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The illegal trade in wildlife generates billions of dollars in illicit profits to organised crime groups and networks. Until 2011 John M. Sellar was the most senior law enforcement official operating transnationally to combat these cruel activities. In this extract John’s close encounter with a tiger in one of India’s premier reserves takes on considerable poignancy given that, just a few years later, these magnificent animals were utterly eradicated from the area by poachers.

Extract from The UN’s Lone Ranger: Combating International Wildlife Crime
By John M. Sellar OBE
Published by Whittles Publishing

Anxious as I was to get out of the situation, I understood that none of us wished to do anything to prompt an attack. And so, we remained silent and utterly still. Then I noticed that the bushes between which the tiger was positioned were apart around its body and rear quarters but had grown together somewhat in front of it. To reach us, it would have to press forward through a few tangled and thorn-strewn branches. The same thought appeared to have struck the magnificent creature too as, with a final dismissive but aggressive tooth display and hiss, it backed out of position, turned and strode slowly off. It showed not the slightest alarm and its retreat was roundly dignified as if to show us that it had decided to change direction but that the choice had nothing at all to do with us.

Nervous smiles and quiet laughter broke out within the jeep and we began to congratulate each other, not just on the most amazing sighting, but also on avoiding what could so easily have become a very nasty incident. It was agreed that a stiff drink would be appropriate and we decided to head back to our base. The manager turned the jeep and we swept back to the track in a semi-circular manoeuvre. However, as we swung up and onto the trail again, the manager once more brought the 4×4 to a sudden stop. There, standing about 15 metres away in a small group of trees just off to one side of the track, stood a large sambar deer stag. This is a large species of deer and, when fully grown, individuals are similar in size to the red deer found in Scotland’s mountain and forest areas. The voice of the Project Tiger director came from the rear. ‘Why isn’t it moving off?’ I, too, was puzzled by the deer’s total lack of reaction to our sudden appearance. Instead of looking at us, the deer had its head turned almost completely around, seemingly staring back over its left shoulder.

 

We all followed its gaze. ‘My God,’ whispered the reserve manager. ‘Can you see it?’ There, on the opposite side of the track, was the tiger from which we had just had the fortunate escape. Its eyes were firmly fixed on the deer. It was crouched down in a semi-stalking and semi-attack posture, with its ears pressed down and back in what I understand is a clear sign that it is about to spring. The four humans and two animals were mesmerized by each other. I think one of us in the jeep probably said something too loudly because the sambar’s head swung round in our direction, as if finally becoming aware of our presence.

And in that split second the tiger reacted. Aware of the deer’s distraction, the tiger covered the ground between them in just a few bounds. Its speed was breathtaking and the deer never had a chance. Its head did begin to swing round again but too late, far too late. Just before the gap finally closed, the tiger leapt up and its claws closed around the lower neck and shoulder area of the deer. Its teeth, which had, less than two minutes before, been bared in warning at us, closed around the back of the sambar’s neck. We were so close that we could hear the crunch as the tiger’s jaws bit down onto its prey, followed quickly by an almost gunshot-style crack as the deer’s spine was broken. The deer collapsed and, motionless apart from some twitching of its limbs, appeared to have been killed instantly. The tiger lay down alongside the felled prey and kept its jaws firmly in place. As it did so, its eyes swivelled towards us and low growls emerged from its throat, as if to caution us to mind our own business and not interfere. It need not have worried; there was no way I was getting out of that jeep until it was parked beside human habitation.

A full minute seemed to pass before the tiger appeared satisfied that dinner was ready and that the deer was dead beyond doubt. Rising up, it moved its feet so that it was astride the deer and, keeping its teeth clamped where they had been from the moment of interception, it began to move forward dragging the carcass beneath it. I wondered whether there was to be no end to these astounding sights; it was amazing that a tiger could haul an animal larger than itself in what was, while not effortless, nonetheless an impressive display of strength. The tiger and its prize slowly disappeared from view into the vegetation of the forest. The human observers remained silent. I think each of us was wondering whether what we had witnessed had really happened right in front of our eyes. Finally, the Project Tiger director broke the silence and told me, as if I needed telling, that I had just viewed the most remarkable spectacle. He went on to say that, in forty years of service in the forests of India, he had never been so close to a tiger kill.

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The UN’s Lone Ranger: Combating International Wildlife Crime by John M. Sellar OBE is out now published by Whittles Publishing priced £10.99.

Children’s author Emily Dodd is continually awed by the Cairngorms and her many encounters with nature, after years of visiting the region, have shaped her much-loved stories. So settle down with a cup of tea and a slice of cake (another of Emily’s favourite finds as you’ll see!) and read on to discover how the wildlife of the Cairngorms brought Cameron, the Capercaillie that can’t dance, and other fun characters into existence.

Writing Stories About Nature
By Emily Dodd

I’m not long back from the Cairngorms, one of my favourite places in Scotland. I go there every year and it helps me to write. I don’t write while I’m there; I walk and explore and see wildlife and eat cake. The inspiration is a by-product of the place; it soaks in and pops out as a story a year or so later. Well, that’s how it’s happened so far.

Take my first book for example. I went to the RSPB caperwatch at Loch Garten to try to see a dancing capercallie every year. A capercaillie is a rare Scottish bird about the size of a turkey. It’s famous for dancing and makes a noise like a champagne cork popping. There’s only about 1000 left in the wild.

It took four years of anticipation and trying to see the real thing before I could write a story about a capercaillie called Cameron who can’t dance. He learns to dance on a walk with a red squirrel. It’s a bit like karate kid, but feathered. That’s what I love about nature – the stories are already there.

My latest book set in the Cairngorms is Ollie and the Otter, which tells the story of an otter called Rory and an osprey called Ollie. Ollie is trying to make friends with Isla, another osprey. In real life a male ospreys catches a fish and throws it mid air to a female. The female turns upside-down to catch the fish. It’s pretty amazing. After that escapade they mate. There’s no mating in this book though – it’s aimed at 3-6 year olds!

Like Can’t Dance Cameron, the story of Ollie, Isla and Rory was inspired by watching real ospreys at RSPB Loch Garten nature reserve.

I don’t want to write boy-meets-girl happy ever after stories for four year olds because a) they’re not realistic and b) they’re not relevant. But wanting to make friends with someone you think is way cooler than you is something children can totally relate to. That’s important too. When you’re writing a book, there needs to be a character that the reader can relate to.

I usually add learning theory to my books too. I love learning. This book is based on Sir Ken Robinson’s theory ‘The Element’. If you’ve not heard of him you should check out his TED based around this theory – it’s the most watched TED talk of all time!

Sir Ken Robinson says the education system is flawed: schools make you do more of the thing you’re not good at – if you’re bad at spelling you have to do more spelling. But, Ken has proved if you can do more of the things you’re naturally good at, be it dancing or football or art, then your confidence goes up and attainment goes up in all areas. So, you can get better at spelling by playing more football, if football is your thing.

Back to the story… Ollie is rubbish at throwing and he’s advised to practice more. He feels worse and gets worse until his otter friend says this:

“Why don’t you stop practicing and do things you love instead? When I do things I love I feel better, and then I get better at everything. Even the hard things.”

My stories come from a combination of inspiration from nature and things I’m learning. The Grouse and the Mouse is about how to maintain your unique identity in the face of controlling people – something I’ve struggled with. It’s about narcissism but it’s also about camouflage and teamwork. If you see a black grouse strutting his stuff you’ll understand why Bagpipe the black grouse is a proud show off. But he crashes into a deer fence and falls in a pile of McMoo Poo and Squeaker the wood mouse saves the day – so it’s all okay in the end!

Last month, I shared these stories with families at the Cairngorms Nature Big Weekend. I spent a morning walking through the 7000-year-old Abernethy forest with RSPB Community Ranger Alison Greggans. She explained the pine trees stand alive for 300 years and then spend another 300 years standing dead, still giving life to the forest. Even when the trees fall they continue to give life. It reminds me of books!

There’s always something new to discover in the Cairngorms. This year I found a new café – The Potting Shed – with the best cake I’ve ever had (Lindt chocolate and raspberry) and red squirrels outside the window. I like to sketch on my ipad and I love to just watch. I’d love to illustrate my books one day, maybe that will pop out too – like the stories that come from the wildlife of the Cairngorms.

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Emily Dodd is science communicator and writer of fiction and nonfiction science books. She is also a screenwriter for CBeebies. Follow Emily on twitter, like her Facebook Author page, or read her blog. See her latest events here.

Emily is the author of Ollie And The Otter: A Scottish Osprey Story, The Grouse And The Mouse, and Can’t Dance Cameron all published by Floris Books priced £6.99 and £5.99.

As part of the Scottie Activity Books series for children, Scottish Environments introduces young readers to the varied ecology, history, and landscapes of Scotland. Travel with us from north to south through cities and countryside as we learn facts from around the country.

Extracts from Scottish Environments
By Alan and Moira McKirdy, Illustrated by Craig Ellery
Published by NMS Enterprises Ltd – Publishing

Scottish Environments is the newest title in the Scottie series of activity books for young readers. As well as 40 full-colour pages of words and pictures, each book also has an eight-page black and white section of activities for home or classroom use, lists of websites and places to visit.

Topics covered are:

Scotland’s environment / Climate change / Renewable energy / Your carbon footprint / Scotland – a land of contrasts / Rocks and landscapes / A landscape before people/ Moorlands / The ‘Flow country’ / Lochs and rivers / Coasts and seascapes / Islands of Scotland  / Machair / Industrial landscapes / Making a living in the countryside / Flora … and fauna / Enjoying the countryside / Protecting the countryside

The activities for children include experiments to show the effects of acid rain on plants and a clean water test.

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Alan McKirdy was formerly Head of Advisory Services for Earth Sciences, Scottish Natural Heritage; Moira McKirdy was formerly a primary school teacher. They are also the authors of Scottish Rocks and Fossils in the Scotties series; see the National Museum of Scotland website for the other titles in this series.

Scottish Environments is out now published by National Museums Scotland Publishing priced £6.99. See the National Museum of Scotland website for the other titles in the series.

In Catherine Simpson’s novel Truestory, Alice’s life is dictated by her autistic son, Sam, who refuses to leave their remote Lancashire farm. In this insightful video Catherine introduces the book and talks about how her own family life influenced the novel’s narrative.

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Catherine Simpson appears at Dunbar’s CoastWord Festival with author Shelley Day on May 21st to talk about Truestory.

In this photo diary author Sue Reid Sexton takes us behind-the-scenes on a trip to the Midi-Pyrenees in the south of France as she combines a family holiday with using her trusty campervan, Vanessa Hotplate, as a mobile office and creative space.

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Meet Vanessa Hotplate, a small but perfectly formed Romahome campervan. Vanessa has living quarters for two, but for me the van functions best as a mobile office and creative space. I favour laybys in isolated locations for this purpose and this summer, I voyaged all the way from Glasgow to a tiny village in the Midi-Pyrenees in the south of France.

This was a distance of 1277 miles or 2043.2 kilometres to be exact and frankly more impressive. Such a journey is all the more remarkable with an engine of only 1,300 horsepower (though that does seem like a lot of horses) and dinky body a mere 3.95 metres long.

The purpose of the journey was to prove I could do it. And to visit family too, of course. Ahem. And also to give myself some uninterrupted time to get on with the latest writing project. My habit is to find a layby, preferably one with limited phone connection, so I can climb in the back, open the laptop and have no alternative but to write. It’s amazing how difficult it sometimes is to get down to writing, even though it is thoroughly enjoyable once I do.

It took several weeks to summon the courage to make this epic solo flight into the sun but I used the time to have the van serviced and checked so it would be in tip-top shape when the moment arrived.

I arrived in France late in the evening and drove through the dark until I could drive no more. Luckily a ‘rest area’ appeared and I snuck between a larger campervan and a lorry and slept like a log. The next day, with only the nice American lady on the sat-nav for company, I drove until dusk. The navigator was set to non- péage so it threw me off the motorway just as a red sunset reached across the whole sky. At first I was frustrated by the twists and turns of the smaller road, then I found the perfect spot for the night, which is where you see Vanessa in the picture. Birds and insects serenaded me as I dug out the sleeping bag and settled down for the night.

This would have been the perfect writing layby. It had a section which was completely flat, trees between me and the road upon which there was limited traffic, birdsong a-plenty, a field of maize and a hill covered in more trees on which to rest my eyes. Within the van I had supplies of tea, breakfast materials and other nibbles, a fully charged laptop, a battery to replenish it when necessary, a table to sit it on and a project which was difficult but enticing for its author.

But my task at that point was to GET THERE, so after a quick glance at my project I hit the road, opted for the péage and was instantly stuck in a traffic jam. Drat! Wandering back roads is so much more fun.

And also more productive. Over the course of this trip and in various ad hoc locations I re-drafted the first six chapters of a novel and added another. Almost none of this was done with friends or family anywhere near. Many of these writing sessions were brief but others lengthy. All brought a sense of submersion and focus, which makes it sound like swimming under water with a pair of goggles and seeing the wonders of that environment. That is exactly what it is, a diving deep into the inner world of the imagination and seeing what’s going on in there, then bringing the treasure up to the surface, otherwise known as the page.

These writing sessions were possibly further enhanced by the fact that I was entirely with my own thoughts when I was driving the great distance to my destination. As you see from this picture, Vanessa has a snub nose which means the engine is under the seats, which in turn means it’s very noisy in there at 70mph. The audiobooks I had brought along for entertainment were inaudible. The only thoughts I could hear were my own. The only music worth bothering with was stuff I knew well enough to sing along to karaoke style, like Dvorak’s Cello Concerto and Martyn Bennett’s Grit. This provided exercise for the lungs which, having no companion other than the sat-nav, was quite important. But mostly I travelled in silence with my own thoughts. I was therefore more than ready, when chances arose, to get on with the writing.

The first writing session was in a layby on a busy road outside Newhaven, the ferry terminal on the south coast. It was so close to the road the whole van shook every time a car passed, and the traffic was constant…

Next was in the ferry. France was playing Iceland in the European Cup on screens dotted about the ship. Among the French supporters was a brass band whose trumpeter played triumphantly when their team scored and the ‘death march’ when it was Iceland’s turn. Cosily ensconced at a side table near this spectacle, I somehow managed to write. This is a measure of the depth of immersion the project had already garnered.

This is my daughter playing to a valley full of vineyards while her cousin edited a story for my sister, who lives in France and is a storyteller, and I sat alongside and wrote. It was a blazingly hot day and we were under trees with big fleshy leaves and tiny delicious raspberry-like fruit whose name I don’t know. It was one of those rare occasions I managed to write in company.

The rest of the first week was with family, so there was no writing done at all. My attention was required at swimming pools, mountain lakes, picnics, family dinners, late-night discussions and walks. It was a lovely holiday, but the story I was writing was clamouring to get out.

This is an uncomfortable sensation, as any writer or artist will tell you. There were conversations and dramatic goings-on all playing out in my head which occasionally obscured the real life dramas and discussions going on around me. I can only imagine how annoying this must have been for other people, but I did manage to take occasional notes for the novel. There was an awful sensation of being split between several worlds. It was something akin to the ‘dissociation’ that often accompanies trauma. Obviously there was no actual trauma here, only the disconcerting feeling of having travelled a great distance to see loved ones then being unable to be wholly ‘present’.

These two words, dissociation and present, are stolen from my life as a counsellor. Perhaps it is the habit of following an inner monologue, albeit someone else’s, that enables me to foster, cosset and feed my own inner muse in this way and to the extent which seems necessary to write a full-length novel. Obviously there’s a price. It’s like multi-tasking but with bells on. Not everything I did was to the best of my ability.

Imagine my delight then when two friends gave me an open invitation to park my van in front of their house whenever I wanted and for as long as I liked. At last I was equipped with metaphorical goggles and diving equipment. I stayed below the surface until the end of my six chapters, surfacing occasionally for dinner and/or midnight discussions, then back down until I reached the end.

Then, at last, it was time to retrace those 2000+ kilometres, but it wasn’t the end of writing. My first overnight stop heading north was in a picnic area south of Brive. It was typical of the kind found all over France. There were several picnic tables and benches, trees to provide shade from the baking sun, plenty of parking spots and an area which was flat and suitable for overnight campervans, and it was on the side of a hill with a fabulous view. Many of these rest areas also have special waste-dumping facilities for campervans, and toilets, though French toilets, I’m sorry to say, are always worth avoiding. I spent the next morning at the laptop, then drove a while and stopped again in a much larger rest area.

This rest area had a perfect example of hideous French toilets as its centrepiece but was otherwise very well organised. Each car or campervan had its own little space surrounded by hedges and with trees for shade. They also had concrete picnic tables and views across green fields and farms, and no shops screaming at you to spend money like UK service stations. It was the perfect antidote to the motorway and ideal as a writing venue, good enough for me to spend the entire afternoon writing and to leave with a clear plan for the next section.

The rest of the journey through France was so stunningly beautiful I continued driving long after it was sensible and didn’t do what I had planned, which was to wander and pause to write for the next day and a half until it was time for my ferry. Instead I continued through yellow cornfields (with their distinctive smell) under a fading blue sky, then a sunset and into darkness until I was almost at Chartres. In a tiny village called Bonville I turned up a side street and parked, exhausted, crawled into the back, put a tee-shirt over my eyes (because I’d accidentally parked directly under a streetlight and was too tired to move again) and slept until morning.

It wasn’t a suitable writing spot. The shutters beside my window squeaked open early the next day revealing crisp Guipure lace curtains, and exposing my tatty van to their owner. I quickly packed up and left without even having tea (shock … horror) and determined to stop and gather myself at the earliest opportunity.

But the muse had stayed in bed. In fact the muse said she was exhausted and would see me back in Scotland where she knew there were laybys whose locations she knew and liked, preferred even. This inner discussion happened as I hung out in a parking bay near the ferry, seen here.

I felt sure I could coax her back to play at a table on-board the ferry with a sea view. Sadly the boat was full of people with loud voices and all the best views were taken. I tinkered a little in the restaurant then joined the muse in a comfy seat for a doze. The moment had passed.

I stopped several times on the way north through the UK but most of the service stations were about as relaxing as a teenage heavy metal concert outside your window with no police in attendance.

Vanessa had at least played her part throughout the excursion. On the outward journey I was 10km short of my destination when the windscreen wipers stopped working. On the way home, and at roughly the same distance from the finishing line, my skylight came undone. A man in a passing car kindly indicated there was a problem and that the skylight was flapping up and down. You can imagine the hand signals. It was a bit like ‘you’re crazy’ followed by ‘you have a hairstyle like Donald Trump’.

It was great to have travelled and to have overcome my fear about journeying alone, but it was even better to be home. And there’s still plenty of summer left to hit the highways and laybys of Scotland.

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Sue Reid Sexton is author of books including Writing on the Road: Campervan Love and the Joy of Solitude, published in paperback by Waverley Books priced £8.99. Her festival appearances include the Southside Fringe in Glasgow on 16th May and the Solas Festival, Perthshire, at which she will participate on behalf of PEN, on Sunday 25th June.

This article originally appeared in the Travel Issue of Books from Scotland in 2016.

Meet the world’s only tartan cat – Porridge – who, after an accident with a tin of tartan paint, lives with the McFun family: Gadget Grandad, Groovy Gran, Dino Dad, Mini Mum and the twins, Roaring Ross and Invisible Isla. The family encounter some fishy happenings in this fast-paced extract which sees Porridge come face to face with arch enemy Fergus McFungus…

Meet the world’s only tartan cat!

The latest series to launch from Floris Books’ Young Kelpies list is a wild, laugh-out-loud romp featuring Porridge the Tartan Cat, a long story that involves precisely one cat and one tin of tartan paint. Alan Dapré’s latest creation has been hailed as a “very VERY funny, and […] gloriously silly Scottish story”. Packed with hilarious twists and fun wordplay, the books also feature captivating illustrations by the talented Yuliya Somina. Alan is booked to appear at festivals across Scotland in the coming months.

Read on to get a cats-eye view of the wild world of Porridge…

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Alan Dapré is the author of more than fifty books for children, including Porridge The Tartan Cat And The Crash Bang Ding. He has also written over one hundred television scripts, transmitted in the UK and around the world.

Alan will be appearing at the following festivals:

Far from the Madding Crowd Festival (Linlithgow), 5th June

West End Festival (Glasgow), 14th June

NessBookFest (Inverness), 6th October

Other dates will be announced in due course.

Porridge the Tartan Cat and the Brawsome Bagpipes is out now and available to buy from Discover Kelpies.

Life’s full of good news and bad news for defence lawyer Robbie Munro. Although Munro continues to juggle cases from his demanding clientele with maintaining a private life, the balance begins to slip, and trouble in his personal and professional life never seems far away.

Extract from Good News, Bad News
By WHS McIntyre
Published by Sandstone Press

Chapter One

The most common question asked of a criminal defence lawyer is: how can you possibly defend someone you think is guilty?

Top answer, most people think, is money, and it does definitely help. However, the fact is that most defence lawyers are interested in justice, and most clients have the decency not to say if they are guilty. Often it’s the guilty ones who sound the most innocent and come up with the best lines of defence. Some of them have had a lot of practice. What’s important for defence agents is not to prejudge the issue; there are enough people doing that already.

So I like to respond to that question with another question. How is it that a prosecutor can seek to convict someone he or she may think, and indeed, must presume by law, to be innocent? That was a question you heard asked about as often as you heard Sheriff Albert Brechin putting ‘not’ and ‘guilty’ together in the same sentence.

‘It was an assault, Mr Munro. Plain and simple. Did you not hear the evidence of the two witnesses? Are you deaf as well as…’

‘As well as what, M’Lord?’

Sheriff Brechin put a hand under the front of his yellowed, horse-hair wig, scratched whatever it was that lived under there, and looked down at me from the Bench. ‘As well as extremely stubborn. When will you realise that it doesn’t matter how long you stand there addressing me, the facts of the case remain unalterable. Your client struck—’

‘Slapped.’

‘There you have it then! You admit it yourself.’

‘A slap from my client does not necessarily amount to an assault.’

The Sheriff sat up straight, raised his right eyebrow an inch and his voice an octave. ‘Really? Since when?’ The day Bert Brechin was appointed Sheriff of the Sheriffdom of Lothian & Borders, was the day the theatre world missed out on a fine pantomime dame. ‘Has someone changed the definition of assault and not told me? It is still defined as an attack by one individual upon another with evil intent, is it not?’ Brechin glanced around, as though some legal messenger might arrive hotfoot from Parliament House with news of a change to the law.

‘Yes, it’s still the same,’ I said, ‘and that’s why I’m certain your Lordship will take my point.’

‘Point?’ Brechin’s left eyebrow caught up with the right, both threatening to disappear somewhere under the fringe of his wig. ‘Point? I didn’t realise you had a point, Mr Munro. It’s most unlike you.’

‘My point, M’Lord, is evil intent and the distinct absence of it in this case.’ I stepped to the side to allow the Sheriff a better look at the young woman in the dock. Heather Somerville was a student teacher, one week off her twenty-third birthday, two away from graduation and six from her wedding. One Saturday afternoon, a couple of months previously, Heather had arranged to meet her fiancé and go shopping. When he hadn’t shown up at the allotted time she’d gone looking for him, and, with her woman’s intuition requiring only to be placed on a low setting, had tracked him to the pub where he was watching a game of football with his mates. There had been an argument. He’d called her a nag. She’d slapped his face. The barmaid had ejected the pair of them and phoned the police.

Subsequently, and on him apologising to her, the two had kissed, made up and considered the matter closed. Not so the Scottish Justice System. It was clearly an act of domestic violence. As such it fell to be dealt with under the prevailing zero tolerance policy on such matters.

Heather Somerville had been arrested and held in custody. After a weekend pacing a police cell, she had appeared in court late on the Monday afternoon. A conviction for assault would spell disaster for her future career as a primary school teacher, and so on my advice she’d pled not guilty and opted to take her chances at trial.

Unfortunately, Heather’s boyfriend had been extremely helpful to the prosecution. That was the problem with dragging nice, law-abiding people to court. If you asked them to put their right hand up to God and swear an oath, they had the annoying habit of telling the truth, even if they’d rather not. Had her boyfriend been one of my regulars, asked to testify against his girl, there would have been a sudden and violent onset of amnesia at the mere sight of the witness box.

Of course, while it was bad news for some that the Crown insisted on prosecuting even the most trivial of relationship spats, there was good news for others. The silver lining to the leaden cloud of zero tolerance was an increase in prosecutions, and more prosecutions meant more work for me. No matter how much I despised zero tolerance policies, eventually I came to view them the way dentists viewed bags of boiled sweets: dead against them in principle; happy for the business.

I carried on. ‘M’Lord, the complainer, if you can call him that because he never actually complained about what happened, may have given evidence to say that he was slapped…’

Brechin snorted. ‘No may about it. He did say that. Precisely that.’

‘But he also said that he deserved it.’

‘No-one deserves to be slapped, Mr Munro.’

I could think of a few who did. One of them was sitting ten feet away, keen to uphold some twenty-first-century, politically correct notion of justice, while frowning at me from under the type of hairpiece made popular circa the mid-eighteen-hundreds. ‘Surely, your Lordship will agree that some people deserve the occasional slap?’

‘Such as whom?’

‘Such as errant boyfriends who don’t show up when they say they will and are then rude to their partners.’ If not, what was the world coming to? What would Mae West, Rita Hayworth and just about every Hollywood leading lady of yesteryear have done if they kept being hauled off to chokey every time they gave Jimmy Cagney a drink in the face or John Wayne a scud on the jaw?

‘And what about errant girlfriends, Mr Munro? Do they deserve the occasional slap too?’

It was a neat switcheroo, I’d give the old devil that much. ‘Vive la différence, M’Lord. As I say, my submission is that the complainer—’

‘The victim.’

‘The fiancé saw the slap as less of an assault and more of a correctional aid. However, if, as you say, it was an assault, it was justifiable. How about we call it reasonable chastisement?’

Brechin smiled like a gutted fish, cheery at the imminent prospect of ruining some young person’s career over a lover’s tiff. ‘How about we don’t? How about we call it what it was – an assault.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. I’ll decide who deserves to be slapped, Mr Munro. Not you, not your client and not even the young man who was unfortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of this vicious attack. Now, are you quite finished?’

I’d been presenting my closing submission for half an hour. Hugh Ogilvie, the Procurator Fiscal, had done his in thirty seconds, pushing at a door to a conviction that was not so much open as falling off its hinges. Clearly Brechin was satisfied that the slap comprised the necessary wicked intent. It was time for a change of tack. ‘If your Lordship is not with me when it comes to the mens rea, is this not perhaps a case where the Court could consider these proceedings to be de minimis?’ Latin often helped when dealing with sheriffs as well as impressing the hell out of clients.

Brechin looked at me as though I was speaking an alien language as opposed to his favourite dead one. ‘De minimis?’

That the law did not concern itself with trivialities was a well-established rule and set out, as every law student knew, in limerick form.

There was a young lawyer named Rex,

Who had a very small organ of sex,

When charged with exposure,

He said with composure,

‘De minimis non curat lex.’

I didn’t think a recital would help. Nonetheless, for some sheriffs, those with a shred of humanity, to find the incident de minimis would have been a way out. All Brechin had to do was accept that while, legally speaking, there had been an assault, the whole matter was so trivial that there need not be a conviction. His brother Sheriff, Larry Dalrymple, Livingston Sheriff Court’s Yin to Bert Brechin’s Yang, would have seized the opportunity with both hands. The most annoying thing about it all was that the trial had originally been set down for Dalrymple’s court because Brechin was supposed to be on vacation. Sheriffs were allowed an inordinate number of holidays. Bert Brechin took far too few. On this occasion, for some unknown reason, he’d returned early from a two-week bird-watching expedition on Madeira and volunteered to do the trials’ court. It meant that on this, the first day of May, when I should have been giving my face a wash in the morning dew, I was instead getting a hosing from the Bench.

‘Your client is guilty, Mr Munro.’ The Sheriff had heard enough of my legal argument. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered the accused, his words accompanied by wails of grief from my client’s mother in the public benches. ‘Miss Somerville, I fine you four hundred pounds. Do you require time to pay?’

She did. Twenty-eight days to pay the fine. The rest of her life to pay for the conviction.

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Good News, Bad News by WHS McIntyre is out now in paperback published by Sandstone Press priced £8.99.

WHS McIntyre will be at Crimefest in Bristol on May 19th for their event Bring Lawyers, Guns And Money: It Might Be Legal, But Is It Just?.

We’re delighted to introduce One Button Benny, the lovable robot with only one button, in this stunning new picture book. Travel with Benny as he flies off into outer space!

Extract from One Button Benny
By Alan Windram
Illustrated by Chloe Holwill-Hunter
Published by Little Door Books

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One Button Benny is published in paperback by Little Door Books on the 16th June priced £6.99. Join Alan Windram, the author of One Button Benny, and the illustrator Chloe Holwill-Hunter, at the Borders Book Festival for the official launch of the book on Saturday 17th June.

Ahead of publication of her debut novel The Wages of Sin, author Kaite Welsh writes on the ‘three Edinburghs’ in her head, by exploring how the historic city has provided endless inspiration, from her early days as a student, to being an author living in, and writing about, the city today.

The Wages of Sin began as my love letter to Edinburgh, long before I thought I’d live here again. It’s a strange sort of love letter, blood-spattered and angry, and at the start my narrator, Sarah Gilchrist, doesn’t even like it very much. Sarah is not in Edinburgh by choice – she’s been exiled by her rich family following a scandal that leaves her free to pursue the medical degree she’s always wanted – and the dreich weather and grey stone buildings reflect her state of mind at the start of the book.

As a student I had Classics lectures in a wing of the old medical school and every day I passed two plaques, one to Sophia Jex Blake, the first woman to study medicine at Edinburgh, and one to Arthur Conan Doyle who found his own literary inspiration there. Feminist history and Victorian crime – it was clear that the Venn diagram of my interests overlapped at the University of Edinburgh. The idea of a female medical student who investigated murders, bound by a corset and restrictive gender roles, began to take root.

I began the novel when I was living in London and missing Edinburgh like a lost lover – the kind you technically can live without, you’d just rather not. I crammed the book into the nooks and crannies of my life, writing on the Tube, at lunch, at night, and as I went about my life in 21st century London, I felt the constant thrum of Victorian Edinburgh like an engine. It wasn’t until I was packing my things and signing the rental agreement on a flat in Leith that my soon-to-be-agent got in touch, proof if I needed it that moving home was the right thing to do. Once I lived here the book began to change subtly, my surroundings infusing my writing the way the smell of hops seep into my hair and clothes (and, confusingly, sofa cushions).

Wandering the Old Town in search for inspiration, I often find myself tugged down a particular wynd or side street where a plot point starts to develop. Oscar de Muriel, whose novels also take place in Victorian Edinburgh, once told me a story about successfully navigating the city armed only with a map from the 1880s. I’ve been known to give directions using landmarks that no longer exist and I’ve found myself purposefully striding to the clinic where Sarah meets Lucy, the woman whose death – and unhappy life – she finds herself avenging, only to remember that it doesn’t exist and I wouldn’t be qualified to work there if it did. As it happens, the place where I located the clinic is now a restaurant and looking around and saying excitedly “I’ve killed someone in here!” will result in the waiter avoiding you for the whole evening. Sometimes, when I’m stuck or (more likely) procrastinating, I find myself avoiding entire areas of the city because I feel guilty that I’m not writing. Conversely, the best spaces for me to write are the places where I used to write my essays as a student. I have a specific table at Elephants and Bagels where I wrote 13,000 words one day – and got through an entire loyalty card thanks to a lot of coffee – and then there’s the National Library of Scotland’s archives that let me slice into the seedy underbelly of the city and dissect its contents. It’s easier to write near the university, it tricks my mind into forgetting what era I’m in.

I have three Edinburghs in my head – Sarah’s, with its carriages and slums, the Edinburgh of my student days seen through a haze of lectures, alcohol and ill-advised kisses, and my present life. There are places where these worlds intersect and places I go to escape, where the veil between the living and the fictional dead are stronger, but I always find myself coming back through the Cowgate or over George IV Bridge to the shadowed, solemn courtyard of the medical school, hunting out Sarah’s next mystery.

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The Wages of Sin by Kaite Welsh is published in hardback on 1st June by Tinder Press priced £16.99. Kaite launches the book at Waterstones in Edinburgh on 1st June. She will appear at various festivals over the summer period; these dates will be announced in due course.

Crime writing frequently takes centre stage at book festivals worldwide. In the aftermath of Ullapool Book Festival, our monthly columnist delves into the genre via in-depth examination of Glasgow-based author – and former Taggart scriptwriter – Chris Dolan. David finds the author’s unabashed fondness for his central protagonist, Procurator Fiscal Maddy Shannon, and the complex narrative action, which typically expands beyond police/legal procedural, to be refreshing and ultimately compelling.

Crime writing, a phenomenally successful practitioner of the genre once told me, is a piece of cake: “You start off with a body, the coroner tells you how it died and that gives you a few suspects, and before you know where you are, you’ve done 40 pages and you’re up and running.”

A quote like that should really be printed in ironics – the backward-slanting italic typeface that both HL Mencken and Tom Driberg suggested ought to be used to alert us to irony. Because the famous crime writer I was talking to didn’t, I think, mean to deprecate the genre that had made her rich. Instead she meant to mock the notion that all wannabe crime writers could also, and just as easily, come up with the credible psychology, characterisation, motivation, social observation and everything else that completes the crime fiction mix. Many literary novelists might try to provide these things too, but the crime novelist has to do so while at the same time stitching in an exciting and engaging plot. It’s like they always said about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire: she did everything he did, except backwards and in high heels.

Crime figured prominently on the programme at the ever-wonderful Ullapool Book Festival last weekend, with the last day alone featuring Graeme Macrae Burnet talking about his Saltire award-winning His Bloody Project and Val McDermid discussing her 30th novel, Out of Bounds. Yet it was something that Chris Dolan – a comparative newcomer to the genre with just two crime novels under his belt – had to say that got me thinking.

The first thing you should know about Dolan is that he understands how crime fiction works. It would be rather surprising if he didn’t, considering that he has also written scripts for Taggart and that he is currently adapting his sixth Ian Rankin novel for Radio 4.

Yet when he first set about writing a crime novel of his own, with Potter’s Field in 2014 and Lies of the Land last year (both published by Vagabond Voices) he hardly made things easy for himself. His lead character in both, Maddy Shannon, is a procurator fiscal. Although fiscals do have some involvement in murder cases, usually they’re not the people turning up new clues. Indeed, if fiscals get too involved in other cases, eyebrows would be raised – and in legal circles that counts for almost as much as a written warning. In other words, a fictional Scottish equivalent of the crime-busting magistrate in the French TV cop show Spiral is, while theoretically possible, a tad unlikely.

Dolan realises this. “I knew I had to write about somebody actively involved with crime,” he told me when we met in Glasgow recently. “On the other hand, maybe I have made a mistake. Because now we’re two novels in, and in each one of them she has had to overstep her brief so much that she would clearly have got sacked.”

Whoa. Let’s just back up a bit there. Did you hear what he just said? Maybe I have made a mistake? When have you ever heard a crime writer actually admitting that? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I ever have. I’ve heard Ian Rankin admit that he wished Rebus hadn’t hit retirement age, but this is like hearing him admit Rebus was in the wrong job altogether. A crime writer who admits he’s got a few doubts about his lead character is like an asthmatic balloon modeller: the job might get done but you’re not sure you want to see it.

Actually, Dolan’s position makes sense – or at least I think it does. We’d been talking about our favourite crime writers, and the conversation drifted round to George Pelecanos in general and The Way Home in particular. If you haven’t read that book, it starts off sounding like it’s going to be an entirely predictable plot about workmen uncovering a bag of bad guys’ cash but ends up being a sweet and moving story about a son’s redemption and a father’s love. “So is it a crime novel at all?” Dolan asked, and we chewed the fat a bit before agreeing that it didn’t matter, that it was just a good novel. “When I’m writing Maddy,” Dolan said, “there’s no real difference in my head between writing crime and not writing crime. There might be a murder and it has to be resolved, but beyond that there’s no real difference from a general novel.” (Not, he added, that he was rushing to compare himself with the peerless Pelecanos.)

“But when I sit down and write Maddy novels – and I’m writing the third one right now – my first thought isn’t the crime, it’s what is happening to her, it’s whether her relationship with Louis (her New York cop boyfriend) still holding up, what’s going on with her at work, things like that. She’s 15 years younger than me, but we live in the same part of Glasgow [the West End] and I like her a lot. She’s Italian and I’m Catholic but we know the same kind of people, so I don’t have to try too hard to think myself into her head.”

There is, I must emphasise, a crime at the heart of Lies of the Land: it’s based on a real-life (but not hugely famous) scandal in Glasgow and here it has spawned its own series of (fictional) murders. But for me the joy of the book is the way it immerses itself in a dense mesh of office politics, in rivalries and resentments between police and fiscals, in the bureaucracy involved in bringing a case to trial, or the overlap of past cases. And that’s just the work side of things, which Dolan has researched properly, going even as far as spending a day with former Lord Advocate (and former fiscal) Dame Elish Angiolini.

But this isn’t just a police/legal procedural. Maddy’s social, family and sex life is similarly intricate. For the social side of things, Dolan has copied Catalan noir writer Manuel Vasquez Montalban’s habit of only using real-life restaurants, pubs and clubs as settings; Maddy’s Italian-Irish family is once again heavily involved, and as for her love life – well, although Louis is an ocean away, I don’t think I’ve read a more emotionally convincing depiction of a gradually weakening but still intense long-distance relationship by Skype. (Yes, in a crime novel: who would have thought?)

We have, you might think, come a long way from the simplicities of “There’s been a murrrderrr”. But actually we haven’t. Because Dolan first started writing Maddy for STV when they were casting around for something to replace Taggart. They turned it down. Maybe it was too complex, too multi-layered, too much of a risk. I don’t know about you, but I quite like my crime fiction that way.

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Lies of The Land by Chris Dolan is out now published by Vagabond Voices priced £9.95.

You can read an extract from Potter’s Field, by Chris Dolan, here on Books from Scotland. Find out more about Ullapool Book Festival here.

In this  gripping preview of Dìoghaltas (Revenge), the forthcoming fourth novel to be published in Gaelic by Isle of Lewis-based author Iain Finlay Macleod, a man is shot dead in mysterious circumstances.

Extract from Dìoghaltas
By Iain Finlay Macleod
Published by Acair

Chuala e mac talla a’ ghuth aige bho ballachan na seann mhuilne. Timcheall air bha loidhnichean de dh’innealan mòra, closaich iarann. Bha a’ ghaoth a’ toirt crith air an togalach, uinneagan briste ga leigeil a-steach.

Dh’èigh e a-rithist. Seo far am biodh iad a’ tighinn an toiseach. Seo far an do dh’aontaich iad. Nuair a bha beatha anns a’ mhuilinn.

Iseanan a-nis, chan fhaiceadh e dè bh’ ann, a’ sgèith seachad air aghaidh anns an dorchadas. Robh e anns an àite cheàrr? Càite an robh a h-uile duine?

Choisich e tro na rumannan. Bha aon rùm le bucais de phìosan beairt air an càrnadh àrd suas gu mullach an togalaich. Cisteachan. Bha na h-uinneagan gu h-àrd a-nis air fàs dorch, gun duine gan glanadh.

Thog an duine pìos fuicheig a bha na laighe ri taobh inneal a bha briste. ’S ann an sin a chleachd iad a bhith a’ glanadh nan clòithtean. Bha fhathast fàileadh ceimigeach bhuaithe, a chaolan a-nis falamh.

’S e pàtran snog a bh’ ann, smaoinich e.

Boinneag fala.

Dh’fhairich e airson diog am peilear tro chùl a chinn, a’ dèanamh toll beag grinn anns a’ phìos clò a bha e air togail. Grian bheag dhearg.

Thuit e chun an làir.

Rinn fuaim a’ ghunna a shlighe a-mach air an togalach far an deach e à bith. Shluig a’ mhòinteach agus an t-uisge e.

Bha Eachainn a’ fighe anns an t-seada aige, timcheall air ceud meatair air falbh bhon mhuilinn. Bha dùil aige gun cuala e rudeigin agus ghabh e sin mar leisgeul gus beagan fois a ghabhail. Chaidh e a-mach agus thug e sùil timcheall, ach gun cinnt sam bith air dè chuala e, ma bha càil idir ann.

 

Bha a’ mhuileann ann, mar as àbhaist. Am peant a-nis a’ fàs dorch agus robach. Cha do dh’fhairich e càil a’ coimhead air an t-seann togalach sin, ged as ann leis fhèin a bha e aig aon àm. Chuir e a làmh air a dhruim. Cha dèanadh e cus a bharrachd an-diugh.

’S e cur-seachad a bh’ anns an fhighe dha. Bha bliadhnaichean bho bha aige ri obair. Aig aon àm ’s ann leis a bha a h-uile muileann air an eilean seach aon. Chuir e seachad bliadhnaichean a’ feuchainn ris a h-uile duine eile a chur a-mach à bith.

Reic e iad uile agus dh’aontaich e ri dùnadh aon dhiubh. Chaill daoine an cuid obrach, ach bha fios aige gur e siud an t-àm aige. Gur e siud an t-àm na b’ urrainn dha a thoirt a-mach às. Bha athair air an gnothach a thogail bho aon bheart, an dèidh dha tilleadh bhon chogadh, gu companaidh a bha a’ reic clò air feadh an t-saoghail. Cha robh feagal air bho chàil nuair a bha e beò, an t-athair aige. Cha robh dùil aig Eachainn gum bàsaicheadh e a gu bràth.

Ach bhàsaich. Sheall Eachainn air na seann togalaichean, na ballachan-cùil ris an uisge, glas agus trom. Cha robh fios aige an robh a chridhe a-riamh ann. Mura biodh athair air uiread uallaich a chur air, tha fhios gum biodh e air rudeigin eile a dhèanamh le bheatha.

Cha do rinn e dona às ged-thà. Faisg air a’ mhuilinn, bha an taigh aige, aon de na taighean as motha air an eilean. Rudeigin ro fhaisg air a’ Mhuilinn ach cha robh mòran beatha aige a bharrachd air. An càr aige, Maybach 600, air a bheulaibh.

Smaoinich e air athair. Tha a h-uile duine a’ bàsachadh uaireigin, smaoinich e.

Thog e spàl, chuir e iteachan eile ann, agus thionndaidh e air ais gu a chuid obrach.

Cha robh an duine a bhàsaich anns a’ mhuilinn pòsta. Cha robh clann aige. Agus mar sin, cha robh duine a’ feitheamh air a shon aig an taigh. Cha robh e tric a’ dol a-staigh dhan oifis a-nis, bha e a’ feuchainn ri gabhail air a shocair. Duine beag, rudeigin tiugh, duine nach robh mìorbhaileach, a rèir choltais. Bha airgead aige, ceart gu leòr.

Ach nan innseadh tu dha duine gu robh cuideigin ag iarraidh am fear seo a mharbhadh, chuireadh e iongnadh orra.

Agus mar sin, cha mhòr nach deach e a-mach à sealladh.

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Iain Finlay Macleod participates in Acair’s literature festival at the end of this month by hosting a creative writing workshop, which is open to all. ‘Fèis Litreachais Acair @ 40: Celebrating 40 Years of Publishing’, will take place in An Lanntair, Stornoway, on Wednesday 24th May. He will appear at festivals over the summer; the dates will be announced in due course.

 

In this opening extract, Polly McAllister has left her husband and returned to Banktoun to make amends. She wants to start afresh but she’s thrown in at the deep end with her job as school counsellor, and it’s not long before she uncovers a multitude of murky secrets surrounding the disappearance of promising student Katie Taylor.

Extract from The Damselfly
By SJI Holliday
Published by Black & White Publishing

Polly

She’d forgotten about the gossip.

The way the slightest small thing was embellished and magnified until what started off as an annoying, buzzing midge turned into a multi-headed monster. Back in the town less than a week and already it feels like she’s never been away. It’d seemed like a good idea, popping out to the post office during the first break, knowing that she wasn’t on playground monitoring duties – not on her first day. What else was she going to do? She’s no sessions lined up. They only passed her the pupil list at 9 a.m. and suggested she’d need at least a couple of days to go through it. Work out who it was she needed to see. Which kids needed her help first. The school had gone a term and a half without a guidance counsellor – a few more days wasn’t going to make any difference. As far as she remembers, Banktoun High is a decent school, and the attached Primary is full of well-behaved kids. She’s already wondering if she’s going to have anything to do at all in this backwater town. Not compared to the Edinburgh estate she’s just come from. Challenging is the only way she could describe that place.

Banktoun will be a breeze.

She shuffles forward a few steps as the queue drops by one. She can hear the woman at the front, loud booming voice asking for First Class, please, the signed-for one, enunciating her words as if she was talking to a child, not the elderly Asian man who Polly recognises as Mr Kahn, the man who used to own the sweet shop on the corner near the school, before the Andrews took it on and started making their infamous home-made chocolate traybakes.

Memories ping at every turn, not all of them good.

She’s tried and failed to tune out the whispering women huddled at the narrow counter at the side of the shop, filling in forms before joining the queue. They’re taking longer than necessary, Polly assumes, using the time to skive off from the supermarket where they’re meant to be now, their crisp blue uniforms giving them away. Polly glances over at them. Various leaflets are scattered across the counter. Broken chains dangle off the edge, the pens they once held nicked long ago.

‘It has to be something bad if the flashers were on, doesn’t it? Those bairns are in trouble so often, they’ve practically got their own policeman.’

Laughter.

‘I heard it was something to do with the oldest one.’

‘Katie? Nah. She’s the only undamaged fruit in that bowl. What’d the police be wanting with her?’

‘I don’t know, Sheila. But mark my words, there’s something going on up at that hoose, and it dusnae sound good.’

Cashier Number Three, Please.

Polly blinks and walks forwards. She’s no idea who they’re talking about, but some family are clearly the focus of the town’s idle chatter today. She wonders about the police car, though. Wonders if that nice policeman is still working here. She’d seen him a few months ago, at her cousin’s funeral. She’d ended up having a terrible argument with Simon at the graveside, just to add to things.

But that didn’t mean he was still around, did it? Some people manage to escape this place. ‘Remind me why it is you’ve come back here?’ she mutters to herself.

‘What can I help you with, please?’

Polly pushes a pile of papers into the tray, and Mr Kahn opens the slot at the other side and pulls them out. He grins at her through the glass.

‘Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ he says.

Polly smiles. ‘I’ve been away for a bit, Mr Kahn,’ she says. ‘But then this new job came up and I wondered if maybe it was time for me to come back. I just need to get these documents witnessed. I wasn’t sure who to ask. I wondered . . .’

Mr Kahn winks. ‘No problem, love. I’ll vouch for you.’ He scans through the documents, flipping them over. ‘Ah, taking over your parents’ house, are you?’

Polly nods. ‘It’s been rented out for years, but, well – there didn’t seem much point in me moving in anywhere else. It’s been empty since the summer. Last tenant left it in a hurry. Needs a bit of work . . .’

She lets her sentence trail off, looks away from Mr Kahn’s sympathetic eyes. ‘If you need any help, you know where I am,’ he says. He signs the forms, then slips the pile into the envelope that Polly has already addressed. ‘Special Delivery?’

Polly feels her hand go to her stomach. She presses gently into the still soft flesh. Blinks away tears.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She touches her bank card against the contactless reader to pay. Mr Kahn slides the receipt through the drawer and she takes it and walks quickly from the counter before the tears can make an unwelcome appearance.

Not for the first time, she wishes she had someone waiting for her at home, someone to cook her dinner and ask her about her first day. But she burned that bridge when she told Simon she was leaving. She’d felt a bit sorry for him in the end; he clearly thought things could continue as they were forever. But Polly couldn’t stay in that rut any more. Especially not now.

She stands on the steps, fumbling in her pockets for her gloves. Puffs of air hang like clouds in front of her face. Out on the street, the sounds of sirens disappear into the distance. Ambulance, maybe? Not that unusual. But something about the sound makes her feel uneasy. The gossiping old biddies mentioned police too. A lot for this small town on a quiet Monday morning. A prickle of fear runs down her back, like ice sliding down a car windscreen. Something has happened. Something has definitely happened.

Something bad.

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SJI Holliday will be appearing at Bute Noir from 4-6th August as well as other festivals later in the year. The Dameselfly by SJI Holliday is out now published by Black & White Publishing priced £.7.99

In this noisy story about being sound asleep, a gentle giant wreaks havoc – completely unwittingly – on a town with his incessant snoring. Many try to wake him, but no-one succeeds. As his deafening snoring thunders on, can anyone intervene and claim the reward?

Extract from The Giant Who Snored
By Mike Nicholson
Illustrated by Amy Lewis
Published by Little Door Books

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The Giant Who Snored by Mike Nicholson, and illustrated by Amy Lewis, is published by Little Door Books in paperback on July 17th priced £6.99. Mike Nicholson will present The Giant Who Snored at Borders Book Festival on Sunday 18th June.

Mike Nicholson and author Alan Windram will also appear as part of the Edinburgh International Book Festival’s Baillie Gifford Schools Programme on 23rd August.

When a ghost ship is spotted on the horizon one spring evening, bookseller Eleanor decides to investigate the myths and legends of Combemouth, the seaside town where she runs The Reading Room. Digging deeper into the town’s history, she becomes intrigued by a Victorian crime report. Determined to find out what happened to a boy at the centre of the court case, can Eleanor unravel the strange goings-ons?

Extract from The Bookshop Detective
By Jan Ellis
Published by Waverley Books

Chapter One

It all began when Maureen saw the ghost ship.

“I’m telling you now, I saw it with my own eyes, as clear as day.”

“But I thought you saw it at night,” said Connie, pedantically.

“Twilight, actually. The sun was setting right behind it, which is why I saw its spidery outline so clearly.”

“What’s all this?” Eleanor, who had been gathering books off the shelves to make up a customer’s order, now returned to the front of the bookshop to find her mother Connie chatting with their neighbour, Maureen.

Eleanor had been talked into giving Connie a part-time job and now her mother was half-heartedly tidying up greetings cards in between gossiping with her friend from Ye Olde Tea Shoppe across the high street. “Maureen’s been making rum babas again and I think the fumes have gone to her brain.”

Maureen, who had popped over to Eleanor’s shop for a break from her customers, folded her arms under her substantial bosom and huffed. “You can mock if you like, Connie, but I know what I saw and what I heard.”

“And what was that?”

“As I was telling your mother,” she said, turning towards Eleanor, “I was up on the moor taking Peanut for a walk when I heard this strange groaning sound.”

“You hadn’t trodden on the dog, had you?” Connie was really a cat person and thought her friend’s Chihuahua was especially ridiculous.

“Ignore her, Maureen,” said Eleanor, pulling up a chair and sitting beside her. “I want to know all about it.”

“I was walking towards the headland when I heard a sound like timbers creaking or branches rubbing together, except there aren’t any large trees along there, as you know.” Eleanor nodded in agreement. “The wind had come up and was blowing in off the sea, which isn’t unusual, but it was carrying this odd noise with it. Peanut had had a good scamper so we were heading back to the car, but there was something about the sound that made me stop and turn around.” Maureen was pleased to see both women leaning in, apparently gripped by her story. “So I looked across to the horizon and there she was – as plain as the nose on your mother’s face.”

“There’s no need for personal attacks.” Connie leant back now, looking cross.

“Sorry dear,” said Maureen, tartly. “It was the first comparison that came into my head.”

“Okay ladies. I don’t want any cat fights in my bookshop, thank you,” said Eleanor. “Go on with your story, Maureen.”

“There she was in the distance – a big wooden ship, just like the ones pirates have. And Johnny Depp.”

Connie waggled a bookmark at her friend. “And how precisely could you see what kind of ship she was, at night and with your cataracts?”

“I had them done after Christmas and now I can see perfectly well. Doubt me if you will, Connie, but I know what I saw, and whether you choose to believe me or not is entirely up to you.”

“What did your little dog do?” asked Eleanor.

“In what way?”

“Did she howl or anything? Aren’t animals supposed to react to ghostly presences? I’m sure Bella would run off and hide if there was anything scary around. You’re not much cop as a guard dog, are you?” Eleanor’s Welsh spaniel, Bella, had wandered over and rested her head on her owner’s lap.

Maureen’s brow furrowed in concentration as she thought back to the event. “Now, it’s funny you should say that, but Peanut did squeak a bit.”

“Conclusive proof,” said Connie, laughing. “If Peanut squeaked, it must have been a ghost ship.”

Maureen pursed her lips. “I don’t expect you to understand the ocean’s mysteries, being a Londoner. You don’t have the sea in your blood like I do.”

Connie tried not to smile. “No, mine’s full of Thames water,” she said, patting her friend on the shoulder.

“Thanks for coffee.” Maureen picked up her bag. “I’d best go back across the road and see how Anton is getting on with the cottage pies.”

As she stood by the shop window watching their neighbour cross the street to the teashop, Connie turned to Eleanor. “All that ‘sea in the blood’ stuff is nonsense, of course. She’s from the Midlands, which is as far from the sea as you can be in this country.”

“So she’s not local, then?”

“No!” Connie laughed. “I think she kissed a sailor once in Weston-super-Mare and her late husband was a Devon man. But now she has Anton in her life . . .”

“Mother, really! You make it sound like they’re up to no good when in fact he’s young enough to be her grandson.”

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Jan Ellis, author of French Kisses and A London Affair, The Bookshop Detective, A Summer of Surprises and An Unexpected Affair appears at Tiverton Literary Festival in Devon from 22-25 June. She also has many other events around Wells and Burnham in Somerset throughout May and June.

Inverness-based author Barbara Henderson considers how her long-standing obsession with book festivals (she’s not missed an Edinburgh International Book Festival in a decade) led her to found the inaugural NessBookFest in 2016, which will return for a second year in October.

Every year, as soon as the new calendar is hung up in its spot beside the kitchen window, it happens: the January routine. I reach for the red marker pen and circle…

Birthdays? Holidays? No!

The dates of the Edinburgh International Book Festival, that’s what!

Book festivals are my thing, you see.

Even though I live in Inverness, I’ve not missed an Edinburgh International Book Festival in a decade—apart from the one where I had a vomiting bug and had to let the rest of my family depart without me, void train ticket in hand.

The Highlands come with their own philosophy where the arts are concerned—people don’t expect to be entertained. If nothing to their liking is on offer, they will make their own entertainment. Given the fact that the Inverness Book Festival was shelved some years ago, I finally cracked at the beginning of last year: ‘I’m so gutted Inverness has no book festival anymore’ I tweeted. ‘Anyone want to help me make it happen?’

It turns out there were many who felt the same. We pondered, discussed, met and formed a committee.

But alongside becoming the chairperson of a book festival committee, something else had changed in my life. Something drastic: After many years of nearlys and almosts, I had become a published writer. My Highland Clearances children’s novel Fir for Luck was published by Cranachan in September 2016.

Now I really, really wanted Inverness to have a book festival!

The first NessBookFest in November 2016 was a resounding success, considering we had put it together in about eight weeks flat. Most of the committee mucked in, performing and chairing events, as funding was by no means guaranteed. My very first (unpaid!) appearance at a book festival took place in a library children’s section with two school classes packed in, in the midst of a crazy day, running from venue to venue, introducing, thanking, greeting and tweeting in my role as chairperson of the same.

This year will be different. As volunteers, we will not feature committee members on the programme, and the committee have learned valuable lessons about what works and what doesn’t. But while my NessBookFest role will be very much that of an organiser, I have been asked to appear as an author at Nairn Book & Arts Festival as well as Islay Book Festival, both in September. Excitingly, Fir for Luck will also be available to buy at EIBF. This is a three-fold dream come true.

At first I thought that there would be little overlap — in one half of my life I was a volunteer organiser of a community event, on the other a performer. But there has been a surprising amount of cross-fertilisation. Here are three examples:

• I received my author’s questionnaire from Islay Book Festival. Hmmm, I thought. How handy, to have all that information in one folder, all images attached, all biographies pre-drafted in one place. Great idea! I contacted the chairperson to beg for permission to adapt the format, and days later a remarkably similar document winged its way into the inboxes of this year’s NessBookFest performers. How very professional that looked!
• I am very excited about Nairn, as the festival’s writing competition was my very first competition win, back in 2012. Recently, I was contacted about participating in their Taster Day, raising awareness of the main festival, weeks later. Wow, why didn’t I think of that? This year, NessBookFest, too, will have some warm-up events. Fantastic idea!
• And how has being a festival volunteer aided me as a performer? As chairperson, frantically dashing from event to event, I have seen so many varying styles of spoken word performance. I loved this, I wasn’t sure about that; but all of it certainly opened my eyes about what may be possible—and made me think about what approach best for my personality, with my strengths and weaknesses—and for my book.

I feel immensely lucky to be on both sides of the fence this year – the book festival world is comparatively small, but we all want each other to succeed. After all, all of us, as authors and organisers, strive to connect people with books, to help others discover the treasure we have found in stories, to marvel at the magic of black marks on white paper.

 

As a debut author, I can still barely believe that Fir for Luck is now part of that magic; that it has struck such a chord with readers and reviewers and that I should even be considered to take part.

Hey, everybody! I’m appearing at book festivals this year.

It doesn’t get better than that.

Book festivals are my thing, you see?

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Barbara Henderson‘s debut novel Fir For Luck is out now published by Cranachan Publishing priced £6.99. She has events at Nairn Book Festival and Islay Book Festival. NessBookFest returns for a second year in October 2017.

12 actors. 2 years. 190,000 miles. 197 countries. 1 play. Dominic Dromgoole, The Globe Theatre’s Artistic Director, on how taking Shakespeare’s iconic drama to the world (literally!) was an unprecedented theatrical adventure.

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Hamlet, Globe to Globe: Taking Shakespeare to Every Country in the World is out now published by Canongate Books priced at £16.99. Dominic Dromgoole will be appearing at Hay Festival on June 3rd and more festivals later in the summer.

In the north of Scotland, a brutal murder has taken place in a remote crofting community. All seems to point to teenager Roderick Macrae as the violent perpetrator. Inventively told through a mixture of memoir, trial transcripts, newspaper reports and more, this award-winning novel builds to one key question: is Roderick Macrae insane? The opening statements presented below launch you into the dark heart of the complex case.

Extract from His Bloody Project
By Graeme Macrae Burnet
Published by Saraband Books 

Statements gathered from various residents of Culduie and the surrounding area by Officer William MacLeod of Wester Ross police force, Dingwall, on the 12th and 13th of August 1869

Statement of Mrs Carmina Murchison [Carmina Smoke], resident of Culduie, 12th August 1869

I have known Roderick Macrae since he was an infant. I generally found him to be a pleasant child and later to be a courteous and obliging young man. I believe he was greatly affected by the death of his mother, who was a charming and gregarious woman. While I do not wish to speak ill of his father, John Macrae is a disagreeable person, who treated Roddy with a degree of severity I do not believe any child deserves.

On the morning of the dreadful incident, I spoke to Roddy as he passed our house. I cannot recall the precise content of our conversation, but I believe he told me that he was on his way to carry out some work on land belonging to Lachlan Mackenzie. He was carrying some tools, which I took to be for this purpose. In addition, we exchanged some remarks about the weather, it being a fine and sunny morning. Roderick appeared quite composed and betrayed no sign of fretfulness. Sometime later, I saw Roddy make his way back along the village. He was covered from head to foot in blood and I ran from the threshold of my house, thinking that some accident had befallen him. As I approached, he stopped and the tool he was carrying dropped from his hand. I asked what had happened and he replied without hesitation that he had killed Lachlan Broad. He appeared quite lucid and made no attempt to continue along the road. I called to my eldest daughter to fetch her father, who was working in the outbuilding behind our house. On seeing Roddy covered in blood, she screamed, and this brought other residents of the village to their doors and caused those at work on their crops to look up from their labour. There was very quickly a general commotion. I confess that in these moments my first instinct was to protect Roddy from the kinsmen of Lachlan Mackenzie. For this reason, when my husband arrived at the scene, I asked him to take Roddy inside our house without telling him what had occurred. Roddy was seated at our table and calmly repeated what he had done. My husband sent our daughter to fetch our neighbour, Duncan Gregor, to stand guard and then ran to Lachlan Mackenzie’s house, where he discovered the tragic scene.

Statement of Mr Kenneth Murchison [Kenny Smoke], stonemason, resident of Culduie, 12th August 1869

On the morning in question I was working in my outbuilding behind my house, when I heard a general commotion from the village. I emerged from my workshop to be greeted by my eldest daughter, who was greatly distressed and unable to properly inform me of what had occurred. I ran towards the congregation of people outside our house. Amid the confusion, my wife and I took Roderick Macrae into our house, believing that he had been injured in some accident. Once inside my wife informed me of what had occurred and when I asked Roderick if this was true he repeated quite calmly that it was. I then ran to the home of Lachlan Mackenzie and found a scene too dreadful to describe. I closed the door behind me and examined the bodies for signs of life, of which there were none. Fearing a general outbreak of violence, were any of Lachlan Broad’s kinsmen to lay eyes on this scene, I went outside and summoned Mr Gregor to stand guard over the
property. I ran back to my own house and took Roddy from there to my outbuilding, where I barricaded him in. He did not resist. Mr Gregor was unable to prevent Lachlan Broad’s kinsmen from  entering the premises and seeing the bodies there. By the time I had confined Roddy, they had formed themselves into a vengeful mob, which it took some time and persuasion to subdue.

As to the general character of Roderick Macrae, there is no doubt that he was a queer boy, but whether this was by nature or had been brought on by the tribulations which his family has suffered I am not qualified to say. The evidence of his deeds, however, does not speak of a sound mind.

Statement of the Reverend James Galbraith, minister at the Church of Scotland, Camusterrach, 13th August 1869

I fear the wicked deeds lately committed in this parish only represent a bubbling to the surface of the natural state of savagism of the inhabitants of this place, a savagism that the Church has of late been successful in suppressing. The history of these parts, it has been said, is stained with black and bloody crimes, and its people exhibit a certain wildness and indulgence. Such traits cannot be bred out in a matter of generations, and while the teachings of the Presbytery are a civilising influence, it is inevitable that now and again the old instincts come to the fore.

Nonetheless, one cannot fail to be shocked on hearing of acts such as those committed in Culduie. Of all the individuals in this parish, however, one is least surprised to hear that Roderick Macrae is the perpetrator. Although this individual has attended my church since child-hood, I always sensed that my sermons fell on his ears as seeds on stony ground. I must accept that his crimes represent, in some degree, a failure on my part, but sometimes one must sacrifice a lamb for the general good of the flock. There was always a wickedness, easily discernible, about that boy which I regret to say was beyond my reach.

The boy’s mother, Una Macrae, was a frivolous and insincere woman. She attended church regularly, but I fear she mistook the Lord’s House for a place of social gathering. I frequently heard her singing on her way to and from the kirk and, after service, she would gather within the grounds with other womenfolk and indulge in intemperate conversation and laughter. On more than one occasion I was obliged to reprimand her.

I am compelled, however, to add a word on behalf of Roderick Macrae’s father. John Macrae is among the most devoted to scripture in this parish. His knowledge of the Bible is extensive and he is sincere in his observance. In common with the majority in these parts, however, even while he might parrot the words of the Gospel, I fear his understanding of them is feeble. Following the death of Mr Macrae’s wife, I visited the household frequently to offer support and prayer. I observed at that time many signs about the place of adherence to superstition, such as have no place in the home of a believer. Nevertheless, while we are none of us blameless, I believe John Macrae to be a good and devout man, who did not deserve to be burdened with such noxious progeny.

Statement of Mr William Gillies, schoolmaster at Camusterrach, 13th August 1869

Roderick Macrae was among the most talented pupils I have taught since my arrival in this parish. He easily outstripped his fellows in
his ability to grasp concepts in science, mathematics and language, and this he achieved without show of effort or, indeed, of any great interest. As to his character, I can offer only the most limited remarks. Certainly, he was not of a sociable nature and did not mix readily with his fellows, who, in turn, regarded him with some suspicion. For his own part, Roderick behaved with disdain towards his classmates, this at times bordering on contempt. Were I to speculate, I would say this attitude was bred by his academic superiority. That said, I always found him to be a courteous and respectful pupil, not given to unruly behaviour. As a mark of my high regard for his academic gifts, when he was sixteen years old, I called on his father to suggest that Roderick should continue his studies and might, in time, amount to something more suited to his abilities than working the land. I regret to say that my proposal received short shrift from his father, who I found to be a reticent and slow-witted individual.

I have not seen Roderick since that time. I heard some disturbing rumours about his mistreatment of a sheep under his charge, but I cannot testify as to their veracity, other than to state that I found Roderick to be a gentle lad, not given to the cruel behaviour sometimes found in boys of that age. For this reason I find it difficult to credit that he might be capable of carrying out the crimes with which he has recently been charged.

Statement of Peter Mackenzie, first cousin of Lachlan Mackenzie [Lachlan Broad], resident of Culduie, 12th August 1869

Roderick Macrae is as wicked an individual as one could ever have the misfortune to meet. Even as a small boy there was a mean spirit about him, such as one would not credit in a child. He was for many years thought to be mute and capable only of some uncanny commune with his otherworldly sister, who seemed his partner in wickedness. He was generally regarded in the parish as an imbecile, but I myself reckoned him an altogether more malicious creature, and his recent exploits have borne out this view. From an early age he was given to the spiteful mis-treatment of animals and birds, and to arbitrary acts of destruction around the village. He had the Devil’s own cunning. On one occasion, when he was perhaps twelve years old, a fire was set in the outbuilding of my cousin Aeneas Mackenzie, destroying a number of valuable tools and a quantity of grain. The boy had been seen in the vicinity of the building, but he denied responsibility and the Black Macrae [his father, John Macrae] swore that his son had not been out of his sight at the time in question. He thus escaped punishment, but as with many other incidents, there was no doubt that he was to blame. His father is likewise a feebleminded individual, who conceals his idiocy behind a zealous adherence to scripture and a cringing deference to the minister.

I was not present in Culduie on the day of the murders and heard about them only on my return that evening.

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His Bloody Project is the winner of the Saltire Society Book of the Year 2016 and was shortlisted for the 2016 Man Booker Prize. His Bloody Project is out now published by Saraband priced £8.99.

Graeme Macrae Burnet will be appearing at various Scottish festivals from June onwards including Skye Book Festival on 31st August and 2nd September and Bloody Scotland in September.

We go behind the scenes of prolific author Cathy MacPhail’s writing process. She reflects on, and reveals, how she first finds then later develops authentic teen voices in her books, including the newly published thriller Between The Lies.

Teen favourite Cathy MacPhail has a unique ability to get to the heart of serious, topical issues through the stories of her feisty characters. Her latest book charts the sudden and unexplained disappearance of a local school girl. Between the Lies is a tense teen thriller that puts the lives of modern day teenagers under the microscope – desperate to be seen, bombarded with online harassment yet obsessed with living their lives on social media. But how does MacPhail create her signature authentic teen voice?

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When I get an idea for a story, and I get loads of ideas, I automatically picture a teenager in that story. And to make that story work, it has to be a good character, a memorable character.

Character creates story.

A story changes depending on the character in it.  Imagine if Cinderella was the ugly sister, bitter and jealous of her beautiful sisters, and she was transformed just for one night into the dream that was Cinderella. A totally different story because she was a totally different character.

But if character creates story, then it is dialogue that creates character. And as soon as I hear that character speaking to me the story comes alive.

Yes, I hear voices, all the time, and I love it.

The very first chapter of Underworld introduces a character called Fiona.  She steps into the story, bag on hip, chewing gum and almost immediately she snaps at a boy who has been bullying a girl who was overweight.

‘ Hey, pal, there are more craters on your face than on the moon and at least she can lose weight.’

And after that, in every scene Fiona appeared in she practically wrote it herself. I could hear her cheeky asides, her sassy replies. I loved writing about her.

Where did she come from? One of the best bits about being a children’s author is that when you’re invited to schools, you meet your readers. It’s the best research you can do. I’ve met many Fionas in my travels. Sometimes I wish I was one of them; I can never come up with a smart retort when I need it.

At one school a boy asked for my autograph, then he gave me his. ‘ Hold on to that,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able to sell that for millions on ebay one day, because I am going to be famous!’ That wasn’t just a character I had, but a plot for a story.

On another school visit I was signing books with a long line waiting to get their books signed. A girl came in, swaggering past everyo­ne. ‘ Hey! Chantelle,’ they shouted. ‘ There’s a queue.’

And Chantelle called back. ‘The queue starts behind me.’

And everyone laughed and let her go ahead of them.  And from that incident, I wrote a book called Copycat.

In Devil You Know I needed a tough, funny character to be Logan’s friend. The kind of boy Logan wishes he could be. Baz is a mix of boys I’ve encountered at schools. Boys who always have a group of friends around them, but boys who are a bit dangerous too.

At schools you’re seeing your readers in their own environment, you can watch how they sit, how they wear their uniforms, how they fix their hair and most importantly, how they speak to each other and to their teachers.

Dialogue creates character, and a single sentence can bring a character to life.

I hope I keep on hearing those voices.

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Cathy MacPhail is the award-winning author of over thirty children’s novels including spooky thrillers for younger readers and challenging teen novels. Her books include Devil You Know. She was born and brought up in Greenock, Scotland, where she still lives.

Cathy will be appearing at the following festivals:

West End Festival (Glasgow), 5^th June 2017

Bradford Literature Festival (Bradford), 8^th-9^th July 2017

More festivals will be announced soon.

Between the Lies is available now from Floris Books priced £6.99.

You might also enjoy this exclusive article by Cathy, ‘Where Are The Working Class Heroes?’, from the January 2017 Issue of Books from Scotland.

Joan Eardley: A Sense of Place celebrates the work of one of Scotland’s greatest and most loved artists. This new and remarkably detailed account of her life and art concentrates on her favourite locations of Townhead in Glasgow and the fishing village of Catterline, south of Aberdeen, with its leaden skies and wild seas. This book was launched in December 2016 and has already been reprinted.

On 18th May, Joan Eardley would have been celebrating her 96th birthday – at the time of her tragically early death at the age of 42 in 1963, she could not possibly have known how popular her work would be over 50 years later, as shown by the crowds visiting the current exhibition at the National Galleries of Scotland in Edinburgh (which finishes on 21st May). Her unassuming attitude left many of those who knew her well in Catterline unaware of her standing as an artist. She loved her work, always ‘in her element in the elements’.

On 20th May at 1.30 at the Edinburgh International Book Festival On the Road programme, there will be a fascinating treat: curator and author Patrick Elliot and Anne Galastro will appear at Cumbernauld Library to talk about the book, the enthralling story of Eardley’s life – which they have painstakingly pieced together as never before – her love of Glasgow and Catterline, and her art. Tickets are on sale now priced £5 (£3.50 concession).

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Are you on Twitter? Books from Scotland in partnership with the National Galleries of Scotland have a competition running from 4th-18th May where you can win a copy of Joan Eardley: A Sense of Place and a pair of tickets giving you access to the exhibition. The winner will be chosen at random and contacted by direct message on Twitter. Further details can be found here. Good luck!

If you’ve enjoyed this video you might like these articles about Joan Eardley and her work on Books from Scotland: Joan Eardley’s Sense of Place and Joan Eardley’s Life and Work.

In addition to the brilliant titles featured in the Young Voices Issue, we’ve selected some other books for teenagers from publishers based in Scotland that we’re looking forward to reading in forthcoming months.

Between The Lies by Cathy MacPhail
Published by Floris Books on April 20th

Judith Tremayne is missing. She hasn’t been online, nobody has heard from her. She simply appears to have vanished, until Abbie Knox, a school nobody, receives a message: ““I want to come home””. Suddenly everyone knows Abbie’s name. The mean girls and the misfits alike are obsessed with Jude’s disappearance. Abbie finds herself at the centre of a whirlwind of rumours, secrets and lies. Why would popular, fun Jude be messaging loner, loser Abbie? Why would Jude disappear? Can Abbie bring her home? Award-winning author Cathy MacPhail authentically captures the voice and lives of teens — desperate to be seen, bombarded with online harassment yet obsessed with living their lives on social media. This tense thriller is packed with MacPhail’s trademark sharp dialogue and a series of sensational twists.

Dare To Fall by Estelle Maskame
Published by Black & White on July 27th

There’s not much that MacKenzie Rivers is afraid of. In the small town of Windsor, Colorado, she is known for her easygoing, strong personality, some would even say she isn’t afraid of anything. But MacKenzie knows that’s not true. She’s afraid of losing those closest to her. Recovering from a family tragedy, Kenzie is fully aware of just how big an impact death can have on those it leaves behind. Seeing its effects on other people is something she just can’t quite handle. From now on, Kenzie is her own priority.

There are not many things that Jaden Hunter can make sense of. He doesn’t understand why it was his parents who lost their lives last year. He doesn’t understand why his friends don’t crack jokes around him any more. He doesn’t understand why his teachers still insist on letting him skip assignments. He doesn’t understand why MacKenzie, the girl he was falling for last year, has suddenly distanced herself from him.

Too afraid to get wrapped up in Jaden’s world as he deals with the tragic death of his parents, Kenzie has stayed away from him as best she can, until one night when they unexpectedly come face-to-face for the first time in months. As old feelings resurface and new memories are made, both MacKenzie and Jaden show each other how to appreciate the little things in life, the moments that are taken for granted. But will MacKenzie dare to fall for the one person she’s so afraid of growing close to?

Walking Mountain by Joan Lennon
Published by Birlinn on June 1st

Every year, for as long as anyone can remember, the Mountain has moved a little northwards. But now it’s moving in the opposite direction. And it’s picking up speed.

Pema is sent by his grandparents to consult the Sisters of the Snow, the Keepers of the Mountain, but his enquiries are met with stony denial. Singay, a rebellious apprentice Sister knows different and secretly shows Pema cracks in the rock. Then she invites him inside the Mountain where they meet Rose, the Meteor Driver who is literally trying to hold everything together. This unlikely trio embark on an epic adventure which leads them far beyond the safe, closeted world they know. And as they learn the terrible truth about the Walking Mountain their journey becomes a race against time to save the entire planet from disaster.

Set in a future world in which greed, corruption, hypocrisy and blind ignorance threaten the very fabric of the planet, Joan Lennon’s novel has all the qualities of a classic quest peopled with a fabulous cast of extraordinary characters and animals, it is witty, lyrical, dark, powerful, and constantly surprising. And at its heart is the friendship between three disparate and unforgettable characters, a bond that has the reader cheering them on until the novel’s extraordinary conclusion.

The Harder They Fall by Bali Rai
Published by Barrington Stoke on May 15th

Cal’s family are proud to live in an ‘analogue’ world – no wifi in their house , just an ancient black-and-white TV. At school, Cal has no choice but to live in the 21st century, coping with a range of bullies and chancers on a daily basis. When Cal’s mum decides to ‘rebalance’ the family with a stint as volunteers at a local foodbank, Cal inadvertently discovers new kid Jacob’s secret, and Jacob flips. The Harder They Fall is particularly suitable for struggling, reluctant and dyslexic readers.