Unhappy Medium
My Easter weekend reading included the curiously titled "Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks" by Christopher Brookmyre. It's a novel that sticks two fingers up at the world of psychics and mediums. Investigative journalist Jack Parlabane sets out to expose one of its most successful practitioners as a money-grabbing trickster. But early on, he learns the fraudster's ambitions go way beyond boosting his bank balance.
It's a fast paced, eye-opening book, with the sharp, sardonic tone which has become a Brookmyre hallmark. And, as it's set in Glasgow, there's a liberal dose of down-to-earth banter. Here, Parlabane reacquaints himself with one of his shady contacts.
"Something's different about you, but I cannae pin it doon." He looked quizzically at me for a moment, then rolled his eyes.
"Aw, aye. Nae hash."
That's what it was
"You've given up?"
"Have I fuck. But I cannae have any roon the studio, you know?"
"Yeah, " I said, though as I spoke I realised I didn't. "Eh, no. Polis, is it? Fire risk?"
"Naw. Fuckin' smokin' ban, man. This is a place of work"
His eyes bulged briefly as if some pertinent moment of realisation was resonating inside his mind. "Fuckin' amazin' whit ye can get done when you're no fucked oot yer heid."
Brookmyre's often been compared to Carl Hiassen, and this book is right up there with the best of them. The title refers to people whose faith in psychics remains unshakeable, even when their trickery has been revealed.
Next time I hear things that go bump in the night, I'll rest assured that it's just my neighbour playing his drums.