Book details:
ISBN: 978-0-9571507-3-7
RRP: £7.99
FORMAT: 198 x 129 x 15mm notch bound paperback
EXTENT: 304 pages
‘The Conspiracy Kid’, the second novel from E.P.Rose, is published this month.
A cast of charmingly eccentric characters is brought together through their accidental membership of The Conspiracy Kid Fan Club, resulting in a glorious series of adventures involving hamburgers, poetry, blues, mental breakdowns, art, death and golf, as it propels the reader from Hendon to Biloxi, and from Piccadilly to Pring.
The friendship between Edwin Mars, a shambolic and underfunded poet, and Joe Claude, a plodding and bereaved billionaire, lies at the heart of the book – a friendship kindled by Edwin’s sonnet, “The Conspiracy Kid Fan Club”.
But what is the Fan Club? Who is the Conspiracy Kid? And what effect does reading the sonnet have on all those who come into contact with it?
This is the story of the earliest unwitting Conspiracy Kid Fan Club members: Edwin Mars (poet), Joe Claude (billionaire), Walter Cornelius (‘werewolf’), Muriel Cohen (chef) – to name but a few. It tells of their loves and losses, their tragedies and triumphs, all tied together in a tangle of conspiracy, coincidence and string.
E. P. Rose’s stylish and humorous prose, combined with an intricately woven plot, draws the reader into a heady vortex of colliding worlds, resulting in unexpected and often hilarious consequences.
Another delightful journey into the unexpected by the author of ‘Beyond the Valley of Sex and Shopping’.
About this author
Read an Excerpt
“This
is a safe haven, Iris,” Imogen explained, as they went to Lionel’s wing, “not a
prison. But there are bars, principally because we don’t want people jumping
out of windows. Escape isn’t really an option. They don’t have their own
clothes. No money. No transport, and we’re pretty much in the middle of
nowhere, apart from which most of the patients are here because they want to
be. They need our help. Here we are.”
They stopped beside a door,
embellished with a number 4. Imogen knocked and opened the door, to reveal
Lionel standing between the single bed and the chair, holding an imaginary golf
club, addressing an imaginary ball, dressed in a navy track suit, with PRC
emblazoned in white on the chest – Pring Recovery Centre.
“Lionel, I have a surprise for you.”
Very slowly, he raised his head, and
looked at Iris.
“Hello, Dad.”
He stared at her from underneath his
eyebrows.
“It’s me. Iris.”
His
look was hard and cold.
Imogen said: “Aren’t you going to
say hello to your daughter, Lionel?”
“There’s been a mistake,” he
replied. “I have no daughters.”
Then he returned his attention to
the imaginary ball, went through his pre-shot routine, swung the imaginary
club, and held the follow-through, watching the ball sail long and true into
the bleak unimaginable beyond.
Marcel’s Soufflé and the full moon
would soon begin to rise.
Drinks were served in the YesYes, so
called because it was in this room, at midnight, that Lady Preston, Pring’s
first chatelaine, had liked to consult her ouija board.
“How was it?” Neville asked, when
Imogen brought Iris in.
“Oh, he went into this whole
I-have-no-daughters schtick.”
“Obviously psychronic.”
“It’s pathetic.”
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No, I need a drink.”
“White wine?”
“Anything.”
A bearded Australian man, wearing
socks and sandals, sat on the sofa, next to an Australian woman in white,
wearing a prominent cross, suspended from a chain about her unusually long neck
– Bill and Jennifer Something-or-other, Joe Claude couldn’t quite catch the
name. Maybe he’d spent too much time in the sun. The poet and the billionaire
completed the three-piece suite.
“What line of business are you in,
Bill?” Joe Claude asked.
“I’m the consultant psychiatrist
here, Joe. How about yourself?”
“Retired.”
“Imogen gave me your new book of
poems, Edwin. What is the Conspiracy Kid Fan Club?” Jennifer wanted to know.
“It’s the new religion, Jen,” came
Edwin’s cheery reply.
“Really?” said Jennifer, primly
fingering her cross. “In what way is a fan club religious?”
“That’s what religions are. Fan
clubs,” Edwin pronounced.
“Don’t listen to him, Jennifer. It’s
all nonsense,” said Imogen, coming to perch on the arm of Edwin’s chair. “Come
and sit down, you two.”
Iris and Neville joined the group.
“Christianity is not a fan club,
Edwin.” Jennifer was not going to let this go.
“Of course it is,” Edwin countered
with a broad smile. “Christianity is the Jesus Christ Fan Club. Buddhism is the
Buddha Fan Club. Mohammedanism is the Mohammed Fan Club. Judaism is the Jehovah
Fan Club. That’s what they are. Rival fan clubs. My star’s better than yours.”
“I find that quite offensive,
actually, Edwin,” Jennifer puckered.
“Why should you be offended?”
“Because Jesus Christ, Edwin, is the
Son of God. He’s not some celebrity.”
Jennifer invested celebrity with fierce antipodean scorn.
“He certainly seems like pretty much
of a celebrity to me.”
“Well, if he is, it’s because of
what he is, and what he’s done. I mean, who is the Conspiracy Kid?
What’s he ever done?”
“Jenny, it’s just a poem. Calm
down,” Imogen said.
“What’s the Conspiracy Kid ever
done?” Edwin echoed. “Well, that depends on who you think he, or she, is.
Perry, our judge, for example, thinks the Kid keeps moving the body he thinks
he’s murdered. Trowbert thinks the Kid whispered in Hitler’s ear. Poor Susan
Dole has him hidden in the mirror, turning things back to front. Walter
Cornelius thinks the Kid is the soul of the baby his sister lost when he
attacked her.”
Bill chimed in with: “Edwin, these
people are all several sausages short of a barbie. It’s hardly reliable
testament.”
“That’s the official psychiatric
line, is it?” Edwin wondered. “Blimey mate, Jesus’s original constituency
wasn’t exactly fully marbled up.”
“I think he sounds like the devil,”
Jennifer said. “That’s what he is. The Devil. And I think you’re in league with
him, Edwin. I do. And you know what? I’m going to pray for you tonight. I am.”
Edwin groaned, shook his head and
knocked back his scotch: “I wouldn’t waste my breath, if I were you.”
“What do you make of all this, Mr
Claude?” Imogen asked.
“I’m not sure,” Joe Claude replied.
“Interesting. I’m thinking about it.”
“Do you mind if I change the
subject?” Neville asked.
“Please do,” said Imogen,
gratefully.
 |
| Fans of The Conspiracy Kid!! |
No comments:
Post a Comment