A Second City Storm

Hi Chris ...

This is gritty, witty and true to life. I have just gone to your profile to see if this is a HC true. It appears to be so realistic that it should be. On what I have read, when the site does not freeze me out, it is definately good material. Backed and rated. Regards ,,, Duncan.

A good narrative Tiller. Deserves high stars and high appreciation. On my watch list now.

Christopher, this is great, great subject, great dialogue. The family is so real, mam in the kitchen feeding her men, the squabbling that always sounds as if it’s going to turn into a full-blown row but never does, the respect for their parents of grown children. I can’t find anything to criticise about it, except that I have finished all that you have uploaded and I still don’t know if Lisa was all right. I never met the girl, but I worry!
Your technique of taking the reader, using Patrick’s POV up to a crucial point in the first chapter, then backtracking to the POV of the other characters, is one that I appreciated once I’d worked out what was happening. I’m probably just a bit slow on the uptake.

I was at school at the time of the pub bombings, in the north of England, Catholic school, Catholic Church, Irish community, and I remember the sense of guilt, shame and fear of the Irish community in England, only ever tolerated at the best of times. We had the priest bashing on about the wickedness of it at Sunday Mass, and the locals ratchetting up the animosity. Not good memories.
Birmingham was obviously not the same as the small self-contained community I grew up in, where the Irish knew only other Irish. You show the interaction of the emigrant Irish, many of whom were fleeing the Troubles in the North, with a local population. Owen goes to school with Protestants, Patrick’s girlfriend and Trevor sound as though they’re local. The story is set out like a ticking bomb, and the reader is waiting for the explosion of hostility that will inevitably call into question all those fragile relationships.
This deserves a place on my shelf and I’ll get you there, though I don’t change things much.
Very well done, six stars and on my watchlist until I find you that shelf space.
Jane

Chris, Don't change anything. This is a six star novel. Best wishes - Ian

Very good.
I found this very believable with great dialogue and a pacy flow.

I'm starring this now and will find space on my shelf soon.

Good luck,
Diana
Pascual's Birthday

Christopher,

I've read through to the end of chapter four and I had to stop myself!

To be honest, as a Canadian, half of what the characters say I don't fully understand (LOL even with British family and having lived in the UK for a few years) but I Googled the slang to catch up!

But wow, I sat down thinking I'd get through one and be a bit bored. Sorry but with based on true events stories, I usually am. This was SO not the case here. You have an amazing ability to take many characters and intertwine their day into one fast-paced, gritty tale in that sought after 'can't-put-down' style.

Only thing I can point out editorial-wise is I think in ch 3/4... one person was talking and then the POV character had a thought and replied... should start at a new parag.

Other than that, bravo and I will return to finish the rest of what you have up here!

Highly starred and will back this in the coming months!

Ashley - The Vedeine Saga: Deception

Hello,

Congratulations on a very readable, intense narrative which has huge dramatic incident as well as plenty of likable personality to it.

As such I'd say that those things; plot, dialogue, characterisation; are all done, and well done indeed.

I like the immature view of it all from these teenagers, who we find aren't quite equipped to deal with all this emotionally; with the "sir, he started it" towards the end, the kind of worry that your character gets when faced with a first joint, and the excitement of simple pornography and Pink Flloyd at the start.

Excellent.


I felt however a little disconserted by the form of your narrative and suggest you spend efforts here.

On the one hand I am happy at the way you use 'da' and 'me' and other colloquial forms of English in your narration, but I find it hard to follow the way you jump from person to person.

Am I right in thinking that each character relates their sections in first person?

If this is the case then there are moments when you slip into third person, for instance when Mary arrives at the School towards the end of what you have posted here.

Also if this is the case then I suggest you invest a little time in making the narrative voice of each character a little more independent, they all ring with the same stuccato style prose, (which is very effective,) but which you may wish to reserve for your main character.

If it's not actually that important to you, then I would perhaps revise your narrative to stick to a purely third person.

I think that this would work because you already have such strength in you dialogue and incident which you could simply 'map out' with the help of your omnipresent narrator.

Another alternative may be to allow Owen, or one of the other boys to look back on these events as an adult in the present, and narrate them as such.

I think this may avoid the feeling of being unsure who I was following at certain stages in the book.


I very much like this book and feel that you have both interesting folk here and you have important history to tell.

High five in thought, and regards

Kit

Only had time to read the first chapter! Gripping stuff and very true to the era. Love your writing. I shall definitely be watching this and reading more of it. I will put you on my shelf when there is a space, and I have backed you.

Dear Chris

I have just read the first four chapters of "A Second City Storm" and I love it! Not sure why, though that's probably down to a whole lot of different things.

Your portrayal of life in the 1970's is cleverly done, with little scatterings of popular culture throughout to provide context and allow the reader to remember when. Backstory is not usually this much fun.

Your observation of family dynamics is very astute and well shown, too, so that I wish I could convey, as you do, with just a few words, a whole lot of meaning. Goodness, I better be careful, I am beginning to sound like mother Devane. Made me smile. There is a lot of understated humour, too, to lighten up what could be a heavy plot line.

There is a lot of internal dialogue here, but it works. It is never overdone. It is realistic and very well observed, so much so that I don't mind the rough and tumble, the grittiness - I just want to listen! It feels so interesting.
And there is real fear, in the very personal account of a kneecapping. God, that was scary.

Your writing is confident, fluent and careful. Very well observed, exciting and a bit of an education. I wish you every success. On my WL and highly rated.

Fran Macilvey, "Trapped" :-))

Hi Chris,
I've been reading this book off and on for days. Very well-written, with an interesting cast of characters. I like the way you give us each character's viewpoints. That really helps us get to know them. Good depiction of the family. Interesting setting and time period. I'll be back to read more. Great job!

Susan/Greenleaf (Chameleon)

Hi Chistopher,
I promised in the memoir thread that I would comment yet I cannot seem to leave comments on this - I keep trying and they fail to post.
I'll try again, fingers crossed this time!!
I'm not good at crtiques so come at everything as a reader.
I found that the seventies were captured wonderfully, your characters and descritptions full and realistic. The dialogue is excellent (I should know), its nice to see a book about how the Northern Irish fared in the UK. It all seems a very true account based on what I've heard.
You have written this wonderfully and I cannot find fault. 5 stars from me and 6 stars when I read more,
Well done, as a reader I would buy

Jayne (gjas78)

Hi Christopher,

I'll update my comments as I read more.

C1 - I really like this first chapter. There are some nice hints to place it in the 70's and it was a good introduction to the family and some of their dynamics. I think you captured the sense of shock and fear of the news of the blasts and reaction to this news. I liked the scene between Lisa's mum and Patrick. My criticism here would be that if the reader was not familiar with Birmingham and the bombings I don't think they would pick up the setting from this chapter.

C2 - I found the change to this chapter and a new character quite jolting and I wasn't clear at first that we had gone back in time. Brendan's narrative is aggressive and for me it really jars against the emotion we've just left in the previous chapter. You introduce a number of characters in C2 and I felt you didn't stay with any of them long enough for me to get a real sense of who they are. In Mary's scene you change POV. I think you've set yourself a huge challenge in portraying first person of so many characters. That said, I'm engaged enough to continue reading on.

Just read C3 and C4. I'm warming to the multiple POV style. Brendan's character is well established and the telling of the car incident ensures that he is not one-dimensional. I think you also depict the thoughts and feelings of a teenager very well through Owen. Again, nice references to place it in the 70's. The 'isms' in C4 initially shocked me - they are an accurate recall of things I heard in the 70's. I will continue to read on.

C5 - I like how you use the conversation Dermot has at work to give a little of the history.

From part way through C8 you flip to third person POV - I'm guessing you'll be changing that when you update?

Overall, I think you've portrayed the family really well. The roles of the three brothers are distinct and you capture the roles of the middle and youngest particularly well. Brendan is more daring, rebellious and thrill-seeking - and there is, for me, a sense of foreboding - how far will his pleasure in violence go? Owen wants to make everyone happy and he is more gentle and loving. I think you are either one of three siblings or you have researched it very well.

The cat thing was rather shocking and you did this well by not going into great detail. Actually, I would say that about all of this story - you don't add unnecessary detail and you allow the reader to imagine how the characters are feeling. There is a real feel of authenticity about this story and the characters.

Dermot feels less significant - almost a passenger. I think this is probably intentional?

Mary feels slightly stereotyped. I don't feel, at the moment, that you are inside her head as strongly as you are with the brothers.

The hospital scene - I wonder if this does need more detail. I don't think it fully captures a sense of chaos and disbelief and fear and urgency.

Sorry, I stopped doing a chapter by chapter because I got into the story. Let me know when you have updated.


Best Wishes,
Maisie

A Second City Storm:

The subject matter caught my attention and I whizzed through the first four chapters. It was like stepping inside an Irish home in the Seventies. You have a good ear for dialogue, it comes across as natural, but the odd word I thought a tad formal?

Also, and I guess it’s because of the setting, the home, the neighbour leaning over the fence yapping to Mary, is so familiar, I’d thought the family was still in Ireland. I know Mary had said a couple of times how they moved to get away from the violence but I took that to mean they’d moved over the border into the ‘peaceful’ Republic. I was brought up on the northwest coast, just twelve miles from Derry, but away from The Troubles, where some IRA lived, and stored arms.

Maybe you did make it clear that the family had already moved to England and I obviously missed it, but it wasn’t until chapter four, I think it was (I read this last week and just getting back to you now), before I realized the setting was in fact in England, when Owen was talking to Hammond and he said his uncle had told him the Irish were ‘all a bunch of potato picking Micks and navvies and no better than the wogs.’ But then, this is something a hostile Protestant in Belfast might say about us back then also…

You’ve probably named streets and pubs, business’ etc., that someone living in Birmingham would know. I lived in Coventry years ago and we used to go to Birmingham to the dances but I wouldn’t know any streets or particular area there so thought they were still 'back home'.

Your first chapter has a good hook, leaving the reader not knowing if Lisa has been injured in the explosion, but then there’s no further mention of it and as far as I remember, it’s chapter four before we meet her and no talk of where she was at the time of the explosion? Maybe you could put that section with Patrick wanting a grope as the second chapter? It could still be the same night, he’s so relieved when he discovers she was nowhere near the explosion, then have him go to bed, and the groping section as the next day, or a few days later? Then introduce the brothers’ sections in their own chapters? Just a thought.

You have a natural way of writing but I did find the brothers’ name as a separate title a tad distracting coming in right after Patrick’s voice. I’d put them in third person past tense rather than first person present as their voices all seemed too much like Patrick’s?

Also, and here I can’t remember whose pov I was in, as one of them mentions how (maybe it was Patrick’s) the younger brothers’ accents had changed, I wouldn’t have as many contractions in their speech, maybe have them use a more ‘proper’ English, or some Brumy expressions that make them different from Patrick’s speech. Maybe have Patrick tease them about their adopted ‘English’ accent?

With the family now living in England, maybe this is why I found bits of Mary’s speech a tad less 'Irish' in places?
Anyway, I have a few other suggestions in Word and if you’d like them, message me your email address and I’ll delete it straight away but if you don’t want to put in a message I’ll give you an old one of mine. Just let me know.

That’s it for now and I’ll star this highly and add it to my ‘backing list’. Will definitely read more of Second City Storm.

Cáit :o) ~ Reminiscing ~


PATRICK
Jayzus, it’s so depressing. Just look at them, eyes glued to steamy windows. Heads jerking in rhythm to the stop, starting ... an jeez, the journey takes forever where normally it’s fifteen mins tops. Thank God Saturday afternoon I can use da’s car to go to James’s and pick up me carburettor. The thought of catching this for another week.

Tugging the collar of my leather tight around my neck, I step off the bus. The cutting cold pin-pricks my face and feel the luxury of the bus is not something I want to grow accustomed to. I love riding the Triumph, even in the cold, but then I’m not crazy about this time of year. When the snow comes, I’m gonna have to catch the bus if I like it or not.

Crossing the road, I start the walk back home thinking about Lisa. I’ll not be seeing her tonight as she’d made plans to go out with some of her friends from Dolches, so had thought about doing a bit of work on my Triumph, but I’m just not in the mood; feel tired, have done since waking this morning. Today I had two M.O.T’s and a head gasket to replace and wasn’t in the mood for working on my bike.

I flick a glance at me Dad . He looks tired too; washed out. Hadn’t noticed how lately he’s starting to look old; there’s grey in his hair that I’m sure wasn’t there before. Must have been, just hadn’t noticed. Flopping into the chair as the theme tune to Crossroads rattles from the telly, Mam appears from the open kitchen door, a small silver pot in her hand.

‛I hope them jeans are clean?’

‛Hello Ma. ’

‛Do you hear me Patrick?’

‛Mam, ya know they are, I keep tellin you I wear overalls, I don’t actually work in these.’

‛The dirt can still go through, I’ve seen your overalls, remember, it’s me who has to keep washing em , not you. Well as long as they’re clean, I don’t want any of that grease on my furniture.’

Da shoots a look at Mam.

‛Lay off the lad Mary, you can see his clothes are clean.’

‛You can talk, Dermot, the state you come home from that dirty place; you both forget it’s me who has to keep the house respectable. If it wasn’t for me the place would look like the Jenkins down the road, a right state, they don’t have any shame that family. They’re a disgrace to the street.’

Mam disappears back into the kitchen mumbling something under her breath. Ten minutes later she reappears calling out, ‛t ea’ll be ready in five minutes.’ The smell of sausages emanates from behind the door making me realise how hungry I am. Dad rolls a cigarette as I ask, ‛Is it OK for Saturday Da.’

‛Is what OK?’ He licks the paper then twirls the white tube in his fingers.

‛To use the car, to go to James Motorcycles, so I can get my carburettor?’

‛As long as you put the petrol in.’ Dad lights his cigarette and stretches across the arm of his chair. ‛You know your mother was secretly pleased when that bike of yours broke down. I think she’s hoping you’ll give that thing up and get a car like most normal people.’

‛Da, I’ve been riding bikes since I was eighteen, you’d think she’d get the idea I have no intention of ever doing that by now.’

A stare from dad tells me I’m bordering on being disrespectful.

‛You’ve already had two accidents lad. We thought you’d have learned by now how dangerous those things are. You should have grown out of them by now.’

‛You don’t grow out of something you love doing Da, it would be like you not going to church anymore.’

Dad glares at me. ‛Don’t you dare compare the two. Riding those things is a choice. And thank the Lord Brendan has no interest in them and hasn’t followed in your dangerous footsteps. Your mother just wouldn’t cope with the two of you on those death traps. It’s a good job Owen isn’t old enough yet.’

Wanting to get off dad’s one sided debate, I reach for the TV Times flicking through to Thursday evening.

‛The Sweeney’s on tonight, was you going to watch anything else?’ I ask, hoping to break what could be an uncomfortable silence. Dad shakes his head and draws on the cigarette. I shouldn’t have mentioned church. My unwillingness to go lately has caused some friction between us. Just I can’t see the point, praying to something that doesn’t exist, lining the pockets of the Pope and the Catholic church every time the tray comes around making people feel obliged to dig in their pockets and hand over their cash. It’s all a con, the whole thing’s a con. Could never tell dad that; Jazus he’d go off on me big time.
Owen bounces through the door, dragging behind him the chill and damp of the night air.
‛Is tea done?’
‛You’re late,’ calls dad. ‛You should have been home ten minutes ago. Where have you been till now?’
‛Down Martin’s house. I told mam ... I did.’
Dad returns back to the TV as Owen throws himself down on the seat next to me, stretching his neck to look at the TV Times. I give him a forceful shove, distancing him. He cradles his right shoulder and flinches in pain.
‛Only looking,’ he complains, rubbing a hand over the top of his arm.
‛Well wait till I’ve finished reading it. I hate it when you breathe over me like that, and I didn’t push yer that hard so stop being a tit.’
‛I’m not being a tit. Where’s mam?’
‛Where do you think you eejit? She’s making sure you don’t starve to death.’
‛What we got?’
‛Take a guess.’
‛Oh not sprouts again?’
‛Does it smell like sprouts?’ Owen, still gripping his shoulder, breathes in deep and exhales out . ‛Ahhh Bisto,’ then creeps forward again to look at the page.
‛Anyway, shouldn’t you be at school?’
The look on his face indicates that several neurons in his brain had cross-wired.
‛School finished hours ago.’
‛Yeah, I was thinking more like reform school.’
‛What’s reform school?’
I’m about to tell Owen to shut up and sit elsewhere when mam calls from the kitchen.
‛Can you boys wash your hands now? Tea’s on the table.’
‛So you’ll not be seeing your sweetheart tonight then will you?’ Mam looks up from her plate and smiles. Owen grins as dark shiny eyes from under his fringe fall on me.
‛No m a, she’s out with friends tonight. I’ll be seeing her tomorrow.’
‛It’s so different nowadays. Back home when me and your father were courting I was never gallivanting off to pubs like they do now. You should keep a tight leash on that one.’
Owen interrupts before I have the chance to answer.
‛Mam, where’s Brendan?’
‛He’s staying at his friends to study, so he’ll be back tomorrow, and he told me to tell you not to touch his records. Or there’ll be hell to pay. Are you listening to me?’
‛Yes Mam ... Can I stay at Martin’s tonight, just that his mam’s ...’
‛You have school in the morning.’
‛But so has Bren?’
‛Brendan’s nineteen and at college, and he’s sensible; you’re fourteen an I’m not trusting you to stay at a friend’s on a school night.’
I give a little grin. ‛Don’t worry Owen; maybe one day you’ll grow up to be sensible too.’
‛Apparently we’re blessed to have such a child like Brendan,’ says mam, ‛according to Father O’Donnell. He told me, what I already knew of course, that the middle child can cause the parents so much trouble. It’s true; I’ve heard it myself so many many times. It’s called the middle child syndrome; for most families, three children can be an unlucky number. Our Owen here, he’ll be next to do us proud. Off to college like his big brother, then to University. That’s why you have to keep up the good reports you’re getting.’
‛But I don’t want to go to college, I want to be a mechanic like Patrick.’
‛You’ll be doing no such thing my boy.’
Dad looks from Owen, then to mam.
‛There’s nothing wrong with having a good trade under your belt. Filling the boy’s head with books isn’t going to bring him any money. Patrick’s got a good trade under his belt and there’s more and more cars on the road than ever before. there’ll always be a need for mechanics. It’s a craft, and that’s what Owen needs to learn.’
‛Don’t you want our boys to do well Dermot? They have chances we could never have dreamt of. I don’t want them doing what you’re doing.’
Dad slams down his fork. The food in my mouth becomes flavourless, an effort to swallow.
‛I do what I do because I have to. I do that job because it brings food to this table; puts a roof over our heads and money in your purse. What Patrick does is a skill, it’s a good trade, and I’m proud of our son. If Owen wants to do the same, then good for him. I’ll be proud of him too. You’re right, we never had the opportunities these boys’ have in this country, but the way I see it, I’m privileged to have a J ob at Tritons, privileged to be living here where there is work to support my family. You want these boys’ to be fancy lawyers, or, or doctors, that’s great, if it’s what they want to be.
But if they’re happy to pick up a trade, whether it be a mechanic, bricklayer, or whatever, then I’m more than happy with that. I’ll be proud of them whatever the outcome.’
We eat our meals in silence. Forks clinking on crock, and the mutterings from the TV in the living room make the only sounds in the house.
Owen is first to break the silence circling the table, as if what just happened had been days ago and now all is fine.
‛I had an English essay today – on Napoleon, we learned about him in our last history lesson, he was a French emperor between seventeen sixty nine and – eighteen twenty one ... I think.’
Then I wonder if Owen is just trying to make mam feel better; he hates to see her upset. He’s all mam. Always has been.
‛Well done Owen. you’ll have to bring it home for me to see ... and your father to .’
The atmosphere relaxes as dad nods in agreement. Owen takes the lead again.
‛Can I stay at Martin’s tomorrow then?’
‛We’ll see, finish your tea now.’
I wash up as quick as I can, leaving the drying to Owen then retreat back into the living room. Normally it’s a chore I’m out of, as Owen and Brendan have that task.
Dad rolls another cigarette as I say, ‛I’ll give the Cortina a service next weekend if you want dad . I’ll price up what’s needed and let you know.’
‛That’ll be appreciated lad, it’s not running as smoothly as it should be. It’s been bothering me somewhat .’
Owen irritatingly flops down in the seat next to me again snatching up the TV Times. Though I don’t know why; he never gets a say in what he can watch. It’s whatever dad wants on, although he does like Jack Reagan in the Sweeney, so at least, hopefully, we’ll be able to watch it.
‛Can’t you sit on the floor, where you belong?’
‛I can sit here if I want.’
‛Stop yer fidgeting then.’
‛Mrs Harris asked after you,’ says mam joining the rest of us in the living room.
‛Mrs Harris?’
‛Yes, you know Mrs Harris, at number 82, she’s always asking about you Patrick, I think she wants you to look at her husband’s car. Having trouble with it, can’t afford to take it to a garage. Broke down again last night, so he couldn’t get home, stayed at a friend’s, or that’s what he told her, but Mrs Trebalin says he’s having an affair, right under her nose he is ... Disgraceful. If it was her who was doing it, she’d be branded a – hussy. Men can get away with murder, always have.’
‛Mam ... it’s about to start,’ says Owen in a whiny voice.
‛What’s about to start?’
‛The Sweeney.’
‛I can’t see what’s so fascinating with all this detective nonsense. All those cars racing around and guns going off. Dear l ord, I thought we moved here to get away from all that.’
Owen clambers out of his seat sliding the volume up. The theme tune vibrates the speaker.
‛For the love of God, lower that noise will you, we’re not deaf in here,’ complains mam.

The thought crashes into me and I hold my breath – had I tightened the rocker cover down – the customer had taken the car at five. Oil could be spilling out everywhere ... had I. Sure I had, just not too sure. I imagine myself standing in the office, the customer ranting down the phone, then being given a warning, or something worse by my boss.
Dad leans forward in his chair, a look of shock on his face, drawing me back to the TV. The words NEWS FLASH move with the camera and a scene of carnage and destruction fill the screen. The reporter’s voice sounds frantic, high pitched. Two explosions had taken place in the city centre. Two pubs were involved. The Mulberry Bush and the Tavern In The Town –
The reporter’s voice fades and the room tilts. A hot flush travels through me and I feel nauseous.
Sounds return and the numbing feeling starts to pass . I get up, reach for my jacket, and turn to dad.
‛Da – I need the car. She’s up there. Lisa, she’s - ’ I search the mantle place for dad’s keys, feeling the heat of the fire on my legs.
‛What? You want to be going into town with all this going on? Don’t be a fool lad. You can forget it.You’ll not be going.’
‛Your father’s right son; for the love of Mary what in heaven are you thinking? Have you not been listening? More bombs could go off. It’s far too dangerous. No, you’re not going.’
Ahead, a long row of cars remain motionless, engines idling, condensation and fumes vaporise into the cold night air, and time seems to move slowly. According to the radio, they’ve closed all the roads into the city centre and there is no way in. Policemen make their way down the long line, tapping on car windows. t hey must be telling drivers to turn around and head back the way they came. Cars pull out of the long queue making several manoeuvres before finally facing the other way and passing me by . The tap tapping comes to my window.
‛You need to turn your vehicle around sir. The road’s closed.’
‛But I need to get to town.’
‛That won’t be possible tonight. No one’s going in.’
‛No, it’s just I have to get there, my girlfriend, she’s –’
‛Listen, I’ll explain again. You won’t be going into to the city centre tonight, so turn your vehicle around – Now.’
The policeman walks off, blending into the darkness to rap on the next driver’s window as the car in front finishes its manoeuvre. I pull right hand down on the Cortina’s wheel and dip the clutch.
Heading back in the direction I’d came , I divert off the main road towards Lisa’s house. Maybe she called home, then if she had she would have phoned me as well. Maybe she already has, she could even be on her way back right now. A calmness creeps through me as I ease off the accelerator. She’s fine. By the time I get there, she’ll already be home ...
Outside 22 Deakin St, I climb out the car. The road is eerily quiet, as if in mourning for something lost. The faint hum of a far off motorway cuts through the still. The gate bangs shut behind me; the noise crashing into nothing. Through the frosted glass, the hall light flicks on filling the path with yellow warmth. The door opens as a voice calls out. ‛Lisa, is that you?’
‛Mrs Sanders, it’s me Patrick,’ I call, taking several more steps.
‛Oh Patrick, have you heard the terrible news?’
‛Mrs Sanders – Lisa, has she called?’
Mrs Sanders stands in the doorway, a look of calm about her, detached from the horror that had recently taken place just several miles from here. I wonder if she’s aware that Lisa had gone into the city, that she...
‛I’m expecting her to call me at any moment. I’m sure she’s fine. You shouldn’t worry Patrick.’
Her voice cracks, wavers as the external calmness now flakes away.
‛But if you should hear anything before I do ...’
‛Don’t worry Mrs Sanders. I’ll let you know straight away.’
‛Oh Patrick, how rude of me, please do come in.’
‛Mrs Sanders, I’d better not, just in case, you know ... Lisa calls. I’d better be getting back.’
***
Chapter 2
BRENDAN
For shites sake it doesn’t make any fuckin sense; none of it does, no matter how many times I go over and over and over, it still comes out a load of bullshite that’s been written by someone who talks crap an probably a fuckin hundred years old. Fuckin moron, an they expect us to understand this garbage; this boring shite.
‛Brendan?’
‛Sir.’
‛Brendan ... I keep telling you, you don’t have to call me sir. You’re not at school now.’
‛Sorry, professor Thornton.’
‛Just, Mr Thornton will suffice, or Peter if you prefer.’
Professor – Mr Thornton lowers himself down in the chair opposite, elbows on table, hands clasped together. No tweed no grey no beard no up yer arse upper class accent like a professor would have. Too young to be one. That’s what people probably think, that’s what I would say, that’s what I thought – he could be just a teacher in primary school, or work in insurance like the Trebelin’s son next door. Always smells nice, some sort of aftershave maybe, not Old Spice or any of that shite, always smiling, smiles when he sees me. Wish I was him. Inside him. Feeling his feelings and having his thoughts, go where he goes when he’s finished here – go to his wife. His finger hasn’t a ring; then not all married men have rings. He may live with her, in sin, an that’s OK ... he’s a protestant, a nonconformist heretic to his church. Does he make her groan, like they do in Trev’s cine film?
‛Brendan. I’ve noticed, in class, you seem somewhat preoccupied lately. Your essay, well, I know you well enough to have done a lot better. I’m not just here to teach you you know. I’d like to think, well, I’m here to listen.’
His palm, heavy, warm sweaty, now lies upon my arm circling it. Pounding from my chest reaching my head, throat turning inside out drying up, unable to swallow. At the end of the table, a fly flitters side to side as if in panic. Warm sweating hand slides away leaving small fine hairs flattened in the damp. He leans back across the table dragging his palms along the formica.
‛So what’s on your mind Brendan?’
I reflect his reassuring smile and tell him that everything is just fuckin great. I leave out the fuckin; would be a givaway. A glance at his watch as he rises from the chair. ‛OK Brendan. Anytime you want to chat, you know where I am; just come and see me, and, a little more effort for your next essay, let’s see the next one shine.’
‛Will do, Sir.’
Tonight everything will be fuckin fine. I’ll be staying at Trev’s with no parents and plenty of Carlsberg and we’ll watch his dad’s cine film, watch the tarts perform for the camera as they scream and thrash writhe and convulse like their bodies going to explode and, and whimper and beg as if their pathetic dirty lives depended on it and, we make em do that, we make em beg for more and plead and groan - cause that’s what they want – just a small hard piece of us can do that. Cause they beg it, they beg it ... that thing that grows when it wants, pops up when it wants, in class stops me concentrating, makes me leave the lesson, go to the toilets and pull on it until it’s satisfied. I could cut it off. But I know I can’t. Fuck the assignment, fuck this book. I have twenty minutes left, have time for the canteen.
‛Where you been? Said you’d meet me after class?’ Trevor glares up, waves half a sausage impaled on a fork. Sliding my plate on the table I take the seat opposite.
‛Forgot, anyway I needed to read up for the next assignment.’
‛We’ve got weeks yet, what’s the panic?’ The impaled packaged pig slips between his lips. I think of the cine.
Trevor stares at my plate, at the slice of carrot cake. ‛Don’t know how you can eat that stuff, you can taste the carrots in it.’
‛What times are your parents going away?’ I pick up the cake, feel my fingers sink into the soft rubbery damp texture, let it fall back to the plate, watch it break in two and wipe the slime on my jeans.
‛They’ll be gone by the time we get to mine. Guarantee there’ll be a list of stuff like, don’t forget to water the plants, make sure you switch the telly off before going to bed, and make sure you feed fat arsed Fables. That’s the cat. Can’t stand the fucking thing. You only have to look at it an it hisses at you. Should drown the bastard in the bath while they’re away.’
Trevor chews the remainder of the package, stares at the naked fork then swallows with an expression of distaste. ‛Yeah...’ he runs a slimy tongue over his lips. ‛Could drown the bastard, say it ran off...’
He flicks eyes from left to right. ‛Look.’ Hand fumbles in his pocket pulling out a small cellophane package then quickly returns it from where it came. He grins. Pig between his teeth. ‛For tonight. Cheap as chips. It’s who you know, not what you know.’
‛What is it?’
‛Like I said, a little something for tonight. Resin. The best you can get.’ Trevor waits for my reply. I don’t give one. A new word, resin, mix it with fibreglass to repair Ford Anglia wings. I’d heard Patrick talking about it to Dad, said he’d show me how it’s done. This resin’s not that though; drugs, I’m sure. Trevor’s mentioned it before; a new world I know nothing about. Must look it up - Resin – Drugs.
‛Cannabis,’ says Trevor leaning across the table. ‛In its purist form. The best you can get. I’ve had it before, it’s good stuff. You are gonna try it with me? Or are you gonna chickin it?’
‛I’d rather drown your scabby cat.’
...
DERMOT
‛There’s talk of a walkout, Dermot.’
‛It’s just another rumour, like the one last week, and the week before that. We’ve not long gone back to normal working hours. Can’t we be grateful for what we’ve got Joseph? Do people forget, not that long ago we were having to struggle with restricted shifts because of the three day working week. If the Union pulls us out now... God forbid, we still haven’t recovered yet. I just can’t afford to strike, with all the bills to pay and Christmas coming up. Don’t get me wrong Joseph, I’m all for the unions but if they go ahead. It’ll be an absolute disaster.’
‛A disaster for all of us Dermot, an you know what’ll happen if you don’t join the strike, ye’ll be blacklegged, and being Irish too, they’ll crucify ye. Ye may be from the north and across the border from me, but we’re all Paddies to the English. Just what I’m sayin to ye is we don’t want to make it worse than it is, do we now?’
‛Ah that’s for sure Joseph, so let’s hope it’s just idle tongues waggin.’
‛Hey Dermot, here he comes, our Mr Jones. You wouldn’t think by lookin at him that he was once a big hot shot in banking would yer, and now a mere shop worker no better than the rest of us. Mind, at least now he can boast a position of foreman, not that you would have thought he’d had anyone beneath him before, as he sure can’t manage us. He’s just not got it in him. Soft as the moss on the Blarney stone so he is – Good’ay to yer Mr Jones. Me and Dermot were just saying how lucky we are to be having you standing over the likes of us. Have you heard about the rumour; the possible impending strike?’
Mr Jones runs hands down his cow-gown coat, before adjusting his tie. He clears his throat before speaking.
‛As you’ve said Joseph, it’s just a rumour. Now if you don’t mind, I cannot have you fellows standing around gossiping like a couple of old women. You can save that for your breaks, or out of working hours, so if you well please gentlemen, there’s work to be done.’
‛Sure thing Mr Jones. I only stopped to stretch me tonsils with Dermot here. I’ll be getting back to me post then, and maybe I’ll be seeing you in the canteen later, an you’ll be letting me buy you a nice strong cup o that coffee you’re so fond of.’ Joseph flicks me a wink. ‛I’ll be seeing you later Dermot, an don’t let Mr Jones here be stressin yer now.’
Joseph walks off back to his post as Mr Jones clears his throat again, as if he’s about to give a speech.
‛Dermot... as from next week, we’ll be needing you on supplies. It’ll only be for a while, temporary like ... It’ll be a little extra in your wage packet. Are you OK with this?’
‛Mr Jones, as long as I can bring home some extra shillings at the end of the week.’
‛Well done Dermot. I can always rely on someone like you. Well. Keep up the good work.’
I watch Mr Jones walk off to another section and try to imagine him in a three-piece suit, but I cannot conjure up the image. The poor little man. They all do it here, take him for a fool for sure. Working in this place is worse than being in a crowd of gossiping women in the street. It’s rumoured the poor fellow had a breakdown after he lost his job with the bank, then his wife up and left taking his only child with her, hasn’t seen eye or ear of them since. Poor man must be going through hell.
...
MARY
Mother of God, what is it with these boys. I’m blessed, I know I am. It’s what every woman wants from life. You heard my prayers and you answered them. To be blessed with a good hard working husband and wonderful children, and above all to be safe – Dear Jesus, forgive me Lord, as I’m not complaining you know. It may sound like I am, but I’m not. Truly I’m not. I see those poor children, those unfortunate wretched people in Africa, who if not for your sacrifice and love and the word of Our Father and our wonderful missionaries, who knows where they’d be now. So I could never complain to you dear Jesus. Then I feel full of shame that you have blessed me so, blessed my family, that I wish I could have had just one – to dress in pink. Shame on me dear Lord to think such a thing. Dear Jesus how selfish I must seem. And what must you think of us Lord? Our own children, well two of them, turning their backs on your house of worship; it’s as though they’re turning their backs on you and all that you suffered for. The shame we feel. Oh sweet Jesus what is it with this generation, how easily they walk away from all we teach them. Dear Lord. If we hadn’t had moved away from our homeland, would they not have walked away so easily? I don’t know what to do anymore. I pray for your guidance Lord … Oh, and dear Jesus, Dermot will be home from work soon, he works long hours in that dirty place and expects a decent meal for a decent days work … If you could see your way to making that greedy butcher on Tinedale Street to lower his extravagant prices just a little ...’
Mary draws her thumb over her forehead, chest and shoulders before rising from a kneeling position at the side of her bed. She makes good the creases in the sheet where elbows had rested before walking to the window. Outside, her neighbour for the past two years hangs out her washing on a cool grey morning. Lowering down the net curtain, Mary makes her way down the stairs towards the back door.
‛That poor wretch, but how can you be so sure?’
Jane Trebalin leans across the low chestnut fence to speak. Her voice lowering. ‛Mary, I have it on good terms. My friend Francis. She lives on Cloverdale Road, she knows the Harris’s, said she saw his car outside Linda Parker’s home. He was there all night. That car didn’t move. And he’s not the first man she’s sucked into her little web of ... Francis thinks she’s selling herself.’
‛No... Dear Mary mother of God. The shame of the woman, and poor Mrs Harris. She needs to know. She doesn’t deserve to be made a fool of, everyone in the street knowing and not her. It’s not right.’
‛Anyway, there’s nothing we can do; it’s none of our business. The poor woman, but you’re right, half the people in the street must be gossiping about her right now... talking behind her back like she’s someone’s fool. Anyway, how are your boys? My Brian’s being trained up as a supervisor at Wedsdale Insurance. He’ll soon be a manager at this rate.’
‛Our Owen’s doing exceptional at his school. He’s one of the top in his grades. When he leaves he’ll be off to college, then university like his big brother Brendan.’
‛Your Brendan’s at university?’
‛Well, no, not just yet, but soon as he’s finished college, he’ll be off. Not too far away now.’
‛We wanted our Brian to go, but he said you didn’t need any fancy papers to cut it in the world. And look at him now; soon to be a manager in a big company like Wedsdale’s. He said he’ll one day be overseeing a group of youngsters, probably from university. So it’s not all its puffed up to be. Your Brendan could be wasting his time. I should think twice about letting your young Owen take that path. When my Brian becomes manager, I’ll tell him to put a word in for your Owen when he leaves school. A good secure job, and my Brian will look after him.’
‛Ah, but you see Jane, my boys are going to be professional people. Insurance is OK if you don’t have much of an education, and it would be wasted on my boys. I’m sure if it doesn’t work out for your Brian, he could one day come and work for my Brendan or Owen.’
Look at the silly woman, she’s doing it again? If she doesn’t like what I have to say she purses her lips and arcs her back as if I’ve said the most despicable thing. Then she makes up her excuses of things to do and off she goes. This isn’t the first time she’s done this; but I’m sick to death of listening to her go on and on about her precious son. Brian this, Brian that. The poor boy’s in insurance; any fool can do that so they can, but she can’t seem to see that. She’ll be squirming in her boots when my boys become successful so she will.
…
OWEN

‛A brief insight into Napoleon and the Napoleonic wars by Owen Devane. I’m impressed I must say Devane. But, I do wonder, how much of this text have you possibly copied, and how much of it is actually yours?’
‛Sir... I haven’t copied ... you can test me sir, honest. Ask me anything you like sir.’
‛OK Devane, I believe you. I’ll take a step back and commend you on a first rate essay – so well done … Well, off you go then.’
‛Sir.’
Outside the classroom, Martin Stiles stands on tiptoe spread eagled against the blue washed corridor wall.
‛What did he say?’
‛What are you doing?’
‛Seeing how far I can push myself up without falling over, you wanna try it, it’s really hard.’
Martin falls forward colliding into me and I turn towards the classroom door, expecting to see Mr Hargreaves filling the wooden frame with arms folded, ready to give us a shouting at.
‛Behave will ya.’
‛So, what did he want to see you about?’
‛My essay. He said its good, better than good; said it’s perfect, an said yours is shite.’
‛No he didn’t.’
‛Ah he did so.’
‛As if I care. I don’t lick up to the teachers like you do.’
‛I do no such thing,’ I call as Martin runs off down the corridor then swirls around throwing his arms out. ‛Owen Devane, our teacher’s flame. Look at my work Mr Hargreaves, it’s just soo perfect.’
‛I’m no such thing Stiles, so shut yer mouth well yer.’
‛Stop at mine tonight, my mom said you can.’
‛I don’t know, I’ll have to ask me mam.’


The froth spills the can and down my hand as I run it to my lips. Bubbles explode in my mouth. Trev pulls back his ring tab to a calm liquid. I smile. Should’ve known the fool would shake me can up. Tonight there’ll be no Crossroads, no Coronation Street and god knows what other shite will spill from the TV. Instead; Sabbath, Purple, Pink Floyd and fannies n tits an my first taste of cannabis. I’ve heard it’s better than lager, better than sex.
Trev grins. ‛You’ve pissed yourself?’ I look down at the spilled Carlsberg on my jeans. ‛Yeah Trev, you’re a fuckin comedian.’
Dark Side Of The Moon leaves the sleeve and lies on the turntable. Trevor lowers the arm down. A hiss and crackle as perfection seeps from the speakers.
‛You’ll never guess what I heard today,’ says Trevor breaking open a cigarette then tipping the tobacco onto two joined up Rizla papers. ‛You know Samantha Freeman, right, well she’s up the duff.’ From his jeans pocket he pulls out the small package and peels back its wrapping of cellophane. Briefly singeing a corner of the brown block with his lighter, he continues: ‛Well guess what, she’s been shagged by professor Thornton. No, I’m tellin you, that’s what’s going around.’
Part of the brown block between his fingers crumble into the tobacco.
‛And who told you this shite?’
‛Tracy Harwick. She said Samantha told her everything. Can you believe it? Thornton screwing one of his pupils. The dirty pervert.’
‛Then Tracy Harwick’s lyin through her filthy back teeth. Professor Thornton would do no such thing.’
‛Not according to Tracy.’
‛Well Tracy’s a lyin whore.’
He rolls the paper, lighting the end. Smoke gushes the room as he coughs loudly and pulls a stupid face.
‛Shit.’
‛Too strong for ye?’
‛No ...’ Another stupid face, another cough. ‛It’s the tobacco that’s too strong; should’ve brought Number six, not Park Drive.’
Trevor passes the white crumpled paper to me. The smell, strong, sickly, filling the room and my taste buds before it reaches my lips.
Wifey crying, no, screaming, shouting. Samantha Freeman standing on the doorstep, hallway, living room, kitchen. Stomach stretched; a giant boil filled with miniature Thornton. Stop wife crying, drown Samantha and her boil in the bath like the cat; tell no one.
Pink Floyd’s Speak to me, fills the gaps the smoke hasn’t.
I’ve been mad for years, over the edge, I’ve always been mad, I know, like the most of us... hard to explain you’re mad.
‛Tell us again, bout you an them other kids who got sorted by the IRA?’
Trevor’s voice drifts through along with the beat from the speakers ... could be a lyric.
‛Bren, tell us again ab –’
‛Which one?’
‛The ones who got their legs smashed in ... an how come they didn’t shoot you?’
Mickey’s grinning, the fuck bag’s always grinning; used to, then he stopped, wasn’t Mickey anymore. They sorta killed him. Killed his head. Killed his knee - Bastards.
‛Mickey O’Donnell.’ I hear myself say in time with the beat.
‛Yeah ... But you didn’t tell me why an that, just said this kid Mickey McDonnell got his leg smashed by the IRA.’
‛O’Donnell ... His name was, his name’s O’Donnell. Pass me some more of that stuff.’
‛So why, like, why did they do it?’
‛He was in my class; they shot him through the back of the leg, back of his knee, walked with a hobble after. He was always up for a laugh, until they did that.’
‛Did what?’
‛Shot his knee you eejit. Wouldn’t come out of his house after it happened. Off school for months, wouldn’t talk to any of us about it an when I’d ask im he’d shite himself n tell me to shut the fuck up.’
‛So why did they do it?’
The smoke hits the back of my throat. I slide further into the seat. Trevor’s OK; haven’t known him that long. He’d sat next to me the first day in college and we got on, just got on. When I started telling him before, I stopped. Just stopped; didn’t want to talk about it. I take in more and watch the smoke blow in different directions as I begin to talk.
‛He kept getting in trouble with the Peelers for things like nicking stuff from shops. He didn’t give a shite about anythin. Then he got caught in a car that this other kid had robbed ... He got off with a warning, cause of his age n all. Then he got caught again, this time it wasn’t the Peelers though. They drove us … an this other kid, the one who was driving the car, to this wasteland at the back of the shops, not too far from where we lived. They shot the driver in the knee and the ankle. Shot one in Mickey’s knee.’
‛How come they didn’t fucking shoot you?’
‛They knew; thought they knew … Just you see, Mickey and this older kid had robbed other cars. Mickey hadn’t, but had been in em before. Suppose because it was my first time, an they knew that somehow, they just gave me a good hiding.’
‛Fucking hell ... imagine being shot in the fucking knee? All because he nicked a car ... Shit.’
Mickey’s grinning. Telling me I’m a shite arse for not coming. It’ll be a laugh. A Granada, top dog spec... One forty flat out, easy. I was shite scared to, so I was a shite arse. Da, would have killed me, would have, an Ma. I couldn’t go, shouldn’t have gone ... Shouldn’t have got in the back with Mickey.
The car sped off with such force it threw me hard against the seat. Delaney was driving like a fuckin lunatic, a man possessed; he swerved so hard I smashed me head against the side window. Mickey’s manic laugh washed over Abba’s Waterloo coming out from the eight track; shite music for a shite day.
We thought it was the Peelers, the way they swung their car in front of us, forced us to pull over like.
A man got out, balaclava covering his head, pushed Gerry Delaney onto the passenger seat an told us not to try to run or he’d shoot us. The car pulled away, not a word being said. I smelled shite, wondered if it was me. Micky O’Donnell’s face had turned albescent. His look terrified me more than I already was, and I knew then that something very bad was soon to happen. Was happening. I read somewhere, or was it a movie ... you could smell fear. It’s true ... smelled it, mixed with shite seeping through someone’s pants.
The car turned down the alleyway between the shops, then shook and bounced around as it travelled over wasteland before coming to a stop. Engine and ABBA died together and ... it was all so quick. Gerry Delaney, he got dragged out by another man who threw him to the ground. At the same time the man in the passenger seat got out and ran around to Delaney. That’s the first time I saw the gun; a quick glimpse in a gloved hand. I heard voices of men shouting, telling Delaney to keep still, that he’ll make it worse for himself if he didn’t. The one who dragged him out was kneeling on his back pushing his face in the dirt while another pointed the gun at him. Then I heard it. The noise; three shots, then screams. Passenger doors flew open and Mickey disappeared out of his side then I’m pulled out onto the ground, dragged around to where Delaney and Mickey lay in the dirt; a gun pointed in my face, then told to turn on my stomach. I couldn’t see, it was all just so fast, a club, or something, smashed down on my ribs again and again. I curled into a ball screaming for it to stop as he beat down on me, down my legs then my knee. At first I didn’t feel anything, then pain. ‛Fuck, fuck –’ Pain like I’ve never felt.
I Remember the words after; coming from a hidden face – If you breathe a feckin word to anybody, you’ll be taken away from your mammy and shot in the head – Catch you again; you’ll be shot in the head. You can thank me, for being lenient with you this time.
‛What?’ Trevor’s outstretched fingers reach for the joint in my hand. ‛What you say?’
‛Didn’t.’
‛Did. You just said fuck. Said it twice?’
Drawing on the beaten tube I pass it back. ‛Get yer da’s cine out.’
Ch 4
PATRICK
‛Don’t you dare lay your hands on me in that state. You could have at least washed them and took those mucky overalls off.’
‛I only wanted a quick grope.’
‛Patrick behave; we’re in the middle of the street, and if you think I’m spending my lunch hour with you looking like that ...’
‛I never had time, I’ve got a head gasket to finish so I’ve only half an hour, well less. Ah come on with yer, I’ve got just over twenty minutes left and you don’t exactly look like royalty yourself at the moment. Who cares what I look like. I’m starvin.’
‛What do you mean by that Patrick Devane? I don’t exactly look like royalty?
‛Ah come on Lisa, I’m kiddin with ya.
Lisa runs a small delicate hand down my cheek. ‛Well, if we’ve only got twenty minutes.’
‛That’s the bad news, but the good news is, you know I told you about my friend, with the flat. Well he’s staying at his girlfriend’s tonight.’
‛So...?’
‛So, he said we can make ourselves at home.’
‛Oh Patrick, I’ve already told the girls.’
‛Told em what?’
‛I’d go. I was going to tell you. We’ve been talking about it for weeks; a night out up town. They made me promise, and I can’t back out now.’
‛Jayzus Lisa, we never get the chance to have somewhere to ourselves.’
‛We have the parlour at mom and dad’s.’
‛Oh right, yer mam can’t leave us be for more than ten minutes; popping her head round the door like a cuckoo clock, ‛‛are you two OK; would you like a cup o tea, a slice o cake, how about a sandwich.’’ Cannot the woman sit still and leave us be?’
‛She’s just being nice. She likes you ... You shouldn’t talk about my mom like that.’
‛Lisa, I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful towards your mammy; just, it’s a chance for us to have somewhere to be together; just us ... I thought you’d be all for it. How often do we get the chance?’
‛I’ve promised the girls Patrick.’
‛OK, OK, it doesn’t matter.’
‛Don’t be mad.’
‛I’m not.’
Those eyes of hers; sad brown watery eyes. That child like pout she puts on; little hands slip further up sleeves, little girl hurt, and she knows I always crumble, knows it makes me feel bad about myself, makes me want her even more. A quick kiss. A faint smell of sweet chocolate from her clothes. She shivers with cold.
‛I have to go.’
I watch her cross the street back to Dolches; her small delicate frame disappears around the next corner. The key in my pocket will lie dormant until Friday evening. Won’t be having any tonight, haven’t all week. Jeez, how can she put her friends before an opportunity like this? Then sex isn’t top of Lisa’s priority list. She can take it or leave it, just as happy, more so probably with cuddling up in front of the TV; talks about getting engaged, but if it ain’t happening much now, what will it be like when we’re married? Married ... Jaze I’m too young for that settling down business; kids an all the stuff that goes with it. I can’t be doing it; like things the way they are, just, with more sex.
I cross the street walking past the corner that leads to Dolches. Ahead, the garage bay shutter is half up and the rear of the headless car awaits.
Gary the gut, our big fat bastard head mechanic walks over as I clip the lead light under the bonnet. He leans onto the wing of the car, fat oily fingers smear black on the blue paintwork.
‛Been to meet your little confectioner's bird again Paddy? Still wearin that white gown? Not quite a nurse’s uniform but it does it for me. Did you give her my love?’
‛Ay, she still thinks you’re a fat dick who smells like a dog’s anus.’ I give a little half just joking grin.
‛That’s probably what she wants though Paddy. A fat dick; something you haven’t got.’ He gives a little just joking grin back. The smell of strong breath mixed with body odour catches the back of my throat and I move to the front of the car. ‛Anyway, I’d love to chat with yer some more but I have to have this finished by five so why don’t yer go hassle the new apprentice. He’s sixteen; more on your maturity level.’
Gary the gut waddles off toward the toilet; sure he mumbles ‘fuck you paddy,’ or something, as he heads for his second of his ritual three times a day visit. Can’t take more than three steps without letting one off. Jayzus, the man reeks. If it’s not his arse it’s his breath or BO. How the hell he manages to lean under bonnets with his fat hairy gut always saggin through unbuttoned overalls amazes me; and how he got the head mechanic job ... A total Agatha Christie. Then so is Lisa wanting to go out with her candy friends instead of a night together with no – I’m watchin yer Patrick – parental interruptions.
Gary the gut eventually re-appears from behind the toilet door. The loud flushing of the cistern momentarily drowning out The Rolling Stones, Time Is On My Side, from the radio. I glance up at the clock. Time is far from on my side.
…
OWEN
‛My dad said Ireland’s still in the middle ages with the Catholics attacking Protestants. He said that’s why Ireland’s so behind cause they still fight over religion. He said it’s what We used to do hundreds of years ago and that’s why Ireland’s so backwards, cause they’re still doing it an he said he can’t understand why that lot want to kill each other over religion.’
‛Your dad’s wrong Hammond. It’s not just about religion, it’s about domination ... It’s about a divided Ireland. So your dad knows nothing.’
‛He knows more than you do Devane, and my uncle said you’re all a bunch of potato picking Micks and navvies an no better than the wogs.’
‛Shut yer mouth Hammond or – ’
‛Or what Devane, you gonna shut it for me?’
Martin nudges me and gently pulls on the sleeve of my blazer.
‛Just ignore him Owen, come on lets go.’
‛Yeh fuckoff Stiles yer slant eyed chink.’
‛I keep tellin yer Hammond, I ain’t a chink. Come on Owen, let’s leave Urko and Galen to play together.’
‛Yeh, fuck off back to yer own countries.’
Martin tugs on my sleeve again and begins to walk off. I step away and follow. Hammond smirks, nudging Taylor, his new pet dog, who follows behind like a stray wherever he goes. Hammond makes him do everything. He only has to click his fingers – Get me a Twix an a can o Coke, or fetch me some chips from the chippy an carry me bag. Kiss me arse dog. Sure he would if he was told. I used to like Taylor until he became Hammond’s pet.
Martin’s gone quiet. He hates being called Chinese, chink and wok; lets it bother him an he shouldn’t, then Hammond doesn’t give up, gets the rest of the class going an then they’re all doing it. Hammond tries it on me, but the class don’t fall for it, some give him lip back, like Malone and O’Hara. They ain’t from Ireland, well they don’t sound like it, then neither do I. I’m sure I sound like everyone else now, but Patrick and Brendan sound like mam and dad.
We turn the corner bringing us onto the main playground. A blast of iced wind makes Martin gasp, bringing him out of his moody silence. ‛Shit ... Cold ... Friggin hate that Hammond.’
‛You shouldn’t let Urko get to yer.’
‛You can’t talk. He was getting to you too when he was goin on about Irish pickers an Micks. You should’ve whacked him.’
‛Ah why didn’t you?’
‛Was goin to; next time I will.’
‛Don’t be stupid. You know what’ll happen if we do. You know his brother’s in the fourth year. He’s a Psycho. He’ll kick the crap out o both of us. We’d not have a chance an you know we wouldn’t. An besides. I told yer I saw Hammond lay into that kid from Lee Mason School. He’s no push over. Anyway, just forget him, he’s just a friggin ape.’
‛Yeah ... friggin Urko.’
Martin walks off towards Four GN. He has physics. I reposition my bag, heavy with too many books; some I just don’t need. The stabbing shoots through my shoulder as I lower my arm reminding me the pain is still there, still hurting after last night when Brendan pushed me hard, sending me across the bedroom floor. Just because I picked up his friggin Led Zeppelin IV album to look at it, he went friggin ballistic. He’s being a real shite to me lately an I don’t know why; never used to be, not like this anyway. When the others are around he acts normal at home; just goes strange in our room, an if mam sticks her head around the door to say goodnight or something he’s all smiles, won’t talk to me when we’re alone, but downstairs when we’re all together he’s like – I don’t know what I’ve done ... I hate sharing our room with him; hate it when I go to bed an I’m still awake when he comes in. I just ignore him now; hasn’t asked me about school for ages.
I’m in Two GN, at the top of the corridor, should be at the bottom where Four GN is. It doesn’t make sense? Two more lessons to go, then home time. No point in askin mam if I can stay at Martin’s, so I won’t bother.

The narrator's voice is vibrant and authentic, though he needs to learn who Napoleon was. The dialogue is excellent and written in such a way that it flows off the page. Really nice job.

I actually liked this a lot, and read more than I intended to, such as all off it. >.>

I really liked the characters, their so realistic and it feels like a real family. The multiple POV's really works for this story.
At one point in the story, around chapter one I did see, "me Dad"
and it should be "me dad."
Just because "dad' becomes a regular noun when you're modifying it.

Sorry for the short comment, but I couldn't find anything to pick out.

I read your first chapter a month ago. I read your second chapter today.

General comments: A captivating chapter. An awesome ensemble of fascinating, believable characters with interwoven lives. Excellent use of deep point of view to flesh out their true natures. Effective descriptions. Smoldering tension. Smooth pacing.

Specific comments on the second chapter:
1) 'Sorry professor Thornton.' Comma after 'sorry.' When you address someone in dialogue, offset their name or title with a comma. There are many more cases where you address someone but didn't offset their name or title with a comma.
2) ' ... some sort of aftershave, not old spice or ... ' Capitalize 'old spice.'
3) 'Well do sir.' 'Well' should be 'will,' comma after 'do,' and capitalize 'sir.'
4) ' ... and pull on it until its satisfied.' Its (possessive pronoun) should be it's (contraction for it is).
5) 'I'd hear Patrick talking about it to dad, ... ' Capitalize 'dad.' When a kinship term is used as a name, it becomes a proper noun and is capitalized.
6) 'Dear Jesus, forgive me lord, as I'm not complaining you know.' Capitalize 'lord.'

I hope these comments help you further polish your second chapter. These are just my opinions. Use what works for you and discard the rest.

Have a marvelous day, Chris.

Al

Christopher, this is great, great subject, great dialogue. The family is so real, mam in the kitchen feeding her men, the squabbling that always sounds as if it’s going to turn into a full-blown row but never does, the respect for their parents of grown children. I can’t find anything to criticise about it, except that I have finished all that you have uploaded and I still don’t know if Lisa was all right. I never met the girl, but I worry!
Your technique of taking the reader, using Patrick’s POV up to a crucial point in the first chapter, then backtracking to the POV of the other characters, is one that I appreciated once I’d worked out what was happening. I’m probably just a bit slow on the uptake.

I was at school at the time of the pub bombings, in the north of England, Catholic school, Catholic Church, Irish community, and I remember the sense of guilt, shame and fear of the Irish community in England, only ever tolerated at the best of times. We had the priest bashing on about the wickedness of it at Sunday Mass, and the locals ratchetting up the animosity. Not good memories.
Birmingham was obviously not the same as the small self-contained community I grew up in, where the Irish knew only other Irish. You show the interaction of the emigrant Irish, many of whom were fleeing the Troubles in the North, with a local population. Owen goes to school with Protestants, Patrick’s girlfriend and Trevor sound as though they’re local. The story is set out like a ticking bomb, and the reader is waiting for the explosion of hostility that will inevitably call into question all those fragile relationships.
This deserves a place on my shelf and I’ll get you there, though I don’t change things much.
Very well done, six stars and on my watchlist until I find you that shelf space.
Jane

Dear Mr. Tiller, Normally, I don't like "slice of life" books, especially with foul-mouthed modern teenagers, who despise learning. But I was pleasently surprised as it became clear that there's a real family core among your characters. I presume that the action and history will come later, as seen through their eyes, not just TV news. Will read on, and rate it then. No quibbles other than the sparsity of commas. My own manuscript, A Voice In Rama: A Novel of the Slaughter of the Innocents, occurs in an entirely different world, but you might give it a try.

Egon Richard Tausch
Historical Fiction Readers Group

A good narrative Tiller. Deserves high stars and high appreciation. On my watch list now.

Christopher,

I checked out your fine book, A SECOND CITY STORM. VERY GOOD!!! Soo good, I had to back it. If you could take a look at my novel, DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS, for your possible backing, your help will be very appreciated.

Dwain-Thomas

Excellent writing. Great dialogue. Memories of an old TR-3A. Backed

I very much enjoyed this. Backed!

Hi Chris ...

This is gritty, witty and true to life. I have just gone to your profile to see if this is a HC true. It appears to be so realistic that it should be. On what I have read, when the site does not freeze me out, it is definately good material. Backed and rated. Regards ,,, Duncan.

Hello Chris , this has the air of complete authenticity about it and held my attention from the beginning , it perfectly captures a particular time and milieu , I shall certainly be reading on. Would you have the time to look at the first chapter of my novel 'A Buccaneer' which is set amongst Pirates in the 17th century , best wishes Strachan Gordon. Watchlisted and starred

I read your first chapter.

General comments: A smoldering start. Ordinary characters who are fascinating because of their realism. Deft description. Not much tension until the bombs go off. Leisurely pacing.

Specific comments on the first chapter:
1) 'I flick a glance at me Dad.' 'Dad' should be lowercase. When a kinship term is modified (usually by a personal pronoun) it becomes a common noun and is lowercase.
2) 'Hello Ma.' Comma after 'hello.' When you address ssomeone in dialogue, offset their name or title with a comma. There are more cases where you address someone in dialogue and didn't offset their name or title with a comma.
3) 'A stare from dad tells me I'm bordering on being disrespectful.' Capitalize 'dad.' When a kinship term is used as a name, it becomes a proper noun and is capitalized. There are more cases where a kinship term is used as a name and isn't capitalized when it should be.
4) ' ... we never had the opportunities these boys' have in this country ... ' Boys' (plural possessive) should be boys (plural). There is another case of this type of problem.
5) 'Dear lord, I thought we moved here to get away from all that.' Capitalize 'lord.'

I hope these comments help you further polish your all important first chapter. These are just my opinions. Use what works for you and discard the rest.

Would you please take a look at "Savannah Oak" and let me know what you think?

Have a marvelous day.

Al

Hi, I spotted your thread about the pitch and came to take a look. First and foremost, it's too short. You introduce the setting (Britain, 1974), the main antagonist (PIRA), and the Davane family, but who is the main protagonist, and what is the plot? It's not even clear if the family is Irish or Brummie.
From the pitch it sounds like a Thriller but you haven't listed it under that genre.
Avoid cliched phrases - such as "one nightmare ends, another begins" - which could be applied to any novel.
Make it more personal by focussing on the main character, and add more about the plot.
- Naomi

SECOND CITY STORM
This is a story of wonderful family. Yes, they have their problems, but their feelings for each other are right on the surface. Made this a fun read for me as I saw so much of my own family in them. A strength of your writing is your dialogue; it’s crisp and clear and sounds real. I know you say in your pitch this is a first draft but it reads much more complete than that. I’m adding it to my shelf. Wanttobeawriter: Who Killed the President?

Very good.
I found this very believable with great dialogue and a pacy flow.

I'm starring this now and will find space on my shelf soon.

Good luck,
Diana
Pascual's Birthday

Chris, Don't change anything. This is a six star novel. Best wishes - Ian

There is definitely a huge amount of potential here. The kitchen sink nature of the drama playing out in the opening chapter reminds me a little of 'Cal' by Bernard MacLaverty. It feels like you have a good story to tell and characters that are going to support the action well.

I do think it needs an edit though. I'm a little uncomfortable with the verb tenses you have used in the opening chapter but that might just be personal preference. There are also a few sentences and moments where the phrasing is a bit jarring.

Keep at it mate.

Shiny

A nice assured style - and almost too much realism with the semi-row at the family dinner table. And a good ook at the end of the first chapter. Definitely the makings of a good book here.

Hi Christopher - I have to be completely honest and say that I think it needs work. I feel that there could definitely be a good story in here, but I had trouble getting to it. I felt that your writing needs to be tightened, you have some problems with the grammar and spelling - perhaps you could get a friend to look it over ( this is something we all struggle with!) - You also use quite awkward sentences in the first couple of paragraphs, they seem stumped ( Feel tired, washed out... - short sentences) but the further i get into the book you seem to leave these behind, perhaps you should go back to the beginning and just make sure that the writing style is consistent.

The start of the book is a little confusing as we don’t get time, place or character introduced – it starts like we should know all this already. Lisa isn’t introduced properly until later, and I really wish I knew more about her and their relationship before the accident. I think what i'm missing is more character and relationship descriptions.

Having said all this, the further i got into the book, the more drawn in I got - You have something here! And I think it's worth it for you to really work on the spelling and grammar and correct the few mistakes you have, because there is real potential here.

I hope that this is helpful, and I wish you the best of luck in the future!

Hi Christopher
Chapter 1 – Should father O’Donnell be capitalised? (Father)
Chapter 2 – ‘the poor retch’ – maybe this should be ‘wretch’?
Chapter 7 - The hospitals will be pact with injured people– should this be packed?
I don’t like Brendan at all, but I think that’s you intention. He drowns the cat in the toilet? That’s horrible!
Chapter 9 – just bare with me a little while. – I could be totally wrong because I’m confusing myself this morning, but shouldn’t it be ‘bear’ with me?
I read all 9 chapters before I knew it, absolutely caught up in the story. At first I was a little confused going from chapter 1 into 2, as we’d gone back in time. I wondered whether Chapter 1 should be more of a prologue?
I want to know what’s happened to Lisa!
You have a dynamic writing style. In places it slaps you in the face, but not in an obvious way. You use normal words and make them into powerful sentences. Its gritty writing in places, but nothing I couldn’t read and I’m a sensitive soul. You’re very good at portraying human emotion, not dramatically. Just everyday stuff.
Definitely six stars from me and on my shelf :-)
Tammy Robinson