The Building That Wouldn't Let Me Leave

I was at a conference this weekend so am a tad behind (seems to be my permanent state this year), so, since someone reminded me of the time when I got my leg stuck in a banister at a conference, I thought I would do a lazy blog post and tell the story.

This conference had been arranged for some time. The building we were having it in is a club/restaurant place in an old building. What we didn't know is that, in the time between the conference being booked and being held, the owners of the building decided to have it completely overhauled, so when we arrived there were workmen, dustsheets and paint tins all over the place.

This place is a big old building on about 4 floors with a huge stone staircase and high ceilings - dark, old and pretty scary when you're the only people in the whole place, apart from the workmen and a couple of skeleton staff (not literally skeletons, but I wouldn't have been surprised to have heard the clanking of chains and seen the odd ghostly nobleman wandering round adjusting his codpiece). Because our course had been arranged for a while the building's management had decided to go ahead with it, but, other than our group, the rest of the building was empty. No problem.

The course was going well and, during the break at lunchtime, I went out into the hallway to use my phone. I was standing on the staircase, talking on the phone, and I had shoved one of my knees in between the ornate metal uprights that made up the banister of the staircase. At the end of the phone call, I switched my phone off and tried to move away. Whoops - my knee was stuck. I whimpered, tugged at my knee and swore. I must have looked like a modern-day Mrs Rochester as I flailed on the staircase moaning "Help....help."

Eventually, I managed to prise myself free - but not before one of the builders had run up the staircase to see what was wrong. Just in time to see my leg pop out of the banister like an overstuffed sausage. I waved gaily and rather hysterically at him, before running back into the room where the meeting was being held, my face rather flushed.

By the end of the day I'd calmed down and I stayed behind at the end to chat to the course trainer about something. We left the room - he went downstairs and out of the building, I decided I needed to go to the loo before going home. So I did. And there I was, happily going about my business, when I heard a noise that sounded like the main door leading to the loos being slammed. I thought nothing of it... until I came to leave. The door leading out of the ladies was locked. I was trapped. I had visions of the builders going home, only to resume work in a couple of months time, and finding my skeleton lying on the floor, my last message scrawled in lipstick on the mirror 'I wish I had more lipsti...'

I knocked tentatively on the door, feeling just a tad silly. No response. I knocked a bit harder. Silence. I swore for 5 minutes before remembering I was a modern, independent woman. I pulled out my trusty mobile phone and dithered over whether I should dial 999 or ring my Dad. Since my Dad was 400 miles away and I really wanted to get home for my tea, and imagining that the fire brigade had more important things to worry about, I dialed the switchboard of the building I was in. After what felt like half an hour the phone was picked up.

"Oh thank God", I said "please could you come and let me out of the toilet."

Silence on the other end of the phone, then a tentative voice "Errrr.....who is this?"

"Well, my name's Donna, but that REALLY won't mean anything to you. I'm stuck in the loo, please could you let me out."

"Where are you exactly?"

"I'm standing by the sink."

"No...I mean which FLOOR are you on."

"Oh, right....ummmm, the floor where the training course was today."

Silence again. "Is that the woman who had her leg stuck in the banister by any chance?"

Yes indeed, my knight in shining overalls was the same workman who'd seen me stuck in the banister earlier that day. I like to think his shoulders were shaking with the cold as he freed me and wished me a safe journey home, but I'm afraid that it was laughter.

Actually, that reminds me of another conference story when I was attacked by a Killer Bee. But that one makes me look even more ridiculous (is that possible?) so maybe I should just draw a discreet veil over that one.

News, Reviews and Interviews From All OverThe Globe

The Decatur Daily likes Alexander McCall Smith's Scotland Street. While over in Jaipur, blog Gora! Gora! Gora has an excellent wrap-up of the final event. His passport will be getting loads of stamps this year as he is over in Minneapolis in April.

The Calcutta Telegraph questions Ian Rankin, who then talks to the Economic Times, The Hindu, and then to the Times of India about how there's even a crime in cricket. After all that talking, he'll be thirsty, so he'll be looking forward to this event at the Caledonian Brewery on March 4th then.

The Scottish Premier League quiz Christopher Brookmyre about his love of St Mirren. And, still on football, it may just be me but the phrase "The supporters from the north east were crammed into the Val McDermid Stand" strikes me as funny. And Val McDermid is also involved in this project to get older people reading and writing - I am trying to get my Dad to enter the competition.

Crime Beat in South Africa looks at cities as the backdrop for crime fiction, including Tony Black's Edinburgh.

Publishers Weekly enjoyed Ray Banks' NO MORE HEROES. And so they should - it's a brilliant read.

John Welsh in the Independent with an entertaining look at the perils of writing Irvine Welsh meets Jane Austen for the BBC.

M C Beaton is being read a lot recently. First of all, Joe Barone enjoys DEATH OF A VALENTINE, while the lovely Sally from Oz, reviews DEATH OF A CELEBRITY.

Gillian Galbraith visits North Berwick on February 25th,

And, finally, somebody thought that Stuart MacBride would be suitable reading for eight-year olds - without actually reading the book. Oh deary, deary me.

What I Read In January

January was a busy month, what with editing OLD DOGS and doing the programming for Crimefest, so I didn't get as much read as I would have liked. But here's what I did read.

THE OSSIANS - Doug Johnstone
Published: 2008
Setting: Scotland
Protagonist: Connor Alexander
Series?: I presume it's a standalone
First Lines: '"Connor, I don't know why I let you drag me to the stupidest places."'
Indie guitar band The Ossians are on the verge of signing a major record deal and their lead singer Connor decides that now would be a good time to tour Scotland, going to some of the dreariest, bleakest places - in winter. Connor - self-destructive and full of himself - spends most of the tour drunk or high on a cocktail of drugs. But this is definitely not what you would typically consider a rock and roll lifestyle with its series of tedious gigs in seedy venues. And, unlike most tours (I would hope!) the tension mounts with drug dealers, stalkers and gun-toting Russian sub-mariners. I didn't like Connor at all - he's got a chip on his shoulder the size of a bag of King Edwards - but I really loved reading about him and wanted to know what would happen to him. Connor has led a pampered, rather empty, middle-class life and the tour seems to be a search for the holy grail of his own identity, as well as that of Scotland. A thought-provoking and fascinating read. And really good fun. I will definitely be looking out for more from this author.

BURIAL - Neil Cross
Published: 2009
Setting: England
Protagonist: Nathan
Series?: Standalone
First Lines: 'The doorbell rang. Nathan had a feeling - but he dismissed it, muted the TV and went to the door. There stood Bob; hunched over, grinning in the darkness and rain. Saying: "Hello, mate."'
Nathan is happily living his life when someone he would rather forget turns up to tell him that they're digging up the woods. You know then that Nathan has a secret. And a big one it is too. Jump back ten years or so and Nathan is working in an unfulfilling job on a late night talk show hosted by a has-been. He's also in an unfulfilling relationship which is on its last legs. So he decides to take his girlfriend to the annual party put on by his boss, before he dumps her. There he meets Bob - a weird guy he met once a few years before and things get out of hand in a particularly nasty way. The description of the crime is brutal and uncompromising and the book is a chilling and unsettling look at guilt, torment and restitution in a tortured mind.

RUSO AND THE DISAPPEARING DANCING GIRLS - R S Downie
Published: 2006
Setting: Britannia, AD117
Protagonist: Gaius Petreius Ruso
Series?: 1st in series
First Lines: 'Someone had washed the mud off the body, but as Gaius Petrieus Ruso unwrapped the sheet there was still a distinct smell of river.'
Ruso is an army medic with the Roman army in Britain. His family has huge debts, he has problems with his new hospital administrator, he's somehow managed to buy an injured slave girl, his house is full of mice and puppies, and someone is going around murdering dancing girls from a local house of ill repute. This is not my usual dark and twisted fare, but I really enjoyed it. The cast of characters is interesting and well-drawn, there are some lovely touches of humour, and I loved the historical details which are seamlessly included and don't feel like a history lesson. The setting is really well done and I am really glad I was leading a book discussion on this one, or I might not have picked it up.


THE CORONER - M R Hall
Published: 2009
Setting: Bristol
Protagonist: Jenny Cooper
Series?: maybe 1st in a series
First Lines: 'The first dead body Jenny ever saw was her grandfather's.'
Jenny Cooper is a lawyer getting over a traumatic divorce and wanting a break from family law, so she takes a job as Coroner after the death of the previous incumbent. Her predecessor's most recent cases were a 14 year old boy whose death was ruled as suicide while in custody in a secure training centre, and the apparent heroin overdose of a 15 year old girl. Jenny's curiosity is piqued by certain circumstances surrounding the two deaths, and she also becomes unconvinced that her predecessor died of natural causes. Jenny has her problems (including eating Temazepam like Smarties) and for the first half of the book things felt a tad slow, with too much dwelling on her personal circumstances, but things heat up in the second half, and the thoughtful depiction of a system overburdened with bureaucracy and corruption was interesting.

It's All Alexander, Except For The Bits That Are Ian

Loads and loads about Alexander McCall Smith and Ian Rankin today.

The Independent with a brief review of Alexander McCall Smith's TEA TIME FOR THE TRADITIONALLY BUILT, while the author himself "defends his upbeat view of Africa". And more here on his appearance at the Jaipur Literature Festival. And the Indian Express on the Number 1 Ladies Man.

From the same publication, an article on the 'lumbering presence' that is Ian Rankin. And an interview with Ian Rankin himself from his Lit Sutra tour, and the Times of India on the man who had "no interest in crime fiction". And he will be one of the stars at Barcelona's Semana de Novela Negra festival. At least, I think that's what it says. Meanwhile, the Review Broads give a thumbs up to DOORS OPEN, as does Marilyn Stasio in the New York Times.

Closer to home, you can see Louise Welsh in Pitlochry on 5th February and at the University of Strathclyde on February 11th. And if you're in London on March 12th, how about going to see Ray Banks, Cathi Unsworth, Toby Litt and Courttia Newland for "a night of crime fiction, comic art, and music of a darker hue."

Allan Guthrie, with his agent hat on, has been very busy recently. First of all he gets Doug Johnstone a two book deal with Faber. The first one is called SMOKEHEADS - described as 'Sideways meets Shallow Grave with a hint of The Wicker Man'. Nice. I'm really looking forward to that - I read Johnstone's THE OSSIANS recently and found it most excellent. Then he and Christa Faust do a deal with Hard Case for the next Angel Dare book. And Christa gets a new tattoo to celebrate. Christa is my heroine (but don't worry Mum, I celebrated my deals by bursting into tears and having a nice cup of tea). And thirdly, Al signs up the funny and charming Helen Fitzgerald as a client. Congratulations to all.

And, talking of Helen Fitzgerald, here's an excellent podcast interview with her, where she admits to googling herself (hi Helen!).

Tony Black talks to the Aberdeen Press & Journal about loss and LOSS.

Ian Pattison says he is nothing like Rab C Nesbitt. Before he sobered up, Rab C's favourite drink was Buckfast, so thanks to my friend Yvonne for pointing me in the direction of this article from the New York Times, about Scotland's Buckfast Triangle. I particularly liked this quote:
'Mr. Miller was hard-pressed to articulate what he likes about Buckfast. “You get used to it,” he said.' Yes indeed. It takes a little getting used to, since it tastes like a mixture of cough syrup, petrol, half a ton of sugar, and a soupcon of warm sweat. And the only reason you do get used to it is because each sip destroys a handful of brain cells.

From Noir To Cosy in 12 Easy Stages

A blog post from the lovely Dorte asking 'What is noir?' (a question to which it appears there is no definitive answer) leads me to this not altogether serious route from noir to cosy.

Noir fiction has our protagonist spiralling down into the pit of despair, thrown there by a mocking Fate, who then stands at the edge of the pit shovelling dirt onto the head of the protagonist until he is half-buried. Fate then throws the shovel down into the pit and the hapless protag reaches out for that glimmer of hope, only for it to whack him on the head and kill him. Noir for me ends with the characters going to prison/becoming alcoholics/ betraying each other and their own morals (if they had any to start with) - mostly a one book deal (after all, who'd want to put the poor sucker through all that again?)

Add a wisecracking sidekick, a couple of shoot-outs and the love of a good woman for our PI who decides he's going to kick the booze, and you have a hardboiled tale.

Add a nasty serial killer, a morgue, some sharp knives and a know-it-all woman with a degree in pathology, who just happens to be a cordon-bleu chef and you have a forensic thriller.

Give your serial killer a quirk and have him choose victims who are blue-eyed women with one arm who he drowns in a vat of hot chocolate while narrating The Rime of The Ancient Mariner. He then ties her to the bed and draws a picture of a squirrel on the wall and scatters rose petals around the bedroom floor, because he was burned by a scalding mug of hot chocolate when he was a baby, force-fed to him by his mother Rose, a Women's Royal Navy Sailor, who lost an arm in a bizarre accident involving a rabid squirrel. Add in a few italicised passages from the viewpoint of the killer and you have a psychological thriller.

Include quotes from an obscure Turkish poet left at the scene of the crime (the poem, not the poet), have the killer be a master chess-player and chuck in a discourse on philosophy every six pages, and you have a literary mystery.

Throw a lawyer into the mix who uses his courtroom skills to unveil the bad guy, despite the fact that his extra-curricular investigations puts his own life in danger, and you have a legal thriller.

Give your lawyer an acquaintance who's a cop with a passion for justice at the expense of his home life, who's been divorced six times, is driven by the job and who relaxes with a glass of beer and some jazz music on the stereo at the end of a case and you have the loner cop book.

Give him some mates, a few jokes, a couple of attractive female colleagues, an annoying senior officer, too much paperwork and some inter-departmental squabbling and you have a police procedural.

Introduce your newly optimistic and upbeat policeman to a nice widow with a penchant for sticking her nose in where it's not wanted, and who always seems to be tripping over dead bodies and you've got an amateur-sleuth mystery.

Give Ms Nosy a clever, mystery-solving iguana as a pet, a hobby knitting bird tables out of left-over wool, then throw in a recipe every couple of chapters and you have a cosy.

Make the iguana talk, and give him the starring role, or give the heroine the ghost of a dead relative to contend with and you have a paranormal crossover mystery.

Transport the whole shooting match back to 1665 and dress them in pantaloons and bustles and have them declaim "Gadzooks" and "Oddsbodkins" every now and again and you have a historical mystery. Well, you might have to lose the iguana...

So, dear Reader, what is your favourite sub-genre and why?

Crime Fiction Has Made Me A Horrible Person

I fear that reading crime fiction has made me callous.

A couple of years ago, I was once brought to a crashing halt (quite literally, since the guy walking behind me crashed straight into me - well, he shouldn't have been walking that closely behind, should he - anyone would think he was one of those collar sniffers*) by an advert for one of the local papers in the window of a shop near me "Clydebank man shot in girlfriends' lovers' garden." Was my first thought "Oh the poor man"? Or "How shocking"? No, it was "How many girlfriends? How many lovers? How big was the garden?" A misplaced apostrophe or two can make me forget about the human element. And so, apparently, can a few drops of blood.

I went out onto the landing of the flats where I live to discover a trail of blood drops - drying, but still shiny - going up the stairs. Each landing had a little pool of the stuff, while every few stairs had a drop or two. Did I rush to find out if anyone needed urgent medical assistance? Did I pull out my phone to call the emergency services. No, I did not. I pretended I was in an episode of CSI "Was this person standing still, or were they moving?" I thought. "Are the splatters directional?" "Where is my lovely white lab-coat?"

As it turned out, those CSI jobs are safe, anyway. The only injury was a minor burn as my upstairs neighbour tripped as he walked up the stairs with a container of coffee. All I can say is that it's a jolly good job I never aspired to a career in medicine.

But on to the proper news. Ray Banks get a starred review in Library Journal - and quite rightly so - for the excellent NO MORE HEROES. And a review of the Scotland Street series by Alexander McCall Smith, who will be launching his new book in The Edinburgh Bookshop on 3rd March.

The Times has an article on the social concerns of the thriller and how the distinction between crime fiction and literary fiction lies in their relative attitudes to language. Oh dear, that doesn't bode well, does it? The author of the piece has nice things to say about Aly Monroe, amongst others. However, this paragraph did annoy me a tad:

"Generally speaking, however, the distinction between crime and thrillers on the one hand and "literary" fiction on the other lies in their attitude to language. Many crime novelists seem indifferent or unaware that it might be a good idea to have a view of the matter at all, and the result is work that suggests that the writer believes he or she can operate in some medium which exists prior to, or instead of, language." I also have to admit that I've read the second of those two sentences about seventeen times and I'm still in the dark.

Louise Welsh and Dan Rhodes appear in Edinburgh on 10th March (not as if by magic, I hasten to add, but at Blackwell Bookshop on South Bridge).

More from India with Rankin on Rebus. And, talking of India, Irvine Welsh narrates a documentary about a charity whose aim is to build a home for Dalit children.

Another article on Ian Pattison's Rab C Nesbitt. And more on the Booktrust project to encourage the over-60s to read.

*The collar-sniffing incident: I was down in London on business and there I was, happily tootling up the escalator at Liverpool Street Station when I felt someone pressing really, really close behind me. "Hello", I thought, "Either you've pulled, Donna, or you're getting your pocket picked." I've had relationships with people who got less intimate on a first date.** Before I could do anything, I then felt a nose on my neck. Since it wasn't cold and wet, I didn't think it was a rather tall Golden Retriever, so I squealed like a big girl, turned round, and walloped the bloke behind me with my handbag. He looked at me as though it was ME in the wrong.

"What?" he said. "I was only sniffing your collar" (as if this was the most natural thing in the world).

"Oh, and is THAT supposed to make it sodding better?" I belted him in the shins with my suitcase (I was aiming for higher but the escalator suddenly flattened out) and stalked off feeling aggrieved. I'm not sure why these things always seem to happen to me, but they do. I was once flashed at in a Parisian cemetery...

** Dad - that's just a joke, by the way. I've never been on a first date with anyone who tried to get intimate. In fact, you can just assume that I've never been on a date, OK?

A Teeny Tiny Sunday Summary

Denise Mina's STILL MIDNIGHT reviewed in the Globe And Mail, the Daily Telegraph reviews Aly Monroe's WASHINGTON SHADOW, Publisher's Weekly reviews Philip Kerr's IF THE DEAD RISE NOT and Eurocrime reviews Russel McLean's THE LOST SISTER.

More on the Isle of Man event (gulp) organised by the lovely Chris Ewan.

For those who enjoy reading (and writing) short stories, Tania Hershman has an excellent list (incomplete - so e-mail her if you spot a missing one!) of UK and Irish literary mags. Good on that woman - it must have taken her ages.

More from Ian Pattison on Rab C Nesbitt in a very entertaining article.

More on the Jaipur Literature Festival - although this time it's the Daily Express wondering if money should be spent on it when Scotland has its own literacy problems.

Val McDermid is part of a Booktrust project to enourage the over 60s to engage more in reading and creative writing. My Mum and Dad read loads already (they're in their 70s), but I'm not sure I want to encourage my Dad to do creative writing - he already makes up plenty of rubbish about me in the comments.