“Was that the deal you made? You get the case, the press, and the promotion. Gaines gets the business? And what’s next? You’re knee-deep in it now. You’ll never get out.”
What a couple we made. She’d framed Bobby with one murder while I’d allowed him to get away with another. I’d handed Gav Mann over to Veronica Gaines to save my own skin and covered up Mary’s murder along the way. Laura had sold out to the Gaines family, giving them a monopoly over the drugs trade. We were both in over our heads. There are lies, damned lies, and marriages.
I closed my eyes.
“Congratulations on the promotion,” I said. “I want a divorce.”
She mumbled something before she left.
I couldn’t tell if it was “I love you” or “good-bye.”
“Let’s go and say a prayer for a boy
who couldn’t run as fast as I could.”
—Father Connolly
Pull up a chair.
Comfortable?
First thanks go out to the woman who made me into the man I am and who taught me never to sit down and shut up; thanks, Mum. And of course, I owe just as much to the woman who keeps me the man I am, my wife, Lisa-Marie.
I wouldn’t be a writer if my two grandfathers hadn’t made me into a storyteller, so for hours spent listening to them, talking to them, and trying to impress them, I owe Bill and Trevor. And for that matter, my grandmothers, who did everything else for us while we did all that. I owe my dad more than he’ll ever know, for being the man he is and for setting an example for me to follow, and I owe my father for whatever that connection is that means we understand each other sometimes in ways others don’t.
And my brother. I don’t need a reason to thank him other than he’s my brother.
Writing is a messed up and confusing road to walk by yourself. So I’m glad I’ve never had to. Allan Guthrie was the best Mr. Miyagi a young(ish) writer could have had. For taking a chance on me, for believing in this book, and for putting up with my insane e-mails, I owe way too many thanks to Stacia Decker.
For wise words, filthy jokes, and good suggestions, thanks go out to Ray Banks and Professor Steve Weddle. And for the best writer support network there is, thanks to all DSD’ers past, present, and honorary; Russel, Dave, McFet, Joelle, Scott, Mike, Sandra, Brian, Bryon, JHJ, Chuck, Gerald, Dan, and the many readers who’ve made that site work. Thanks to Paul Montgomery and Dave Accampo, who aren’t DSD’ers but feel like they should be.
Still there?
Good, some important ones left.
Huge thanks go to Franz Nicolay and Maria Sonevytsky, for being open to me borrowing their words. Thanks to Joe Murray and the man known as “Rozza” for putting up with fact-checking and my many strange questions.
And last but not least, the people who’ve actually made this thing into a book that’s in your hands. Massive thanks to Andy B. for bringing me into the fold, to Jacque and Rory for helping me through the steps, and to both Kate C. and Renee J. for getting the book to stand on its own legs.
Photo by Lisa-Marie Ferla, 2012
A Black Country native, Jay Stringer was raised on pulp fiction, comic books, morgue humor, music, and films. He found inspiration for Old Gold in his UK homeland and the postindustrial region where he grew up. Currently living in Glasgow, he has been published in The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime, volumes 8 and 9, and considers his works to be pieces of “social pulp.” Alongside writing, Stringer has been a zookeeper, a bookseller, a video editor, and a call center lackey. Old Gold is his first novel.
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