Monthly Archives: December 2013

“Outstanding” Guardian readers pick The Mandate of Heaven by Tim Murgatroyd as one of their top books of 2013

From Lionel Shriver’s Big Brother to Jim Crace’s Harvest, and from Ruth Rendell’s No Man’s Nightingale to Iain Banks’ The Quarry, Guardian readers pick their favourite reads of 2013.

Below is the review from Bob Horne based in West Yorkshire.

The Mandate of Heaven by Tim Murgatroyd (Myrmidon) completes an epic trilogy of conflict, culture and passion in medieval China as the brutal Mongol occupation of the Middle Kingdom threatens civilised ancient tradition. Its imagery is gently poetic and complements the robustness of the narrative. Far away in time and space; contemporary in issues, character and relationships. Outstanding.

For the full list of reviews please click here.

Myrmidon to republish two original classic accounts by prisoners of war on the River Kwai Railway

Railroad of DeathMyrmidon has acquired the rights to two original accounts by British Second World War prisoners of the Japanese who worked on the famous ‘River Kwai’ Railway, the subject of the film The Railway Man due to be released in cinemas next year.

Railroad of Death is the original classic account of the construction of the Burma Railway by John Coast, then a young officer in the Norfolk Regiment who wrote his original manuscript on the voyage home. Railroad of Death was a 1946 bestseller and provided inspiration for the film Bridge over the River Kwai and a groundbreaking 1969 BBC documentary Return to the River Kwai. Incorporating Coast’s 1969 interviews for the BBC with his Japanese captors as well as an introduction putting Coast’s experiences into context, Railroad of Death will be published in paperback and ebook in May 2014.

In November 2014 Myrmidon will republish And The Dawn Came Up Like Thunder by Leo Rawlings in hardback and ebook. An artist before the war, Rawlings drew what he witnessed around him as a prisoner of the Japanese, leading him to be unofficially commissioned after his capture to keep a visual record of the prisoners lives. The new edition will include pictures never before published as well as new commentary on Rawlings’ experiences by Dr Nigel Stanley an expert on Rawlings and the medical problems faced on the Burma Railway.

Associate Editor Justin Nash who acquired the rights directly from the families for Myrmidon said, “Both are classics steeped in humanity and crying out to be brought back to the wide audience the books previously had and deserve. Railroad of Death by John Coast was the first and the best account of the camps on the Burma Railway. It also documents the fight of a group of young officers for survival against the Japanese and frustration with the old guard of senior officers who ran the British end of the camps. And The Dawn Came Up Like Thunder by Leo Rawlings is both fascinating and unique. His eyewitness drawings and paintings vividly and uncompromisingly bring to life the diseases, hardships and other sufferings of the prisoners of war.”

The books are to be the first in a range of publications of witness testimony from ordinary soldiers from all sides in the great conflicts of the 20th century and Myrmidon are actively seeking both unpublished war diaries and classic accounts that may now be out of print.

An extract from ‘The Matron’

The MatronThe matron’s room is conveniently situated next to the sick bay.

Mr Paine, the assistant housemaster who showed me around the school this afternoon, had opened the door, and a nauseating combination of sweet perfume, smoke and death emanated, catching at my chest. Mr Paine told me with a shake of his angular head that my predecessor had died suddenly, soon after watching a closely contested rugby match on the main field. He informed me with an air almost of reverence that she had followed the game keenly.

It would not be wise, I’d thought, to confess that I find rugby puzzling.

Entering my new bedroom, I was relieved to see my suitcase, which had earlier been whisked away from my taxi by the garden boy, lying across the chair. I’d had no reason to believe it was not in safe hands; my relief was entirely due to encountering a pocket of familiarity in a terrifyingly strange landscape. The brown and battered holdall, which had belonged to my father whose work took him all over Africa, was waiting patiently for me. Mr Paine stood fidgeting at the door, closely examining the architrave as I took in my new abode. That suits me. I don’t want his prying eyes inside.

I will have to wash the yellow paisley curtains and the bed covers and get someone to help me carry the carpet downstairs for a good beating. It can’t be too difficult to expurgate death, surely. Yet it took two deaths to bring me here – two! How long, Lord, till You send death for me?

It has not escaped my attention that Mummy’s passing away and my changed circumstances have arrived soon after the time of the year that we honour Your crucifixion, Lord. How much more difficult were Your trials on this earth! Mine are nothing in comparison, so I will stop complaining.

On reflection, it seems a bit harsh to remove immediately all signs of the previous matron, poor thing.

Mr Paine could not contain himself any longer and announced that he was required elsewhere, saying I should present myself at six-twenty sharp at the north entrance of the dining hall where he would introduce me to the other housemasters, Mr Talbot and Mr Leighton, before dinner. I was relieved to see him stalk off on his thin legs; at the same time, I became aware of a further constriction in my chest at being abandoned to my fate. Mercifully, I have my asthma pump for such circumstances, and this journal for comfort, and, of course, You, God.

The room is tiny and painted with the same nauseating enamel green as the sick bay. I note that there is no bookcase, which will have to be remedied shortly, as my books will arrive on Wednesday. There is a bedside table and cupboard containing a few wire hangers that jangled forlornly as I hung up my coat, and a small table at which I am now seated with a rather grimy kettle on top. I have no need of further kitchen paraphernalia, Mr Paine told me as we walked past the dining hall earlier; I am expected to take my meals with the boys as part of my duties.

Once he had gone, I tried out the mattress, which sighed into the shape of the previous owner, exhaling more smoke to catch at my throat. I fear it will also bring nightmares and backache.

There is a consolation, though. From here, where I am sitting, I can see a goodly slice of my beloved mountain framed by the sash window. It is saturated today with the blue and lilac hues of early winter, with clouds curdled round the peak. This view will be an endless source of inspiration if I can find space in this small room for my paints. The lack of space is aggravated by there being two doors to this room, one that leads into the sick bay, and one into the corridor. I do not like this arrangement; it makes me feel as though I could be attacked simultaneously from two sides. I will ask permission to keep one of them locked.

Below the window, I can hear the incessant tumult of young male voices. This is my new and only home.

Recently, my eyes simply won’t stop leaking.

*

It is with much trepidation that I begin this new life, and with it, this journal. I have not attempted such a record for decades, not since I was a girl. Yet I find myself alone at this table with a pen in my hand and an exercise book in front of me, hoping that these scribblings can help me. This, and also my watercolours, albeit in different ways.

I am the kind of person life happens to. It might appear that I chose to come here, but it wasn’t so. Mummy died, leaving me unexpectedly with no roof over my head because of an unfortunate debt of which I had no prior knowledge. Phoebe came down for the funeral, and happened upon an advert for this position that had miraculously become available. I am fated. God plants my every step.

The irony is that Mummy could not abide the rich, and warned against their pernicious company, yet because of her death I have arrived, hat in hand, at their doorstep. I will, however, take due precautions. Mummy was right in that money is a potential corrupter, particularly in combination with idleness. She need not fear, however, as in this position on my current salary, I will not be susceptible to the vices of the wealthy!

I have a carbon copy of my letter of application, stuck into the back of this journal. Phoebe looked it over before I sent it. She says I have a good handwriting, but I think the loops come out too childishly.

 Dear Mr Talbot,

I would like to apply for your advertised position of Matron. I do not have experience directly in the field, but I was a student nurse for a few months after my schooling. Unfortunately, I had to leave before obtaining my diploma as my mother was ill. Thereafter I worked in Mr Lawson’s pharmacy situated in the Main Road for many years; thus I have a knowledge of routine medicines. An aspect of my employment was to attend to people who needed their dressings changed or their blood pressure taken. I have a good manner with people. Mr Lawson’s kind reference is enclosed.

My hobbies are reading and walking. I am in good health, although occasionally troubled by minor episodes of asthma. I am a practising Anglican; Father Evans’s reference is also appended.

I hope very much that you will grant me an interview.

It would be an honour to be associated with your prestigious school.

Yours faithfully,

Phyllis Wilds

© Dawn Garisch 2009

An extract from the ‘Mandate of Heaven’

The Mandate of Heavenone

.

Hard ground loomed below the high boundary wall. Yun Shu dangled in mid-air, her legs tensed for a fall. Giggling made her wobble. It was like being a fly in a spider’s web, except the threads holding her were friendly: Teng gripping one wrist, Hsiung the other.

Faster!’ she cried, swinging back and forth. Trees and ponds and walls in the ancient garden blurred.

Jump!’ urged Teng, his almond eyes wide and earnest.

Can’t hear you!’

You’re too heavy,’ said Teng, ‘you’ll hurt yourself!’

I like it!’

We’ll drop you,’ grunted Hsiung, though he was strong enough to swing her by himself. Then he let go. See-sawing wildly, Yun Shu clutched Teng’s hand until he, too, released his hold. She landed with an outraged shriek. The boys hooted as she rose, brushing twigs from her skirt. Two tousled heads vanished over the wall and their laughter faded into the trees.

Yun Shu took a moment to adjust to the silent garden. Earlier she had stalked crickets in dusty lanes, free to exclaim or sing or caper whenever she chose. At home different rules applied, like stepping from sunlight into a cold, bare room.

She glanced around for spies, aware she had been careless to make such noise. Golden Lotus hated noise, and while it might be tolerated from Yun Shu’s older brothers, a girl should never draw attention to herself.

Wandering up the path, shoulders hunched, she did not notice the very object of her fears swaying towards her on exquisite, tiny feet – every step displaying the elegance and power of a lotus gait.

Yun Shu!’

The willowy creature’s make-up was a flawless white mask. Silver and jade hairpieces drew the eye to shiny coils of silken black hair and a figure as neat and pleasing as any fine lady’s. The girl became conscious of her plump legs and unshapely body, her ridiculously long eyelashes and puppy eyes; most of all, her black hair that never combed obediently or stayed in its bun.

Why are you scowling?’ demanded Golden Lotus, in a high, singsong voice. ‘How many times must I tell you? Smile and glide! Smile and glide as I do.’

Yun Shu bowed very low – she knew what happened otherwise.

Youngest Daughter,’ continued Golden Lotus, ‘Honoured Father wishes to converse with you.’

A flicker of fear. Golden Lotus didn’t use cultured words like converse, it must have come from Father himself. But the Provincial High Minister of Salt seldom noticed his daughter, let alone spoke to her.

She followed the swaying young man into the ancient mansion they occupied on Monkey Hat Hill. The area had a reputation as a haunt of scholars and other potential rebels. They passed tiny courtyards with neat gardens and closed doors; venerable corridors gleaming with wax and polish. Golden Lotus’s four inch slippers squeaked slightly as he shuffled along.

He led the girl to Father’s bureau, propelling her into the long room. At once Yun Shu started bowing. She knelt on the floor before Father’s writing table. Salt Minister Gui, a pale, gloomy man with a wispy beard, somehow managed to both notice and ignore his daughter. An abacus clicked in his meaty hands, beads flying from side to side.

Five thousand and sixty-three taels,’ he muttered to himself.

Twenty one thousand b-blocks at s-seventy-two cash.’

Golden Lotus remained by the door, cooling himself with a fan.

It was the first time Yun Shu had been invited into the bureau, though far from her first visit. She sometimes stole there when Father was away on official business – which was often – to read old books and scrolls.

Ah,’ he said, at last. ‘Good!’

His eye crept down to a letter he had been reading when she entered. Yun Shu pressed her forehead to the varnished floor.

Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat. He peered at her as one might at a dubious underling. ‘She’s g-grown, hasn’t she?’

Golden Lotus’s white mask offered no encouragement. It had frozen around a demure smile.

Quite right. Straight to b-business,’ said the Salt Minister, awkwardly. ‘Youngest Daughter, you’re getting older. High time to b-be useful! You may have noticed ladies calling here over the past few months?’

Yun Shu nodded seriously, proud of her grown-up knowledge. ‘They were matchmakers,’ she replied. ‘I think they came for Eldest Brother.’ She hesitated then added recklessly, ‘When I saw him last month there was fluff on his chin!’

The Salt Minister blinked in surprise to hear her speak fluently.

Of course, you’re quite wrong,’ he said. ‘It was you they wished to discuss.’

Again the abacus clicked. Yun Shu’s long eyelashes fluttered rapidly. ‘But Honoured Father,’ she said, ‘my ceremony of hairpins will not take place for years.’

Five or six to be exact. So long she could hardly conceive becoming a woman.

Never mind,’ said Gui, ‘the contract’s signed and sealed. Now we must deliver!’

He looked to Golden Lotus for appreciation. The young man laughed, his painted red mouth open but making no sound.

While Yun Shu knelt dutifully, Father explained the contract in a dull, precise voice. A family of very respectable merchants in Chenglingji with extensive dealings in the salt trade were keen to secure his co-operation. They had even agreed to waive the dowry, a prospect of real advantage to the family.

You see,’ he concluded, ‘everyone profits. Especially your b-brothers.’

Yun Shu screwed up her eyes to hide tears. ‘Honoured Father, you have not mentioned who is to be my husband!’

He waved aside this question with clumsy fingers. ‘A son . . .’ He checked the letter. ‘Ahem, not specified. It is the connection that matters. Do you understand?’

She nodded. Yet it was too sudden a change. To be ignored all her life then learn – years before she might reasonably expect it – Honoured Father had already arranged to get rid of her!

There’s something else,’ he said. ‘G-golden Lotus has agreed to ensure your feet are, as specified in the contract, no longer than four inches.’

Yun Shu glanced down. Her feet were already over six inches long!

Do you mean to bind my feet, Father?’

How else will they shrink?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.

Grandmother’s feet were not bound!’ protested Yun Shu.

Mother’s were not bound!’

It would have been better if they had been,’ muttered Golden Lotus, fluttering his fan.

Father, I’m too old! I don’t want tiny feet! I don’t want . . .’

Pain silenced her as Golden Lotus tugged her hair. ‘It shows how much your Father loves you!’ he whispered.

Please, Father!’

The Minister of Salt’s eyes narrowed. He clicked away at his abacus. Golden Lotus tapped Yun Shu on the shoulder with his fan to indicate she should leave.

.

A hot wind made the bamboo groves on Monkey Hat Hill whisper and slur. That night a wave of monsoon rolled in from the east, black clouds billowing inland, connecting Six-hundred-li Lake to the dark sky with rods of rain. A million tapping nails on roof tiles, scratching, trickling, trying to find gaps.

Yun Shu slept badly, her dreams invaded by Golden Lotus bending her feet until bones snapped like twigs.

At dawn, she twitched and curled into a ball. Some animal instinct deep within noted the night rain had slowed. Rosy light glowed through the soft skin of her closed eyelids, stirring fear and urgency.

Yun Shu sat up in bed and cried out. Any day, perhaps today, Golden Lotus would begin the binding. After that? A lifetime of wretched hobbling. Compelled by a sudden hope, Yun Shu dressed swiftly and crept out into gathering light, birdsong, scented flowers and wet, impressionable soil. Soon she reached a secret hole in the boundary wall of the splendid house and gardens occupied by Salt Minister Gui. Her hope lay somewhere far less respectable: Deng Mansions.

Deng Mansions adjoined Yun Shu’s home. It consisted of a large compound of courtyards and shabby wooden buildings surrounded by gardens wild as grass seed. Built on the same grand scale as the Salt Minister’s house, it was topped by similar ornate, upward-curving red tiles. However, its wooden walls and doors sagged and several ceilings had fallen in on themselves.

Positioned two-thirds up Monkey Hat Hill, Deng Mansions was one of a dozen houses formerly occupied by absurdly rich officials and merchants. That was before the Mongols put the entire city to the sword. Now, all the other great houses on the Hill were burned or abandoned. Only the Deng clan clung to their ancestral home. Monkey Hat Hill had gained a reputation for being cursed and few risked the taint of misfortune. As for Salt Minister Gui, he only lived there because no one was alive to charge him rent.

She found Hsiung and Teng in the weed-choked central courtyard. They stood side by side, emptying their bladders into a thorn bush, competing to see who could spray highest.

I win again!’ crowed Hsiung. He was tall and muscular for his age, whereas Teng’s thin limbs suggested delicacy. Both had shaved heads topped with small tufts of black hair.

I could eat a banquet,’ said Teng, yawning. ‘I bet we get millet for breakfast.’

Then they noticed her. Neither was embarrassed as they pulled up their breeches. They hardly considered her a girl at all.

Why are you here so early?’ asked Hsiung. Despite being a servant, he often spoke up before Teng, his master’s son.

Breathlessly, Yun Shu told her tale of betrothal and bound feet. They sat on a decaying wooden step like a huddle of geese.

My mother didn’t have bound feet,’ she concluded. ‘She was a doctor’s daughter from Nancheng. Mother told me my Grandfather called bound feet unnatural. If only she was still alive!’

How old were you when she died?’ asked Teng.

Five.’

My mother died seven years ago,’ he said, tonelessly.

Sometimes I see her ghost. Especially at night. But when I look again it’s just shadows. She’s never there.’

The children fell silent. Hsiung began to whack the earth with a stick.

I wouldn’t let any one crush my feet,’ he declared. ‘I want to be free to run wherever I like.’

Teng stirred. ‘We must all obey our Honoured Fathers.

Confucius wrote . . .’

What if her father’s got it wrong?’ broke in Hsiung.

We should obey our parents especially if they are wrong,’ countered Teng. ‘Otherwise you’re wicked.’

I don’t want to hobble like a cripple all my life!’ cried Yun Shu.

The boys fell silent.

Will you help me?’ she asked. ‘You’re my only friends.’

Teng grew suddenly enthusiastic, as he often did when inspired by noble notions. ‘I know, let’s be Yun Shu’s xia! Her heroes! Hsiung, it’s just like that book I told you about. The hero saves the lady and she stabs herself because he won’t marry her!’

Hsiung liked the sound of that. They were interrupted by a voice inside the house: Teng’s father, Deng Nan-shi, wishing good morning to Lady Lu Si. Perpetually forlorn and annoying, Lady Lu Si was the Deng clan’s only other retainer, aside from Hsiung. Her position in the household was ambiguous, half honoured guest, half servant.

Golden Lotus and Father will be at Prince Arslan’s palace all day,’ said Yun Shu.

Meet us at the usual place in an hour,’ offered Teng.

Hsiung, we must remember to take our bamboo swords.’

Yun Shu escaped from the overgrown courtyard moments before Deng Nan-shi emerged into the sunlight with Lady Lu Si to receive his tiny household’s morning bows.

© Tim Murgatroyd 2013

An extract from ‘The Stone Gallows’

The Stone GallowsPrologue 1

January 2008

I was going to kill him.

An hour ago, John Coombes – my partner and supposed mentor – had been nothing more than a deeply unlikeable human being. Sixty minutes trapped in an unmarked police car with him had caused me to revise my opinion. He was the anti-Christ, my duty to the human race clear: God wanted me to kill him. I was sure of it.

It’s amazing how quickly people can go from a state of mild irritation to one of homicidal rage. This was the first time the two of us had pulled a surveillance duty together; although I didn’t know it at the time, it was also to be the last.

I even knew how I was going to do it. There was a disposable pen sitting on the dashboard and I was going use it to sign my name on the inside of his skull, jamming it through his eye or up his nose in a gratuitous but undeniably spectacular display of violence.

I was going to kill him because he was making a noise.

Not just a noise. An irritating, repetitive, childish sound. Like nails scratching a blackboard, or an amphetamine-fed Jack Russell given free rein with a squeaky rubber bone. The kind of noise that makes your soul wince in horror and discomfort until the most hideous act of violence seems like the conduct of an utterly reasonable man.

I’m a reasonable man. I swear.

But. . . even reasonable men have limits, and I was long past mine. He’d been doing it for at least ten minutes, using a plastic straw to try and suck the melting ice out of his paper cup, making a disgusting schlurp schurlp sound, and showed absolutely no sign of stopping.

Any detective who has ever worked surveillance would testify that those ten minutes had been an eternity. Hell, it wasn’t as if Coombes had a whiter than white service record. I might even be able to claim that I was performing a public service.

John?’

I made sure that my voice was calm and reasonable. If he sensed just how irritated I was, he’d keep on doing it. Coombes was that type of guy.

Yes, Cameron?’

I indicated the straw. ‘Do you mind?’

He sighed like I was asking him to donate his entire liver to my alcoholic second cousin, before tossing the cup in the back seat. We settled back into miserable silence.

There is only one rule to surveillance duty and it’s mindbogglingly simple: don’t take your eyes off the subject for a second. It doesn’t matter if you have been sitting there for an hour, a week, or even a month, you’re expected to maintain a constant level of focus. In the past, whole investigations have been abandoned because the people involved haven’t taken the job seriously enough. In one memorable incident, a key suspect was lost forever because the two detectives assigned to the case had been in the bookies across the road watching the three fifteen from Newmarket. They lost more than their fifty pounds each way that day, I can tell you.

Of course, none of that mattered to Coombes. He shifted his weight in the passenger seat of our unmarked Mondeo. ‘I need to pee.’

I grunted as I turned and fished the paper cup out of the back seat I showed it to him.

He looked at it, then me. ‘What do you think I am? An animal?’

Yeah, I saw that on David Attenborough. The famous cup-peeing gazelle of the Serengeti.’

We were three hours into a six hour shift. I’d been sensible, not over-eating or drinking. Coombes had munched his way through a quarter pounder with cheese, plus fries, plus a bloody chocolate doughnut. And, of course, nearly a litre of caffeine-laced soft drink. Of course he needed to pee. Coombes was always pissing about. You would think a time-served detective would know better.

But then, Detective John Coombes could hardly be described as the shining light of Strathclyde Police. I’d been his partner for about one month, and it had taken me less than two weeks to work out that he was perhaps not as dedicated as one would expect of a public servant. In his mid-forties, he was soft in the gut and work-ethic, with flabby hands and straw blonde hair that was thinning badly. I was supposed to be learning from him but so far all I’d discovered was the best places in Glasgow to get free food. The city had plenty of restaurants and bars where the subtle wave of a warrant card would net you a courtesy Chicken Fried Rice or pint of Heavy, and Coombes seemed to know them all.

Speaking of which. . . ‘There’s a pub round the corner,’ he said. ‘The Docker’s. We could take a little break.’

I checked my watch. ‘It’s after midnight. They won’t let us in.’

The landlord’s a friend of mine. Besides, it’s only five past. They won’t even have had time to hose the vomit out of the toilets yet.’

Sounds classy.’ I pretended to think about it before shaking my head. ‘Maybe another time.’

Come on. You new fish are all the same.We’ve been watching this bloody guy for two weeks now.He might be dirty, but he’s smart. He’s not going to do anything that we can pin on him. It’s a waste of time. Nobody’s going to know if we sneak off for a quick one.’

I wondered if we would be expected to pay for it, or if it was one of the many places where the landlord owed Coombes a ‘favour’.

I’m not comfortable with the idea.’

His face had a disgusted look on it. ‘Look, Stone, I’m not peeing in a paper cup. All I’m saying is, we’ll sneak away for one pint. . .’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘Just one, mind you, and then we’ll come back. We can sit here in the cold and the damp and smell each other’s body odour and you can hand over to whoever they send to replace us with a clear conscience.’

There was a park less than thirty yards away from where we sat. No lights, no walls, plenty of trees to slip behind. I nodded in its direction. ‘You could jump in there. Take you less than sixty seconds.’

He sulked for about two minutes, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Then he opened the car door. ‘Fuck it. I’m going for a pint. You can sit here on your lonesome.’

Don’t do it, Coombes.’

He laughed. ‘Why? What are you going to do? Report me?’

I took a deep breath. Being a cop is like being part of a big family. Coombes may have been a shifty bastard, but he was our shifty bastard. And I was still very much the new boy. If I made a complaint about him, it would be my word against his, and the repercussions for me could be grave. At the very least, it would isolate me from everybody else. Don’t work with Stone, they would say, he’s a clyping bastard. The worst case scenario was that I would be viewed as a trouble-maker, and probably not be considered for promotion any time in the next thousand years.

I decided to compromise. ‘You got your mobile with you?’

Coombes patted his pocket.

I’ll call if anything happens.’

Good boy.’

The car door slammed and I listened to him whistle as he walked off into the night. ‘Arsehole,’ I whispered, to myself.

© C. David Ingram 2009