Incunabulum by Carol McKay - a review

You wake up one morning and everyone is dead. Society has broken down and it’s up to you and a handful of survivors to try to keep the human race going – and to stay human. This is the premise of Carol McKay’s excellent post-apocalyptic novel Incunabulum. It has to be said that McKay is way ahead of the screeds of Covid-related analysis that will inevitably hit the bookshelves in the coming months. Incunabulum has roots that go back to 2007 – the first section of the book was longlisted for the Daily Telegraph Novel In A Year competition, and subsequently published in the newspaper. The novel itself came out early last year. McKay has said that she regards this as a ‘women’s book’. I don’t quite understand what she means by that. Certainly, the protagonist is a woman and it is through her eyes that the story unfolds. But does this make it a book for women? I think not. I do think, however, that McKay’s writing flows beautifully throughout. The main question raised concerns her choice of how a post-apocalyptic society would set about organising itself. This isn’t a criticism, and I won’t give any spoilers, but I guess a few readers might take issue with the proto-society McKay imagines. Others – myself included – will conclude that she hits the nail squarely on the head. The fact that the book raises so many questions is one of its strongest points. Seriously, what would happen if everything went back to zero and we had to start again? Who would be in charge, who would forage for food (and weapons), who would look after the children? Delve into the pages of Incunabulum and you just might find out.

Incunabulum by Carol McKay is published by The PotHole Press

South Shore Road by Andrew McCallum Crawford published by Clochoderick Press

South Shore Road

He’s a good laddie. I never see him. I wish I did.

The living room was pitch black. He pulled his legs off the couch and unzipped the sleeping bag. Although he was still dressed, he started to shiver immediately. No heating, he’d had the gas cut off. He was thinking about doing the same with the electricity, but that would have to wait. Scotland was about to shut down for two days. Out with the old and in with the new. But what if someone wanted to see the house? Wouldn’t they need electricity? He had no idea how these things worked.

Awake for less than a minute and already the thoughts were overwhelming.

*   *   *

South Shore Road has been published by Clochoderick Press in their magazine Laldy!, which can be purchased here.

Three stories published by Interlitq

Three of my short stories, Ichneumon eumerus, Dunfermline Bus Station, 196- and Admissions have been published by Interlitq this month. Do click on the links to go to the stories. Writing has its ups and downs, but it's finding an audience that's the hard part.

Ichneumon eumerus by Andrew McCallum Crawford published by Interlitq - The International Literary Quarterly

Ichneumon eumerus

  

Mindy was fifty-four years old and had never achieved anything on her own. She knew she was being hard on herself; she had a good job in middle-management and had married well. In other words, she lived in a big house with a husband and two lovely children. However, at work she was no more than a cog in a wheel, and marriage by definition is a partnership, a joint venture. It wasn’t her work or domestic arrangements that were on her mind. She had always been a follower, a hanger-on. This was before she got married, when she was single and playing the field. She wanted to do so many things, music, art, writing, but she never had the courage to strike out and achieve something in her own right or through her own efforts. Something had happened recently, however, and she had found herself thinking about her past, a moment when someone had spoken badly to her. That was what she thought, anyway. Memory is a strange thing; she couldn’t even remember the words that had been used, not clearly. Perhaps it was merely a thought in her head. Things get conflated, especially when you try to remember them from a lifetime ago...

*     *     *

To read the story, go to the Interlitq website.

When Iron Turns To Rust

Trying to boil water in a small, long-handled pot. The flame was tiny, sputtering. There was hardly any gas left in the canister. The water had to be boiled, and boiled well. It was orange, the colour of old iron. He tried to tell himself it was nothing bad. There is nothing harmful about iron. It is supposed to be good for the blood. Maybe it would make a man of him. But he was careful. You never knew. Germs. It is never wise to give them a head start.

The flame wheezed. He would have to risk it. He added a teaspoon of coffee and stirred vigorously. Perhaps friction would speed things along.

Someone was at the door.

He wiped the spoon on his vest.

A woman was standing out in the passageway. She looked vaguely familiar. The expression she wore was tearful, apologetic. A suitcase was at her side. He became aware of his heart beating as vague familiarity welled up into something else.

‘You can’t be fucking serious,’ he said.

‘Bastard,’ she said. She leaned to pick up the case, but he got there before her, a real gentleman.

He squared the sheet on the bed. He made it last longer than necessary, tucking the corners in just so. He could feel her standing behind him, next to the sink, taking in the state of the place.

The canister gave a final pop. The flame died.

‘I’d make you a coffee,’ he said. ‘But, eh...’

‘No, fine,’ she said. ‘I’m not...can I sit down?’ She wasn’t asking for permission. There were no chairs in the room. There was nothing in the room apart from the bed and the wardrobe. The toilet was on the other side of a threadbare curtain. All mod cons. He reached out onto the balcony for the stool, which was filthy, the result of prolonged rain followed by a heat wave. She lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress.

He wasn’t good at small talk. He wasn’t good at confrontations, either. This one was of his own making. Not just his. They’d concocted this situation between them. It had been a long time coming. He sat on the stool, his knees up around his chin. It was ridiculous. He tried to read her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him. The grate over the drain in the middle of the floor had her transfixed.

‘Look at me,’ he said.

She did.

‘What happened?’ he said.

‘Are you still writing?’ she said. She wanted to get down to it. Of course she did. ‘I haven’t read about myself for a while.’

‘No, I gave it up,’ he said. ‘It was causing too many problems.’

‘Yes, tell me about it,’ she said.

He hadn’t meant it like that. It was true, though. That was the problem.

‘So I’m no longer your Muse?’ she said. ‘No, hang on, how does it go? That’s right, I’m the oxygen that breathes life into your words.’

‘Sarcasm was never your strong point,’ he said. ‘How are your kids?’ He was relieved to note she hadn’t brought them with her.

‘They’re at my mum’s,’ she said. She looked at the drain. A cockroach scurried out of the grate and stopped, its antennae gyrating, next to her left shoe. It about-turned and scurried back again. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘So, what happened?’ he said.

She splayed her fingers in her lap. Some of her nails were broken. The skin around all of them was chewed. She looked at him. She looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were dull, like neglected emeralds. ‘He found out,’ she said.

He knew all about jealous spouses. Well, one. He didn’t blame his wife for reacting the way she had. So much deceit, all those years of trust being cunningly, methodically, mathematically chipped away. Secrets cease to be secret, sooner or later. You have to deal with the consequences. Not that he had wanted to leave. He had been thrown out, quite literally. His wife’s cousins were large fellows impervious to his whining. And here he was languishing in this dump, skint, but at least he was safe. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he said.

‘You emailed me months ago,’ she said. ‘When you moved in here. Then you disappeared. Have you given up the Internet as well?’

He’d been offline for a while. Had it been months? The laptop was out of sight, under the bed, probably covered in dust and worse. He used to get a signal through the wall, but they had wised up to it and put a lock on. He couldn’t afford an hour down the cafe, never mind his own connection.

‘Strange, that,’ she said. ‘Giving me your address. Very old-fashioned.’

‘I wanted you to send me flowers to brighten the place up,’ he said, lamely. There was only one reason for telling her where he lived. He was sitting looking at it. ‘How did he...I mean, what did he...’

‘He didn’t speak to me. He went out and came home drunk. He started shouting, breaking things. I dressed the kids and took them to my mum’s. I haven’t been back to the house since. He’s okay, though, if a bit hysterical, judging by the texts he’s been...’

‘So you decided to jump on a plane and come to me?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mad, eh?’

He looked at the drain. ‘I can’t help feeling responsible,’ he said.

‘You don’t say!’

‘Let’s not argue,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got the energy, believe me.’

‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. He couldn’t help himself. ‘So do you.’

She started crying, quietly.

He scratched the side of his face. ‘I haven’t eaten since Tuesday,’ he said.

Her fingers, blunt claws, started opening and closing as if she were trying to grab something to stop it getting away. What it was, he had no idea. It certainly wasn’t her dignity. She’d lost the last vestiges of that when she knocked on his door. She clenched her fists tight. He heard something break. He could have been mistaken. ‘God, what am I doing?’ she said. ‘You are so selfish.’

‘I know,’ he said.

She took a tissue from her pocket. Her nose. That way she had. Still the same. Delicate, but effective. ‘Could we go for a walk?’ she said.

It was an idea.

‘I’ll need to get changed first,’ she said. She hoisted the suitcase onto the bed. The lid flapped open. A pair of jeans. A white blouse with red roses. It looked new, the way it was folded. He should have given her some privacy, but where could he go? He leaned against the wall and rubbed the stain on his vest. It was damp. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched her undress. He wished it was. He wanted to feel something, he really did, but there was nothing sexual in the white cotton and naked skin. It was almost unreal, he was standing outside himself, watching these two desperate characters playing a scene; an excerpt from the jaded routine of married life.

His mouth made a sound.

She turned to face him. A challenge. Look at me. Look at all of me. He tried not to stare. Her breasts hung heavy, overripe, a vertical crease of wrinkles between them. His heart. His hand moved to his chest. Whatever dream he’d written her into, whatever it was they had shared, its time had come and gone years ago.

A crack like a gunshot as she pushed an arm through the sleeve of her blouse. ‘You’re some piece of work,’ she said.

‘What is it you want from me, for Christ’s sake?’ he said.

‘Don’t you dare shout,’ she said. ‘I can tell by the look on your face. Think about all those things you wrote.’

‘They’re just stories,’ he said. ‘I told you that.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’re a liar.’

She was right. For him, the line between fiction and confession was so fine it didn’t exist. He was fooling no one, not even himself.

‘Okay, I’m a liar,’ he said. ‘My wife could tell you all about it. But I never lied to you. Not once. Call it misplaced loyalty. If it’s the truth you want, look around you. There’s mould on the ceiling and bugs crawling out the floor. That’s the truth. That’s my truth. You’re welcome to it.’

She sat on the bed and stared at the grate. The cockroach had taken cover. Perhaps all the noise had given it stage fright. ‘I want it to be like it was,’ she said. Her words were measured. Controlled. As if she’d practised them. ‘I want to feel wanted, not owned. I want you. Most of all...’ She was struggling. ‘I want you to leave me alone.’

‘I didn’t ask you to come here,’ he said.

She buried her face in her hands. She was crying again. This time she meant it. ‘Yes, you did!’ she said.

He remembered a tumbler in the cupboard over the sink. It was still there. He held it close to the tap, which spat orange liquid, as he knew it would. What happens when two things, two good things, are attracted? Sometimes they make something bad. Iron is good for the blood, and oxygen is good for everything else. But when you put them together all you get is rust.

Water came into the equation somewhere. Offering her a glass of it was more than he was capable of.

‘I’m sick of this place,’ he said. She was climbing into her jeans. He pulled the curtain closed and used the toilet. She was waiting for him when he came out. Her perfume. He followed her down the passageway, all the way to the lift. There was a place he knew. Coffee and rolls. He hoped she had money.

* * * * *

I read this story at the Waterstones Sauchiehall Street Truth or Lies event in June, 2017. It first appeared in Northwords Now in 2012.

Limerence - published at Ink Sweat and Tears

Limerence

They met in the aisle between the lentils and the tomato puree. It was a chance encounter; nothing had been planned...

To read the complete story, go to Ink Sweat and Tears. 

Retreat by Andrew McCallum Crawford - published in Under The Fable

Retreat

Staring at the wall. It was so close he could have touched it. Plasterboard painted light orange, brush marks, streaks, although you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t looking closely, if you weren’t examining it. Then the angle where it met the other wall, the corner. He could have touched that, too. Was this why he came here, to stare at walls and the corners they form? The sheet of paper on the desk. He had decided to do it the old way, longhand, but all he had managed was half a page. It wasn’t good. He knew the importance of making a start, and the flow of words that would inevitably follow – he wasn’t a beginner – but he couldn’t get his head into it. He couldn’t get his head into it because his head was somewhere else. His head was miles away, hundreds of them, where his body should have been...

To read the rest of the story, go to Under The Fable

The night Large One, Derrick played The Clatrell Leisure Suite, Falkirk - from a work in progress

By the time Large One, Derrick came on, the place was heaving. It had nothing to do with Large One, Derrick. The word was out that Shug Skinner was back in town.

‘HE-LLO FAW-KURT!’ Mooney bellowed into the microphone.

‘Freak!’ someone shouted.

‘I shagged your maw!’ shouted someone else. It was one of the Drive! fans, even though Drive! had already left the building.

‘I’d drink your pish!’ squeaked a wee lassie down the front. She’d been on the light box earlier.

Grant thumped out the tempo with a pair of brushes. He looked uncomfortable; he was trying to avoid the spray coming at him off the snare. Then Mooney came in on the guitar, and Stark on the fiddle. It sounded like The Dubliners meets Rising Damp. But nobody cared what it sounded like, not even the Posse. It was backing music for Shug. He didn’t, after all, have a clue about the lights, but he was a great dancer. He was swaying alone in the middle of the floor, cradling the syringe like it was his own true love. He danced expressively, almost balletically, pushing the hunk of metal away then drawing it closer, as if he couldn’t bear to let it go. It was quite a performance, Dug had to admit; Shug remained focussed even through Stark’s countless bum notes.

The applause was loud.

‘I! THANK! YOU!’ Mooney boomed. He pretended to tune his guitar till the noise died down. Then he stepped back to the mike. ‘This yin’s for my auld dear!’ he said. ‘It’s called The Slag!’ No one was listening. Shug was getting his photo taken with his fans. He’d be in the Herald next week. Again. Mooney turned to his brother. ‘Can ye no get this baldy fucker to sit down?’ he said.

There was a sudden ruckus at the door. Three men barged in. They looked identical: receding hairlines, bloodstained white T-shirts and arms like thighs. Dug found himself thinking of butchers, which was apt. It was the Bell Brothers. Their wee sister was with them, crying, getting dragged along by the wrist.

‘Where’s this Derrick Mooney cunt?’ shouted the largest brother. The meat cleaver he was wielding had bits of mince hanging off it. Shug shot a glance at Dug, who immediately pointed at the stage.

‘IT’S THE SINGER!’ Shug shouted, and led the charge. Grant scarpered. So did Stark. Mooney tried to vault the drums, but got his feet caught in the snare. He managed to get up before they reached him, though, his guitar banging off the walls as he legged it out the fire escape. The Bell Brothers kicked the drums out of the way, dragging their wee sister behind them.

Clatrell lost no time picking the microphone off the floor. ‘Anybody for a wee bit Rapper’s Delight?’ he said.

The joint was soon pulsating, The Posse, the whole lot of them, keening like a flock of Hasidic pigeons. Dug ordered another beer. He watched the remaining Drive! fans sink their pints and leave. Shug Skinner poked his head through the fire door. He walked straight up to Dug. ‘Nurse Buckle hasnae been in, has she?’ he said.

‘Eh,’ said Dug. ‘Don’t think so. Are you expecting her?’

‘Ye could say that,’ said Shug, and inserted his needle into the leg of his overalls. ‘I’m no really supposed to be out. Keep it to yerself, though!’

‘Got you,’ said Dug, and watched his new friend disappear through the back of the stage.

Half an hour later, Grant sloped in, followed by Stark.

‘Drink?’ said Dug.

‘Give us a hand with the stuff, will you?’ said Stark.

Stark’s car was parked round the back, next to a white Saab with a meat cleaver embedded in the bonnet. They laid the drums carefully in the back; the newspapers were already spread out. They had to leave the tailgate open – Grant’s bass drum was large. Dug was about to climb in when Mooney shoved past him. ‘Come on, youse,’ he said. ‘Handers. I want my money.’

They followed him through the back door of the pub, into the kitchen. It wasn’t long before the argument was in full flow.

‘Aye ye’re fucking right ye’ll be paying me!’ Mooney said. He was hyperventilating. His guitar was hanging off his shoulder, machine gun style. A few of the strings were broken. It was obvious the Bell Brothers hadn’t caught up with him.

Clatrell stuck his ladle into a pot and stirred. The bass line was thudding through the wall. ‘See this soup?’ he said.

Mooney was shaking with anger. ‘What about it?’ he said. There were bits of meat and carrot floating on the surface, just visible through the steam.

‘If ye don’t change yer tune,’ said Clatrell, ‘ye’ll be fucking wearing it.’

‘Whhhh?’

‘This is my Friday Night Delight,’ he continued. ‘Fuck the idiots through there in their baseball caps. Mutton broth, the kind of soup that sticks to yer ribs, and other parts of yer body, if ye get my drift. And ye know something else? I don’t need mouthy twats like you spoiling it.’

‘Fuck yer soup,’ said Mooney. ‘You booked us...’

‘You cheeky monkey,’ said Clatrell, and scooped a load into a bowl. ‘You’re asking me for money? Ye owe me five hunner quid for the fire door – mind you, you were too busy legging it down the road to see the Bell Brothers tearing it off its hinges. And ye can’t have missed the hatchet sticking out the bonnet of my new car.’

It was a case of mistaken identity. Stark coughed. ‘There’s a good panel beater in Denny...’ he offered.

‘What?’ said Grant. ‘Dalrymple Bash ’n’ Dash? They’ve been on strike since June.’

‘Eh?’ said Stark. He was blushing. ‘I didn’t know...’

Clatrell parked himself at the table and tore a hunk of bread off a loaf. ‘Stark,’ he said. ‘Get the Mooney contingent out of my sight. I can’t eat when there’s pricks like that watching me. Fancy a plate of soup, Dug? There’s plenty in the pot for folk with jobs.’

Perseids

Flat on my back
in a Surrey hayfield.
She's got me
where she wants me
she thinks.

Over her shoulder,
a shooting star
sears the face
of a harvest moon.

Strip The Willow on Ink Sweat and Tears

Strip The Willow

I want to watch. I want to watch you dance with me, and we are the perfect couple. Synchronised. Fiddles and accordions...

Read the rest of the story on Ink Sweat and Tears