Thus Spake Nick Lake

So I have a new YA book coming out. 

It publishes in January 2015 in the US, UK and ANZ.

It is called THERE WILL BE LIES. 

It’s hard to talk about it because it contains a HUGE TWIST but I’m pretty excited about it and here’s what I can say:

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“The coyote looks at me and speaks directly into my head, or that’s what it feels like.

‘There will be two lies,’ it says. 'Then there will be the truth. And that will be the hardest of all.’”

Shelby Jane Cooper thinks she knows who she is. Home-schooled and living in Phoenix, Arizona with her single mom, she’s your typical teenager: crushes on the cute guy she’s seen around; more homework than seems fair; ice cream for dinner: the works.  

Then Shelby is hit by a car.

And that’s a shock. But not as much of a shock as when her mom checks her out of hospital, bundles her into a rental car with all their belongings, and heads for the hills.  If that wasn’t enough, Shelby has begun having visions – of a talking coyote of all things – who wants to draw her into an enchanted world of wild elks and poisonous snakes, all presided over by an evil crone whose curse can only be broken by Shelby herself. 

But what could any of this possibly have to do with her? Is it her mind playing tricks on her… or is there a more sinister explanation? 

Shelby Jane Cooper thinks she knows who she is. But in exactly eight days, she’s going to find out just how wrong a person can be…

So I wrote a poem. I don’t know why: it’s not something I do often. The poem is about Lord Byron’s monkey; or at least, it’s about one of the monkeys Lord Byron owned when he lived in Italy. Again, I have no idea why. But here you go.

Lord Byron’s Monkey

I am Lord Byron’s monkey.

I reside with him between high walls

And beneath thick impasto brushstrokes;

Our apartments are a receptacle for light,

And darkness.

Sometimes,

When we take the carriage

From Florence in the rain,

I go caparisoned

In riding cloak and cap,

Clinging to the seat

Next to the hairier driver,

And bearing a little silver-topped cane.

On hot days, and there are many,

A child’s parasol –

Always, always a neckerchief.

Of monkeys there are,

It must be admitted, two of us.

Also peacocks, dogs, an eagle,

A falcon; an Egyptian crane.

But he says I am his favourite –

And the others do not go abroad

Apparelled thus.

I listen to Byron hold court,

Seduce,

Orate.

Always we are on campaign,

Always storming some citadel,

Real, metaphorical, or imaginary.

Always we sally forth:

Always, always, we are late.

I am Lord Byron’s monkey.

Sometimes I caper and dance;

Sometimes, in a limited way, I recite.

Sometimes…

Sometimes I throw shit at the walls.

Act 1:

THE SCENE: Inside a taxi speeding from A EUROPEAN CITY towards its outskirts. The early hours of the morning. The AUTHOR, FRIEND 1 and FRIEND 2 are inside, having been out drinking. The DRIVER is driving.

DRIVER: So my wife, she’s stressing me out. The other night, she says–

AUTHOR: Dammit, I don’t have enough cash. Do you guys have money? 

FRIEND 1: [Checking] No.

FRIEND 2: Not enough, no.

DRIVER: You can’t pay?

AUTHOR: No, no, it’s OK. If you wait outside when we get to the house, I can go in and get money.

DRIVER: Hmm. 

FRIEND 1: We’ll stay in the car when he goes in, don’t worry.

DRIVER: You’re not messing me around? 

FRIEND 2: No.

DRIVER: I get that. People run away. Or sometimes they try to beat me up, just so they don’t have to pay. You guys going to beat me up? 

ALL: No!

DRIVER: You can’t be too careful. That’s why I got this.

[He takes out A GUN. An actual REAL SEMI-AUTOMATIC PISTOL. He waves it while driving.]

AUTHOR: [Who is sitting in the front] Bloody hell.

DRIVER: Impressive, isn’t it?

AUTHOR: Er, is that real? 

DRIVER: Of course. Check it out. [He presses some sort of button and makes the cartridge thing drop out of the handle, and shows the AUTHOR the shiny bullets in it. Then he racks it again.]

AUTHOR: Watch out!

[The driver swerves out of the path of an oncoming vehicle.]

FRIEND 1: Jesus Christ.

FRIEND 2: What’s happening? Is that a gun? What the fuck?

DRIVER: Now, anyone tries to pull any shit on me, I take out my gun. Then they stop.

AUTHOR: I’m… I’m sure they do.

DRIVER: So we’re cool? 

Friend 1: Er, yes. We’re cool. He’ll get the money. We’ll stay in the car.

Friend 2: Wait. Was that a GUN? What’s going on? I don’t understand what’s going on.

Friend 1: Don’t worry. It’ll be OK.

Friend 2: This is dark.

DRIVER: We’re all friends, yes? I like you guys. You’re funny.

Author: Yes, yes.

DRIVER: Great. [He does not put away the gun but keeps it on his lap.]

Act 2:

THE AUTHOR returns to the car with the money and his friends start to get out.

DRIVER: Hey, wait. You guys ever been to the strip club in this village? 

ALL: No.

DRIVER: But it’s so close. You live here, right? 

AUTHOR: Well, I do.

DRIVER: And you haven’t been to the strip club? 

AUTHOR: No, never. 

DRIVER: We have to go. I’ll buy you guys a drink. You guys are cool.

[The friends communicate briefly with their eyes. ‘On the one hand,’ say their eyes, 'we don’t want to go to the depressing strip club in this provincial backwater with this nutter, or indeed to any strip club.’ 'On the other hand,’ their eyes counter, 'there is the not inconsequential fact that he HAS A FUCKING GUN.]

Friend 1: I don’t know…

AUTHOR: Maybe another–

DRIVER: No, no, I insist. Let’s go. It’s not late. [This is untrue. It is actually very late.]

Friend 1: OK. OK.

[THE AUTHOR gets back in the car and they drive a mile or so to the local strip club. Since this is a strip club literally in a SMALL VILLAGE near A EUROPEAN TOWN and it is maybe 3am it is not the most salubrious. A tired-looking woman gyrates at the single pole. There is a sad little bar, and there are perhaps two clients apart from the DRIVER, the AUTHOR and his friends, who are greeted with the same lack of enthusiasm by stripper, clientele and barman.]

DRIVER: This is great! Yes? 

ALL: Er, yes. 

DRIVER: What you want to drink? 

ALL: Um, beer, please.

DRIVER: OK. Cool. Beer for everyone! 

ALL: Thanks.

Friend 2: Can we go now? 

Friend 1: Shhhh.

DRIVER: Anyone want a lap dance? 

ALL: No, no, thank you.

DRIVER: I tell you about my bitch of a wife? 

Friend 1: In the car, you mentioned her a bit…

DRIVER: This is what my wife is like. She comes home, she starts shouting at me straight away, giving me shit about how…

[This goes on for a good hour. Many beers are consumed. The driver slumps further and further down in his seat.]

Friend 2: I have to get out of here, man. This place is cooling me out.

Friend 1: Yeah, I’m actually with you.

Author: Me too. [To driver.] We’re going to go now. Thanks for the beers. It’s been… interesting.

Friend 1: Weird, but interesting. Thanks.

Friend 2: Please can we just go? 

DRIVER: [Picking up his keys.] Cool. I’ll drive you. 

AUTHOR: But…

Friend 1: You’ve been drinking.

DRIVER: No, I haven’t.

Friend 1: You have. You’ve had, like, seven beers.

DRIVER: Oh, yeah, don’t worry about that. It’ll be fine.

AUTHOR: You can’t drive! You’re swaying.

DRIVER: Ha! Of course I can. I was drinking earlier, before I picked you guys up.

ALL: [After brief conversation with their eyes.] We’ll walk, thanks.

EXT: DAY.

Chicago’s Cellular Field, the White Sox vs the Indians. The AUTHOR and his FRIEND are in line for a Chicago dog.

FRIEND: So a Chicago dog is a regular hotdog with lots of toppings. Green relish, pickles, sport peppers, onions, tomatoes. Apparently it represents the cultural salad bowl of the city. You know, the melting pot, the diversity of Chicago.

MAN IN FRONT: [Turning round] That’s right. My wife is Mexican; I’m Pakistani. She’s Catholic; I’m Muslim. And we both live in Chicago. Diversity is great!

AUTHOR AND FRIEND: Yeah! Diversity is pretty great.

MAN: Where are you guys from? 

FRIEND: Right here in Chicago. 

AUTHOR: I’m from England.

MAN: Ah! You like cricket? 

[The AUTHOR lies and says he does. There ensues an awkward conversation in which the AUTHOR tries to feign more knowledge of, and interest in, the sport of cricket than he in fact possesses.]

MAN: Me, I’m going to open a restaurant one day serving Pakistani food and Mexican food, to represent my culture and my wife’s. And I’m going to call it…

AUTHOR AND FRIEND: [with anticipation] … yes? … 

MAN: I’m going to call it, ‘Pakistani and Mexican cuisine’. 

AUTHOR: Oh.

FRIEND: Oh, right. Cool.

The White Sox, losing.

“Yeah, I worked in bomb disposal for the police for years. I mean, it’s Dublin, there was always something to do. Dangerous? Ha. The people who make bombs, they’re not the brightest, you know? I mean, it’s not like in the movies, do I cut the red wire, do I cut the blue wire. No. You just break the circuit, and that’s it. Driving a cab, that’s much more dangerous.”