Monthly Archives: March 2012

Interview with….Anya Lipska, author of Where the Devil Can’t Go

31 Saturday Mar 2012

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In this latest interview in the series, London-based crime writer Anya Lipska, author of Where the Devil Can’t Go, a novel set amongst the Polish emigrant community of the East-End, talks to me about all things literary and some things, well, let’s find out!

So, Anya, tell me….

What is the most inspiring book (any genre) you have read and why?

Sorry, but I have to choose two. The Odessa Files by Frederick Forsyth is the book that first opened my eyes to how exciting a thriller could be. My Dad had a high cupboard where he kept his ‘adult’ books. In the school hols, the minute he left for work, I used to climb onto a chair to reach this treasure trove. There was Lolita, The Ginger Man…all the usual suspects, but Odessa was the revelation.  I read it under the bed covers with a pocket torch, under the laurel bush in the garden, anywhere I could. In his pomp, Forsyth was just the master of great storytelling.

My other inspiring book is, cheekily, a trilogy – Rites of Passage by William Golding. It’s a ripping yarn about a long 19th Century sea journey full of danger and colour, as well as an insightful commentary on class and hierarchy, and a coming of age story about an initially callow young man whose outlook and moral sense are transformed by the events on board ship.  It’s one of those books that will stay with me forever.

What is your favourite crime novel?

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler.

Apart from being a ‘good read’, what feelings would you like your readers to come away with after having read your work?

I think the mark of a really good book is for it to stay with you: so if the themes and characters in my work endure in the reader’s mind for a bit, I would be very happy.

What kind of writing annoys you the most and why?

Lingering depictions of sadism or violence.  I think it is important – essential even – to see violence and/or its consequences: that’s what gives crime writing its meaning. What doesn’t work for me is when it’s there not to further the plot but simply for the sake of a prurient thrill.

Is this modern age, writers are having to engage with social media and become their own self-promoters in a way that didn’t exist even 5 years ago. Is there still room for the talented misanthrope or does success now depend on being socially adept?

Good question! But on reflection, I think that Twitter is actually the shy person’s friend, because it’s much easier to approach people you admire, or like the sound of, in neutral cyberspace.  Imagine what it was once like to have to phone someone up ‘cold’ and risk an embarrassing slap-down! Twitter also offers an extraordinary opportunity to make contact with fellow crime writers.  I’ve been blown away by the generosity of the scribbling community I’ve met on Twitter – people like Rachel Abbott and Emlyn Rees being just two examples of the many fellow writers who I’ve found to be hugely supportive and generous.

How important is the depiction of factual or historical accuracy in writing or do you think writers should have complete carte blanche in what we invent?

It’s a question that goes to the heart of my writing.  Although Where the Devil Can’t Go is set in contemporary London, part of the plot is rooted in Seventies and Eighties Poland when the country was under Soviet control, so l read an enormous amount about postwar Poland and the Solidarity movement that eventually restored democracy. I did, of course, use artistic license, but I didn’t do anything that altered the history in any fundamental way: that would offend against my journalist’s training! For instance, I mention a dissident priest who was abducted and beaten to death by the security forces in the Eighties. Essentially that’s a true story – Father Jerzy Popieluszko was brutally murdered by the regime. I changed his name and some of the circumstances, but not the essentials.  Had the Communists not indulged in that kind of behaviour I think it would be wrong and misleading about the nature of that era to invent it. Personally, I like to learn stuff from books, even  novels, and if I find out someone has totally invented the fundamentals I am outraged!

Why do some writers stand the test of time and others don’t? Is it really down to luck or zeitgeist or some other factor? 

All of the above, I suspect. Everyone knows Chandler, for instance, and that’s partly because he was a brilliant stylist with a wicked wit, but it also has to be because Bogart and Bacall brought his writing to millions. Were there other Thirties noir writers as good?  Absolutely.  But the luck and zeitgeist factor weren’t with them.

When did you first start to write fiction? 

My first real attempts came in my twenties and thirties, though I blush to recall the results. Maybe I was just a later developer, but it took me a while to find my ‘voice’ – which is the first essential for any writer.

What led you to believe in yourself as a novelist?

The wonderful Andrea Best, of Random House Germany, raving about ‘Devil’ – and giving me a deal!  Of course, there had been plenty of moments along the way when people whose opinion I respect – like my agent – loved the book:  but I have to say that, for a really compelling vote of confidence, a bank transfer is hard to beat.

Which crime novelists occupy the most of your bookshelves?

I adore European crime. To name just a few: Andreas Camielliera, creator of the fabulous Inspector Montalbano, full of heart and humour (and good food), now brilliantly adapted for TV; and Fred Vargas (French) and Marek Krajewski (Polish) for their sheer originality and distinctiveness. I’m also a fan of US crime: I’m a big fan of James Lee Burke, Elmore Leonard, James Ellroy, and from the wonderful 1930s, Chandler & Hammett.  In the UK, my fave crime read of last year was Snowdrops by A D Miller.

Any embarrassing novel-buying moments you’d like to share?

I refuse to be embarrassed by any book purchase, so long as it does what it says on the tin! A great story is a great story and sometimes all you want is a ripping yarn for the plane or poolside. When I’m really poorly I get out my tattered old Just William books: even with a killer dose of the flu they are still laugh-out-loud funny.

Do you have much creative input in your cover design?

Yes, because in the UK at least, I’m in charge.  I loved working with my designer on selecting an image and watching her cast her spell over it. I know some published authors have barely any input to the choice of cover so that is one major advantage of indie publishing…

If you could spend a day as anyone, real or fictional, contemporary or historical, who would you chose and why? 

I’m not sure I’d want the responsibility of being someone because then I’d have to choose Stalin or Hitler and immediately go and top myself…but if I could be an observer in a particular era, I think I’d choose the Roman Senate in the time of Julius Caesar, with a side-visit to Roman Britain (by BA rather than galley if you’ll allow it).

I’ve always loved Robert Graves’ I, Claudius novels, and also ripped through Twelve Caesars by Suetonius – which is written in a surprisingly immediate and accessible style.  And, thanks to Project Gutenberg, it’s free to download.

What is your ultimate authorial ambition?  

Blimey.  I suppose it has to be to write a book that people say changed their life.

Does crime fiction have a responsibility to expose to public consciously, unsavoury aspects of society that are misunderstood and hidden and can crime fiction play a part in changing society for the better?

I think that any book that sets out to ‘send a message’ is in big trouble…but of course writers, like everyone, have a moral sense, and moral and ethical issues and dilemmas that arise out of real life are at the forefront in crime writing.  

And last but not least, what would your final meal be in the condemned cell?

I’m tempted to say liver with fava beans and Chianti. But as I’m a Very Greedy Person this deserves a serious answer. So, fresh crab with a bottle of Pouilly Fumé, to be eaten while watching surf crash onto a moonlit beach (through the barred window.) And for pud, chocolate cake with a hacksaw blade inside…

For more information about Anya Lipska and her debut novel Where the Devil Can’t Go , please visit http://www.wherethedevilcantgo.com

You can also buy the book from Amazon http://tinyurl.com/cwd7nct

Follow Anya on Twitter @AnyaLipska

Brown Mushrooms

22 Thursday Mar 2012

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He checked his watch.

5pm.

A rather serious programme on Radio 4 about council tax rebates had just finished  He felt drained and rather uninspired. It was Radio 4 or nothing and Radio 2 just would not do.  He turned the radio off but the seconds of thick silence that followed stuck in his windpipe.

Panic.

He shot his hand over to the wall-socket and turned it back on again and changed the station to Classic FM.

But it was all so quiet.

He didn’t hear a thing.

He turned up the volume to ‘Max’ and sat down on the chair beside the kitchen table. It was still quiet. He wondered if he had broken the volume control. As soon as he got up, cacophony and mayhem ensued.

A blatter of blind oboes and the caterwauls of strings broke the silence into hundreds of pieces of anxious moments that lay invisibly on the floor.

He ran over and switched it off.

Bloody classical music, he thought. Either as loud as the cracks in the sky of judgement day or as quiet as plotters in the alcove. He liked classical music but he always found listening to it on the radio frustrating.

Too wide a symphonic range.

Heart pounding, he checked his watch again.

It’s around this time he made supper for both himself and his wife. He went to the fridge and took out a packet of rindless bacon, eggs and a punnett of mushrooms and set the food down on the worktop next to the sink. It was then that he noticed that the mushrooms were turning brown around the edges. He peeled back the torn cellophane and held the packet up to his nose and sniffed a few times.

Detecting nothing noxious nor foul, he removed ten mushrooms exactly and nipped off the brown bits with his finger nails.

He sliced the bacon and chopped the mushrooms and fried them for about five minutes before adding the whisked eggs. Five minutes later he served the omelette onto two warmed plates and laid them down on the dining table.

 “Freda!” he called out.

Freda and he were not on the best of terms. They had an almighty row only a couple of days earlier and hadn’t spoken since. It was over something stupid. Freda wanted to watch Coronation Street. He wanted to watch the History of Mathematics on BBC4.

He sat down to his supper and tucked in, wolfing it down.

Omelettes get cold so quickly.

Before he knew it, he was nearly done. Freda’s plate remained untouched

“Freda! Your dinner’s getting cold”

Within seconds he finished his meal. He lifted Freda’s plate and touched the omelette with his fingers. It was more luke than warm. He placed it in the microwave without turning it on for sake keeping.

Knock. Knock .Knock

On the front door.

 He sat still, not saying a word.

Knock

“Who is it?” he shouted

“It’s Gertrude”

He ran out of the kitchen and down the hallway to greet Gertrude.

He pressed his left ear, his best ear to the door.

“What do you want?”

“I want to see Freda; I’ve come all the way from Huntsville you know”

“I don’t know where she is, let me go and find her. You wait there a second”

“Oh”  she said.

He turned around to Freda .

“Do you really want to see Gertrude while you wait for your omelette to be heated up?”

Freda smiled but she was smiling for days.

Freda lay still and quiet on the hallway floor, smiling but without knowing it.

“It’s nice to see you so cheerful love”

He bent down and kissed her on the lips.

“You’re very cold, dear. Let me get you a blanket”

Gertrude knocked once more

“Let me in this once”

A film of sweat formed on his back, sucking his shirt towards it to form a second skin. He lifted a porcelain clock from the occasion table and held it in his hands. It was a wedding present but had suffered minor damage just a couple of days earlier but nothing that anyone would notice close up.

He held the clock with his left hand,behind his back and reached over to the latch with his right.

“You can join Freda very shortly!” he said.

He turned to Freda, caressing her limp yellow hair.

“Gertrude is coming to stay with you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 Image ‘Black and White Photo of a Bench in Elizabeth Park in West Hartford, Connecticut, at Night: Photo by Sage Ross’ courtesy of http://www.annedarlingphotography.com

Interview with…Mel Sherratt – Author of Taunting the Dead

18 Sunday Mar 2012

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This is the first of a series of interviews with writers and authors and this blog is honoured and delighted to announce that Mel Sherratt, author of the critically acclaimed crime novel Taunting the Dead, is the first subject of this series. And, well, let’s hear what Mel has to say about herself!….

So,Mel, where are you from?

I’m from Stoke on Trent, a city in the Midlands. It’s also known as The Potteries as it was the base for such big names as Josiah Wedgwood, Spode, Minton and Royal Doulton. Alas, a lot of the pottery industry is in decline so we’ve lost most of the big names we were known for. But we still produce a lot of good things. Robbie Williams is one of them. Okay, I suppose I’m biased! 

When did you first start to write fiction?

I’ve always been writing – whether it’s in the form of a diary or trying to crack the short story market, which I never did.  I tried for many years to write a book but never went past honing and honing the first three chapters. Then about twelve, yes twelve, years ago, I wrote chapter four and continued until the end.  

What led you to believe in yourself as a novelist?

I think it had a lot to do with finishing that first book – I could do it if I put my mind to it. Although it was the first step, as it needed a lot of rewriting to get it anywhere near representation by a literary agent, it was the sense of achievement. And I wanted to see if I could do it again. Every writer must surely worry that there is only one book inside them when it comes to starting the whole procedure again.  

What is the most inspiring book (any genre) you have read and why?

The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton. I’m sure it set off my writing imagination.  

What is your favourite crime novel?

That would have to be Dead Like You – Peter James. Well, it’s based on The Shoe Killer and as I have a new home called Killer Heels…  Link http://www.writermels.blogspot.com

What kind of writing annoys you the most?

 Personally, I like action and dialogue, so pages and pages of narrative don’t do it for me.

How important is Social Media to new writers and how much leeway has a writer in being themselves on-line?

I think social media has a different part to play for individual writers. It depends what you want out of it and also how much you are prepared to give of yourself. For example, I have a website, a blog, a Facebook page and I’m always on Twitter. Those mediums work for me. There’s a balance to play as it takes a lot of time – writing should be the most important procedure.  Being yourself on line? Now there’s a whole other argument about that. All I can say is that I try to be positive – honest but positive. 

How important is the depiction of factual or historical accuracy in writing or do you think writers should have complete carte blanche in what we invent?

That’s a tough one. In Taunting the Dead there are certain things I’ve had my characters doing that readers don’t like. I’ve had to bend the rules – indeed, I’ve bent the rules for a purpose. But although it needs to be realistic, it is fiction. If I wrote about ‘normal life’, would it be as interesting? But for some things, I don’t think plots can be changed.   

What do you think the secret of longevity is? I mean, why do Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler (both very different writers) stand the test of time whereas others didn’t? Is it just luck?

I think it’s anticipation for the reader, especially for a series with a good main character. It’s always great when you’re waiting for an author’s next book. The whole process of getting the book, sitting down with it, the words on the first page that make you gasp in eagerness to read the rest, then reading it really quickly to get to the end, getting to know the main character just that little bit more. This is the thing that makes me look out for an author’s new work.    

Which crime novelists occupy the most of your bookshelves?

 Martina Cole, Mandasue Heller, Peter James, Mark Billingham. More recently Julia Crouch, Belinda Bauer, Niamh O Connor.

Any embarrassing novel-buying moments you’d like to share?

Well, I do buy some really gory serial killer books to get inside heads of killers…

Do you have much creative input in your cover design?

As I’ve self published, I created my own cover. I always imagined some kind of rose and if I had a mainstream publisher, and could have influence over the cover design, I always saw it as a red rose laid out on a freshly dug grave in a dark and dingy setting. As I designed it myself, I couldn’t find what I wanted. It took me ages to find the rose I used but when I did a whole new idea emerged. I think it was worth it for the effect I achieved.   

If you could spend a day as anyone, real or fictional, contemporary or historical, who would you be and why?

Idris Elba – I adore him as Luther. And wouldn’t it be great to think everyone adored you…  

What is your ultimate authorial ambition?

To become as well known as all the kings and queens of crime! Ha, ha, I hope you take that with the pinch of salt intended. Actually, I would love to see one of my books televised. I think that would be really special. I’m working on it…

 Your latest novel, Taunting the Dead, is set in Stoke. Do you think it’s important for a writer to know his/her setting intimately for authenticity?

Absolutely not. I attended an author talk the other evening (I was in the audience) and one of the things mentioned when questioned about research was how much could be done online. Personally I love Google Street Map because I can be in any place, anywhere in the world and get a feel for it. I’m not saying this would be authentic as I know I couldn’t get the same smells and sense of the place as if I was there. But research has made it possible for nothing to be ruled out. I set my novel in my home town because I’m not particularly good on descriptive paragraphs. I love to show not tell through lots of dialogue so coming from Stoke gives me that sense of place without trying. I see it every day; therefore it’s easy to slip into my writing.

Does crime fiction have a responsibility to expose to public consciousness, unsavoury aspects of society that are misunderstood and hidden and can crime fiction play a part in changing society for the better?

Personally, I don’t think so. I suppose as crime fiction authors we can be seen to sensationalise hideous crimes. But sometimes it’s about taking a subject that we’re passionate about, maybe to bring it to people’s attention. Other times, it’s just about creating a crime to solve. Bad things happen, period. For instance, domestic violence features a lot in what I write.

I’m also slightly on the fence with this one as I can write about violence but I can’t watch it. There are lots of arguments in our house along the lines of ‘Switch it off! Well, you write worse things than this.’

Can crime fiction play a part in changing society for the better?

I think the word to be noted is that it’s fiction.

And last but not least, what would your final meal be in the condemned cell?

It would have to be a ‘family favourite’ – home made spaghetti bolognaise with lots of garlic bread. Washed down with a nice glass of Chianti, of course….

 You can buy Taunting the Dead on Amazon here

Mel’s website is: http://www.melsherratt.co.uk/

Mel’s blog is: http://writermels.blogspot.co.uk/

And on Twitter she is: @writermels

Book Review : ‘Taunting the Dead’ – a crime novel by Mel Sherratt

11 Sunday Mar 2012

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Taunting the Dead by Mel Sherratt

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation – David Thoreau

There are many litmus tests for a good crime novel and these are mine:

Was I hooked from the very beginning?

Did I want to finish the book without feeling it was a chore?

Was the book well-paced?

Does the locale act as an unspeaking but textural presence?

Did I have a sense of unease after I finished the final page?

and was I left wanting more?

Taunting the Dead racks up a 6/6 on all these counts.

And then some.

Set in the English city of Stoke-on-Trent, this novel introduces the reader to Detective Sergeant Allie Shenton. The opening chapter does not delay in sinking its narrative hooks in its realistic description of an unnamed woman, unhappily drunk, who staggers around a pub car-park late at night, shouting for her friend from whom she seems to have separated from.

A friend who she will never see again.

She moved a little further into the darkness is one of many smart and poetic touches that the author uses to presage the fate of the character at hand.

Here, the name of Terry Ryder is not as much introduced but yelled at us. Terry Ryder forms a central plank to the novel from the start right to the very end. A seemingly respectable property developer with fingers in pies in the underbelly of Stoke, Ryder is also a ruthless gangster at the head of a major social security fraud and drug dealing.

He seems to have it all. The money, the house, the car, the clothes, the charm and of course the women, everyone in town is taken in by him. Everyone that is except DS Allie Shenton and the local police force.

Shortly after the death of the woman in the car park, we move onto what seems to be a cut and dry murder of another woman at the hands of her junkie husband in a downbeat part of town. It is this murder that sets off an unstoppable chain of events that brings the police investigation in collision with the dark shady world that Ryder and his family and henchmen inhabit.

Stoke is not the usual setting for crime writing it must be said but it’s the author’s hometown and her knowledge of its streets and vernacular gives a sense of realism and authenticity to the characters, their interplay and language. This is one extra reason why the novel works so well. Of course novels are often set in towns and cities that the author has no direct first-hand knowledge of but in such cases, extra care must be taken in making sure authenticity is not sacrificed on the altar of expediency of narrative.

Ryder is married to the alcoholic Stephanie and father to the spoilt Kirstie. They have friends and associates but scratch the surface, one soon finds out that there is little familial love or even real friendship amongst those who live in the glittering darkness of unhappiness in luxury. Rather they seem to cling to one another like life-buoys of bones whose flesh of any original love, has long since rotted away. Dysfunction, betrayal, banality and the mundane run through the main protagonists’ lives like tired blood.

Forget clandestine meetings in swanky wine-bars or high powered shady dealings in the sunshine. Here is a land of Wetherpoon’s pubs filled with people with no future and some too young to have any past glories to cling to. Ryder’s Row, the nickname for the infamous Georgia Road, is a road many people in the UK and Ireland can recognize. A road in which the forgotten underclass live in varying degrees of desperation and squalor, caught in a cycle of welfare dependency, fraud, delinquency and drug abuse- in houses that are in the hands of few or even one person. In this case, Ryder’s. A shadowy land occasionally brightened up by the sirens of ambulances and police squad cars which visit on a dismal regularity of futility.

The sense of economic and societal decay, while by no means overbearing, does hang in the background off this book. Restaurants and high class boutiques share high-street space with charity shops and Poundlands. This is the texture, the bleak canvass upon which Mel has painted a wonderfully paced story and cleverly constructed plot that is largely based on a chance for a small business man to clear his debts but only for this Faustian pact to unravel in tragedy for all concerned.

DS Allie Shenton is a former social worker who joined the force after her sister Karen was raped and left for dead fourteen years earlier. Despite surviving, Karen suffered brain damage and needs round the clock care. Her attacker was never found despite the best efforts of their parents, who seemed to die premature deaths not long after.

The ending of the novel is a master-class of careful, cleverly and seamless weaving of the narrative strands that came into being at different points from earlier in the novel but there is a twist, a dark and totally unexpected one that is quite breathtaking and chilling and leaves the door open for a much anticipated sequel.

DS Allie Shenton however, is not without faults and not immune to the charms of Ryder. While not giving into them, she does entertain them and therein, we see the seeds for perhaps future problems for her in novels to come. Her hearts in the right place and knows right from wrong but she is just about able to check her animal passions. Will she in the future? We’ll see.

In conclusion, this is a wonderful novel and I recommend it thoroughly. Novels need not be set in London, New York or LA. I recognized the characters, the pubs they went to, the restaurants they ate at, the quiet desperation and high drama that, ironically, only acute ordinariness can engender.

Did I unwittingly have a drink next to a henchman of one of the many Terry Ryders that perhaps every British town has?

You can buy Taunting the Dead on Amazon here

Mel’s website is: http://www.melsherratt.co.uk/

Mel’s blog is: http://highheelsandbookdeals.blogspot.com/

And on Twitter she is: @writermels

The Life and Soul Girl – A Short Story of an After Life….of sorts

05 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Short Stories

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the author writes:

“This story was inspired by a wake I went to where the deceased was being subjected to more criticism than fond reminiscence by those present. I didn’t sit well with me and then I thought about what fun he would have had if his ghost could have moved around and listened in.

Perhaps he did”

Tanya the Teenage Queen of Parties and Bad Magazines went to sleep under a thicket of blue red eye shadow that remoulded itself above her eyelids. She moaned a bit and writhed a bit before finally giving up the ghost on her friend’s sofa.

She was such a terribly young candle to have had her flame peter out so soon.

Tanya’s mom and sister cried a lot.

“Whole life ahead of her”

“What a waste”

And various other tributes were uttered dutifully. That’s not to say they weren’t meant but the older amongst them had heard such utterances before, usually at the funerals of other young tragics who had passed on at the wheel of fast cars or drugs. It didn’t make it less sad, only less imaginative.

Tanya, despite being dead, found herself able to attend her own funeral. At first she was tentative as she turned the corner of St. Martin’s Avenue to where the church was. She stopped for a moment, seeing the black cars parked outside the doors. There were lots of stony faced men in ill-fitting black suits, perfunctory badly ironed white shirts and poorly knotted black ties.

Funerals, weddings and court appearances.

She saw her brother Darren. He was in the same black tie he wore to fancy dress parties dressed as Mr Black from Reservoir Dogs. The women where cloaked in veils, like shy dervishes, moving slowly on high heels, clip-clopping up the steps and into the church like little horses in dark dressage.

But on hind legs.

This being her first funeral since her own parting and first public appearance, she was worried that someone would see her but the voices told her not to be so silly. She took a deep breath and walked towards the mourners and with a steely burst, mingled amongst them.

They didn’t see her.

Tanya sat at the back wearing a dark blue frock coat and a pair of black doc martens. She was invisible to everyone because she was a spirit. The powers that be let the spirits back on ‘funeral leave’ to see and hear what everyone thought about them.

Tanya itched to tell her sister that she had fucked Jimi Hendrix and Rimbaud the previous night. 

What a party that was Tanya thought.

She blushed to think of the things she let John Donne do to her body and he was from the middle ages too! It was the ‘Getting to You Know You’ party held once a week for the newly dead. The next day held no hangover and she shared a spliff with a ploughman called Huw who came from 11th century Devon. Huw didn’t say much but his breath stank and he kept leering at her bosoms. Women’s bosoms weren’t as shapely back then but it was heaven after all. God let the souls do what they pleased.

And it pleased them

After the service, all Tanya’s friends and family piled into their black limousines and ceremoniously drove home in convoy back to Aunt Chrissie’s house.

Tanya hopped a ride on the roof of her mother’s limo and after 20 minutes, all the cars were parked and everyone went inside. The door closed on Tanya’s face but she glided through the wood and glass and into the living room.

The crying stopped. Tanya’s dad put on a Chas and Dave CD and before you know it, the mourners were lifting up their trouser legs and hitching up their skirts to dance to ‘Gertcha’ and ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’.

Mum came down with a family album, stuffed to the gills with badly taken family snaps. With a flourish, she held the album over her head and tipped the photos on the ground.

“Come on, let’s all dance on Tanya”

Everyone danced on Tanya’s old photographs. Uncle Pete had taken a framed picture of Tanya from the sideboard, broke the glass, took out the picture and stuffed it in a sausage roll before eating it. His youngsters stood around him egging him on.

“Oh, you’ve been waiting a long time to eat young Tanya, haven’t ya darlin’ croaked his fat wife. Everyone rolled around laughing.

Tanya was horrified. Nobody seemed one bit in the least sad. Everyone was having a good old time. Everyone seemed glad that she was dead. Even her friends were taking part.

She walked around the room, short of breath, eyes red with the sting of tears still fresh on her cheeks. She saw her sister Agatha drawing a moustache on a school photo of Tanya. The felt-tip pen had run out and Tanya’s mother pulled out a fresh one from her handbag and gave it to Agatha to continue the defacement.

“Hold up love, she aint’ ugly enough, lemme have a go”

“Alright mum, go for it”

Tanya’s mother produced a blue pen and drew large pieces of acne on Tanya’s face on the photo.

“Look everyone, look at the spotty dead girl”

Everyone laughed. Tanya was beside herself. Someone had remarked that it was an improvement.

Tanya went up to her mother and started to throttle her from behind but her hands went through her neck like it was thin air. Tanya fell forward with the force and her head landed inside the brickwork. It was odd seeing her old house from the inside this, Tanya thought. No-one has much of an opportunity to put their head inside something impregnable like a brick and have a good look without their skull being bashed in.

One of the advantages of being dead was that no-one could physically harm you anymore but psychologically, she was as sensitive as ever.

Tanya thought that this might be how it should be. After all, the mind is the seat of the soul, if the soul lives on, so might the personality. But the sound of a really loud Jam record interrupted her erudite train of thought and thoughts of revenge came back. She got up and dusted herself down and went into the kitchen and picked up a knife but the knife couldn’t be lifted. Tanya felt like a toddler who couldn’t express what she felt. She screamed again

“Why the hell are you doing this to me? What have I done? Does no-one I ever loved miss me at all ?”

She crumpled up like a crushed doll and cried bitterly. She felt she would cry for ever. After a minute, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She froze. This was the first time she felt touch since she died. Tanya looked up and saw her beloved grandmother looking down at her. Grandma Wilkes had passed on only five years earlier  but she looked more alive than ever. Her face, although wrinkled seemed luminescent, her eyes were deep like a mountain lake and her hair was more silver than grey.

“Come on Tanya love, stand up now”. Tanya clasped her Grandmother’s hand and helped herself to her feet.

“Grandma, why are they doing this to me? What’s going on”

Grandma smiled beatifically at Tanya and gently caressed her cheek.

“Oh love, you must understand, you’re seeing them as they really are. This helps you to move on and leave them all behind. Flipping heck, I’m starving, look and learn love, here’s a little trick”

Grandma turned to the crowd and shouted “Woooo, looks who’s here”

The crowd turned around and began to throw sausage rolls and pickled onions at Grandma. She kept her mouth open and scoffed the lot. After she swallowed, the crowd went back to their original stances and chattered merrily amongst themselves.

“Heaven might be full of your rock stars and gold and makeup but I tell you, there’s not enough food to go around. You have to come down to Earth and get your grub. Funerals and wedding are best, lots of people and lots of nice party food and you never put on any weight! Look at my ass. I used to have a big fat one. I don’t any more”

“Gran!, don’t talk like that, it’s embarrassing”

She looked at the room once again. Family members and friends were getting progressively pissed and telling tall tales about Tanya. Tanya was overcome with a wave of altruism and felt sorry for them. She walked up to her mother and looked at her face. For some reason, Tanya noticed her mother’s eyes focussing on her own.

“Tanya?, is that you ?”

“Yes, mum, it is”

“You’ve seen and heard all this then, haven’t you?”

“Yes mum, why?”

“Well if you can’t make fun of the dead, who can you make fun off?

“But I’m your daughter. It’s not right. You should be crying”

“Oh you want your dear old mum to cry do you ? You always were a selfish little girl. Now, I’m getting me another glass of wine, oh I forgot, does God exist?”

Tanya smiled.

“No, he doesn’t. There’s a heaven alright but no God. It’s just one big giant party. A bit like this one.”

Her mum stood there, staring into her glass of warm Tesco’s merlot.

Tanya smiled and faded slowly away.

She never returned again.

The End

Image entitled ‘Streets of Madness’ by Evelina Kremsdorf http://fineartamerica.com/featured/streets-of-madness-evelina-kremsdorf.html