We're delighted to present an extract from The Last Resort, the new short story collection by Jan Carson, published by Doubleday Ireland.
Frankie is haunted by his daughter's death. Vidas, homeless and far from Lithuania, seeks sanctuary in an abandoned caravan. Anna struggles to shake off the ghost of her overbearing mother. Kathleen struggles to accept her daughter for who she is. Malcolm, a failed illusionist, makes one final attempt to reinvent himself. Agatha Christie-obsessed Alma faces her toughest case yet as she tries to help them all find what they've lost.
With trademark wit and playfulness, in her new short-story collection Jan Carson explores complex family dynamics, ageing, immigration, gender politics, the decline of the Church and the legacy of the Troubles.
I'm off to a tremendous start. Up at eight. Half an hour of Susan’s mindfulness tape. She’s got me into all that New Age shite. It’s supposed to centre me. A sneaky bowl of Coco Pops. Then, a dander along the cliff to get the cobwebs shifted. I see that’s where they’ve dumped the dead girl’s bench. It’s a view and a half, but you wouldn’t want to be up there after you’ve had a few. The whole thing’s sliding and it’s sixty foot down to the beach. Any day now, that empty caravan on the end’ll be going for an impromptu paddle. It wouldn’t take much to move it back. If I was in shape,
I’d have a go myself. I’ve shifted bigger: Da’s combine harvester, them boats for Uncle Sammy, our Ellen’s Micra when it got stuck in the ditch.
I can’t lift shit these days. The thing with Lewis has got to me. I’ve let myself go. Susan’s probably right. I have been going a bit hard on the drink. That’s why I’m down here, taking the lend of Marty McClintock’s caravan. They say a change is as good as a rest. This place’ll help me get back on form. If I was on top form I’d be just as big as Lewis, maybe bigger. Granted, I don’t have his good looks. Lewis takes after our ma. I got Da’s ugly bake. But, I’m every bit as strong as him and I scrub up rightly when I make the effort. Decent haircut and a shave. New suit. Susan says I lose two stone in a suit. Wait’ll you see, I’ll be on the telly before Christmas. I just need to get my head together.
I’m starting small and building up. I could probably manage a tin of beans or a couple of saucepans. But it’s been such a long time since I tried to lift anything, I’ll go easy on myself. I’m beginning with the first thing Da taught me to lift; the first thing his da taught him. I was six, the morning he sat me down in front of a teaspoon and showed me how to raise it up in the air.
'If you get the technique right, son, there’s nothing you can’t turn your mind to.’ After that, there was no stopping me; I was levitating Da’s prize heifers by the end of the week.
It’s not coming easy this morning. There’s something about this place. Everything feels heavier here. Maybe it’s because of that girl who died. A murder leaves something hanging in the air. It’s a scientific fact. They had it on The X-Files once. I’ve been staring at this teaspoon for an hour. It hasn’t budged an inch. It’s not even wobbled. You need a clean head to lift and mine’s pure thumping from last night’s session. I’ll hardly be making much progress today, but I can’t give up. Every time I think about calling it a day – maybe cracking open a wee can to ease the head – I remember the billboard opposite the chipper. Forty friggin’ feet of my brother’s big lardy face taunting me every time I go in for a fish supper. Luke LaGuardia, the next generation’s David Blaine.
Folks stop me in the street to ask, ‘Is that not your Lewis in the purple satin get-up? He’s done well for himself with the magic. Why’s he going by a different name?’ Why indeed? What the hell’s wrong with plain old Lewis Leckey? He says it doesn’t have the same ring to it. They made him change it for the TV show. He had to learn how to speak better too. Apparently English ones aren’t great with provincial accents. It’s mostly English folk who watch that show. Whatever they done, it worked. My brother’s a big cheese now.
He’s got his own programme starting soon and a stadium tour. Next year Comic Relief are getting him to lift Blackpool Tower. He claims he wanted to do Stormont, but his agent thought there might be political connotations.
It’s just big talk on Lewis’s part. Shifting Stormont. Doing his PR photos at the Giant’s Causeway. Inviting Liam Neeson on to his show like the pair of them were old muckers. My brother’s only from here when it suits him. The truth is, he sold out long ago. He’s forgotten where he came from. Maybe he’s ashamed of it. He’s only acting the local celebrity now he’s famous. The same boy couldn’t get away from here quick enough. You shouldn’t pretend to be something you’re not. I don’t care how fed up you are.
When I get my break, I won’t be flaffing around in a sequined jumpsuit or speaking all la-di-dah. I won’t be relocating to bloody Kent. Would I consider changing my name? I would not. I’m proud to be Cullybackey born and bred, proud to have cut my teeth lifting tractors on a farm. Damn it, I’m even proud to sound like I’ve a mouthful of boiled potatoes. I’ll be prouder still when I’ve my own billboard. Malcolm Leckey, Ulster’s premier telekineticist. (I’d have a wee note at the bottom explaining telekinetics is moving stuff with your mind, in case folks thought it was something to do with fixing phones.)
Jan Carson’s The Last Resort (published by Doubleday Ireland) is out now.
