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On the Brinks

Page 30

by Sam Millar


  DC comics for showing me how to escape, and Marvel comics on how to escape better. Neal Adams, the undisputed master of tormented and psychotic superheroes; Stan Lee, a teller of tales taller that his tremendous talent; Steve Ditko, the hypnotically co-creator of Spiderman; John Romita, for having the courage to make Spidey his own; Jim Steranko’s erotic and hallucinogenic Zap Art surrealism on Nick Fury, et al; and never forgetting the legendary Jack “King” Kirby, the major innovator and most influential creator in the comic-book medium for his cosmic purview and bigger-than-life rendering of the Fantastic Four, Silver Surfer, and the rest of the out-of-this-world gang. A special nod goes to Superman’s nemesis, the mischievous and totally irrelevant Mr. Mxyzptlk (try saying that backwards with a few pints of Guinness in you!).

  The Daleks, for scaring the shit out of me each dreary and rain-soaked Saturday afternoon; “Star Trek” for boldly going; Gary Conway and his heroic crew on board the sub-orbital transport spaceship, Spindrift, in “Land of The Giants”. The anarchic “Donkey” movie house on the Duncairn Gardens (Strap your balls on and fight for your life, boys! We’re not getting out of here alive!) for allowing Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing to subliminally fill me with nightmares of Frankenstein and Dracula tapping at my bedroom window on stormy nights.

  Belfast’s own William Millar (a.k.a. Stephen Boyd) for that most famous of chariot races with Charlton Heston, and for being so unforgivably handsome and generous. Pans People, Phil Lynott & Thin Lizzy, Slade, Suzi Quatro, Van “The Man” Morrison, Dusty Springfield, Rod Stewart, Rory Gallagher, Patsy Cline, the great Otis Redding and everything Motown and Philly.

  The Trinity of Sporting Kings: George Best, Alex “Hurricane” Higgins and Muhammad Ali.

  Ben Sherman shirts, Levi jeans and rainy Sundays in the Tin Hut Snooker Hall, where I learned to play bad snooker, but brilliant poker – and win!

  Belfast Central Library for mountains of knowledge and the musky, comforting smell of old books. Never forgetting Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin and Enid Blyton’s dysfunctional and totally wacky Noddy in Toyland; Ireland’s greatest storyteller, Walter Macken, for his classic and brilliant trilogy and everything in between; Thomas Wolfe’s powerful works, especially You Can’t Go Home Again; Cormac McCarthy for making modern-day westerns cool and dark again in No Country for Old Men (God, I feel so old now in this country I dwell in); The Bible (Holy haberdashery, Batman!), for enduring persecution and manipulation by scoundrels for centuries and still here to tell a terrific story of fiction or fact. You have to give the old book credit for stamina and longevity (a bit like the Blanketmen), whether you believe its message or not; Robert Tressell’s (Robert Noonan) classic and glorious masterpiece The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, for helping me see the pigs at the trough, and Orwell’s prophetically brilliant Animal Farm for helping me to discover the true identity of the pigs (and I’m not talking about Snowball and Napoleon!).

  For the old Smithfield Market – the soul of Belfast – bombed to the ground by book-burning barbarians filled with sectarian hatred and ignorance. Lancaster Street, the greatest street in Ireland – if not the entire world.

  Kojak (who loves ya, baby?), and I still haven’t figured out how he does that with the match! Columbo, for one more thing; “Rockford Files”, for inspiring me to write the Karl Kane novels (thanks Jim!); “Hill Street Blues” for chasing the blues away. Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe, for teaching me that crime always pays – but only in book form. The tough guys: William Holden, James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Lee Marvin, Burt Lancaster, Kirk Douglas, Robert Ryan, Woody Strode, Jack Palance, Clint Eastwood, and my dad, the toughest of them all.

  To Dominic West for his silent tribute to the Hunger Strikers in HBO’s totally brilliant “The Wire”. Film director Steve McQueen for Hunger, a rare gem of a film able to touch upon the never-ending nightmare of the Blanket Protest and Hunger Strikes. No other film has come close. It took a young, black Englishman to make the greatest movie ever made about Irish political prisoners and man’s inhumanity to man.

  The Laughter Squad: Tommy Cooper, Dave Alan, Ronnie Barker, Lucille Ball, Phil “Sergeant Ernie Bilko” Silvers and Spike “Prince Charles is a grovelling little bastard” Milligan.

  To my mates, all dead in their teens when life looked so full of promise.

  For the timeless Harry Enright, who showed us what teachers ought to be, and Mister Gleason, my English teacher who tried his best to show me what I could be if I’d simply stop being the class joker. If only I’d listened instead of clowning around.

  Volunteer Big Finbar McKenna for making us laugh during the Blanket Protest when we though all laughter was dead, and darkness was all we had to share. The courageous and unconquerable James Connolly, the greatest Scotsman ever to have been Irish, shamefully and criminally neglected by Irish so-called historians with their brain-dead, censorship mentality.

  Henry Joy McCracken, the Ulsterman, standing head and shoulders over the rest of us Ulstermen.

  To the Presbyterian blood pumping in all directions and at all times towards my Catholic and sometimes agnostic heart.

  The Blanketmen. The Bold. The Brave. The Best.

  Lastly, to the Ten Lads: never forgotten. Betrayed by duplicitous and morally bankrupt politicians in tailor-made Armani rags and scraggy beards, lead by invertebrates and eunuchs in the guise of the duplicitous and cowardly Committee of Six. If only we had paid more attention to Animal Farm, or Virgil’s dire warning in The Aeneid: “Do not trust the horse, Trojans! Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks, even though they bring gifts.” The truth will out, one day.

  That’s a promise.

  Sam Millar, Belfast, Ireland

  OTHER TITLES BY SAM MILLAR

  Novels:

  Dark Souls

  The Redemption Factory: finalist, Grand Prix De Littérature Policière

  Darkness of Bones: finalist, Le Prix du Meilleur Polar

  Bloodstorm: A Karl Kane Novel

  The Dark Place: A Karl Kane Novel

  Dead of Winter: A Karl Kane Novel

  Stage:

  Brothers In Arms

  Radio:

  Rain, performed by the BBC

  Anthologies:

  Requiems for the Departed, a Karl Kane story, Winner of Spinetingler magazine award for Best Anthology, USA

  Breaking the Skin: 21st Century Irish Writing – Volume 1: Short Stories

  Emerald Eye: The Best Irish Imaginative Fiction

  Belfast Noir, a Karl Kane story, USA

  Awards:

  Aisling Award for Art and Culture

  Martin Healy Short Story Award

  Brian Moore Award for Short Stories

  Cork Literary Review Writer’s Competition

  Golden Balais d’or, France, for Best Crime Book

  Le Monde’s Top Twenty Thrillers 2013 for On The Brinks

  Website: www.millarcrime.com

  Email: karlkanepi@hotmail.com

  Copyright

  This eBook edition first published 2014 by Brandon

  An imprint of The O’Brien Press Ltd

  12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar,

  Dublin 6, Ireland.

  Originally published 2003 by Wynkin deWorde Ltd., Galway.

  This edition first published 2014 by Brandon

  Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777

  E-mail: books@obrien.ie.

  Website: www.obrien.ie

  eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–656–1

  Text © copyright Sam Millar 2012

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, editing, design

  © The O’Brien Press

  Cover image: Getty Images

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ation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution. For permission to copy any part of this publication contact The O’Brien Press Ltd at books@obrien.ie.

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  Other books by Sam Millar from Brandon

  Karl Kane is a private investigator with a dark past, his mother murdered when he was a child. Years later, Karl has a chance to avenge his mother’s murder, but allows the opportunity to slip through his hands. When two young girls are sexually molested and then brutally murdered, Karl holds himself responsible.

  Young homeless women and drug addicts are being abducted before being brutally mutilated and murdered, and a city is held in the grip of unspeakable terror. By abducting Katie, the young daughter of private investigator Karl Kane, the killer has just made his first mistake, which could well turn out to be his last.

  Private Investigator Karl Kane returns to the streets of Belfast investigating the discovery of a severed hand. Karl believes it’s the work of an elusive serial killer, but the police are claiming a simple vendetta between local criminals. Karl embarks on a nightmarish journey as he attempts to solve the mystery and soon he’s suspecting Mark Wilson, his detested ex brother-in-law. But as the winter days become darker, Karl discovers that Wilson is more than a match for him when it comes to dirty dealing and even dirtier fighting, as he battles to keep from becoming the next victim.

  A tense tale of murder, betrayal, sexual abuse and revenge, and the corruption at the heart of the respectable establishment.

  In a wood at night, a young woman witnesses the murder of a whistleblower by a corrupt businessman, owner of an abattoir. Paul Goodman, a would-be snooker champion who works at the abattoir, has never known his father and believes that he deserted him when young. But he is befriended by the one man who holds the key to the mystery of his disappearance, the man responsible for his death.

  Other books from the O’Brien Press

  ‘I was born in a united Ireland, I want to die in a united Ireland.’

  Born in Belfast in 1920, Joe Cahill has been an IRA man motivated by this ambition all his life. Here Cahill gives his full and frank story.

  The full story of how weapons from the KGB, Gadaffi’s Libya and US gun shops got to Ireland: and how the smuggling rings were finally broken.

  Also available in paperback.

  ‘a very fine piece of work’ The Irish Times

  An explosive exposé of how British military intelligence really works, from the inside. The stories of two undercover agents -- Brian Nelson, who worked for the Force Research Unit (FRU), aiding loyalist terrorists and murderers in their bloody work; and the man known as Stakeknife, deputy head of the IRA’s infamous ‘Nutting Squad’, the internal security force which tortured and killed suspected informers.

 

 

 


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