London Boulevard (Bloodlines) [Hardcover]

Truly great entertainment, permeated with a dark and disturbing strand that'll stay with you long after the final denouement. Treat yourselves. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Bruen is the finest purveyor of intelligent Brit-noir... his adaptation of US crime classic Sunset Boulevard... is delectably dark and nastily entertaining. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

The new hard-hitting crime novel from the author of The Guards, Rilke on Black and The White Trilogy.
When Mitchell is released from prison after serving three years for a vicious attack he doesn't even remember, Billy Norton is there to pick him up. But Norton works for Tommy Logan, a ruthless lowlife with plans Mitchell wants nothing to do with.
Attempting to stay out of Logan's way, Mitchell finds work at the Holland Park mansion of faded movie actress, Lillian Palmer. But it isn't long before Mitchell's violent past catches up with him. When innocent people start getting killed and his eccentric sister's life is put in danger, Mitchell is forced to act? --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

KEN BRUEN was born in Galway in 1951. he is the author of ten previous novels, four of which have been published by The Do-Not Press. He spent twenty-five years as an English teacher in Africa, Japan, South East Asia and South America. His novel 'Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice' is currently in production for Pilgrim Pictures and his WHITE TRILOGY ('A White Arrest', 'Taming The Alien' and 'The McDead') has been bought for television by Deep Indigo Productions. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Chapter One.

I LEARNT THIS in prison. Compulsive is when you do something repetitively. Obsessive is when you think about something repetitively.
Course, I learnt some other stuff too. Not as clear cut.
Not as defined.
The day of my release, the Governor had me up for a talk.
Bent over his desk, he kept me waiting. His head over papers, a model of industry. He had a bald patch, like Prince Charles. That made me feel good. I concentrated on it. Finally, he looks up, says:
'Mitchell?'

'Yes, Sir?'
I could play the game. I was but a cigarette away from freedom. I wasn?t going to get reckless. His accent was from up north somewhere. Polished now but still leaking Yorkshire pud and all that decent shit. Asked,
'You've been with us now for?'
Like he didn't know. I said,
'Three years, Sir.'
He hmmp'd as if he didn't quite believe me. Riffled through my papers, said,
'You turned down early parole.'
'I wanted to pay me debt in full, Sir.'
The screw standing behind me gave a snort. For the first time, the Governor looked directly at me. Locked eyes. Then,
'Are you familiar with recidivism?'
'Sir?'
'Repeat offenders, it's like they're obsessed with jail.'
I gave a tiny smile, said,
'I think you're confusing obsession with compulsion,' and then I explained the difference.
He stamped my papers said,
'You'll be back.'
I was going to say,
'Only in the repeats,'
but felt Arnie in Total Recall would be lost on him. At the gate, the screw said,
'Not a bright idea to give him lip.'
I held up my right hand, said,
'What else did I have to offer?'
Missed my ride.
What the Yanks say. I stood outside the prison, waiting on my lift. I didn't look back. If that's superstition, then so be it. As I stood on the Caledonian Road, I wondered if I looked like a con, ex-con.
Shifty.
Yeah, and furtive. That too.
I was forty-five-years old. Near 5'11" in height, weighed in at 180 pounds. In shape, though. I'd hammered in at the gym and could press-bench my share. Broken through the barrier to free up those endorphins. Natural high. Shit, do you ever need that inside. Sweat till you peak and beyond. My hair was white but still plentiful. I had dark eyes, and not just on the outside. A badly broken nose near redeemed by a generous mouth.
Generous!
I love that description. A woman told me so in my
twenties. I'd lost her but hung on to the adjective. Salvage what you can.
A transit van pulled up, sounded the horn. The door opened and Norton got out. We stood for a moment. Is he my friend?
I dunno, but he was there. He showed up, friend enough. I said,
'Hey.'
He grinned, walked over, gave me a hug. Just two guys hugging outside Her Majesty's jail. I hoped the Governor was watching.
Norton is Irish and unreadable. Aren't they all? Behind all the talk is a whole other agenda. He had red hair, pasty complexion, the build of a sly greyhound. He said,
'Jaysus Mitch, how are you?'
'Out.'
He took that on board, then slapped my arm, said,
'Out, that's a good one. I like that? Let's go. Prison makes me nervous.?
We got in the van and he handed me a bottle of Black Bush. It had a green bow. I said,
'Thanks, Billy.'
He looked almost shy, said, 'Aw, it's nuttin for your release the big celebration is tonight and here?' He
produced a pack of Dunhill. The lush red luxury blend. Said,
'I thought you'd be gasping for a tailor-made.'
I had the brown paper parcel they give you on release. As Norton started the engine, I said,
'Hold on a sec. And I slung the parcel.
'What was that?'
'My past.' I opened the Bush, took a long holy swallow. It burned. Wow, did it ever. Offered the bottle to him. He shook his head.
'Naw, not when I'm driving.'
Which was rich, him being half in the bag already. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.