Johnstone The Opposite of Lonely

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-914585-81-4
Verlag: Orenda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 5, 276 Seiten

Reihe: The Skelfs

A body lost at sea, arson, murder, astronauts, wind phones, communal funerals, stalking and conspiracy theories ... This can ONLY mean one thing! The Skelfs are back, and things are as tense, unnerving and warmly funny as ever! `A terrific read with all of Johnston's trademark warmth and wicked wit in the latest gripping outing for this beguiling family´ A K Turner `Some of the best female characters in crime fiction. Pitch-perfect balance of dark and light ... disturbing, compassionate and brilliantly funny´ Sarah Hilary `The Skelfs series just gets better and better! Outstanding characters and a gripping plot ... Doug Johnstone is one of the greats of Scottish crime fiction´ Luca Veste ____________ Even death needs company... The Skelf women are recovering from the cataclysmic events that nearly claimed their lives. Their funeral-director and private-investigation businesses are back on track, and their cases are as perplexing as ever. Matriarch Dorothy looks into a suspicious fire at an illegal campsite and takes a grieving, homeless man under her wing. Daughter Jenny is searching for her missing sister-in-law, who disappeared in tragic circumstances, while grand-daughter Hannah is asked to investigate increasingly dangerous conspiracy theorists, who are targeting a retired female astronaut ... putting her own life at risk. With a body lost at sea, funerals for those with no one to mourn them, reports of strange happenings in outer space, a funeral crasher with a painful secret, and a violent attack on one of the family, The Skelfs face their most personal - and perilous - cases yet. Doing things their way may cost them everything... Tense, unnerving and warmly funny, The Opposite of Lonely is the hugely anticipated fifth instalment in the unforgettable Skelfs series, and this time, danger comes from everywhere... ___________ `If you loved Iain Banks, you'll devour the Skelfs series´ Erin Kelly `Authentic female characters ... Short, punchy chapters mean that the pace is brisk, and Johnstone's deft way of portraying old and new characters means that even novice readers of the series won't be left behind´ Scotsman `An absolute joy to read ... full of such wonderful characters, brilliantly realised, with more peril and intrigue. Certainly the best one yet´ James Oswald `Wonderful characters: flawed, funny and brave´ Sunday Times `Johnstone never fails to entertain whilst packing a serious emotional punch´ Gytha Lodge `A unique brand of crime fiction boasting rare heart and depth´ Ambrose Parry `Some of the most unique characters in crime fiction´ Daily Express `Gritty, atmospheric and, above all, profoundly moving. An emotional education in the most unexpected of ways ... I loved it´ Sarah Sultoon `A must for those seeking strong, authentic, intelligent female protagonists´ Publishers Weekly `The Skelfs books are brilliant´ Miranda Dickinson ***SHORTLISTED FOR THEAKSTON'S OLD PECULIER CRIME NOVEL OF THE YEAR***

Doug Johnstone is the author of Twelve novels, most recently The Great Silence, the third in the Skelfs series, which has been optioned for TV. In 2021, The Big Chill, the second in the series, was longlisted for the Theakston's Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. In 2020, A Dark Matter, the first in the series, was shortlisted for the McIlvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Novel of the Year and the Capital Crime Amazon Publishing Independent Voice Book of the Year award. Black Hearts (Book four), will be published in 2022. Several of his books have been bestsellers and award winners, and his work has been praised by the likes of Val McDermid, Irvine Welsh and Ian Rankin. He's taught creative writing and been writer in residence at various institutions, and has been an arts journalist for twenty years. Doug is a songwriter and musician with five albums and three EPs released, and he plays drums for the Fun Lovin' Crime Writers, a band of crime writers. He's also player-manager of the Scotland Writers Football Club. He lives in Edinburgh.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Johnstone, Doug

Leseproben

12 Dorothy
She loved playing with The Multiverse. That was the tongue-in-cheek name Hannah had given the band Dorothy was in, and they decided to keep it. Fifteen of them were crammed into the second-floor attic studio of Dorothy’s place, the heat from their exertions giving the air a sweaty glow.   By the open window were the ten members of the choir, organised by a local community group based in one of the churches on Holy Corner at the top of Morningside. Dorothy wasn’t religious, but a lot of good people used their beliefs to help people. Katy was one of life’s organisers – she met isolated refugee families through her work at a foodbank, and had corralled a gang of mostly young women from Syria, Afghanistan, Somalia, and latterly Ukraine, into singing together. And they were good, confident and strong when belting out in their second, third or fourth languages. The grins on their faces made Dorothy’s heart swell. The rest of the band had coalesced around Katy’s husband Will, a skilful guitarist across half a dozen genres. Young Zack was on bass, floppy fringe and teenage acne, his girlfriend Maria on piano and keyboard. Then there was Gillian, a lanky German multi-instrumentalist, who found the right flourishes of violin, trumpet or percussion, whatever was needed. And Dorothy on drums, of course. Dorothy checked the setlist at her feet. It was hard to define this band. Hannah described them to Indy as a gospel, blues, country-rock sideshow community revival, and Dorothy couldn’t think of anything better. The setlist had songs by Wilco, Low and Lambchop, but also the likes of Brittany Howard, Mavis Staples and Aretha Franklin. They’d worked out gospel-tinged versions of pop bangers by Katy Perry and Lorde, and would sometimes delve into the country-rock archive, like the next song. Dorothy counted them into ‘The Weight’ by The Band, a song that made her body ache for the California of her youth. She pictured walking along the shore of Pismo Beach with a pale-skinned Scottish boy on her arm who would become her life for five decades, the pair of them impossibly young, full of energy and promise. When you got to her age, it was easy to forget what it was like to be young and bursting with life. A lifetime ahead of you to create yourself. This song was perfect for The Multiverse with its message of sharing the load – especially if you’re half-past dead, travelling the world like some of this choir had done, looking for sanctuary and the kindness of strangers. It was simple drumming in the verses, straight fours on the snare, kick and hi-hat, small flourishes leading into the chorus where she could open up a little. But this wasn’t showy drumming, just about sitting in the pocket, riding the groove. The song was about camaraderie, playing a small part in a bigger whole. All music was like that to an extent, but drumming in particular. Doing just enough to lift things overall. Dorothy was here to support the choir as they sang about the load they carried. Christ, these people knew about carrying a load. She couldn’t begin to imagine what their lives were like before winding up in this sweaty loft making a racket. The overlapping vocals of the last chorus faded. They rattled through the riff four times and ended with a flourish, toms rolls and cymbals for Dorothy, ad-lib scales for the musicians, a single note from the choir, then silence. Dorothy shared a wide grin with everyone in the room. The door opened and Hannah spotted Dorothy. ‘The guy we spoke about is downstairs.’ It was the end of rehearsal, so Dorothy made excuses and followed Hannah downstairs. It always took ages to wrap up band practice, packing gear away, the choir hanging out rather than go back to their refuges, hostels or high-rise flats in housing schemes. Normally Dorothy liked to hang out too, share coffee and cake, listen to the hubbub of different languages, the hand gestures, body language. But she’d heard from Hannah and Indy earlier about someone crashing funerals, and she had an idea.   ‘Brodie Willis,’ Hannah said over her shoulder at the bottom of the stairs. She crossed to an unused viewing room. Dorothy touched Hannah’s arm. ‘And you don’t think it’s like Archie? He’s not ill?’ Hannah pressed her lips together. ‘I think he’s just grieving.’ They went in. Brodie had kind grey eyes, a lopsided smile. He wore a green hoodie and black joggers and was rubbing at the material. He had a flash of panic in his eyes and Dorothy imagined him bolting for the door. ‘Please sit,’ she said, then took the chair opposite. Soothing light in the room, ambient seascapes on the wall, a low coffee table with a box of tissues, a bouquet of carnations and roses adding colour. ‘I’m Dorothy.’ She held out her hand. His grip was firm and dry. ‘Brodie.’ He looked at his lap. Dorothy liked him. Instinct went a long way. She wasn’t always right, but had a good batting average. She leaned forward. ‘Hannah told me about this morning.’ Brodie glanced at her, then Hannah, then back at his lap. Dorothy held out her hands. ‘You’ve been to a few of our funerals recently, I hear.’ ‘I didn’t mean any disrespect, I just… ’ ‘It’s OK.’ The silence was loaded, like silence always is. Brodie pulled at his earlobe. Dorothy watched him, razor rash on his neck, brightly striped socks between joggers and trainers. He smelled of blossoms and nerves. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He started rocking in his seat. ‘You’re not in any trouble.’ Dorothy wanted to give him a hug. ‘And you don’t have to be here. But I have a feeling you want to talk.’ Brodie looked at Hannah, who smiled at him.   ‘You’re really her granddaughter?’ he said. Hannah nodded. Brodie rubbed his chin and looked around the room. ‘You don’t want to hear what I have to say.’ Dorothy angled her head to the side a little. ‘Of course we do.’ Brodie sighed and looked round the room again. Pulled his earlobe some more. ‘I had a son,’ he said eventually. ‘He was stillborn.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Dorothy said.   ‘This was months ago, it was… ’ His eyes welled up and he swallowed hard. ‘The thing is, everyone was great with Phoebe, that’s my girlfriend.’ He closed his eyes for a long time and breathed deeply. ‘Ex-girlfriend.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Her family were all there for her, shoulders to cry on. I felt lost but I wanted to help her too, make her feel better.’ Tears fell onto his knees. ‘But I couldn’t grieve, I had to be a man about it, keep it all together. Nobody ever asked how I felt. No one.’ Dorothy shifted her weight but didn’t speak. ‘We called him Jack. Had all these toys, a fucking cot and a buggy. As far as I know, that’s all still at her place.’ He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, voice a tremor. ‘Phoebe and I stopped talking, like, completely. I couldn’t stand to look at her, and she was the same with me. I moved out. I’m living in my fucking car. I lost my job, just stopped going in. I couldn’t sit at the desk and pretend everything was OK. I set up an email address for Jack, and I email him all the time.’ Dorothy thought of the wind phone outside, how she used it to speak to Jim, how their clients used it to speak to those they’d lost. Brodie sniffed and wiped his eyes, then turned to Hannah. ‘When you asked me if I was OK this morning… ’ He took a shaky breath, seemed like he might fall apart any second. ‘It’s just too much.’ He stuck his chin out, blinked, breathed out heavily. Straightened his shoulders and looked at Hannah then Dorothy.   ‘Sorry, I’ve never told anyone all this. It just came out.’ ‘Don’t apologise.’ Dorothy smiled. ‘Everyone needs someone to talk to.’ She recognised the despair, the loneliness of grief. She’d seen it a million times, but she’d also lived it now, felt it in her bones. ‘I have an idea.’ She looked at Hannah and thought about how Indy had come into her life. How Archie had come to work for them. Even Schrödinger. Her family of strays. ‘How would you like to work for us?’ Webster and Low sounded like a neighbourhood bakery rather than two detective sergeants. Dorothy took them in as they all settled in the interview room. Don Webster was the bigger of the two, slicked-back hair, blue eyes, gym-bunny pecs. Ben Low was taller and thinner, an overbite giving him a goofy demeanour. He slouched to hide...