Vicky Newham


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THE INTRUSIONS by Stav Sherez – a review

When you pick up a Stav Sherez novel, you know you’re in for something different. He weaves intricate layers into his stories, and cleverly transports the reader into mental landscapes beyond their imagining and into their worst nightmares. I tried to read The Intrusions slowly. It was my afternoon treat, and I wanted to savour the prose and mull the ideas over. I managed that for a third of the book, and then bolted through the rest, so desperate was I to find out what was going on at the (brilliantly named) Milgram hostel. I mean, with a name like that, you know something dodgy’s bound to happen, right?

The story begins with a girl in a dark alley, stumbling, and under the influence of a psycho-active substance or several. Then another girl arrives at Carrigan and Miller’s police station, saying her friend’s been abducted by a man who’s threatened to come back for her. From there, the reader is very quickly in the Hades-like world of the internet, faced with the stark reality of how much technology has changed all our lives – and continues to every minute of the day.

‘… what technology gives with one hand it takes away with the other,’ observes one character.

It’s fair to say that neither Carrigan nor Miller are on good emotional form in this book. Carrigan, in particular, I felt sorry for. He’s been through the wringer on the personal front and in this book we see his mother in hospital. His team are undergoing an audit which is allegedly about investigation expenditure but is really about rapping Carrigan’s knuckles over misdemeanours on a previous case. Life and time are slipping through Carrigan’s hands, and I was rooting for some reprieve to come his way, for a few feathers of hope for him to latch onto. Various aspects of Carrigan’s journey in this book had me stabbing at my kindle to gobble up the pages. I found the whole plot utterly addictive and completely terrifying. Sherez deftly uses technology to bring themes alive, and as part of the plot itself. The police, too, have had to change the way they investigate to keep up with developments. We experience events through Carrigan and Miller’s eyes, and as they reel through shock and horror, so does the reader.

CCTV prowled public spaces, Carrigan reflects, but the job pulled you into darker provinces where neither God nor cameras could penetrate.

In my opinion, it’s not possible to pigeon hole a Sherez book into a particular sub-genre. The Intrusions has identifiable elements of West London urban noir, serial killer thriller, techno-thriller, social realism and more. And then there’s Bali. Which I’ve now scrubbed off my bucket list!

‘You’ll never be alone again,’ one of the perpetrators tells the police. ‘If you use a phone or a computer or a TV, I’ll be there watching you.

As dénouements go, I found this one both electrifying and poignant.

‘Even if you catch me,’ says one of the suspects, ‘there’s hundreds of thousands just like me all over the word, looking for prey, and it’s only going to get a whole lot worse.’

Highly recommended and definitely one of my books of the year so far.

 

Vicky Newham ©2017

 


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Behind Her Eyes by Sarah Pinborough – a review

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Friendly single mother, Louise, meets David in a bar. Flirtation becomes a kiss, but it ends there. The next day, at work, Louise meets her new boss and gets a glimpse of his beautiful wife, Adele. Guess what? To Louise’s embarrassment, he’s the man from the bar. Then when Louise bumps into Adele on the street, they go for coffee together and start up a confiding friendship. It seems that it’s fresh starts all round. But while David says the kiss was a mistake, he cannot keep his eyes off Louise, and a love triangle develops.

The story is told from the point of view of Louise and Adele, and the reader quickly wonders which of the two is telling the truth, and whether Adele and David’s marriage is as perfect as it seems. With unreliable narrators, and a combustive domestic situation, it’s the perfect set-up for a twisty psychological thriller. But it’s also where Sarah Pinborough shakes things up.

What I adored about this book is the way the author deals with the subtle nuances of the inter-relationships, and brings them to life. For me – and it stands out in her YA novels too – Sarah Pinborough excels at writing relationships, and she brings an emotional intelligence to the many forms of communication which take place between people. She shows – in an often humorous, often poignant way – how easy it is to get drawn into a mutual obsession which escalates. And, with modern technology at everyone’s disposal, obsessions can be stoked and satisfied from the comfort of the sofa. Louise and Adele have very different lives, yet neither is happy.  The reader is privy to their reflections for all their honesty, neurosis and desperation. But what their reflections also show is how different people often are from the image they portray; how cruel and manipulative some people can be; how self-deception can eat away at their hopes and dreams.

Behind Her Eyes drips with menace from the first page, and that atmosphere continues throughout the novel. Most of the narrative is written in the present tense. It’s immediate and claustrophobic. It’s intimate and confessional. And it’s beautifully written.

What I admire about Sarah Pinborough is that with each novel she pushes her writing that bit further and is continually challenging genre boundaries. The #WTFthatending will certainly get people reading the book. And so it should. But in amongst the disturbing themes and dysfunctional characters, I also hope that people enjoy the subtle aspects of the book. After all, we know we can’t always trust others, but can we trust ourselves?

 

Vicky Newham ©2017


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SIRENS by Joseph Knox – a review

I’ve read this book twice now and both times it’s made me feel very strange for a while afterwards, the way a dream can possess and linger. I love books which do this. In the main, I don’t read for escapism or entertainment; I like books which make me think about life in a different way, books which make me feel. And I guarantee you will never feel the same again once you’ve read Sirens.

What drew me to the novel was the setting. I am fascinated by contemporary urban life and psycho-geography, and Manchester isn’t a city I’ve been to or know anything about. Once I was into the first page, though, it was the novel’s characters which intrigued me. It might be easy to think their lifestyles aren’t common but, having lived in London for years, and worked at night while I was studying, I know how realistic the author’s depiction is. I wonder whether cities necessarily create nocturnal characters who creep around in the shadows; perhaps it’s the complexity of modern life which so often results in the alienation and sense of being adrift which Sirens evokes? Large cities then attract and enable people to slide into a faceless cloak of anonymity, and lurk. ‘In spite of social media, CCTV and the state,’ DC Aidan Waits observes at the start of the book, ‘we still live in a world where you can disappear if you want to. Or even if you don’t.’ And Waits’ adopted world is one of seedy nightclubs and trafficked sex workers, gangs and drugs, canals and underground car parks. It’s a world of power, corruption and exploitation, where derelict building sites cosy up to penthouse apartment blocks and Hilton hotels.

With three strikes against him, Waits is sent undercover to check up on the seventeen-year-old daughter of local MP, David Rossiter. The girl, Isabelle, like her mother, has a history of depression and has run away and hooked up with drug dealer, Zain Carver. Waits’ boss wants to know which police officers are on Carver’s payroll. Waits observes and infiltrates Carver’s entourage. Rather than eat and sleep, he takes speed. The secrets which you know are there, gradually reveal themselves. It’s not a cheery world. It’s a powerful story of human alienation and suffering, and of the things people do to numb their pain and escape what they cannot face.

To me, the sirens of the title aren’t just the girls who collect Carver’s drug money. They’re our own self-destructiveness; the dangerous allure of the drugs and the lifestyle, of the lights which seem brighter at night. They’re a reminder of the rocks of Greek mythology, which can smash us all to death regardless of any vigilance we may possess.

The story in Sirens is devastating, but it isn’t all dark. I cared about Waits. His life trajectory – from the glimpses we get – shows how easy it is to take a wrong turn, then another, and find yourself completely lost. But he’s not a bastard or a psychopath. He cares about others, especially Isabelle and Catherine, perhaps more than he does himself, and genuinely wants to help them.

I see the author spent around ten years on the book. It’s difficult to believe that it’s a debut novel, mainly because the writing is so vivid and affecting. At times it’s staccato and sparse, at others it’s brutal and graphic and detailed. The whole narrative is steeped in ‘noir’ and many of the characteristics of US crime novels. Perfect.

Intense, visceral and raw, Sirens is a stand-out novel for me.

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Vicky Newham ©2016


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Stuff Kevin – we need to talk about education!

The more I hear about education and social mobility, the more it worries me. To be specific, what bothers me is the claim by some ministers that the purpose of education should be social mobility.

I don’t have a vested interest here: I don’t have a child who’s failed entry tests or been turned down by the school of their choice. My interest in this subject derives from having gone into teaching because I’m passionate about learning, and left the profession because I realised the system isn’t about learning. I believe we are making some serious errors if we don’t radically re-think what we see as the purpose of education, and bring our system back in line with goals which will help our kids most and prepare them for a happy, healthy life.

My first teaching school was a comprehensive in Stepney in London’s East End. Tower Hamlets is a fabulous, vibrant and diverse borough but a quick google will tell you about the disadvantage faced by many groups living there. At the school where I taught for four years, the percentage of pupils on free school meals was very high. Forget A-levels. At the time, while Tony Blair was championing the belief that everyone should go to university, I witnessed the frustrations and disappointments of kids whose language and literacy levels were significant barriers for them in preparing for GCSEs. It was as though they were expected to wade through treacle to get to a destination which someone else was telling them they should want. For many, what would have helped and empowered them was greater learning support (including provision in the sixth form), more EAL classes, and a system which valued skills and learning rather than tests, targets, exams, qualifications and predictions.

Of course education can help kids to learn and access vocational and higher education. These, in turn, can help them to reach beyond their socio-economic origins, if they want to. But the idea that the purpose of education should be social mobility is, in my opinion, as misguided as it is unhelpful. And the possible reintroduction of grammar schools is not going to be the solution which many ministers and pundits claim it will be. Schools which use an entrance exam to select pupils, inevitably advantage kids who’ve been to ‘better’ schools, or whose parents have been able to afford tutoring. Sometimes innate ability and application are enough to gain a place at a selective school. Often, though, they are not.

Amidst all of this, numerous things concern me, and their implications flutter about in my mind like birds trapped in an aviary at the zoo. In my ears I hear the echoes of many of my students’ voices, telling me they don’t want to go to university, or that they’re so confused by other people’s ideas for what their aspirations should be that they don’t know what they want. For kids who want to work in the family business or raise children, often what they need is to be able to read and write well, and to learn some life skills. They don’t need or want to be told that they should aspire to something else or ‘better’.

That said, there is nothing wrong with the desire to ‘better’ oneself, to grow, to develop. Aren’t many of us doing it one way or another? Who wouldn’t want to escape deprivation, disadvantage and discrimination? But there is something about the idea of making social mobility the purpose of education which implies that everyone should be unhappy with who they are and what their backgrounds are. Rather than being told we should want to be socially mobile, perhaps government could more usefully consider whether everyone wants that, and what other factors hinder that mobility, so it’s actually possible? The education system is only one of many factors which contributes. Others are: welfare policies; housing shortage and cost; skill demand and supply; health inequalities; discrimination and prejudice; and many factors connected to our status within the EU. Plus variables I’ve forgotten, I’m sure.

And if, by education, these ministers mean qualifications, what sort of social mobility are they going to result in? When qualifications enable young people to get into jobs, or onto higher education courses, which they then cannot do or hate, how is that helpful? What I mean is, they’ve often passed the exam but not learned the right skills or knowledge.

When I was teaching, vocational courses were becoming popular again and many students were relieved to escape traditional A-levels. However, some of these courses were still assessed via the traditional means of exams and coursework, and inevitably disadvantaged kids who struggled with language and literacy. Time and time again what I saw was that students of all ages needed greater learning and SEN support, and far more extensive access to EAL classes. Some faced insurmountable economic barriers. Some faced discrimination and prejudice. Others struggled to assess pervading social and cultural norms. It’s obvious though that what affects, and benefits, kids in one region of the country may not be relevant in another. Stepney is a world away from Wimbledon and Croydon (both places I’ve taught also). The South East is different from the North East, Wales and Scotland.

To my mind, what our education system requires is a curriculum which is useful to kids from the moment they start primary school, and one which will cater for the needs, preferences and abilities of all children. The system should be free, and should offer equal access to all. In addition, rather than having someone else’s vision of what they should want stuffed at them, I see a greater need for much earlier help with option assessment and decision-making. Like most teachers, I’ve taught all manner of pointless subjects in PSHE lessons, and I’ve had my suggestions for topics the kids really need to know about fall on deaf ears. I’ve also seen scores of students put on courses they aren’t suited to, or don’t want to do.

The way I see it, education needs to prepare youngsters for the complexity, challenges and wonderfulness of life. For dreaming their own dreams, and making informed choices about what they want. This should be its primary purpose.

Radical, isn’t it?

 

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Vicky Newham © 2016


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Paris Mon Amour by Isabel Costello – a review

 

I’ve been looking forward to reading Paris Mon Amour for months because I knew it was set in Paris, and because Isabel Costello and I both did language degrees and share a love of language. I had a feeling her debut novel would be something special and it really is. When a novel opens with, ‘The first time I caused terrible harm to those I love was an accident. The second is the reason I’m here’, it has my attention. The mysteries which these statements set up permeate the narrative as Alexandra recounts what has happened in the distant and recent past. As the plot progresses, the sense of impending disaster builds and you know it isn’t going to end well. However, while there are deaths in this book, and violence and crimes of a kind, Paris Mon Amour isn’t crime fiction.

When Alexandra learns her husband, Philippe, is having an affair she is plunged into a bewildering mental landscape. It fascinated me that it’s her mother who tells her, as this makes the revelation all the more confusing for Alexandra. I couldn’t help wondering what the mother’s motivation was for passing this information on, particularly in view of the way she does it. What did she expect her daughter to do with this bombshell?

Told in the first person, from Alexandra’s viewpoint, the reader is privy to her reactions and actions. Alexandra is frank about being drawn to Jean-Luc, who is much younger than her, and is the son of friends. She shares her reflections in a way which shows enormous courage and insight, and I found these aspects extremely interesting. It’s a sophisticated book and I am so pleased Canelo gave it a serious (and gorgeous) cover. Costello handles the sexual scenes extremely well. She portrays the sex graphically and honestly, but it never feels pornographic or voyeuristic. It shows us what Alexandra is thinking and feeling, and is integral to the plot.

It’s clear from the outset that Alexandra’s relationship with her mother is fraught with a number of complex emotions, and I found this element fascinating. Both women have been affected by the tragic death of Alexandra’s brother, Christopher. From their reactions and interactions, the reader gets glimpses of how this tragedy was handled and what dynamics it set in motion for mother and daughter. From the narrative, it’s clear that these dynamics have framed their entire relationship, Alexandra’s upbringing and psychological development. As someone who’s fascinated by mother-daughter relationships, it prompted immense sympathy and empathy in me towards Alexandra. I wasn’t sure whether the affair with Jean-Luc was supposed to come across as an all-consuming passion. I felt that the knowledge of her husband’s affair unleashed repressed grief around her brother’s death, and also anger about the way the tragedy was dealt with by her mum. Jean-Luc, we learn, also has issues from the past, so their mutual attraction is understandable, if ill-fated.

In a publishing market where literary and genre fiction are seen very differently, it’s interesting to consider where Paris Mon Amour fits. Women’s fiction, chick lit and domestic noir have specific tropes and rules. Thematically, and in many ways, it reminded me of many of the things I loved about Hausfrau. I wouldn’t describe Paris Mon Amour as chick lit, and while it has an element of the ‘women behaving badly’ which we’ve seen in recent domestic noir, the tone and feel of the novel are different. Whatever genre it fits doesn’t really matter. The point is it’s an emotional read, and a highly compelling story.

With thanks to the author for a review copy.

You may also be interested in the character interview I carried out recently with Alexandra Folgate, protagonist of Paris Mon Amour. It is here.

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Vicky Newham © 2016.

 


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Q&A with Steve Mosby for the publication of I Know Who Did It

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Steve, welcome to the blog!

Congratulations on the new novel, I Know Who Did It, which is out today. I was lucky enough to read an early copy at the end of August. Having already reviewed the book (linked at the bottom of this post), I thought it would be interesting to ask you a few questions about your writing and some of its psychological themes.

So, over to you.

 

1. On your website you refer to I Know Who Did It as the book that’s been the hardest to write. Can you tell us a little about this and how you feel now?

It’s certainly taken the longest, from start to finish. I started it in 2012, immediately after finishing Dark Room, and actually wrote a full draft that year. At that point, the story was very different. It had the same central idea, and several of the secondary characters that are in the finished version, but it was centred on Groves; none of the characters from The 50/50 Killer appeared in it, and the ending was very different. And it was a bit of a mess, to be honest. Back then, I couldn’t quite figure out how to make the idea work.

So I talked it over with Orion, and we agreed to shelve it for the time being. I went away, despondent at having basically wasted a year’s work, and started something new, which eventually became The Nightmare Place. But I couldn’t let the original idea go, and I decided to go back to it. And with that distance, I figured out that by splitting up a couple of the storylines and giving it all a different focus, I could make it work.

It’s actually not so different from how I’ve written any of them, really. My first drafts are always a bit exploratory. But I Know Who Did It is the first where I’ve had to abandon it and write an entirely new book in the middle of the process. I really, really hope it’s the last. I usually get a bit closer with the first proper draft than I did there.

 

2. There’s no snoozing with your novels! At any point, almost anything can happen and this creates an exhilarating read. Readers often don’t like ‘too predictable’ or ‘too unexpected’. I think you get the balance just right but have no idea how you do it. How and where do you draw the line?

Thank you! I appreciate that. I don’t really know, except to say that any unexpected developments emerge organically – hopefully – from the story as it develops. But I do think quite a lot about how to undermine or subvert things. For example, I’m not a big fan of reading or writing huge action scenes, so I tend to cut them off and take the book in a different direction. The ending of I Know Who Did It could have been a lot longer and more action-packed, but I always figure: why bother? That’s not the point, so why not just get to the point instead? So I often find I’m building up to something that in a more normal crime novel would go one way, and I decide to take it another instead. What’s the most interesting and unexpected thing that could happen here? It’s a good question to ask yourself. You can go anywhere you want, so long as it feels natural and doesn’t come totally out of the blue.

 

3. The new book sees a return of Mark Nelson and John Mercer, both of whom appeared in The 50/50 Killer. Why did you want to write about these characters again? Do you plan to do this with any of your other characters?

I’ve never deliberately set out to avoid writing a series; it’s just that standalones tend to suit me and the way I work. Because it always starts with an idea or a basic theme for me – not a story but a subject. So with Still Bleeding, it was “oh, I’d quite like to write about this online culture of sharing images of death, and what that says about us”. Or with Black Flowers, it was “I’m interested in how real life influences fiction, and then fiction can influence real life”. It’s always vague ideas like that, and from there, I develop a story and the characters I need to make it work. And since I like everything to fit together thematically as tightly as possible, I want characters that reflect the story and the subject matter – people I can fully explore and empty out through the book – and it’s usually easier to build them from the ground up. A series character comes with his or her own baggage, and that might clash with the wallpaper, if you see what I mean.

With I Know Who Did It, when I came back to look at it, I just realised that the characters from The 50/50 Killer worked with the themes and the ideas, and that it might be fun to return to them. The first book is very contained, and I’d never been able to see where to take them after that. But although I Know Who Did It is very different in some ways, it’s about similar concepts and has the same tone, and when I put the characters into it they didn’t seem out of place.

Whether I’ll do it with any of the other characters – I don’t know. Certainly not for the sake of it. But if the right idea comes up, I’d happily go for it. I mean, I know writing a series brings its own set of challenges, but for me, with this one, it really did help to have the characters lined up already.

 

4. Many of your books show ‘horror’ influences. Is this deliberate on your part and do you think that crime and horror are natural bed fellows?

I always wanted to write horror. When I was growing up, I fell in love with Stephen King’s books, and it was a short step from there to Dean R Koontz, Richard Laymon, Clive Barker, Ramsey Campbell, and so on. Those were the kinds of books I wanted to write. I think it was only as I got older and started to read more ‘slipstreamy’ stuff – people like Michael Marshall Smith, Graham Joyce, Jonathan Carroll etc – that I started to see what was possible and to blend different genres into my own writing. And I guess The Third Person could easily have been published as horror or SF, but the crime element stuck, and here I am. Which I like, because I find I can do whatever I want within the crime genre. It’s very flexible.

In general, I think crime and horror go together very well indeed. There’s a natural crossover there – to the point where books with a strong element of supernatural horror like John Connolly’s are published as crime, whereas you’ll find something like Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door on the horror shelf. Certainly, a lot of novels published as crime – the serial killer stuff, especially – could be packaged as horror instead. At heart, they’re basically ‘beat the monster’ stories: the serial killer could just as easily be a vampire, or whatever, and the point of the story would be the same. And I guess with some noir there’s this sense of existential horror: this bleak idea that we’re alone in an uncaring universe, making mistakes, and everything doesn’t necessarily turn out the way you might want it to. Crime fiction generally goes from order to chaos to order again at the end, whereas horror is allowed to leave you in chaos, and I think some crime fiction can do that too, albeit in less obvious ways.

 

5. In many of your books you play with what the reader ‘knows’ and thinks he/she knows. To an extent this is a trope of crime fiction but you do it in a very psychological way which makes for a particularly ‘Steve Mosby’ read. Can you tell us about this? Why and how you do it, and if anything is off limits?

I think I just like twists! And I tend to rate twists by how much of what you’ve read or watched you’re forced to re-evaluate in light of it. And since I tend to focus on the psychological side of things rather than, say, intricate plot machinations or big confrontations, the twists I try for generally happen on that side of things. I wouldn’t say my books have unreliable narrators as such, but they’re first person narratives, and I think people often do hide things from themselves to an extent. With first person, you’re listening to someone telling a story, and the story they tell is inevitably going to be biased and incomplete. And of course, you’re doing that too as the writer. But a twist has to feel right. That’s the boring answer to what’s off-limits: absolutely nothing is, so long as it works. It has to make sense and I think it also has to feel organic and even necessary on some intuitive level. There has to be a point to it – a moment of “oh god, of course the story had to go there; I get what it’s all about now”. That’s one of the differences between a top-drawer twist and, say, a character waking up, and there’s another character in the shower, and it was all a dream.

 

6. ‘Justice’ is a theme which occurs in your novels. What aspects of this interest you and how do you think morality complicates it?

Well, I think justice and morality are intertwined concepts. When someone does something immoral, justice is about them being punished; when someone behaves well, they should be rewarded. It’s not quite as simple as that, but it’s close enough. So the concept of justice is kind of predicated on the concept of morality. And that’s fine, because for the most part we share a sense of morality: it varies through time and around the world, but most of us growing up in the same stew of religious and social influences are going to agree on some basic norms of good and bad behaviour that serve to maintain social cohesion. Many of those will be codified in law; others just frowned upon. And there will be disagreements. But I don’t think you can have a sense of justice outside of a moral perspective.

Now, in crime fiction, the immoral act is frequently a murder: the social cohesion is broken by a killing, then restored by the culprit being identified and taken into custody, and there you go: that’s justice. But put like that, that’s obviously really trivial and mundane. And so of course, most crime fiction goes well beyond that. All is never well again, for one thing – how important or comforting really is ‘justice’ to the people left behind? And it’s never sufficient to say “the murderer acted immorally” and leave it at that; it’s the equivalent of just saying “he did it because he was evil”, which is an intellectually lazy cop out. Good crime fiction addresses these different aspects, and I think the complicating factor isn’t morality, but empathy. Empathy for the victims and the survivors, of course. But also, perhaps perversely, empathy for the perpetrator, insofar as trying to understand not just the motive but the reasons behind the motive.

One of the characters in I Know Who Did It, Groves, is a policeman whose infant son has been abducted and murdered. He’s a man of faith and a fierce believer in the law. And at one point, he’s investigating a suspected pedophile, a man he should hate, and he forces himself to try to understand, to think about the man’s upbringing and the social conditions that formed him. Groves says that the story of everybody’s life is a book that was started before they were born. And it’s important to me as a writer to try always to consider that aspect – to try to have empathy. Everyone walks their own hard road, and all that.

 

7. In both The 50/50 Killer and I Know Who Did It people do are faced with decisions which require them to save themselves or a loved one. Can you tell us why this intrigues you?

I don’t know; it’s always been an interest. I suppose one of the things I’m keen on exploring is how and why people care about each other, and what can intervene to change that. And the kind of decision you mention is just an ultra-extreme version of that. In The 50/50 Killer, the killer challenges one of a couple to decide which of them will be tortured and killed over the course of a night – and they can change their mind at any point. Which just seemed to me to be an apt metaphor for a relationship in flux! You can claim you’ll love someone forever, and that you couldn’t live without them, and so on, all that stuff – but what happens when real life gets in the way? How much hurt do you put up with? How much are you prepared to hurt someone to get what you want? When do you give up on love – or do you? The scenario is really just a dramatisation of those concerns, and it’s those underlying questions that intrigue me.

 

8. Crime fiction is evolving all the time. Are there any developments which interest, please or bother you?

Not really. Crime fiction is a broad church, and that’s wonderful, and the key thing with evolution is natural selection, so we all know that trends will come and go, and what’s successful will stick around. As a writer, it’s the same as ever: all you can do is work on what interests you and hope for the best.

Negative stuff? I suppose you could point to things like increasingly explicit violence, but I don’t know if that’s actually a problem, and I think it’s a cultural thing across the board anyway, rather than particular to crime fiction. Violence against women – but again, that emerges from the wider culture; I suppose it’s good that we have that conversation every so often, even if it never gets resolved. I sometimes wish crime fiction would be more open to cross-genre stuff. It is in some ways, but there are books like (for example) Richard Morgan’s Altered Carbon, Adam Roberts’s Jack Glass and China Mieville’s The City And The City, which were all published as SF but I think deserved to have gained more traction and recognition in the crime world. So it goes, though.

 

9. In what ways do you notice changes in your writing since The Third Person in 2003? Either in terms of what you write about or how you do it?

I hope it’s got considerably better! I’m proud of The Third Person and The Cutting Crew in their own separate ways, and for different reasons, but they both feel a world away from what I’m doing now, and I always cringe slightly when someone who’s enjoyed one of the later books picks one of those up next.

There’s this conventional wisdom that a writer spends their life writing their first book, and then has to write their second really quickly to a deadline. Difficult second album syndrome, and there’s truth in that. Val McDermid told me once that she was often far more interested in a writer’s third book, because by then they’re starting to figure themselves out and find their feet. That was 100% true for me. In many ways, The 50/50 Killer was a complete break away from the first two, and that was the point I began to feel like “right – this is my subject matter, this is my style”. It hasn’t made it any easier, of course. Each book gets harder to write.

 

10. Finally, what can we expect for the book after I Know Who Did It?

Another standalone. But it’s very early days in terms of writing it, so I don’t want to say too much about the storyline at this point – not least because it will probably change!

But in the meantime, thanks a lot for having me here, and for asking such interesting questions. Cheers!

 

And now for the book. My review of I Know Who Did It is here.

 


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Vicky Newham © 2015


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Memory

 

The hour turns and the wave comes fast,

Leans into the light,

Dark as slate with a restless sheen,

Unfurls on the shore

Its reach, a splayed hand,

This one further than the last.

Creamy finger tips skitter in the froth of excitement

And erase the braille of the previous moment,

Sucked back into the belly of the sea,

Marks on the beach,

A stranger’s kiss on the stomach of regret.

 

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Vicky Newham © 2015