Two Thousand and Great – As I Lay Me Down To Sleep

Dear all

A little something to end the week, today I died… Not a strange day challenge that went wrong, but, I was sent a few pages of the new book by Stuart MacBride called Blind Eye

A few months ago I was set a challenge to die – a friend of mine who works in publishing mentioned that one of her authors wrote lots of gritty crime fiction with plenty of deaths in it and could ask him to write me in as a character.

Stuart was told all about the challenges, what i’ve been up to, why I raise money for MacMillan a bit about Richard and asked for a photo, he said he would try to help out and then it went quiet.

Today Stuart submitted his first draft to the publisher and included a special copy with a few underlined sections.Below this post is a couple of pages from the forthcoming book. I was sent a slightly longer section of the book where I get named in full – this excerpt is deliberately short to avoid any spoilers appearing on the internet. 

My character is called Dirty Bob, I’ll let you judge how well he knows me.What i’ve read is great, if you are stuck for presents to buy someone dad, uncle, brother, cousin etc.. please buy one of his books, they make gripping reads.

Blind Eye will be released in May with advanced copies being available in April. I guess a few people will be getting copies from me for gifts and stuff next year but please order a copy of the book.

Cheers

Rob / Devani / Dirty Bob

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Blind Eye Excerpt

Logan peered out at a dishevelled man: swollen nose, red eyes, bushy black beard; monk-tonsure bald patch; blue parker jacket with half the fur trim missing; trousers that had seen better days and some sort of curry, going by the stains; filthy grey trainers. Robert Danavell, AKA: Dirty Bob.

‘What do you want, Bob?’

Karim’s favourite tramp gave Logan a gap-toothed smile. ‘Them fags…’ He pointed at the fallen cigarettes with a grimy finger. ‘You no’ needin’ them oany mair?’
‘Knock yourself out.’

‘Ah, cheers min, yer a fine loon.’ Dirty Bob creaked his way down to his knees. ‘No’ like that fat bugger yesterday. Tellin’ me I’m stinkin’ up his reception. Me! Wie ma best pal lyin’ deid in the morgue…’

Logan watched him picking through the gutter. It wasn’t much of a life, but at least Dirty Bob knew what mattered to him: drink, fags and the occasional half-eaten fish supper, or discarded kebab – whatever he could forage from the bins.

No life-or-death decisions. No moral or ethical dilemmas.

It probably said something about your life when you started envying people like Dirty Bob.

Bob was sitting on the pavement now, one of the windfall cigarettes clamped between his lips, patting round his pockets until he found a little book of matches. Lighting up with a sad little smile on his face. He looked up at Logan. ‘Kin yeh spare oany money fer an aul mannie tae have a wee drink tae his best mate’s memory?’

‘Aul mannie? You’re forty-two Bob, not seventy.’

Dirty Bob shrugged. ‘Aye, but forty-two’s a lot older in tramp years. Lookit poor Richard.’ He sniffed and wiped a sleeve across his nose, leaving a clean-ish streak. ‘Deid afore his time…’

Half past ten. Some of the pubs down on Regent Quay would have been open for hours, catering for the nightshift crowd and early morning drinkers. Tempting. Logan produced his wallet and dug out a fiver. Then changed his mind and made it a twenty instead. ‘Here.’
Dirty Bob eyed it suspiciously. Then grinned and grabbed the note. ‘Aye, that’ll dae Richard proud.’ He grunted his way upright, threw Logan a salute, then turned and hobbled away in his filthy trainers.

Twenty quid wouldn’t make a dent in a seasoned alcoholic like Dirty Bob, not in a pub anyway. But it would probably buy a whole load of white spirit.