Written for 14-25 year olds - the hinterland
that literary thinkers are calling New Adult,
Kid Atomic is a much
underrated book, even by Green Wizardwatchers. Traditionally written in a third
person perspective, with very little violence, no sex anywhere, (bar a fumbled,
easily despatched attempted rape), very little bad language and set in a quiet
suburb of Nottingham (Sherwood, just off Haydn Road), very few people have taken
the plunge so far and, to my knowledge, only a few of the target age group have
sampled the book. When I first set up GW, I wanted to write at least ONE book
from the six which attracted an audience. If a reader didn't like one much, they
could drop onto another and they might like that. It's not worked out like that:
most readers who take the dive from the 99p cliff tend to buy the lot or they
don't bother at all.
And for those who buy the lot, Kid Atomic is the one
they talk about least.
The problem may be the beginning. The first two
chapters possibly need rewriting. It's a very old fashioned book and it's a real
slow burner, with a lot of character introductions and the establishment of the
premise. Reading, two years on, I realised that you could get away with that in
1972. but in 2012, it's not something sage Indielit gurus recommend on their
Novelwriting 101 blog articles.
Nowadays, it seems to be you have to
start with the premise, introduce characters over the first fifty pages so as
not to overcrowd the reader's imagination, and, of course, add some bloodshed,
violent death, dirty sex and enough curses to make your grandma wince while you
are at it. Hope you enjoy it.
Anyway, here's one of my favourite
chapters. Kevin and Ricky, sent to London by the machiavellian Lance to bring
back the crates for the upcoming demonstration, have found themselves in South
London, at their destination. There, they meet Verna, the pungent, alluring,
strangely attractive Euro-communist who is the link to the
crates.
____________________
Here they were. Finally.
The Chadwick Estate.
Peckham in the
afternoon.
‘Is this it, Ricky’? Kevin
asked.
‘According to the satnav it
is. In fact, I think our contact is up there.’ He pointed at a huge tower block
and pulled out a folded and printed e-mail. ‘Wilmslow Tower. Flat 247. If that’s
Wilmslow Tower, then job’s a good un. We’re nearly there,
mate.’
They parked outside a
children’s playground.
The entire area was empty.
No children frolicked on the monkey climbers or the tiny seesaw horses. No women
pushed buggies to the shops on Peckham High Street. No large, forbidding gangs
of youths – the thing Ricky expected most – hanging around on BMX bikes in
hoods. The area was eerily silent.
Ricky stepped out of the
van, put on his hat and gloves. It was chilly, the beginnings of an evening
frost in the air. That explained things. Maybe this was one of those areas where
the locals come out at night, like vampires.
‘Kevin zipped up his coat
and pulled up his hood. ‘This is a bit scary,
Ricky.’
‘It’s no worse than that
time we got lost and cycled into Bestwick.’
‘Thanks for reminding me. I
really needed that.’
‘What’s up? We got out,
didn’t we!’
‘Only just. We were only
kids. I still have nightmares.’
‘Mate, there’s no one
about, what’s up with you!’
‘They could be anywhere. I
want to go home.’
Ricky jabbed Kevin in the
shoulder. ‘If anyone comes near us, leave it to me. I’ll deal with it. If it
gets nasty, then, do you see that…’ he pointed airily toward the area they had
just travelled through. ‘That’s Peckham High Street. Run like the clappers and
hide in a shop or something.’
‘Ricky…’
‘I’m only kidding. I won’t
leave you and anyway, we’re going to be fine. C’mon, let’s get
moving.
The two young men walked
through the children’s playground and into an alley bookended by blue tubular
barriers.
Kevin had his fingers
crossed. He saw shadows everywhere, moving shadows.
As they passed row after
row of sixties Maisonettes, every doorway he saw contained a silhouetted bandit
in a hood waiting to cut him to pieces. He heard footsteps behind him and
continually looked round. The frigid air, descending gloom, and the eerie
unnatural silence, occasionally punctuated by the barking of a frustrated dog,
saw his paranoia reach fever pitch. He felt something loosen a little in his
belly, but the sight of Ricky strolling about in front of him stopped it from
releasing.
Ricky. His friend wandered
about as if he owned the place, glancing at the crumpled e-mailed address as if
he was Captain Morgan at the head of a band of buccaneers about to sack the
Spanish port of Portobello, or better, as if he lived right next door and had
traversed the alleys, ginnels and jittys of Peckham all his young life.
There was something about
Ricky that gave him confidence.
Something
indestructible about him.
But even so, Kevin thought.
We’re in gangster country. Hoodies are scary enough in Nottingham, but here? The
home of Hoodies.
They reached the entrance
to the giant tower block that seemed to touch the sky. Kevin looked up and
instantly felt sick. He sometimes suffered a form of reverse Vertigo, a
condition where he is badly affected by mass, height and size, once fainting
while standing underneath the Eiffel Tower looking
upward.
‘Wil slow Towers.
‘Someone’s wabbed the M.
Not far now, matey.’ Ricky said. ‘Let’s take the
lift.’
They could see the lift up
ahead, at the back of the graffiti-covered concourse. Mostly tags, some art. It
looked like an open-air modern art gallery run by hyperactive ten year olds. The
stench of urine was overpowering and there were several piles of multi-coloured
dog excrement next to the staircase entrance. Some of it fresh. There was a
defaced guide next to the lift that told Ricky that 247 was one below the top
floor and he sighed. As he pressed the Call button, he hoped fervently that the
stuff wasn’t heavy: It was going to be a devil to shift from here.
They exited the lift on the
second top floor. Kevin realised that there was still no sign of anyone and,
curiously, there was little sign of life in the flats, as if everyone had gone
out for the day. No screaming rows. No naughty kids. No loud TVs. No loud
music…all the politically motivated stereotypes of working class life that
middle class BBC documentaries ejaculate nightly into living rooms around the
country.
It was still silent – only
the cold wind roared past the balconies, its ambience amplified by height and
powered by the fading skies. He followed Ricky up the concourse. There wasn’t
even a washing line to be seen, strapped between TV aerial and balcony
barrier – though maybe it was too high here.
‘This is it…’ Ricky stood
in front of a featureless blue door. Frosted, reinforced glass next to it,
modesty unburdened by nets or curtains. Still, you couldn’t see through. A
buzzer was mounted on the doorframe, a white button the size of a polo on a
black base. ‘Here we go…’ Ricky pressed the button twice. In the distance, a
buzzer sounded twice. ‘Let’s hope she’s in.’
They waited. And waited.
And waited.
Ricky pressed the buzzer
again. Still no reply.
‘We’ll have to call Lance.’
Kevin said. ‘We could be here all day.’
‘Let’s wait a bit. She
might have gone out for a pint of milk and a
paper.’
‘Lance said she’ll be in
all day.’
‘That’s a figure of speech,
Kev. She’s entitled to go out for a pint of milk and
that.’
They waited a little
longer, not talking. Kevin kicked distractedly at the lintel below the purple
barrier. Then he heard something. The lift…
‘The lift’s
coming.’
‘Might be
her.’
‘Or…’
‘Kevin…’ Ricky almost
wagged his finger at his wavering, spooked friend. ‘Everything’s going to be
okay. You’ve got this far.’
It seemed gloomier now.
Two silhouette figures
exited the lift. It was difficult to see from this distance. They looked young
and, to Kevin, gangsterish.
Blue hooded coats and
jeans. They started walking towards them and Kevin tensed.
‘Ricky…’ he tugged on his
friend’s jacket, nervously.
‘They probably live on
here.’
‘Oh no…they’re staring at
us…’
‘No they’re
not…’
‘Look, they
are.’
Even Ricky was getting
nervous. They were about twenty metres away and just about to start trotting.
The wind behind them seem to howl loudly and the cold didn’t stop his neck
getting warm. ‘I’ll deal with it, get behind me…’
One of the hoodies reached
into his pocket as he walked. The other, faster now, was speaking on a mobile
phone. Ricky pulled Kevin back behind him quite roughly and clenched his fists.
If they were going to get a kicking, he would take at least one of them with him
and protect Kevin as much as possible. As they approached, he could see they
were the same age as the two of them, but if they were tooled up, neither stood
a chance…
‘Here we go, Kevin. Roll
over and protect your head and balls…’
‘I told you we shouldn’t
have done this…I told you… I told you…
The hoodies, ten metres
away, were close enough for Ricky to see the whites of their eyes, but that’s
all. Scarves covered up their mouths, close circuit TV camera-proof. He could
see what one of them reached into his pocket for, a flash of silver in the
fading gloom. Oh no, no, no, here we go, here we
go..
The door opened, finally. A
figure even more shadowy than the hoodies appeared, partially obscured by the
light behind him. ‘Get IN. Quick. What are you waiting
for…’
The two boys needed no
further prompting. They jumped like triple jumpers into the flat and the door
shut. On the walkway, the shuffling of feet, the breathless sighs of predators
foiled, a weird, whispered cockney patois. Ricky’s heart raced and Kevin looked
as if he was going to be sick.
She put her finger to his
mouth and listened at the door. She whispered. ‘There are cameras out there.
They won’t barge in here. I think they’re going anyway.’ She whispered in an
Eastern European accent. Neither of them were sophisticated enough to know
precisely which country. ‘When you leave, I’ll escort you. They’ll leave me
alone. There are some real characters round here. Characters! Hah! Come…follow
me.’
The flat hadn’t been
painted for years.
Grey finger marks and dents
punctuated the magnolia surface of the corridor. Up ahead, lit by a single,
un-shaded bulb, was the living room. Leaning against each wall a component of a
beige three piece suite. It had seen better days.
‘Sit.’ She pointed to the
two armchairs, while she lay down on the sofa. The TV was on, an old-fashioned
box resting on a coffee table, rather than a wall mounted plasma screen. A horse
race, ten or so brightly coloured jockeys sailing over huge steeplechase fences.
‘I’ve placed a wager in this race. On the grey horse. That one there, look. See!
You British are a silly people, but I thank the stars you gave the world racing
horses…’ she said, perhaps wistfully. ‘Let me finish and we shall converse.’
Ricky could see the woman
was older then them. Older than Lance. She wore tight, ripped, faded black jeans
and a black Greenpeace South Atlantic Mission 2007 tee shirt. Anti-Japanese
whaling. A cause he believed in - well, a cause the world believed in except the
Japs and the Icelanders. Short, her feet not reaching the far arm of the sofa.
Wiry and taut, like an over-tuned guitar string, a military, short back and
sides haircut dyed black, parchment grey cheekbones - a sallow complexion that
hadn’t seen sun for some years.
Something smelled – Ricky
speculated it might have been the Mizami training shoes underneath a bookshelf
behind the sofa, or maybe her pink socks that looked inky and nobbly, as if they
hadn’t seen the wet bit of a washing machine for a while.
Then, he realised in a fit
of inspiration that the odour came from her.
The spectre of past
cannabis fumes loitered along with the tangy smell of her uncompromised feminine
body odour. No air freshener or doilies or anything artificial about. It was
definitely her - the pungent emanation of natural woman seemed almost
overpowering – and, he was surprised to discover – not unattractive.
Her horse hit a fence and
started to fall away from the main body of the horses and she gasped. ‘Gah!
Another five pounds wasted on these things!” She switched off the TV and sat up.
The muscles connecting her neck to her shoulders seemed cabled and inflated. Her
blue eyes shone. ‘If you want tea, make it yourself. In
there.’
‘We’ll be alright, won’t we
Kevin.’
‘Definitely.’
‘I’m no-one’s bloody
servant. How old are you two boys?’
‘Nineteen and
twenty.’
‘I thought Lance would send
men to do a man’s job, not boys.’
The lads shrugged and said
nothing.
‘‘Never mind, you’re here
now. I have things for you to take home. Where is your
transport?’
‘Over by the children’s
playground. Not that I’m complaining or anything, but weren’t we supposed to do
the password and response thing?’
‘Hah! Lance playing at
Revolutionaries. Who else would be calling unannounced on a winter Saturday
afternoon in Peckham? I’ve been here a decade in this country and never been
bothered by the Police at all. Now in Gdansk, where my father fought with
Solidarnozj, I would never arrange to meet at my flat! I would
meet you in a deep forest and even then, you would have to come recommended by
family, not acquaintances I’ve met over the internet‘. She laughed. Her
accent seemed to Ricky harsh and guttural, almost a growl, but her face was, on
second glances, full of humour and gentle sarcasm. ‘I am Verna, by the
way.’
The friends made their
introductions.
‘I was just kidding about
the tea. I have some Earl Grey that is good for your intestines. I’ll make a
pot, seeing as you’re such young boys whose mothers do all the hard
work.’
‘Less of the young, Verna.’
Ricky grinned, stood up with the intention of helping her, for the purposes of
standing next to her. ‘We’re nearly twenty.’
‘You’re boys to me. Sit.”
The kitchen was behind a
wall, with a huge hatch. They could see her as she busied and they could hear
her as she talked, animatedly. As she made the tea, chatting away seemingly
about nothing at all, Ricky noticed that Verna kept looking at Kevin, who, as
was his wont, hadn’t noticed a thing.
He didn’t understand why.
She must have looked at
Kevin seven or eight times.
She seemed to be perusing
him.
Assessing him.
There must have been a
reason for it.
She wasn’t exactly hiding
it either. It was just that Kevin was still shaking inside from his near-mugging
experience.
As she stirred the liquid
in the mugs, she looked at him one final time. Then she came back into the
living room.
