Why do I tell you this? Am I about to admit to
being an alcoholic? No, certainly not. I keep my taste for a decent wine
strictly under control. One glass with a meal and that’s it. But I do have a taste for writing about the
grittier side of life. The problem is that I live in a place where a lot of decent,
law abiding elderly people live in relative comfort. For most of them, serious
crime means putting recyclable waste into their ordinary dustbins. So I have to
draw upon previous experiences in order to find harsh backgrounds for my
stories.
In 1968 I finished my air traffic control basic
training and I was posted to Belfast Airport. As a very junior controller on
the bottom step of the pay ladder, I lived in a very downbeat part of the city:
rows of back-to-back red-brick terraces. Coronation Street without the charm. Within
a year that part of Belfast would erupt into violence. I was later posted to a
radar station in glorious countryside thirty miles south of Belfast, within
sight of the Mourne Mountains. Even there I saw the effects of the Northern
Irish troubles at first hand. I saw an otherwise beautiful countryside brought
to its knees. I looked out from my own home and saw bombs explode. I saw
buildings torn apart. Buy me a pint of beer and I’ll tell you the tale of how I
was once mistaken for an IRA brigade leader. Amongst the seemingly endless
catalogue of atrocities, I experienced the same fear all decent Irish people
felt. And that is a gritty way of life I can now write about.
Why? Why write about something most people want
to forget? Well, I write about it because most English people don’t understand
what it was like. How could they? They read the odd newspaper article about it,
but that doesn’t have the same effect as becoming emotionally tangled with the
lives of characters from a novel. Even a well-researched article will not delve
deep enough into the intimacies of people’s lives. So I tell it as I once saw
it and I create a gritty world of tension and fear just as Chandler did so many
years ago.
If you want to know how I saw things back in
those violent times, try reading The
Gallows on Warlock Hill. In that story I created a character who was, on
the surface, a wicked girl. Over the course of the novel I aimed to show that,
deep down, she wasn’t bad at all. She was simply a victim of her circumstances.
And, therein, lay the universal truth I wanted to portray: so many Irish people
who lived through those terrible days were victims, not criminals. Gallows is now available for download
from Amazon and you can try the opening chapter free on www.thenovelsofdavidhough.com. But I should warn you: it is every bit as
gritty as any Hammett or Chandler novel.
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