Deadfolk [Paperback]

A Q&A with Charlie Williams

Question: Can you sum up Deadfolk in no more than 25 words?

Charlie Williams: A small-town bouncer’s courage is questioned, undermining his self-image as a local big-shot. Taking some bad advice, he sets about trying to prove himself. Things don't work out.

Q: Can you sum up your "hero" Royston Blake in a couple of sentences?

CW: A violent, ignorant thug with delusions of grandeur. But can we blame him, considering his environment?  

Q: What was your motivation for writing your Royston Blake series?

CW: I had tried writing several novels set in the world I lived in, but none of those really caught fire. Then I started writing something new, and the main character’s voice came out stronger and more clearly than anything I had written. He seemed to be inspired by a few guys I used to know as a teenager, whose whole view of life revolved around a misplaced concept of what it is to be a man. Along with his voice came the setting--a hellish exaggeration of my home town (Worcester, U.K.) which insisted on being called Mangel. When the story started taking shape, I wanted it to be the British equivalent of one of those small town American noir novels by guys like Jim Thompson. Whether or not it turned out like that, who cares? It got the damn thing done.  

Q: There is a lot of "bad" language in Deadfolk and the other books in the series. Do you think this limits the readership?

CW: I hope not. Royston Blake swears a lot, as do many people around him. But he is not really aware of it--he uses swear words like punctuation, to fill gaps and give rhythm to his sentences. This is just the way his voice came to me, and I didn't want to tinker with it. We all think these words, Royston Blake just says them aloud. For him, there is very little divide between his thoughts and his speech. And his actions.  

Q: You write crime fiction from the criminal perspective. What is it about this that interests you?

CW: I have tried having a policeman or some sort of investigator as the hero, but those characters always turn bad on me and reveal themselves as worse than the guys they are chasing. I'm not sure if I can explain this obsession with "differently moralled" protagonists. Maybe it's because I can always see both sides of an argument, and it tends to be the accused/perpetrator/transgressor who has the more flexible outlook on things. Cops and other seekers of justice are always dogmatic. I guess I like dogmatic characters too, but only so I can show how absurd they are.  

Q: What do you think is the key is to getting humour right in crime fiction?

CW: I don't try to make things funny. I never look for a joke and never think "three pages without a laugh--I'm losing it!" But these moments just suggest themselves as I am writing, and I grab them and shine them up. I think a lot of writers shut themselves off from that side. Many crime writers seem to think their work has to be grim and 100% serious--"we are dealing with REAL HUMAN TRAGEDIES here, folks. It's NOT FUNNY." I say it is funny. Remember at school, when the teacher was talking about something of the utmost gravity, and you caught that look from your classmate? You have to laugh, don't you? You know you shouldn't--that it's the most inappropriate thing to do--but that only makes it funnier. It makes it the funniest thing in the world.  

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--This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

‘Demented, hilarious, and near impossible to put down’

No-one leaves Mangel ? at least not alive they don?t. Royston Blake is the Head Doorman of Hoppers Wine Bar & Bistro. He drives a Capri 2.8i and can walk down the street in Mangel knowing he?s respected by folks. But now there?s a rumour out that Blake?s lost his bottle. Even Sal?s heard the rumour. What?s more, the Muntons are after him and the thought of ending up in the back of their Meat Wagon is almost too much to bear. Something?s got to give. Determined to prove he hasn?t lost his nerve, Blake embarks on a plan designed to re-establish his reputation as a hard man, ensure his everlasting appeal to women and seal his future with the new owner of Hoppers, even if he is an outsider. Murder, mayhem and a chainsaw called Susan intertwine in this astonishing debut which marks the appearance of a fresh, funny and brutal new voice in British crime fiction. ?Cross James Ellroy?s unblinking eye for vicious gangland enforcement with Bill James?s gut-feeling for Britain?s meaner streets and you would end up in a trashcan alley somewhere near Mangel? I can?t wait for the next instalment? 5-star review, Western Daily Press ?Demented, hilarious, and near impossible to put down? Jason Starr, author of Tough Luck ?There is a dark heart to England, a claustrophobic core of oddity and violence. Deadfolk comes straight from this English heart, and even through all of its offbeat humour, there is no mistaking the earnestness of a writer who has something to say.? Nicholas Blincoe ?Plenty of memorably grim moments along the way? Big Issue in the North ?Carnage, chaos and a chainsaw called Susan add to his remarkable debut, which marks the appearance of a totally new voice in British fiction? Buzz ?Charlie Williams has come up trumps? the more politically correct among you can read this as social comment, the rest can just enjoy the ride? Guardian ?Imagine if you will the comparatively genteel Midsomer Murders transplanted to darkest Somerset and given a delight in excess worthy of Tarantino, the whole dripping with pitch black comedy and panache... this is compelling and highly enjoyable? The Third Alternative

Charlie Williams was born in 1971 in Worcester. He read English at Swansea University. During a brief visit to Worcester he was arrested for fighting a bouncer and bound over to keep the peace for six months. He moved to London but couldn't resist the lure of his hometown and moved back to Worcester in 2003. His first novel, Deadfolk, was published in 2004. 45

Deadfolk by Charlie Williams Leadtext: I were standing on the grass out by the East Bloater Road when the Meat Wagon came past. She slowed a bit then drove on up towards town. I were glad of that. Sight of the Meat Wagon never had been summat to warm a feller's cockles. Standing on the grass out by the East Bloater Road didn't seem such a good idea now. A wind had started up from the North that went through your clothes like a gutting knife. But I couldn't go yet. Not unless I wanted to be passing the Meat Wagon on the way in. So I paced around for a bit and smoked two fags, thinking how I really ought to stop coming out this way cos nothing were to be gained from it. Then I got back in me car and pointed her homeward. She were a Ford Capri. I'd always driven a Ford Capri and always would do, long as I still had a choice in the matter. Despite the chill and the damp and the mood I were in she started first time, which cheered us up no end. As I slotted her into third she backfired like a bastard. Been doing a fair bit of backfiring of late she had. Hole in the exhaust like as not, and once you gets one of them they only gets bigger. Unless I got her down the garage for fixing she'd get louder and louder until the noise were hurting folks' ears. But that'd have to wait, being as I were skint. And besides, she started running smooth once I shifted her up to fifth. Judging by the way the sun were slipping down beyond the Deblin Hills it were getting late. I put me foot down and swung her into the first long bend on the way back to Mangel. It were nice and straight for a mile or so now with woods either side and no other vehicle in sight. Rarely was folks out this way. Didn't lead you nowhere you might want to go, see. I opened her up and tipped her over the ton mark. Course, I were taking a risk shifting at that pace. But like I says, no one were about. And I were meeting Legs and Finney down the Paul Pry in a bit. If I missed the start I'd be on catch-up and I didn't like that. I liked to swill at the same rate as them I'm swilling with. The trees was hanging over and it were right dark down that stretch, so by the time I saw the Meat Wagon parked longways across the road I were near enough atop it. I braked hard and thought about swinging her left or right around the big white van. But there were no room for that. It were the Meat Wagon or one of the big trees either side. And by the time I'd decided on which trunk looked softest it were too late for either of em. The Meat Wagon it were, with Lee Munton's eyes glaring out at us from the driver side and the shadow of Jess peering over his shoulder. I squeezed me eyes tight and pushed down on that middle pedal for all I were worth and a lot more besides. My head were filled with screeching rubber and a thump thump thump the like of what you'd never heard. When I felt the wheels flip out from under us I knew I were done for. Not from the car crash, like. But from what the Muntons'd do to us for fucking up the Meat Wagon. The car stopped. I kept me eyes shut, thinking how there hadn't been much of a bang on impact. Not even a little pop as bumper met panel. But I had an explanation for that one, see. I'd slammed into the van so hard that the noise had gone and bust me ear drums. Then Lee started talking and I knew my ear drums was right as plumb wire. 'Alright, Blake,' he says. 'Alright, Lee. Alright, Jess.' Jess moved his head a bit. The Meat Wagon were but a few inches from where I were sat. Somehow the car had stopped with my window sideways-on to Lee's and back-to-front, like if we'd been passing each other in the street and stopped for a chat. 'Well,' says Lee, smiling like we was still mates. 'Reckon you needs yer tyres checkin'. Eh, Jess?' 'Aye.' 'Needs his tyres checkin' alright. See em slip out from under him just now did you, when all he done were apply a bit o' brake pad?' 'Aye. Flipped out. Brake pads.' 'Know what my impartial advice to him would be?' 'Aye.' 'Go on then.' 'Dunno.' 'S'right, Jess. You dunno. And Blake here dunno neither. Thass why I gives impartial advice. Wouldn't bother if folks knew it already. Be no use to em, would it.' 'Reckon not.' 'S'right. Well, I'd say to him this: Bring yerself down Munton Motors and Baz'll sort you out.' Lee stared at us for a full half minute. When he piped up again he weren't smiling. 'For tyres, like.' He knew I were skint. Every bastard in Mangel knew I were skint, I reckoned. But I put on a smile anyhow and says: 'Ta. I'll think about it.' 'You do that,' he says. 'Cos our Baz, he wants you to know that there's no hard feelin's. Sometimes he has a drink an' gets a bit lairy an' forgets hisself is all. But he didn't mean nuthin' by it. And he don't want you gettin' no wrong ideas about him by it. Juss get yerself down there and he'll sort you out for tyres. Alright?' He stared at us until I says: 'Aye, alright.' 'Smart. Cos if there's one thing I don't like iss hard feelin's. And our Baz, well, he ain't got one of em in his whole body. Just a bit of a boy is our Baz. That right Jessie?' Jess's lips didn't move at all. 'Bit of a boy.' 'Alright, Blakey. Alright. Long as everyone gets along, thass all I asks. Now Blakey, what was you doin' up yonder just now.' 'Yonder?' 'Aye. On the roadside up there. What was you up to?' I looked past him at Jess. He hadn't moved once. Not even when he'd been talking. He were like a big statue carved out of sandstone. Only time he ever said summat were when Lee spoke to him. Even then it were only aye or summat. 'Well,' I says. 'Ain't much of a reason for it really.' The Munton brothers stared. 'Just comes out here now and then to...' I tried to swallow but it weren't coming easy. So I coughed a bit instead. 'You know, look at the scenery an' that.' There weren't much else I could say so I sat tight and waited, listening to Jess's breathing. Lee stuck his big head out the window at us. When he spoke I could smell what he'd had for lunch. Mixed grill, I reckoned. 'Just so long as you ain't plannin' on leavin' town.' 'Leavin'? No one leaves Mangel, Lee.' 'S'right. Specially not you. Don't want our mates leavin', does we Jess? Wants em here where we can see em.' He fired up the engine, eyes still stuck on mine like a terrier's teeth on a robber's ankle. And suddenly he were smiling again, like he hadn't ever not been smiling. 'Workin' tonight?' 'Nah. Night off.' 'Just so long as you ain't got yerself sacked. Don't go gettin' yerself sacked, Blake. Not for a couple of weeks anyhow.' 'Ain't intendin' on it.' 'Smart. And remember - tyres waitin' for you at Munton Motors.' The Meat Wagon lurched forward and headed townward. I pulled in on the verge and had a fag. Then I looked at my watch and headed townward meself.