[BOOK REVIEW] The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo @ClaireLombardo #TheMostFunWeEverHad

There’s something about family dramas/dysfunctional families that immediately catches my attention but even so I’m very picky because I prefer family dramas set during a longer period of time because I feel like they cover more ground and get more precise or dissect the family better. The Most Fun We Ever Had was that book, it ticked all of the boxes for me. Family life in itself isn’t that much fun but adding to it the ‘getting into the psyche of the characters’, discussing certain topics over decades is what makes it fascinating (at least to me). The Most Fun We Ever Had offers so much brain food with the topics it discusses (familial bonds, affairs, adoption etc) and that’s what I appreciated a lot.

The story revolves around Marilyn and David Sorenson and their four children. It goes from the present (2010s+) where we get to see an ‘arrival of a newcomer’ to the past (1970s+) where we get the story of Marilyn and David. The way Lombardo switches from past to present is gorgeous, she manages to keep us in the loop on all happenings which I appreciated while reading. The way Lombardo writes about siblings is so accurate and fascinating. While reading I highlighted many quotes and my copy is filled with sticky notes. The perception of children is something I was surprised to see in the book whilst reading and it’s something I loved because oftentimes we’re oblivious to how much information children absorb and how much of that information stays with them like a scar, etched in their brain. The main topic of the novel is love. Sibling love, spousal love, parental love. It all stems from Marilyn and David and it was so interesting reading about how their daughters lives are followed by their love. Each one is aware that Marilyn and David are something else, something special, that their love is something special. Their daughters are Wendy, a widow and a bit of a drunk, Liza, an educator who’s pregnant but not sure if the man she’s with is the right one, Violet, a retired litigator who has a new role as a housewife with two boys and Grace, a college-aged youngest daughter who hasn’t been telling the truth to her family. Lombardo presents the reader with a lot of information but does it in a way that isn’t overwhelming because you find yourself wanting to know that information, even more than what you’re presented with.

The novel as a whole works beautifully and presents the Sorensons in all their glory – their failures, hopes and more. I couldn’t stay away from the Sorensons because I always wanted to know more, to get another peek at their lives.

This review is a bit of a mess I believe so moral of the story – read it! If you love family dramas this is a MUST READ.

My rating:

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**I am in no way compensated by these sites. I am simply sharing it so people can find this book easier.

Claire Lombardo is a fiction writer, teacher, and Post-It enthusiast. Her debut novel, The Most Fun We Ever Had, was released in June 2019 and debuted on the New York Times Bestseller List. It has been translated or is forthcoming in over a dozen languages, and is currently being adapted for a series on HBO with Laura Dern and Amy Adams co-producing and Lombardo writing.

Claire is a 2017 graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and has been the recipient of an Iowa Arts Fellowship, a Sun Valley Writers’ Conference Fellowship, and a Key West Literary Seminar Scholarship. She has taught fiction writing at the University of Iowa and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. Her short fiction has appeared in or is forthcoming from, among others, Playboy, Barrelhouse Magazine, Little Fiction, and Longform. Her short story, “I Only Want to Talk About the Nice Things,” was one of 2016’s Best of the Net, and was #1 on Longform‘s 2015 fiction list.

Find her on: Website, Goodreads and Twitter.

[BOOK REVIEW] Schrödinger’s Dog by Martin Dumont transl. John Cullen @otherpress

Schrödinger’s Dog is Martin Dumont’s debut novel. Told in first person it follows Yanis, a cabdriver, who is a single parent to Pierre. In the early days when Pierre was younger his dad used to take him everywhere in his taxi and they had fun together – but the one thing they both love most  is diving. Their mutual love for diving is something they both come back to even now when Pierre is in his twenties. Yanis mostly works nights as a cabdriver so that he can have time to see his son during the day. Pierre has friends, he goes out and Yanis can’t always watch him carefully. Yanis and Pierre are great divers, Pierre (because of his age) is even better than Yanis and can last longer underwater. One day when diving Pierre complains that his back hurts and that they should stop – this is worrisome to Yanis because Pierre never complains when it comes to diving. From this moment on, Pierre begins to get worse and ends up in hospital. Yanis does his best to help his son, but at what cost?

Schrödinger’s Dog is a short book but a powerful one. The writing style in it is gorgeous so kudos to the translator! The chapters are relatively short so you can definitely read it in a few hours but the story inside is quite sad. I found Yanis to be so dedicated to helping his son and I loved that about him. I feel like his actions could be justified because if a person is brought into that situation they’d always do things to make their loved ones feel better. I really loved hearing Yanis talk about the times spent together with his son as well as Yanis’ descriptions of what diving means to him, how it transports him. Ah, that ending…

Definitely recommend.

I would like to thank the publisher (Other Press) for providing me with a review copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. All opinions expressed in this review are my own and weren’t influenced by the fact that I got this book from the publisher.

My rating:

Add ‘Schrödinger’s Dog‘ to your TBR: 

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**I am in no way compensated by these sites. I am simply sharing it so people can find this book easier.

Martin Dumont was born in Paris in 1988 and spent many years in Brittany, where he fell in love with the sea. In addition to writing, he works as a naval architect. Schrödinger’s Dog is his first novel.

John Cullen is the translator of many books from Spanish, French, German, and Italian, including Susanna Tamaro’s Follow Your Heart, Philippe Claudel’s Brodeck, Carla Guelfenbein’s In the Distance with You, Juli Zeh’s Empty Hearts, Patrick Modiano’s Villa Triste, and Kamel Daoud’s The Meursault Investigation. He lives on the Shoreline in southern Connecticut.

[BLOG TOUR: BOOK EXTRACT] Rules for Perfect Murders by Peter Swanson @FaberBooks @PeterSwanson3

Today is my stop on the RULES FOR PERFECT MURDERS blog tour! I am sharing with you a short extract of the book.

EXTRACT

The waiter was hovering, so we both ordered. Agent Mulvey got the eggs Florentine. I wasn’t hungry but ordered two poached eggs on toast, with fresh fruit on the side. After we ordered, she said, “This has me thinking about rules.” “What do you mean, ‘rules’?” “Okay,” she said, and thought for a moment. “If I was the one who had set myself this task…… this goal of committing the eight murders that you described in your list, then it would be helpful to set some guidelines. Some rules. Do you copy the murders exactly? Or the idea behind the murders? How similar do they have to be?” “So, you think the rules dictate that the murderer adheres as closely as possible to the actual murders in the book?” “No, not the details of the murders, but the philosophies behind them. It’s almost as though the murderer is testing these books in real life. If the idea was simply to mimic the books, then you could just shoot someone in a country house library and call it a day. Or, for the A.B.C. Murders, you’d actually copy them exactly. You know, nd someone named Abby Adams who lived in Acton and kill her first, et cetera. But it’s not just about that, it’s about doing them right. There are rules.”

What are your thoughts on the extract? Let me know in the comments!

Add ‘Rules for Perfect Murders‘ to your TBR:  

*Purchase ‘Rules for Perfect Murders‘ here:

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**I am in no way compensated by these sites. I am simply sharing it so people can find this book easier.

Peter Swanson is the author of four novels: The Girl With a Clock For a Heart, an LA Times Book Award finalist; The Kind Worth Killing, winner of the New England Society Book Award, and finalist for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger; Her Every Fear, an NPR book of the year; and his most recent, All the Beautiful Lies. His books have been translated into 30 languages, and his stories, poetry, and features have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, The Atlantic Monthly, Measure, The Guardian, The Strand Magazine, and Yankee Magazine. A graduate of Trinity College, the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, and Emerson College, he lives in Somerville, Massachusetts with his wife and cat.

Find him on: Website, Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.

[BLOG TOUR: BOOK EXTRACT] Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones #SilverSparrow @OneworldNews @tayari

I’m excited to share an extract of SILVER SPARROW by Tayari Jones with you all. I loved her book AN AMERICAN MARRIAGE + this one sounds so good!

EXTRACT

What are your thoughts on the extract? Let me know in the comments!

Add ‘Silver Sparrow‘ to your TBR:  

*Purchase ‘Silver Sparrow‘ here:

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**I am in no way compensated by these sites. I am simply sharing it so people can find this book easier.

Tayari Jones is the author of the novels Leaving Atlanta, The Untelling, Silver Sparrow, and An American Marriage (Algonquin Books, February 2018). Her writing has appeared in Tin House, The Believer, The New York Times, and Callaloo. A member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers, she has also been a recipient of the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, Lifetime Achievement Award in Fine Arts from the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation, United States Artist Fellowship, NEA Fellowship and Radcliffe Institute Bunting Fellowship. Silver Sparrow was named a #1 Indie Next Pick by booksellers in 2011, and the NEA added it to its Big Read Library of classics in 2016. Jones is a graduate of Spelman College, University of Iowa, and Arizona State University. She is currently an Associate Professor in the MFA program at Rutgers-Newark University.

Find her on: Website and Goodreads.

[BOOK EXTRACT] None the Wiser (Detective Mark Turpin #1) by Rachel Amphlett @rachelamphlett

Hello everyone! This is a new segment where I post a spotlight of a book and share an extract of it. I’ve been asked by the lovely author to share an extract which I expected gladly because I know many of you enjoy reading her books and love mystery/thriller books as well. This is the first book in the Detective Mark Turpin series. I hope you enjoy the extract!

EXTRACT

None the Wiser

(Detective Mark Turpin, book 1)

© Rachel Amphlett

Chapter 1

Seamus Carter dropped to his knees.

His voice was little more than a murmur, rising and falling with the rhythm of the prayer.

Exhaustion threatened, and he tried to take strength from the subtext, a momentary sense of calm easing the guilt that had gnawed away at him for days.He kept his eyes closed in meditation a while longer, savouring the tentative peace that enveloped him.

No-one would disturb him.

He was alone – the pub that stood on the other side of the boundary wall with his church had a live band playing tonight. He had heard the thumping bass line as he had been praying, and none of his parishioners were likely to visit at this time of night.

Easing himself from a kneeling position, he genuflected as he gazed up at the wooden crucifix above the altar, and then bowed his head in a final, silent prayer.

Seamus blinked, his trance-like state leaving him as soon as he moved away from the altar.

Despite his efforts, the self-loathing remained, and he scowled.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

He stomped along the aisle towards the vestry, reached into his pocket for a bubble pack of antacids, then popped and swallowed two.

His thoughts turned to the Sunday morning service, and the uplifting sermon he wasstruggling to write.

The events of the previous week had shaken him, and he needed to excuse his fear.

Addressing the congregation would be a tincture, a way to soothe the wound that had been opened.

Crossing the remaining length of the nave, he pushed through the door to his office and sank into the hard wooden chair at his desk. It faced the wall, a plain wooden cross above his head.

The room had no windows, which he preferred. The setting enabled him to meditate upon his words as he crafted carefully phrased sentences to spread the word of his God.

He tapped the trackpad on the laptop, and, as the screen blinked to life, he manoeuvred the cursor over the music app, selected a compilation of violin sonatas, and closed his eyes as the music washed over him.

He smiled.

Two years ago, the church cleaner had entered the room and emitted a sharp, shocked gasp at the loud trance music emanating from the computer. After he’d calmed her and tried to convince her that, often, his best sermons were written at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, she’d continued with her dusting, although she’d eyed him warily. He’d resisted the urge to educate her musical tastes further with the progressive rock of 1970s Pink Floyd.

Seamus read through the words he had typed an hour ago, and frowned. He deleted the last sentence, cracked his knuckles and then stabbed two fingers at the keyboard in an attempt to convey the thoughts that troubled him.

Perhaps in sharing his own foibles, he would find retribution.

The stack of paperwork at his elbow fluttered as a cold breeze slapped against the back of his neck, and he rubbed the skin, his eyes never leaving the screen.

He would check all the doors and windows before leaving tonight, but now he had found his flow, the sermon was almost complete.

A shuffling noise reached his ears before he became aware of someone standing behind him, a moment before a rope snaked around his neck.

Seamus lashed out in fear, shoving the chair backwards. Terror gripped him as the noose grew taut.

A gloved hand slapped his right ear, sending shards of pain into his skull, and he cried out in pain as his assailant moved into view.

Black mask, black sweatshirt, black jeans.

‘There’s money in the box in the filing cabinet over there. My wallet is in my trouser pocket.’

Before he could recover from the shock, his right wrist was fastened to the arm of the chair with a plastic tie.

His left fist flailed, then Seamus cried out as he was punched in the balls, all the air rushing from his lungs in one anguished gasp.

He panted as his left wrist was secured to the chair, and tried to focus his thoughts.

‘What do you want?’

The words dried on his lips as he heard the warble in his rasping voice, the unsteadiness that betrayed the lie.

Eyes glared at him from slits within a black hood, but no words came.

Instead, the figure moved behind him.

Bile rose in his throat as the rope tightened under his Adam’s apple.

‘Help!’

His cry was instinctive, desperate – and useless.

Restricted by the rope around his neck, his voice was little more than a croak, broken and shattered.

He twisted in his seat, nostrils flaring as he tugged at the ties that bound his wrists to the arms of the chair.

He couldn’t move.

He gagged, struggling to swallow.

Without warning, the rope jerked, forcing his chin towards the ceiling and burning his throat.

A single tear rolled over his cheek as a wetness formed between his legs, heat rising to his face while his attacker crouched at the back of the chair, securing the rope.

He had known it would come to this, one day.

The figure said nothing, and edged around his body, peering into his eyes before raising a knife to Seamus’s face.

A gloved hand gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth open as the priest panted for air.

The blade traced around each eye socket, millimetres away from his face.

I don’t want to die.

His eyes bulged as the knife moved to his cheek, his plea little more than a whimper.

Seamus gagged at the rope cutting into his neck, fighting against the pressure in his lungs.

I can’t breathe.

A searing pain tore into his tongue, slicing through sinew and tendons before the knife flashed in front of his eyes, blood dripping from the blade, and, as Seamus’s body convulsed, the figure before him began to speak.

‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…’

What do you think of it? Let me know below in the comments!

Add ‘None the Wiser‘ to your TBR:  

*Purchase ‘None the Wiser’ here:

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**I am in no way compensated by these sites. I am simply sharing it so people can find this book easier.

Before turning to writing, Rachel Amphlett played guitar in bands, worked as a film extra and freelanced in radio as a presenter and producer for the BBC. She now wields a pen instead of a plectrum and is a USA Todaybestselling author of crime fiction and spy thrillers, many of which have been translated worldwide. A keen traveller, Rachel holds both EU and Australian citizenship.

Find her on: Website, Twitter and Goodreads.

[BOOK EXTRACT] The Pharmacist by Justin David @Justin_Writer @InkandescentUK #ThePharmacist

I’m very excited to share with you today an extract of Justin David’s The Pharmacist! 

EXTRACT

At last, together in the same space, Billy drinks red wine with his new friend. It’s as if they have always known each other. In this short space of time, he’s learned that Albert’s favourite authors are Genet and Proust, that he never eats red meat on a Sunday and that he once had dinner with Dusty Springfield.

Billy stands in the open bay window where Albert had stood earlier. He wonders where Jamie could have got to. Maybe he’d had to work after all. This is happening more frequently since he started that blasted job at the Walter’s Gallery. He’s so good at his job, they just want more and more of him. The thought lingers at the back of his throat like a bit of dry bread until he washes it down with a zealous gulp of red wine.

Cradling the glass, he leans out into the sunshine, intermittently eyeing up a neighbour washing his car. The street is ablaze with gold and green—dappled sunlight pushing through the gaps in the foliage of the sycamores lining the street. Albert stands, holding the bottle of red wine. ‘Vada the bona dish on the omi-palone!’ he says, extending every vowel sound, curling his words like ornate calligraphy. He’s come to stand next to Billy, to stare down at the neighbour. The palm of Albert’s hand gently rests on his back, warmth spreading through the fabric of his vest. Billy turns and presses his arse against the windowsill. ‘Eh?’

Albert pours more wine into Billy’s almost empty glass. ‘I said, look at the rear end on that gorgeous queen.’ Albert puts the bottle down and gulps his wine.

It takes Billy a moment to register. ‘Ah, Polari. I haven’t heard that for ages,’ he says, but still feels a little bewildered. ‘Who?’

‘That guy next door.’ Albert nods his head towards the man in the street. ‘Don’t pretend. I saw you. Couldn’t take your eyes off him.’

Billy looks over his shoulder at the man who has dropped his sponge and now has his mobile phone clamped to the side of his face. He’s sneering and flaring his nostrils, looking busy. He takes lots of very quick, small steps, down the tree-lined street, shoulders pivoting forwards and backwards. After having been misled by an image of butch masculinity, this little display makes them both giggle. Billy turns back to see Albert smiling to himself, walking across the room to throw his hat on a coat stand. ‘Dolly capello, old fruit,’ Billy says, complimenting Albert on his hat. They both suddenly crack into laughter, surprised but united now, across the generation gap, by the ancient gentleman’s slang.

For a moment there’s a silence in which they stand looking at each other. ‘So, what do you do?’ Albert finally says.

The question makes Billy squirm. He ponders a second before announcing, ‘I’m an artist.’ He knows if he’s ever going to live the life he wants he must get used to defining himself so. It seems such an airy-fairy thing to say—not really a proper job.

‘I knew you had to be a painter. First time I met you, in the hall, I smelt the turps. Though, I suppose when I saw you loitering in the flower market, from the way you were dressed, I thought you might have owned one of those trendy art galleries on Columbia Road.’

‘You saw me?’ Billy acts surprised, but of course he knows that Albert had seen him that day. He covers a smile with his hand.

‘Oh come off it. You were watching me!’ Albert teases. ‘You even nodded at me.’ His eyes glint and his cheeks flush pink perhaps with the wine. ‘But didn’t you say you were on holiday, the other day?’

Billy explains that he works part-time for an arts trust.

‘Must be difficult,’ Albert says. ‘Working in an office as well as fitting in your creative activities.’

He’s relaxed, even though the old man continues to fire question after question at him. There seems nothing guarded about Albert. From the outside, who would guess they only just met?

Billy looks around the room. It’s a large space with bare floorboards and a thick rag rug in the middle. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves run along the left-hand side of the bay window. In front of the window there’s a tatty cream chaise longue, and in the corner, to the right, a writing bureau, on top of which sits an emerald green glass vase, containing eight bright pink gerberas. Billy counts each stalk and wonders if Albert has always chosen that colour.

‘I’m easing myself into the painting again,’ Billy says. ‘But no doubt just as I build enough momentum to work towards the next show, I’ll run out of money and be back to the grind.’

‘Got to stay positive, Billy. You’ll make it work.’

Billy continues to gaze around the room. In front of the bookshelves, there is a well-worn ox-blood leather Chesterfield and a standard lamp with a dusty cream shade. On a glass-topped coffee table sit a few books and a scattering of magazines. Some of them are pornographic, which strikes Billy as rather unusual. Is Albert too lazy to clear up, or is he making a statement?

‘But you’ll continue to paint?’

Billy nods. ‘Right! That’s enough,’ he says, flopping down onto the Chesterfield, halting further interrogation. ‘You’ve been quizzing me ever since I arrived. What about you?’

‘Me? I’m an open book. Not all that interesting, mind.’ Albert bites his bottom lip as if to feign shyness. ‘I am all your failed expectations in a man,’ he says sadly. Billy lifts the bottle of wine and Albert pushes his glass towards him. He pours two more glasses and Albert swallows almost half of his in one gulp.

‘Well, you must have a pretty pension to keep this place on. What did you do? I mean work-wise—for a living?’

‘Life doesn’t cost a lot now. There’s no mortgage on this place. But there are no savings and no pension either, only what I get from the state and that’s next to nothing. I’ve done some acting. Used to be a singer. All a blur now. I managed a very nice restaurant in Soho, once. But mainly, I just got by.’

‘Just got by?’ Billy questions. ‘I can hear the jangle of old money in your voice.’ 

‘Darling Boy!’ Albert says, pointing his finger. ‘You must not make assumptions about people based on the way they speak.’

‘I had you down as an aristocrat. Blue blood.’

‘We’re not all high fliers, Billy. I’m just a survivor.’

‘Well at least you have your home. How are you surviving?’     

Albert pauses in contemplation. Billy doesn’t know much about him, but he senses Albert is about to open up. ‘Billy, I hardly know you. But I feel we have a connection.’

‘Me too.’ Billy gives him a sexy little smile, confirming a mutual trust.

‘Okay, well if you can keep a secret…’

‘I thought you were an open book?’ Billy sits forward keenly.

‘Everyone has things that they keep to themselves.’ Albert slumps next to Billy on the Chesterfield and starts to talk, slurring his words a little. ‘I think it’s really important, at whatever cost, to be true to oneself. I hate spending my time in drag for other people’s convenience.’ Albert sloshes back more wine. ‘I mean drag in terms of putting on a performance. You know, like wearing a mask, covering up the self.

‘This is the way I see it. Most folks want to get married and have babies. So they have a baby, and they do everything they can to mould it, shape it, and dress it into what they think it should be. And they set this child on a path towards where they think it should be going.

‘You know, one is lucky if you grow up feeling comfortable being that person, being that shape, being on that path. And you can forget to think for yourself. One can get so far down that path with the job and the wife and the car, that before you know it, the whole process starts again, of making more babies to mould and shape, mould and shape… and oh…’ He pauses and swallows, then continues almost without drawing breath. ‘But for some of us, no matter how hard we try, we just don’t fit a particular shape. And we start thinking for ourselves. And we come to a fork in the road. And you just know you’ve got to make this choice, because when you’re different, if you wear those clothes and stay on that path, when you know you really should be somewhere else, then you’re just doing drag. Do you see what I’m talking about Billy?’

Billy is completely absorbed. ‘I think so. Yeah. But I don’t really understand what this has to do with money?’

‘Well, when you make that choice, when you take that fork in the road, you might have to turn around to your folks and say, ‘Yes, thanks for that. But no.’ With that, you’re on your own. Surviving means you might end up doing things you had never expected.’

Billy waits for a moment, expecting a punch line. ‘So come on then. What’s your secret?’

Albert turns to Billy and looks directly at him. ‘I’m in pharmaceuticals.’

Billy narrows his eyes at Albert.

‘You ever go dancing?’

‘God—all the time,’ Billy says.

‘You knowThe Palais? On Kingsland Road?’

‘Yeah. Been there lots of times. There’s a fantastic Trance night on Fridays.’

Albert’s eyes widen. ‘You’ve never seen me there?’

‘You?’

‘Yes, me, strangely enough! Old man in a Panama. Impossible to miss.’

‘No.’

‘I deal drugs in there.’

Billy feels his chin drop. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘Close your mouth, Billy. You look like you’re trying to catch flies.’ Albert swallows more wine.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s not hard, Billy. Every Friday night I go to The Palais and I sell drugs to the clubbers.’

‘What kind of drugs?’

‘What kind of drugs do you think? Coke, speed, pills. A little bit of acid sometimes, but mainly E’s.’

‘Albert… you’re an old man,’ Billy says.

‘Thank you for pointing that out.’

Billy rolls around, uncoiling in his place on the Chesterfield. ‘Well, of course—a very well-preserved old man,’ he giggles.

Albert smiles, his eyes sparkling, full of danger.

Billy sits quietly staring at him, pondering the old man for several minutes. Albert smiles back without complaint, until Billy asks, ‘What are E’s like?’

‘You mean you’ve never done one?’ Albert runs his fingers through silver hair.

‘Never done anything, except a bit of grass.’ Billy looks at the clock on Albert’s bureau. They have been chatting for hours. An empty bottle of wine stands on the coffee table and a second, half empty, is in Albert’s hand refilling Billy’s glass. The sunlight is changing. It’s lower now and passes through the window, causing Billy’s wine glass to sparkle like a giant ruby.

‘I thought you said you’d been to The Palaison a Friday night?’

‘I have, but I’ve never done an E.’

‘You? A man in his twenties, dancing around half-naked in The Palais, never done an E?’

Billy laughs. ‘Well, I suppose, in the past, my attention was mainly on my work. The students who did drugs at art college didn’t get first class degrees. It would have been no good, me doing drugs. I can’t even open a box of chocolates without finishing the lot.’

‘Ha. I see. But most people who hang out on the club scene, especially those of your age, have tried it at least once. Part of the territory.’

Billy shrugs. ‘Never been offered.’

‘Never lived.’ Albert chuckles and strokes Billy’s head.

Billy is alert like a boy on his first day of school. ‘Tell me what it’s like,’ he says, lightening the tone of his voice, playing innocent. He kicks off his trainers, falls back onto the sofa and breathes in sun-warmed leather.

‘Hard to say. Like nothing you’ve ever felt in your life. Like being in a dream state.’ Albert flutters his hands in the air, pretending to scatter fairy dust. When his hand drops, it falls casually onto Billy’s shoulder. Billy allows it to rest there.

‘Can’t you be more specific? Dream state? Call yourself a drug dealer?’

‘I’m an expert on all drugs,’ Albert says. He undoes the top buttons of his shirt and removes his cravat. For a man of his age, Billy notes, his skin is in very good condition—only a slight sagginess where one might expect to see a more developed dewlap. His strong jawline reminds Billy of Marlon Brando. ‘I’ve never ingested any substance without first knowing about all the highs and the side effects. But with E, the experience is slightly different for everyone. Generally, with ecstasy, it’s all about empathy. If people around you are enjoying themselves, chances are, you’ll pick up on that vibe.’

‘They make you feel horny, don’t they?’ Billy asks, still playing dumb.

‘Yes. There’s that too.’ Albert smiles.

A July breeze of warm air moves through the open window. Sounds float in from the street—birdsong, traffic, the wind through the trees.

‘What else? People die, don’t they?’

‘There are risks, I suppose, but really, the few deaths that have occurred have been the result of carelessness. Overheating, or else over-hydration and all that stuff.’

‘You trying to sell to me?’   

‘Darling Boy, I’m not a drug pusher. I sell to those who use them. If you want to try one, you are more than welcome.’

Billy is surprised by this suggestion. A man of his age, sitting around popping Es, seemed unconventional to say the least. ‘Don’t you worry about stuff?’

‘Like what?’ Albert says, clearing his throat.

‘Short-term memory loss. Alzheimer’s. You read things, don’t you?’

‘When you reach my state of decrepitude, you stop worrying. Look at me, I’m seventy. Nothing wrong with my memory. And, Darling Boy, for every brain cell that has died, a new door has opened to a magical world.’

There’s a wry twinkle in Albert’s eye. ‘People who do drugs always say stuff like that,’ Billy says, deliberately juvenile.

‘I’ve explored corners of my mind which would’ve been otherwise unreachable. It has helped me to recall events from my childhood with incredible clarity.’

‘What about the hard stuff? Done that?’

‘I’ve done everything,’ Albert says.

Billy rubs the insides of his legs in anticipation. ‘Everything?’

‘We live in a chemical world, Billy Monroe. Everyone needs some kind of medicine.’ Billy forgives him the use of his surname. It makes him feel like a pupil being addressed by a teacher but he knows that Albert is playing his game.

‘What for?’ Billy asks.

‘When I’m tired, I snort a little speed. When I’m restless, I have a bit of pot. And if I’m feeling stuck. I mean, if I feel troubled by something, I’ll smoke a bit of opium to help me get through it. If I can’t sleep, I slip a little something in my tea.’

‘Speed? When you’re tired?’

Albert shrugs. ‘From time to time. Gets the vacuuming done.’

‘Albert Power!’ There, switching roles—he’s equal now. ‘You must have a liver like a piece of leather.’ He sits forward, trembling.

Albert stands, moves to the writing bureau, pulls open the front and lifts out a tiny bag of white tablets, shaking out a handful before disappearing through a beaded curtain into the kitchen. A moment later, he returns with two pint glasses of water and sits down next to Billy. Albert places his hand over the table and lets the tablets fall onto the glass surface. For a moment, Billy looks at them. Then he leans and picks one up, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger and examines its tiny logo.

‘Mitsubishi. Bona doobs!’

‘Eh?’ Billy misses the slang again.

‘Don’t you know your Polari, Darling Boy? Doobs. Drugs. These are good ones. Pure MDMA. Lovely trip.’

Billy’s mobile phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to read the text message. It’s from Jamie.

Really sorry, Billy. Had to work late.

I’m not going to make it.

Billy frowns and stuffs the phone back in his jeans.

‘Problem?’ Albert asks.

‘Not at all.’ He smiles coyly, puts the pill to his mouth, lets it touch his tongue. ‘It tastes bitter,’ he says, pulling a face.

‘Swallow it.’

The glass of water trembles in Billy’s hands. Albert swallows his pill and smiles. ‘See? Not dead yet.’

What do you think of it? Let me know below in the comments!

The Pharmacist is available from Amazon, Gay’s the Word & www.inkandescent.co.uk 

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Justin David is a writer and photographer. A child of Wolverhampton, he has lived and worked in East London for most of his adult life. He graduated from the MA Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths, University of London, has read at Paul Burston’s literary salon, Polari at Royal Festival Hall, and is a founder member of Leather Lane Writers. His writing has appeared in many print and online anthologies and his debut novella was published by Salt as part of their Modern Dreams series.

Justin is one half of Inkandescent–a new publishing venture with his partner, Nathan Evans. Their first offering, Threads, featuring Nathan’s poetry and Justin’s photography, was long-listed for the Polari First Book Prize. It was supported using public funding by Arts Council England and is available in paperback and ebook.

Find him on: Website, Twitter and Goodreads.