework done,
Snacks picked for everyone.
Jumpers, shoes, and jackets on, 
Tantrum dealt with, and we're gone.
Scooters: one; two; three,
All the bags, with me.
High Street or Eastgate?
Come along, we won't be late!
Nearing school it's getting busy,
Cross the road, say 'thanks' to Ali.
First child's off; small feet are dragging.
Park the scooters; cuddles: they're in.

After it happened

Laura had a last look around to make sure nothing and no-one were left outside before slamming the door closed, and sliding the bolts into place.

She waited a moment for it to hit her, the stark reality of the situation, now she was home, but all she felt was a sense of calm and quiet.  Well, no doubt she would feel other things later, so she might as well get on now. 

Julia came out of the kitchen to get more things.  Laura had filled every inch of the Landie with supplies, which must now be put away, so Julia had helped make a start lugging it all through to the kitchen straight away.  It wouldn't all fit in there.  Some stuff would need to go in the garage, but it would all stay in the house.  There was no point risking putting things in the barn any more. 

Julia looked at the bolted door and then at Laura.  “Where's your dad?”  She hissed.  Laura closed her eyes and took a breath.  When she opened them she saw one of the kids, peeking out of the door to the living room – on high alert for any drama. “He went back for some beer.”  It was true, at least.  She picked up a multi-pack of bottled water and took it through to the garage.  There was loads of it there already, but you never knew when the water from the tap would stop coming, and it seemed safest to boil it, so you needed the electric or the Aga for that, and they might not always be able to use those.

She'd managed to find some UHT milk.  She felt proud of that.  It'd been hidden behind some tins so hadn't cost them any more time, unlike her Dad's silly beer.  It wasn't a patch on real milk, but it was ok in coffee, and the kids didn't seem to mind it on cereal for a treat from time to time.  She missed butter.  The kids liked chocolate spread and peanut butter, but hot buttered toast was something they missed out on.  At least they could rely on the Aga.  It had seemed such a faff before, but now they depended on it.  She'd not found any coal though, and it didn't do so well on the wood they managed to get.  She seemed to remember that pine sap could cause chimney fires, and you should leave the wood to dry out first, but needs must, and they had to risk it.  They had to eat.

“Laura,” called Julia, “I've filled all the cupboards.”  She went through.  True enough, the cupboards were full to busting, and much better organised than Laura would have done them.  The freezer was full too.  The generator worked well at the moment, but it wasn't worth counting on it, so they'd turned the freezer off, and were using it as a cupboard, but they still kept the fridge going, not that there was much to put in it now.  They needed to get better at this, the tins wouldn't last forever.  Laura noticed some space in Dad's beer cupboard.   “Did you get enough stuff?” smirked Julia.  Laura didn't answer her.  Julia knew it wasn't worth risking not getting enough.  “He's not coming back, is he?”  Laura ignored that.  She looked up at Dad's cupboard:  “Let's use the beer cupboard.  We can always put beer in the garage.”  “Oh God.”  Julia sat down, suddenly, “how are we going to tell John?”  Laura lost patience, “John's a grown up, he can manage!  You got over it didn't you?  It's one less pain in the arse cluttering up my house!”  Laura stormed out.  Of course Julia worried about John, but with Bill missing and Dad gone, who was going to worry about Laura now?  She'd stormed into the utility room and there was nowhere else to go.  She started pulling wet clothes out of the washer, but she was furious.  Someone else could put the laundry on the racks for a change.  She felt it coming.  The sadness.  How was she going to tell John?  She would have to do it.  How were they going to manage?  Who would be next?  How would she look after the children?