...
usually in a skirt that walks out on you with a smile.
Clay
Cross began in a small bedsit. It had a bed, a chair and a table, and
a blue carpet that coughed dust when you walked on it. It saw the
birth of a long and enduring love affair with two unlikely men: two
word-mangling gumshoes who used metaphors like shrapnel and lived in
a haze of bourbon and dames.
Shell
Scott was created by Richard S Prather, a man who must have dreamt
books in his sleep. He was one prolific guy, and over the years I
acquired his collection in Five Star paperbacks. I mean, what wasn't
there to like with lines like:
Constanza
Carmocha was unarmed – that is, she didn’t have a gun. She didn’t
need one either. She had all the weapons that have ruined men from
time immemorial – or time immoral…She was surrounded by a guy who
resembled a shaved ape and looked as though he could pick himself up
with one hand.
Or
Death
is just around the coroner when your name is Shell Scott and you’re
a private detective with nose for trouble and an eye for dames.
The
other man was Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer. He just hit me in the
face. I loved the genre, I loved him. He was politically incorrect
before the term was invented. He had no time for ugly dames and he
hated commies.
He
hated...
It
was hard to work out who Mike Hammer hated most: reds, ‘yellow
bastards’, fags, pansies, or getting hit on the head. He got hit on
the head quite often. For the film Kiss Me Deadly, a black and
white classic, I bought a bottle of bourbon just to get in the mood.
Every time Hammer had a drink, I'd have a drink. Every time he got
hit on the head, I'd …have a drink. Problem was that the film
condenses a week's worth of alcohol and concussion into 90 minutes
and I was thoroughly pissed by the end. I vaguely remember a black
box and a sizeable explosion.
From
that moment on I walked the mean streets of Newport, wearing my
invisible trench coat and fedora pulled low. (I’d learnt the art of
soundless dialogue from unmoving lips as a child when my fantasies
centred on cowboys and Nazis.) I was Mike Hammer, war damaged, crazy
music in my head, the lot. Magic lines from book after book whispered
their magic:
I
could feel the madness in my brain eating its way through my veins,
chewing the edges of my nerves raw, leaving me something that
resembled a man and that was all. There had been pleasure in all that
killing, an obscene pleasure that froze your face in a grin even when
you were charged with fear. Like when I cut down that Jap with his
own machete and laughed like hell while I made slices of his scrawny
body then went on to do the same thing again and again because it got
to be fun…I enjoyed that killing, every bit of it. I killed because
I had to and I killed things that needed killing…
Feeney
tried to say ‘no!’ but my hands had his throat, squeezing . . .
slamming his head to the concrete floor until he went completely
limp. I rolled on top of him and took that head like a sodden rag and
smashed and smashed and smashed and there was no satisfying, solid
thump, but a sickening squashing sound that splashed all over me.
Where
as Shell Scott was jokey, Mike Hammer bordered on the psychotic, and
the two of them were now duelling banjos, playing their lines in my
head, and creating…Clay Cross. Actually it's Clayton Z Cross,
anglicised from Clayton Zacrowski because, hell, he was no Iron
Curtain commie.
To
get more fully in character I sent off several letters to the local
newspaper, ‘The South Wales Argus,’ as Clayton Z Cross. The idea
was to create the mindset of a bigoted cold war warrior, vulnerable,
decent, even well meaning, but possessed of a terrible certainty. To
my astonishment they were all published. To my even greater
astonishment people took them seriously, some answering back
incandescent with fury. To my alarm, a few even agreed with him.
One
letter compared the Welsh Nationalist movement, a perfectly
respectable organisation, to the Vietcong and communist subversion.
There were howls of outrage. By then I knew I was on to a good thing.
More letters followed in which he vented the
most outrageous ideas in the voice of a misogynist, homophobic Cold
War warrior circa 1951. And then he went into cold storage as I
couldn't for the life of me find away of bringing a creature of the
1950's into the late C20th without the support of a Zimmer frame,
oxygen bottles, and care assistant.
He
was resurrected on the pages of an online magazine called On
Fiction Writing where he interviewed
a host of some very generous writers, with the help of his sidekick,
the lascivious and kinky Sheri Lamour. The two of them were
outrageously rude, and when the enterprise ended neither agreed to be
put back into their respective coffins.
It
was a whisper in the dark. Sheri I think, or perhaps April Dawn.
Either way a solution was found, and both Cross and Lamour were
plucked from their natural habitat and plonked into the centre of
Newport, South Wales, in the late C20th. Here they ran amok - and
continue to do so--- oblivious to political and cultural
sensitivities, and appallingly rude to anything that moves.
I
hope you enjoy them.
You
can buy the book here
http://www.amazon.com/Clay-Cross-Michael-Keyton-ebook/dp/B00WF1X0CC
The
excerpt below shows Clay Cross coming into existence. Roy is the
tragic figure in a rather dark comedy. He is the comic book writer
who gradually finds himself trapped in a comic book world.
Nothing
was his any more.
The
thought brought excitement, and with it melancholy. Nothing was his
any more. Even the voices weren’t his.
“They
found me kissing earth, the kind that buries a man when he’s done
with life, much like I was done with mine.
The
night would make one hell of a shroud, only there wasn’t much of it
left and it was getting shorter by the minute...”
Roy
forced himself still. The voice wasn’t in his head. Could he be
sure of that? The music was in his head but it also came from
somewhere else. Like the voice…between the kitchen and the door to
the apartment…He wouldn’t look round.
“…A
car screeched by and then stopped. A door slammed shut and I heard
the high clicking of heels…a dame, preferably one with a drink in
her hand and lips that would make it all go away. She called my name
but it made no sense. Jeez, who the hell was I? Had they taken that
away too?” The voice lost its monotone confidence, rising into
almost a wail.
Roy
swivelled round. A face glared back at him and then vanished. He held
the image in his mind then projected it to where he’d last seen it.
Nothing. The ghost was outside of himself, real and possibly
dangerous. He poured himself another drink. Bourbon was good. He
stared for a moment at his Smith-Corona, half hidden in shadow, then
sat down, pulling the battered type-writer close enough for his
fingers to stroke the keys.
The
voice came from the window, sounded more confident. Roy turned,
slowly, afraid of startling him out of existence.
“She
was packed with enough fissionable material to blow the place sky
high…and she was looking at me. Maybe I should have been excited,
given her some kind of dopey smile and whisked out some flowers from
behind my back, but this dame was trouble. A man had been beaten to
death because of her and now she had me in her sights. Me…?
I’m…I’m…”
Again
the vision faded and this time Roy called out.
“Clay
Cross! You’re Clay Cross.”
About
the Author
Michael
Keyton has cooked in hospital kitchens, worked in some of the
dirtiest hotels in Wales, and played for a time in a
semi-professional ceilidh band. He taught history in a warm and
challenging school, where he learnt the importance of 'story' and
developed an abiding love of Newport. You can find him on his blog,
Record of a Baffled Spirit (baffledspirit.blogspot.co.uk)
Competition
Time!
The photos below illustrate the attraction of
Clay Cross. Just vote for the one picture that does it for you. All the people who vote for the most popular photo will be put into the
'randomiser' and one lucky person will either win a pdf of the book,
or a piece of art that adorns Clay Cross's office.
Queen Elizabeth and Clay Cross
Vladimir Putin and Clay Cross
Winston Churchill and Clay Cross
Queen Victoria and Clay Cross
Charles I in three positions, with Clay Cross
4 comments:
I like the one with Vladimir.
debby236 at gmail dot com
Queen Elizabeth
bn100candg at hotmail dot com
Welcome to Beyond Romance, Michael! I remember well being grilled by Clay and Sheri....
I have to go with Putin, though Winston is a close second!
Good luck with the book. It's such a pleasure to see something original coming out.
Lisabet, thank you. It was good of you to host me. And to everyone that enters, may the best man or woman win! It's an open race so far :)
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