The Pop Star – A Dan Markham Story

As I’ve said before, spring 2020 marks 10 years of me publishing books set in Leeds.

10 years

To me, that’s worth celebrating. I’d never expected it, or to have created so many characters. To celebrate the anniversary, and the people, between now and next April I’ll be publishing a short story each month featuring one of my Leeds characters.

I’m beginning with Dan Markham of Dark Briggate Blues and The New Eastgate Swing, the most recent creation, and bringing him (just) into the 1960s. From there I’ll go back in time, finishing with a new Richard Nottingham story next April.

Dan, in case you don’t know, loves his jazz. you can get an idea of his tastes in this playlist. This story puts him in a very different world.

It’s relatively long, but I hope you like meeting up with Dan again. If you don’t already know him, try Dark Briggate Blues as a starting point. It’s available in paperback, ebook, and also audiobook. Go here.

And now, welcome to Leeds as the world tips into the 1960s…

Dan Markham listened closely to the voice on the other end of the phone. His name was Harry Lewis, he’d said, a man with brisk London accent, a wheeler and dealer, skirting around the subject as if whatever he wanted might not be legal. The type who saw life as a deal to be won.

‘In your line, you know what things are like up there, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Depends what you mean by things.’ He cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder, took a Craven A from the packet and lit it. From his desk across the office, Stephen Baker gave him an enquiring look. Markham shook his head and raised an eyebrow.

‘Bad people an’ that.’

‘I suppose I know some of them,’ he answered. Christ, the last thing he wanted on a Monday morning was a Cockney idiot. ‘Why don’t you tell me the problem. That might be easier.’

‘We manage singers. You know Adam Faith, Billy Fury, people like that? Stars.’

‘I’ve seen the names,’ Markham replied. He’d heard them, too, fragments of music on the radio that left him cold. ‘What about them?’

‘We have an artist on a tour. A young lad, first record just out, going to be big. He’s playing the Odeon up there this Friday. We’ve had a threat that something might happen to him.’

‘Talk to the police,’ Markham told him. ‘That’s their job.’ He started to replace the phone, but a thin voice stopped him.

‘I’ve tried them. Your rozzers up there weren’t interested.’

That seemed odd, unless they knew something he didn’t.

‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ It might be a chance to make some money and do something a little different.

 

‘He must have cash to burn,’ Baker said when the call ended. ‘You were on the phone for fifteen minutes. That’ll cost him a fortune.’

‘It’ll probably all come off his taxes,’ Markham said. ‘But we’ve got two days work out of it. Usual rates.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Bodyguarding?’

‘Who? If it’s Diana Dors or Jayne Mansfield, I’m interested.’

Stephen Baker was a big man, a retired detective sergeant who’d long since run to fat. But appearances deceived. Go past the cheap mackintosh and bland face and the man was clever. He listened and put things together. Daring, too; he’d shown that. But he’d been a commando back in the war. And now he was the junior partner in an enquiry agency working out of the third floor of an office building on Albion Place.

‘His name’s Johnny Archer.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Neither have I. Evidently his first single’s just come out and he’s bottom of the bill on this package tour that’s playing here on Friday night.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a job,’ Baker said. ‘Not likely to be mobbed, is he?’

‘According to this man Lewis, there have been a couple of threats.’

‘What kind?’

‘Nothing too specific. He couldn’t give me any examples. More rumours than anything. That’s why the police won’t do anything.’

Baker shrugged. ‘Can’t blame them. They need something to go on.’

‘It’s money for us. The tour people arrive Thursday afternoon and leave Saturday morning. We need to make sure Archer stays safe.’

He snorted. ‘Is that his real name – Johnny Archer?’

‘I didn’t ask.’ Markham lit another cigarette. The man could be called Joe Bloggs for all it mattered.

 

The photograph and press packet arrived on Tuesday morning. Archer was a bland young man, faintly good-looking. There was a hint of something wicked in his smile, but he was too young to be any kind of threat; he barely looked eighteen. A cheap Italian-cut suit with the thin lapels, a narrow tie and Brylcreemed hair in a big, shiny quiff.

Believe the mimeographed words, and he was the biggest thing since Elvis Presley. Sex on legs. Lewis had included the single in its paper sleeve. At home, Markham put it on the hi-fi.

‘What the hell is that?’ Carla asked from the kitchen. ‘It’s awful.’

She was right. A confection of nothing, string and guitars and a hiccoughing voice that could barely stay in tune.

‘The next big thing,’ he said. She laughed.

Johnny Archer was useless as a singer. Maybe he was a nice kid.

He put on some Coltrane to wash away the taste. Giant Steps, only out for a few months, with that lovely rush of tenor sax coming through the speakers. Real music.

He didn’t know Archer, but Markham felt sorry for the boy. Another hopeful, one of dozens – maybe hundreds – with a single out and a heart full of dreams. So few made it, though. Cliff Richard, Marty Wilde, one or two others. The rest would have a piece of plastic and the memory of a few shows onstage, careers over before anyone realized they’d begun.

Well, all he had to do was keep him safe in Leeds. From what, though?

 

It was a crisp autumn Thursday. As he left home, Markham noticed the way the leaves were turning and falling, covering the pavement. His breath clouded the air, and he needed to use the choke for his car to start. He’d bought one of the new Ford Anglias, seduced by the backwards-sloping rear windows and the low fins at the back. The best part of six hundred pounds, but he’d had a good year and it was worth every penny. It had style. The car was distinctive; it looked American.

In town, he parked outside the office, taking the stairs past the clatter of typewriters in the secretarial office below. Nothing more than a couple of bills in the post. He tossed them on to the desk. Later would be soon enough.

He was pacing around, on his third cigarette by the time Barker arrived, huffing and puffing his way up the steps.

‘You might as well turn yourself around. We’re going out again.’

The man sighed. ‘Couldn’t you have waited downstairs so I didn’t waste all that effort?’

Markham clapped him on the shoulders. ‘The exercise will do you good.’

The Golden Lion hotel sat on Swinegate, right on the corner with Briggate, no more than a short, brisk stroll from Albion Place. It must have been a glorious building once, but now it was run down, feeling like a small step up from a boarding house. The carpet was threadbare, the wood on the desk chipped and gouged. Still, it had rooms for all the groups on this tour. The clerk was an older, weary man with heavy jowls and a shadow of stubble heavy enough to look as though he hadn’t shaved. A cheap bri-nylon shirt with a grubby collar and a shiny C&A tie.

Markham introduced himself and handed over the letter Lewis had sent. The clerk read it and stared. Archer wasn’t expected until early evening, he said, along with a four-piece group. They had two rooms booked in the attic, staying until Saturday morning.

‘Mind if we go and take a look?’

Without looking, the man reached behind his body and took a pair of keys from their hooks.

‘Help yourself. Nowt to see, mind. The lasses will make up the beds later.’

Four storeys. Baker took a rest after the first two. Markham glanced at the surroundings. The wallpaper was decades old, peeling and torn. He took the final flight and unlocked one of the wooden doors. Light came in through a dormer window. Up here had probably once been home to the staff. Now it was crammed with three single beds, a chest of drawers and an old wooden wardrobe. No sink, no toilet, no bathroom.

He opened the neighbouring room. Exactly the same.

‘All the glamour, eh?’ Baker shook his head. ‘I thought pop stars had money.’

‘The people who manage them do.’

‘Always the bloody way.’

They began to search. It took no more than five minutes for both rooms. The beds were stripped, thin mattresses folded over, and there was nowhere to hide anything.

‘Waste of time,’ Baker complained as they left the building. As they turned the corner on to Briggate, he added quietly: ‘Maybe not completely. Did you see chummy standing around? Over by Walker’s old furniture factory.’

Markham nodded. ‘No idea who he is, though.’

‘I do. Billy Carter. He used to do some work for the Jenkins mob. Spotting, a bit of driving, things like that. Can’t imagine why he’d be watching the hotel.’

 

‘I wasn’t,’ Carter insisted. They found him just after noon in the Adelphi, on the far side of Leeds Bridge. Baker leaned over the man, hands on the table, while Markham stood back and watched. ‘Why would I watch the Golden Lion?’

‘I saw you with my own eyes,’ Baker said. He paused, then added with a hint of menace: ‘Or are you calling me a liar?’

‘No, course not. I was just waiting for someone, that’s all.’

He might as well have held up a sign with Lie written on it.

‘Who?’

‘She. It’s a woman. She’s married. You know.’

‘That’s the thing, Billy,’ Baker said. ‘I don’t. Why don’t you give me her name and I can ask her myself. Discreet, that’s me. My lips will be sealed.’

But no matter how Baker browbeat him, Carter wouldn’t give up a single thing more.

‘Something has him scared,’ Markham said was they walked back to the office.

‘Someone, more like. And him keeping schtum like that, it worries me.’

 

Markham was sitting in a chair at the hotel when a group of young men walked in a little after six. Four of them were quiet, serious, stretching as they moved. The fifth looked around eagerly, eyes alive, smiling to show a good young set of teeth. He looked like someone who believed he was about to inherit the world. A close-fitting Italian suit, knitted tie and pale blue shirt with a tab collar, hands pushed into the pocket of his overcoat.

One of the young men was talking to the desk clerk, handing out room keys and giving instructions.

‘I’m Dan Markham.’

The man looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Who?’

‘Bodyguard for Johnny Archer?’

‘Bodyguard?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg, mate. We’re the group, he’s the singer, and he’s been going down like a lead balloon, although he can’t see it. The only person he needs guarding from his himself. Now, we have to get our gear in. Not leaving it out there to be nicked.’ He disappeared, the other musicians behind him.

‘Archer?’

The young man turned and gave a camera-ready grin.

‘Johnny Archer.’ A firm voice, no shade of hesitation. ‘Are you a fan?’

‘I’m your bodyguard. Harry Lewis hired me.’

The first shade of doubt across the young man’s face, and then it cleared.

‘He said he’d have someone to look after things up here. But he didn’t say nothing about no bodyguard, though.’

‘You’ll be all right with me.’ He was beginning to feel he’d been had, that there was something going on that he didn’t understand. ‘I’ll take care of things.’

‘You can tell me where there’s a Wimpy in town. I just want something to eat and an early night. I been packed in that car all day. Come up from Bristol.’

‘There’s a Wimpy just round the corner, but they’ll be closing soon.’

‘Right,’ Archer said. ‘You can come with me. Got any money? I ain’t been paid yet.’

‘Got two personals tomorrow morning, some record shop and Woolie’s,’ Archer explained as he ate. ‘Matinee show in the afternoon and another in the evening. The birds are lapping it up.’

He looked around, as if a group of girls might be watching him. He was bland, Markham decided, a nothing. Someone had told him a few times that he was handsome and had talent, and he believed it.

‘How did Harry discover you?’

‘Walking down Oxford Street.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘You know where Oxford Street is? In London?’

‘I do. My wife’s an artist. She exhibits in galleries down there. We go to London regularly.’

The words flew over Archer’s head. He simply nodded.

‘I was there looking at the clothes and he came up and said I had some quality. Gave me a business card and said if I wanted to ring him, I might end up on the box.’

‘Have you? Been on television, I mean,’ Markham said.

‘Not yet,’ Archer replied, full of confidence. ‘But I will. The record’s doing good and Harry’s lining up a spot on another package tour. And he says I’ll be in the papers very soon.’

They walked back to the Golden Lion. Outside the door someone called out ‘Smile!’

Archer did what he was told as Markham tried to shield him. The photographer gave a thumbs-up and walked away.

‘That’ll be happening all the time soon,’ Archer said. ‘You going to be here in the morning?’

‘Half-past nine at the desk,’ Markham told him.

 

‘What do you reckon?’ Baker asked. He’d watched the whole scene.

Markham lit a cigarette. ‘Thank Christ we’re getting paid.’

 

Friday morning and Markham was working his way through the post before he had to go down to the Golden Lion. He’d started with a cup of frothy coffee from the Flamenco on Cross Belgrave Street, the machine hissing as spluttering as Fowzee worked it with his wide grin. Something to set him up for a long day and a longer night ahead.

Stephen Baker glanced through the Daily Sketch when he swore.

‘Take a look at that.’

It was the picture the photographer had taken the evening before. Archer, smiling, Markham, half in shadow, a protective arm in from of the young man’s chest. Threats Against Pop Star’s Life, the headline screamed. Bodyguard hired for appearance in Leeds.

He picked up the telephone and dialled Lewis’s office in London.

‘He’s out for the day,’ a secretary said. ‘Do you want him to ring you later?’

‘Yes,’ Markham said. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

‘We’re being used,’ Baker said. ‘There’s no threat. It’s all for publicity. Sell a few records and put some bums on seats at the show.’

‘Now it’s out there, someone might think it’s a good idea to take a pot shot at him. I’ll keep my eye on him, I’ve got nothing else today.’

Baker shook his head. ‘Waste of time.’

‘Money, remember?’

Baker snorted and turned to the football pages.

 

Archer looked sleek, dressed in his Italian suit with the tight trousers again, fresh shirt and bright tie. He was full of talk as they walked up to Vallance’s on Albion Street. Markham kept glancing around, assessing faces for any threat. Everyone dressed in dun and grey and olive, no splash of colour to be seen. They might as well be living in black-and-white.

‘After I’ve had a few hits and people know who I am, I was thinking a film, you know, like Cliff or Tommy. And move into showbusiness. That’s where the money is and you can keep going. Have a career.’ He spoke with confidence, as if he’d already plotted out every move for the next ten years.

Poor kid. In three months he’d probably be scuffling round for a job and wondering if all this had been a dream.

The record department downstairs at Vallance’s was Saturday morning busy with plenty of teenagers wanting the latest pop hits. They were crammed together in the booths to listen. Two girls approached Archer for an autograph and he seemed to come to life, eager, friendly, and with some kind of presence.

But for his hour there, no more than a trickle came to see him. Mostly girls, plus a pair of boys who seemed astonished that someone like them could have made a record.

His single played every ten minutes. A few seconds after it ended, Markham couldn’t even recall the tune. Disposable music for the consumer society.

No threats, though. Not even a sign of danger. Across the Headrow and down Briggate to Woolworth’s. Archer was talking nineteen to the dozen as he stepped out into the road.

Markham glanced to the right and saw a white Commer van barrelling towards them. He grabbed Archer by the collar and dragged him back on to the pavement as the car roared by.

For once, the boy had nothing to say.

Markham had tried to read the number plate. All he’d caught were two of the letters. No bloody help at all. Was it deliberate? Or a driver not paying attention. He wouldn’t put money on it either way.

Archer was shaken. His face was pale and his lips were bloodless.

‘Come on,’ Markham told him, ‘we’ll get a cup of tea in you. Hot, plenty of sugar.’

Like an infant, Archer followed him into a café.

‘That…’

‘Might have been an accident,’ Markham said. Better to let him think that. And accidents did happen.

‘Do you believe that?’

‘Who’d want to hurt you?’

Archer shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Nor do I.’ Markham smiled. ‘My professional opinion-’ he said the words slowly to give them weight ‘-is that you were almost the victim of an accident, Nothing more than that. OK?’

The young man pushed his lips together then gave a small nod. Like a little boy, he’d accept whatever he was told on this. Markham just wished he could be certain he’d given him the truth.

‘Drink up and we’ll go to this other signing.’

A few more fans than Vallance’s, but Archer wasn’t mobbed. Not even close. Even the story in the paper hadn’t helped much. As soon as the time was done, Markham escorted him up Briggate to the Odeon. No dangerous vehicles. No menacing men. Soon Archer was in the dressing room with his backing group. The musicians all looked bored. This was just the way they earned their crust, nothing more. They didn’t care about the music they played; it didn’t belong to them.

‘Make sure he doesn’t wander off,’ Markham said to the leader.

The man glanced at Archer. ‘He doesn’t look happy. Did somebody tell him he has a pimple?’

‘Someone nearly ran him over.’

That found the young man’s attention. ‘What? Deliberately?’

‘I don’t think so, but…look after him.’

‘Yeah, OK.’

 

The phone rang and rang before Baker answered and Markham pushed the button to let the coins drop. In a few short sentences he explained what had happened.

‘You didn’t get the number plate?’

‘No.’ He was still furious with himself for that.

‘A white van doesn’t narrow it down,’ Baker said.

‘I know that. I was thinking. Your friend Billy Carter who was watching the Golden Lion last night. Might be worth having another word with him.’

‘I will. But I’m not coming up to tell you about it. No reason for me to go near that noise they call music.’

‘You’re just old.’

 

It wasn’t just Baker, Markham thought. He was old, too. Thirty-one, and the kids in the crowd were only ten or fifteen years younger than him, but God Almighty, they made him feel ancient. He’d come of age during the war and its aftermath. During National Service in Germany he’d seen all the destruction of the bombs.

But this lot has only known peace. Conscription had just ended, so they’d never even need to put on a uniform. There were plenty of good jobs; they had money in their pockets. Rationing was a memory. They life was completely different to the one he’d known. Different music, too. He’d been introduced to jazz and fallen in love with it. Not this pop that had no substance. Yeah, he was old.

He stood at the back of the dress circle and watched as Archer performed his two songs. The audience was still arriving, no more than a handful paying attention to the music.

The lad tried, at least. He reached out from the edge of the stage. One girl dashed forward to touch his hand, then hurried back to her friends, giggling.

No sense of danger in the auditorium. Not much of anything, beyond anticipation for the acts still to come. The musicians were competent, pushing everything along, then carrying off their gear as soon as they’d finished. Professionals.

Standing outside, he smoked a cigarette as the thump of bass and drums leaked out from the building. Studio 20 was only a few yards further along New Briggate. There would be better music there tonight, but he doubted he’d have the chance to go. Someone needed to keep an eye on Archer until he left in the morning.

He’d taken the job, he was going to do it properly. Just in case the speeding van hadn’t been an accident…

‘You’re miles away. An army could have marched by and you’d never have noticed.’

Baker was dressed in his usual mackintosh and trilby, a pipe in the corner of his mouth and a satisfied smile on his face.

‘Go on, then, you look pleased with yourself. What have you found?’

‘Carter was in the General Elliot having a pint or four. I bought him another and it made him quite expansive. It seems your Harry Lewis was in touch with Jenkins, his boss. A few quid to watch Archer, enough to make having a bodyguard seem worthwhile.’

‘Not to hurt?’

‘Not in a million years. Not even a frightener. Strictly for publicity. Your incident with the van was an accident, nothing more.’

Markham felt a sense of relief. Deep down he’d probably known it was true. But having it confirmed made it feel real.

‘Why didn’t he say something when you questioned him last night?’

‘That was the deal they had.’ He grimaced as he cocked an ear toward the sound in the Odeon. ‘You staying for more of this racket?’

‘It’s what we agreed.’

Baker shook his head. ‘Sooner you than me. Still, you like that jazz muck; this can’t be any worse.’

 

The second house seemed to draw a larger audience that the first. A few years older, too, mostly fifteen and up, all the way to twenty by the look of them. He saw the disgusted glances by the girls as they passed him, as if he was a dirty old man in a grubby mac.

The music wasn’t any better or any worse. Whatever quality meant stardom, Archer didn’t possess it. Most of the crowd talked through his two numbers.

No incidents, of course. Once he’d finished and the group had dragged their equipment off the stage, Markham made him way back to the dressing room. None of them looked especially pleased.

‘It went well,’ Markham said.

‘It was bloody rubbish,’ the leader said. He finished wiping the strings and fretboard of his guitar with a rag and placed it with loving care the instrument in its case. ‘We couldn’t even hear ourselves.’

‘Maybe tomorrow will be better. Where are you then?’

‘Maybe,’ the man answered in a voice full of doubt. ‘We’re in Newcastle. Always tough there.’

 

 

A cramped night, parked near the hotel on Kirkgate, sitting in the Anglia. Too chilly to fall asleep. Too dark to read. Nothing to do but drink instant coffee from a flask and smoke. By morning his back felt as if someone had been chipping at it with an icepick.

He watched as Archer and the group packed their van and drove off. His job was done. The only thing left was to send the invoice and wait for the cheque.

 

The middle of the afternoon and he was jarred awake by the telephone. For a short moment, Markham wondered where he was, what day it was. He sat up straight in the office chair, yawning and blinking.

‘Have you listened to the wireless?’ Baker asked.

‘No. Why?’

‘There’s a transistor in my desk drawer.’ He hung up.

Markham searched, dragging it out from under a pile of papers and turning it on. Finally he found a voice reading out the headlines.

‘Police are investigating an accident on the Great North road this morning.’ He felt a prickle up his spine. ‘A young man was killed when the vehicle in which he was a passenger veered off the road going south in Lincolnshire. The name of the deceased is being withheld until next-of-kin can be informed, but it’s understood that he’s an entertainer, a singer of popular music. All the others in the van were released after being treated for minor injuries.’

Christ. Accident?

 

Three days later, Markham picked up the post. Strange. The invoice he’d sent for the Archer job, returned. Not known at this address. He checked from his notes. No, it was correct. When he dialled the London number, all he heard was a voice: ‘I’m sorry, that is no longer obtainable.’

Prolific? Me? Honestly, No…

People keep telling me I’m a very prolific writer. It happened again just over a week ago. I’ve published a number of books over the last few years, definitely more than one a year.

But that’s not prolific. When I hear that word, I think about the way groups worked in the 1960s. They worked hard, and some of them made huge music strides and produced glorious work under pressure.

Let’s look at the Beatles as an example.

Los_Beatles_(19266969775)_Recortado

They fully broke through in the UK at the end of 1962. Between 1963 and 1966, by which time they were a global phenomenon that had never been seen before, they released:

  • Seven LPs
  • 13 Eps
  • 15 singles

On top of that, they also made two films, toured Britain and the world, and appeared countless times on radio and television. Think of the material Lennon and McCartney penned in that time. It truly changed the entire musical landscape.

That’s prolific. That’s influential.

I’m just an amateur, a dilletante by comparison.

I will remind you, though, that The Hocus girl is out in hardback in the UK and from November 1 it will be available everywhere as an ebook.

The Hocus Girl is powerful, persuasive and almost impossible to put down.” – Fully Booked.

“This historical tour de force reminds readers who come for the mystery that life hasn’t changed for the disenfranchised.” – Kirkus Reviews, starred review.

Shouldn’t you give it a try?

Hocus Girl final

Where Do The Characters Come From?

Just to start, I have to tell you the Kirkus Reviews, one of the major trade journals in the US, has given The Hocus Girl a starred revew (they also gave one to my last book, The Leaden Heart). you can read the full review here, but this is the final line: “This historical tour de force reminds readers who come for the mystery that life hasn’t changed for the disenfranchised.

I’ll take that.

Meanwhile..

10 years

 

They say that an author draws on people he knows for his characters.

I beg to differ.

I feel that in many cases I simply channel the people who populate my books. But if they have any traits, they’re not from people I know; they’re all small facets of me.

Richard Nottingham, for instance, is a very straight arrow, an utterly honest and upright man. Someone to be admired. He’s who I’d like to be, in an ideal world. The Leeds equivalent of the sheriff from a Western (albeit an old one). Amos Worthy is that creeping darkness in my soul. It’s there, I just need to let it out.

Dan Markham is cooler than I’ll ever be, a man at home in a jazz club or standing up to a criminal. He has style, something I’ve always aspired to but never achieved. Carla, his girlfriend, is the creative spirit I always wished I could be. But I never have quite managed to throw off the shackles of society.

Lottie Armstrong. She’s strength in adversity, someone who doesn’t give up. I suppose in some ways I have that, since I kept on fight to be published and eventually got there. But she’s a woman and that automatically makes her stronger than any man. And revisiting her 20 years later, she’s still got the resilience under all the sorrow. Urban Raven, from The Dead on Leave, has some of the same qualities. But with a crude plastic surgery face, his obstacles are more visible and obvious.

Simon Westow is resourceful, brave, intelligent, a man who’s overcome his past. That’s not me, of course; I’ve been far luckier than that. But I’d like to believe I had to spirit to be able to work my way up. Maybe I would, too. But probably not. Jane…Jane is my real darkness, the side we keep in because that’s what society teaches us. There are times I feel as isolated from the world as her. As an only child I’m good at keeping things inside, at being able to compartmentalise everything in my head. She’s the extreme, with everything coloured by a very deadly nature.

Tom Harper? He’s perhaps as close as I’ve come to a younger me, and his hearing problem certainly mirrors my own

Annabelle? No, Annabelle is channelled. She truly did come out of the ether. But thank God she’s here.

The Ten Year Project

 

It’s hard to believe, but next Spring it’ll be 10 years since my first book set in Leeds was published – The Broken Token, in case you’re curious. There will be a new Tom Harper novel appearing then, the eighth in the series, which will mean I’ve published a total of  22 novels and a collection of short stories set in Leeds in the last decade.

That’s not counting a couple of plays and involvement in the exhibition The Vote Before The Vote, where Annabelle Harper stepped into Leeds history.

annabellecard 200_2

Phew.

I’m going to celebrate it. 10 years is worth celebrating. It took a while to figure out how, though…

It has to be stories. After all, I’m a writer. So from November to next March I will have a short story with one of my Leeds characters each month. I’ll be starting with Dan Markham, taking him into the very beginning of the 1960s, then working my way back through time – Urban Raven, Lottie Armstrong, Tom Harper, Simon Westow, and finishing, quite rightly, with Richard Nottingham.

It’s going to be a challenge. I need to try and capture the essence of each of them, and in some cases it’s been a few years since we met. But I never like to make it easy for myself. I’ve even come up with a logo for everything 10th, just to warn you.

10 years

The Dan Markham story will appear in early November. I hope you’ll like in. In the meantime, you could read the new Simon Westow book, The Hocus Girl. It’s out in the UK in hardback now, and it’ll be available everywhere as an ebook from November 1.

Hocus Girl final

Cut Me And I Bleed Leeds

Cut me and I bleed Leeds. Not red, but blue and gold and white.

Maybe it’s true. The place is in my heart, my soul, my DNA, with all its soot and grime, its failings and its joys. Leeds is me and I’m bloody proud to be one tiny part of it. In my books (like The Hocus Girl, which was published in the UK on Monday, hint hint), I try to make Leeds itself as important as important as one of the people on the page.

For a long time it wasn’t that way. At 18 I was happy to move elsewhere and I ended up abroad for a long time. But eventually, with that twitch on the thread, Leeds called me home. I moved back six years ago last week and I’ve never felt as if I ever fitted anywhere quite so well.

I’ve been thinking about the first time I realised quite what Leeds meant, when it became more than home, school, the city centre and our neighbourhood. It was probably towards the end of winter in 1961, when the teenage son of my mother’s boss (poor lad) took me to my first match at Elland Road to watch Leeds United play. February or March, maybe. Certainly a grey, dank day, and I was all wrapped up in my dark blue gaberdine school raincoat. My school was very much rugby league – all the boys were taken to the park to play – but football in the playground. Boys and girls had separate playgrounds, covered in sharp gravel, and boys had to wear short every day, no natter the weather. It meant constant sabs on the knees.

I loved football back then, in the way that only a young boy can. So the trip was magical, to an area of town I’d never seen before. Far enough away that it might have been another country. Then into the schoolboys’ pen, and so many people. All the noise.

I don’t remember who we played or what the score was. But all these men singing and cheering for Leeds resonated in me. It stirred something, somewhere in the dirty, black and white world that was the start of the Sixties.

Of course, I didn’t understand what or where or why or how. Really, that didn’t come for decades, not until absence made my heart grow fonder.

Not everyone develops an attachment to their hometown. Not everyone feels the needs to know how it became the way it is, or to celebrate the nameless and forgotten who helped to form it. That’s fine. It’s why I write about the place, to understand it in it’s different eras, its different shapes, from small town to grand city to something in decline. I just happen to be someone who was touched by the madness.

It’s not a perfect place, God knows. I shout and criticise it with the best of them. My Leeds is one that welcomes people from everywhere. It started with the Irish, the Romany, the Jews, and now from every country on earth. To me, they all have someone to give. They’re all Leeds.

So yes, Leeds is me. Take a saw to me and there will be Leeds written right through the middle. I used to think that was funny. Now, though, I say it with pride.

But please don’t actually cut me or saw me open, okay?

 

Related to this, I’m part of a panel on Saturday October 12 at the Leeds Library on Commercial St, talking about locality in crime fiction. I’m sharing the session with France Brody, June Taylor, and the German writer Ursula Maria Wartmann. It will be chaired by another crime novelist, Ali Harper. All the details are here.

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Joanne Harris And The Storytime Band – A Pocketful Of Crows

Joanne Harris is, of course, a best-selling author in several genres. A couple of years ago, in her Joanne M. Harris guise, she published A Pocketful of Crows, based on Child Ballad 295 (the Child Ballads were collected in England and Scotland in the 19th century by Professor Francis Child). It was a powerful story of loss, revenge, realisation and empowerment, transformation -of many things.

Joanne Harris also has a very strong online presence, especially on Twitter, where she’s shown herself to be a wise woman indeed, and the instigator of #storytime, a form of digital storytelling that’s proved very incredibly popular. Out of that has come the Storytime Band, where she and three musicians bring those Twitter stories to the stage in a mix of tale, song, and instrumental work. They’ve played gigs for a while now, and already put out once CD with several of the short pieces.

Now Harris and band have brought several strands different strands of what she does together, offering a different take on A Pocketful of Crows as their new CD. It makes sense: the ballads are essentially stories, compressed into song form. They were intended to be sung in public, in the same manner that stories were told, and like stories, they changed a little with every performance. Story and ballads were both communal, much as #storytime is there for the digital community of Twitter. Harris is one of those rare writers who intuitively understands the power and history of ballads, oral storytelling and the folk tradition. The three are inextricably bound together. But something like this is a very different beast to putting words on a page, it’s an art, and sadly, so much of the English storytelling tradition vanished long ago (please, if you’re not familiar with oral storytelling, it’s not someone reading stories aloud in a library. It’s thrilling, dangerous, and subtly different every time If you want some names of storytellers, ask me).

It’s a different beast, and Harris hasn’t simply adapted the book or rehashed it. In transforming Crows from book to this medium she’s looked at the whole piece through entirely fresh eyes. And, as musicians and performers, the band have more experience under their belts now, as well as a better understanding of the studio. The production is outstanding here, fulling enhancing and showcasing the music as well as letting it integrate fully with the telling. The songs themselves are more developed and there’s more…quiet confidence about the whole thing.

The words are stripped to the nub, by necessity, yet the story remains, beautiful and angry in turns. The songs offer the depth of characters and scene, slipping naturally from the story and yet strong enough to stand alone (“Dance Of The Days” really is a twirling dance of love).

Musically, it’s prog rock, but that’s what the band does. It’s their forte and this time out they’ve use it so well, with moments the swell into epic grandeur. Everything flows and evolves quite beautifully. The title track makes for a superb climax – with its catchy chorus it veers close to being a pop song – before the slow, slow fade that’s filled with lovely, autumnal change.

This isn’t an add-on to the book. It uses the same story as a base, but this is a feast for other senses, and a very satisfying one (as well as being a chronicle of the leaps and bounds development of the Storytime Band, who’ve become a staggeringly powerful outfit). The best advice? Read A Pocketful of Crows, and hear the CD. It’s like experiencing the tale in surround sound for the mind.

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More From The Hocus Girl And Big News

A week and a half until The Hocus Girl is published in the UK.

Yes, I do believe it’s a good book, one of my very best (if you want to know, I feel it’s up there with Cold Cruel Winter, At The Dying of the Year, The Tin God, The Leaden Heart, and The Year of the Gun). It brings real depth to the characters, which you can never do with the first book in a series; at that point, you’re still getting to know them yourself. But Jane in this book…I knew from The Hanging Psalm that she was someone special, but in this she blooms…well, you’ll have to read the book and see, won’t you?

And…BIG BIG NEWS…to put the icing on the week, the publisher has said they’ll be putting out the third book with Simon Westow and Jane at the end of September 2020 (hard to believe such a time exists!). It’s called To The Dark.

Meanwhile, have two more brief extracts from The Hocus Girl to push you to buy it/reserve from the library.

 

As he walked back towards Leeds, Simon sensed someone behind him. Trying to be quiet and doing a piss-poor job of it.

Close to Lady Bridge the path curved, the bushes at the side growing thick and wild. For a handful of seconds, he’d be out of sight. That was long enough. Simon slipped the knife from his sleeve.

By the time the man appeared, head moving from side to side in confusion, Simon was hidden from view. He loosened a second knife in his boot. Give it another few moments. Long enough for the follower to grow frustrated.

Screened behind the leaves, Simon held his breath. A broad, hulking man with a vicious expression was staring this way and that. A club dangled from his belt, next to his knife. Very likely another weapon or two hidden on his body.

The man turned, eyes searching, then stared at the road beyond the bridge. Lady Lodge stood alone, surrounded by a field and a hedge before the hill rose towards a row of half-built houses.

Simon eased himself out from the branches, tensed then dashed forward. Just five paces, but he was moving fast enough to send the man sprawling as he caught him behind his thighs.

The man tried to turn. Before he could struggle, Simon was on him, kneeling on his back, the edge of his blade against the side of his neck as he searched him. Two knives and the club. Simon tossed them into the beck. It had only taken three seconds, and the rush of it left his breathing ragged.

‘I don’t like people following me.’

No response.

‘Why are you doing it?’

‘Orders.’ The man’s voice was stifled in the dirt. Simon grabbed him by the hair.

‘Whose orders?’

‘Curzon.’

Now he knew who this man was. The magistrate’s bodyguard. Whittaker, the former government man.

‘And why does Mr Curzon care what I do?’

‘You’ve been asking questions about his case.’

‘Is that a crime now?’

‘It is if you try to stop justice.’

‘No, Mr Whittaker.’ He felt the man stir at the mention of his name. ‘I’m trying to stop an injustice. You’re going to go back and tell your master that.’

Whittaker snorted. ‘Do you reckon that’ll be the end of it? He’ll give up and apologize because you’re not happy? He’s more powerful than you’ll ever be.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’ll always win. You might want to remind him of that.’ He felt the man tense under him, ready to try and move. ‘Don’t,’ Simon warned. He pressed the steel hard against Whittaker’s neck. ‘I’ll have you dead before you even reach your knees.’

‘We’ll be seeing each other again.’

‘I daresay we will.’

‘Next time things be different.’

‘We’ll find out about that, won’t we?’ He rose swiftly, standing back with his knife ready. ‘Your weapons are in the water. The current won’t have carried them far.’

Simon walked away, alert, ready for Whittaker to chase after him. But he didn’t come.

Curzon had set his dog to warn Simon off. If his case was so strong, why would he need to do that?

 

She needed him to follow her to the churchyard. She’d be waiting there, waiting for him.

The man was twenty paces behind her, she judged. Even in the crowd she could pick out the rhythm of his feet as he followed her. She’d have plenty of time to prepare.

Jem was over by the wall, sitting and watching. He stirred as he saw her. Jane gave him a small sign: stay there, don’t move. Then she stood, as if she was slightly lost, waiting for someone. The knife was concealed in her hand.

Whittaker came up behind her. He probably thought he was quiet, but to her ears, he might as well have been an army on the move. He was close when she turned, and for the smallest moment his step faltered. Then he was on her, leering, his eyes hungry.

‘So you’re Westow’s little slut. People tell me you’re dangerous. There’s nothing to you.’

His hand moved, cupping her breast, fingers squeezing so hard that the pain shot through her. It shocked, it hurt, but Jane didn’t let her face betray a thing. One second, two and then three. Just long enough for him to think her had her cowed. The hilt of the knife rubbed against her gold ring as she let it slide in her fingers. Her right hand shot up and the blade carved a line down his cheek.

He jumped back as if he’d been burned, raising his hand to his face and bringing it down to stare in disbelief at the blood.

‘You bitch!’ he shouted.

Jane didn’t move. She stood with the knife in her hand. Her voice was quiet and calm, hardly more than a whisper.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ she told him. ‘For Henry.’

She took a step forward and Whittaker retreated, still pressing a hand to his face. Blood seeped through his fingers, dripping down his neck to stain the white of his shirt.

He kept moving, watching her until there was enough distance for him to turn his back and walk off.

She’d bested him. Humiliated him. He wouldn’t let this rest. He couldn’t; he was a man. Jane knew that before she began, but she didn’t care. The next time, though, he’d be cautious. He’d be slow. That didn’t matter. She’d do exactly as she promised.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Jem had run across as soon as it was safe.

‘He tried.’ She could still feel Whittaker’s touch on her body. Her breast ached. The mark of his fingers would show in a few hours. The hurt went deeper in her, to her core. She wouldn’t forget and she’d never forgive. ‘But I hurt him more.’ She turned to the boy. For now she’d put it out of her mind; there would be time to think about everything tonight. ‘Have you found the man with the limp?’

Hocus Girl final