PRAISE FOR MARTINE McDONAGH
I HAVE WAITED, AND YOU HAVE COME
‘Chillingly believable… Sinister, scary and utterly compelling, it is hard to believe that this strong, confident writing comes from a debut novelist. Read it if you dare.’—Red Magazine
‘The most disturbing utopias are those which feel closest to hand, and McDonagh indicates how swiftly society reverts to tooth and claw primitivism… Fans of post-apocalyptic parables will be well pleased.’—The Guardian
‘This book certainly got under my skin – if you like your books dark and more than a little disturbing, this one is for you.’
—Mick Jackson,
Man Booker shortlisted author of The Widows Tale
‘It paints an all too convincing picture… very atmospheric and certainly leaves an indelible imprint on the psyche.’
—BBC Radio 4, Open Book
‘An exquisitely crafted debut novel set in a post-apocalyptic landscape… I’m rationing myself to five pages per day in order to make it last.’—Guardian Unlimited
‘A decidedly original tale… Psychologically sophisticated, it demands our attention. Ignore it, O Philistines, at your peril.’
—www.bookgroup.info
‘This is a troubling, beautifully composed novel, rich in its brevity and complex in the psychological portrait it paints.’ —Booksquawk
‘A story of sexual obsession and broken trust, with the sodden (and wonderfully rendered) landscape a constant, literally atmospheric presence.’—Caustic Cover Critic: Best Books of the Year
‘I’m still thinking about this book, days after I finished reading it… a thought-provoking novel that is deceptively chilling.’
—The Eloquent Page
‘Told with passion and real skill… a disturbing but rewarding read that makes a virtue of brevity and a narrow focus.—The Bookbag
‘This novel manages to combine the nightmare of post environmental apocalypse with a psychological thriller… McDonagh’s novel is a fine example of the spec fiction genre, the changed world she has created seems eerily real.’ —Gaskella
‘Evocative and intriguing, this novel deserves an audience.’
—The Argus
‘The novel is both poignant and terrifying. The world created here is so vivid and real, it would be hard not to be moved by it.’
—Post-Apocalyptic Book Club
‘Martine McDonagh has worked in the rock industry for a long time and her writing still works to this tempo, to these dynamics – physical, sensual and nerve-racking.’
—Jean-Daniel Beauvallet, Les Inrockuptibles
‘The writing touches subconscious strata; the mystery unfolds hypnotically; the reader is drawn into a parallel universe all too frighteningly real.’
—Lenny Kaye, author of Waylon and You Call It Madness
‘Cataclysmically brilliant.’
—Elizabeth Haynes, author of Into the Darkest Corner
AFTER PHOENIX
‘Martine McDonagh writes simply, sparingly, intelligently and unsentimentally about both big and small things.’
—Stephen May, Costa Prize shortlisted author of Life! Death! Prizes!
‘A great read.’ —Araminta Hall, author of Dot
‘A raw, emotive portrayal of a family pushed to its limits by grief.’
—Lizzie Enfeld, author of Living with It
‘Given that the book’s subject is grief, and that grief is a dulling, leaden, grey and tedious feeling, it’s amazing how vital, entertaining and even funny After Phoenix is, without in any way shortchanging the reality of the experience.’—Caustic Cover Critic, Australia
‘In this moving portrait of not only what comes after loss but what comes after that, McDonagh demonstrates more finesse on the subject than anyone in recent memory.’
—Alex Green, author of Emergency Anthems
‘Heart-wrenching and life-affirming in equal measure, the author has managed to give real insight whilst still being entertaining and making you want to turn the pages – your heart will ache but it will also laugh.’ —Lizlovesbooks
‘Despite beginning with a tragedy, this book is never entirely without hope and is a powerful portrait of grief and how time heals. Powerful stuff.’—Annabel’s House of Books
‘It’s not as tough a read as it sounds. The silliness and amiable chaos of family life is a strong part of the narrative, even as the remaining trio battle their way through grief. But it’s as good an evocation of the abysmal sting of sudden death as I can remember reading.’
—Booksquawk
‘An intelligent, well observed account of how the same event can impact different people. Incredibly moving yet often still very funny, it deals with the most difficult of subjects but is never bleak. The family members have a sense of warmth and love about them, even as their lives fall apart. I loved every minute of it.’—A Sense Sublime
‘A heart-warming tale of family unity and the conquering of grief.’—Northern Soul
Dear Reader,
The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound. Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.
This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.
Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.
If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type beginners in the promo code box when you check out.
Thank you for your support,
Dan, Justin and John
Founders, Unbound
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Narcissism for Beginners is Martine McDonagh’s third novel. Martine worked for thirty years as an artist manager in the music industry and is currently programme leader on the MA in Creative Writing & Publishing at West Dean College in Sussex.
NARCISSISM FOR BEGINNERS
MARTINE McDONAGH
This edition first published in 2017
Unbound
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www.unbound.com
All rights reserved
© Martine McDonagh, 2017
The right of Martine McDonagh to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied,
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein, the publisher would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgments in any further editions.
‘Like Janis’, Words & Music by Sixto Diaz Rodriguez © Copyright 1970 Interior Music Corporation, USA. Universal/MCA Music Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
Text Design by PDQ
Art direction by Mark Ecob
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78352-344-3 (trade hbk)
ISBN 978-1-78352-345-0 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-78352-346-7 (limited edition)
Printed in Great Britain by CPI
For Ben
And you measure for wealth by the things you can hold
And you measure for love by the sweet things you’re told
And you live in the past or a dream that you’re in
And your selfishness is your cardinal sin
And you want to be held with highest regard
It delights you so much, if he’s trying so hard
And you try to conceal your ordinary way
With a smile or a shrug
Or some stolen cliché
But don’t you understand, and don’t you look about
I’m trying to take nothing from you
So why should you act so put out
For me
’Cause emotionally you’re the same basic trip
And you know that I know of the times that you’ve slipped
So don’t try to impress me, you’re just pins and paint
And don’t try to charm me with things that you ain’t
And don’t try to enchant me with your manner of dress
’Cause a monkey in silk is a monkey no less
So measure for measure reflect on my said
And when I won’t see ya
Then measure it dead.
‘Like Janis’, Rodriguez
The Making of Me
Turning twenty-one, not much about me changed, physically speaking. I didn’t grow any taller. I didn’t grow any fatter. Pinch me and you’ll find no additional flesh on these bones. Even if we were the sole survivors of a plane wreck, you wouldn’t eat me for dinner.
But nothing stayed the same either. My name grew longer, officially at least, and my bank balance got bigger – MUCH bigger. I have a bona fide Brit passport now and I’m not so sure where home is any more.
Who am I? Good question. I started out as Sonny Anderson. Now my official name is Sonny Anderson Agelaste-Bim, but I go by Sonny Anderson. Your son. Twenty-one-year-old recovering addict and multi-millionaire. Pleased to (not) meet you.
Almost exactly one month ago, I hit the big Two-One. Back then – because man, it already feels like a lifetime ago – home was Redondo Beach, aka RB, Southern California, SoCal, where, as you know already, I lived since age eleven under the guardianship of one Thomas Hardiker. The word guardian puts me in mind of those sentry guys at the gates of Buckingham Palace, staring into the middle distance from under the weight of a big bearskin hat. Keeping the real world out while thinking about pizza or football, or measuring time by the movement of the sun. Whatever. Maybe they really are doing those things. From an outsider’s point of view, they look like one man trying to keep a whole world of crap away just by standing still, and that’s a massive job, right? Well, that’s the job Thomas took on when he took charge of me. You still need to thank him for that.
At school, nobody knew Thomas wasn’t my dad, mainly because no one ever cared to ask, even though we were a grown man and a young boy with completely different names, living together under one roof. If they had asked, I probably would have said, to maintain the enigma and to keep the story short, that Anderson is my mom’s name, which is the truth anyway, right? If they then asked about you directly, which of course they never did – about why you weren’t around – my story was that you died when I was small; I figured that would be a great conversation-stopper, which it was until this girlfriend at USC, my alma mater – we’ll call her Anna – wanted to know everything, all the time, all the stuff I didn’t even know myself. The only way to stop the questions was to dump her.
My twenty-first was never going to be your regular limo-riding fake-ID-burning drunken barhopping orgy. I indulged in all that shit way back and already outgrew it. Not so for the majority of my dishonourable collegiate peers, however. Senior year at USC was one protracted twenty-first birthday party, one after the other after the other, paid for by the *guilty *nostalgic *overindulgent (delete as appropriate) parents of my self-entitled co-equals.
In one of his books, Gladwell (you know who I mean, right?) talks about October-born kids doing better in school than the kids born later in the academic year. He gives various explanations for this phenomenon that I don’t remember now (my memory is shot), but I do have a theory of my own that he missed. My theory is this: those kids, the September-October babies, also do better because they get all that woohoo jazzhands ‘I’m legal’ crap over and done with right at the start of Senior year. By Thanksgiving they’re so bored of it all they elect to sit out the ongoing mayhem, thereby maintaining maximum brain functionality through their final semester and performing well at the appropriate time. Any time, Malcolm, any time.
My birthday (as you may or may not recall) is June 6th, which means I didn’t turn twenty-one until after graduation, so according to Gladwell’s theory I should score about as far off the high-achieving-October-baby list as it gets, but I was the anomaly: I’d come out the other side of the whole NA thing by then, and sat out the shenanigans with the high-achievers. And as a result I did okay. I’m proud of my GPA, naturally, but I won’t say what I got because that would be bragging and unBritish.
Personal background info. Loud noises make me flinch, and many, many much quieter ones, like kissy sucky mouth-noises, make me want to punch the wall, or the faces emitting the above-mentioned noises. Strangers at the door make me nervous. Random conversation in the street makes me suspicious. Even the smallest change to my routine needs to be – maybe I should say needed to be because I like to think that recent revelations have transformed me – introduced slowly, over days, weeks, or ideally, never. Thomas, aforementioned guardian, knows better than anyone how much I hate change in general and surprises in particular. But even Thomas and his imaginary bearskin hat couldn’t hold back the revolutionary tsunami that crashed through the walls of my existence on the day I turned twenty-one. In fact, it was Thomas who set it in motion.
On that momentous day, my alarm call as usual was the smell of bacon grilling in the pan. I rolled out of bed in my T-shirt and shorts, and fake-zombie-staggered into the kitchen. It’s not so far to stagger. Our house is small and all on one level, a clapboard bungalow, wood not nasty vinyl – as Thomas calls the siding on our neighbour’s house – facing the ocean. We don’t own our home, it’s a rental, but we’ve lived there so long the owner probably forgot it’s theirs or else he or she died and nobody figured to tell us. Anyway, alive or dead we haven’t heard from him or her in, like, eight years. We’ve never had to do the whole termite tent thing, but when a chunk of wood breaks off a window frame, or the roof springs a leak on a rainy day, Thomas puts on his worker apparel, patches it up and deducts what it cost from the monthly rental payment. Thomas probably paid for the house three times over already, so it should be ours by now anyway, or at least his. That might be an exaggeration; back then I had no idea how much houses cost. (When I say ‘back then’, we’re only talking a month, right? Just to be clear.) Now I know how much everything costs.
Unlike you, we don’t actually have an ocean view fro
m our house, but walk two blocks west and there’s the Pacific. On a quiet, breezy night we can sit out on our side deck and listen to the bells clanking and the seals honking as the waves rock the buoys out by the harbour wall around the pier. Thomas pronounces buoy boy (I guess you do too). I say booey, same as everyone else in RB, mainly to piss Thomas off. Even though he swears he won’t ever cross the Atlantic again, Thomas works hard to conserve our British English, even if only at home. Upspeak is banned in our house. The most dangerous threat Thomas has made in years is to put a sign over our door saying Thou Shalt Not Upspeak In This House of Reformation.
I’m drifting.
Back to the revelations. That morning of my twenty-first, the whole place smelled of bacon on the griddle, and the man at the cooker flipping the pork (does that sound obscene to you?), his meetings-consultations-and-special-occasions apparel protected from the grease by a floral pinny loaned by Milly-Anna next door and never returned, was that same Thomas Hardiker. Guardian and principal player. Where he led, I followed, as did the Great Dudini, our dog, who was sat by the door, with one nostril on the bacon and the other on the alert for skunk.
‘You are definitely gay,’ I said to Thomas. We aren’t super-nice to each other all the time like you’re expected to be in SoCal. We say things to each other at home we wouldn’t dare say in public. And despite your choice of name for me I am not sunny. We are not sunny. Thomas says that’s because we’re Brits. We like a nice dark cloud overhead from time to time. Which is just as well because there’ve been a few, metaphorically speaking.
But even those metaphorical clouds parted a little on my twenty-first birthday.
‘Good morning and happy birthday,’ Thomas said, making a big deal of tapping the clock on the range with the greasy flipper thing, ‘what’s left of it.’ The hands on that clock haven’t moved from the twenty ’til eight position since we moved here. It’s always morning in the kitchen of the House of Reformation. Or evening. Because even a stopped clock is right twice a day, as Thomas says, twice a day. Ha ha. He hates that clock, it bugs the shit out of him that he can’t fix it, and believe me he’s tried.
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