All Things M4tt

"So Jakes, will you tell us where you hid it? Or are we going to have to persuade you?" A voice emerged from the darkness.

"Persuasion? hmm... I may tell for some decent food. Don't mean to hurt your feelings, but that soup you've been serving me isn't going to win Master Chef anytime soon." Jakes scoffed at his own humour. Silence crept from the darkness. "I guess it's the thought that counts. I thank you for keeping me fed during such a time." Sarcasm wagged his tongue.

"Shut up!" A new voice reared from the dark. It was hoarse and needed a drink. "If you don't tell us, maybe your girlfriend will, or how about your mother?"

Jakes' bravado left him momentarily. It returned wearing new shoes and an expensive hat. "Persuasion 101, use something personal against your target. Nice touch guys, but mother abandoned me as a child and I only have eyes for The Queen."

"It doesn't need to be this way Jakes." The calmer voice slithered from the dark. "Tell us where you hid it and this ends now."

"Let's save some time shall we? I'm not going to tell you anything. There is nothing you can threaten me with and if I die, so does the whereabouts of the little black box." Jakes face read 'your move' like a chess grandmaster who has just checked their opponent.

Silence tried to sweep through the room but a drop of something dripped somewhere.

Jakes sat beneath a capricious light, that was not concerned with the idea of being reliable. When it chose to do its job, it doused Jakes with a beam that lit a small area around him. Darkness veiled everything that the light didn't touch.

Jakes hands interlocked behind his back. A tatty rope tied them to a creaky chair. Despite being stripped naked, he showed more calm than a monk during prayer. A damp stench hung in the air but Jakes had acclimatised to it.

From the shadows, a diminutive figure moved forward. It stopped short of coming into the light. Jakes guessed it was the calmer voice.

"I was beginning to think I was surrounded by a cult of voyeurs. Why don't you come closer, let's see which idiots decided to capture a Scarlet Agent." Jakes adjusted himself to a more upright position.

"So confident aren't we Jakes?" The voice was new but familiar. "It wasn't always like that was it?"

The figure hobbled further forward, tasting the flickering light. She dropped her hood. Jakes barked in anger. He convulsed and agonised, testing the quality of his constraints. His feet thrashed in a futile attempt to frighten her. Left and right, his chair shimmied. "You!" His teeth tussled with each other to a stalemate.

"Didn't think you'd see me again. What were your last words to me?" The woman's talons scratched her chin. "I remember. 'Death suits you.' "

Hate seared across Jakes' face. The veins in his throat bulged. The woman vultured around him waiting to strike. "Let's play a game Jakes?" She whipped a phone from her cloak and shoved it in his face. "Take a look at this screen." Without looking, Jakes spat at the phone but missed. "Manners Jakes. What are they teaching you at Scarlet these days?" Jakes earlier confidence had found a new host.

Two women appeared on the screen. They were in a well lit basement. Like Jakes, they were tied to the chairs they sat on, but with more clothing. Gags and blindfolds interfered with their faces, but Jakes knew them. His eyes gave that away.

"How did we find them? Is that what you want to know? Snakes are everywhere Jakes."

"You piece of..."

"Wait, wait. You haven't even heard the game." Her lips curved upwards, enjoyment pulsed through her movements. "You have to say a number between 1 and 10. If these easy to find women say the same number as you. They die. If they say the wrong number then I'll let them live." Jakes' face carried his reply. "Oh not a fan of that game?" She sighed, "It's one of my favourites." Jakes throttled her ocularly. "Don't look at me like that. Tell us where the box is and no one dies."

"Release them and I will tell you everything."

"Demands? In your position." Sarcasm erupted in the form of chuckle. "Box then the women."

"Release one of them. I will tell you where it is and then you must release the other."

She stroked the wrinkles out of her forehead. "How about we change it. I kill one of them. Then you tell me where it is. If it's where you say then the other one lives. Yes? That's much better."

"Please. No. Please!" Jakes struggled on the chair.

She spoke into the phone. "Kill his mother first. Death suits her."

For book 7 of the year, I had a read something written by a female author. I chose White Teeth by Zadie Smith. It's a story focusing on two families in South London. The main events take place across
20 years (with a few time jumps to World War 2) and involve several generations of the families. Themes such as religion, identity and family are explored without any author prejudice. Smith uses her characters to highlight the struggles of cultural integration. This is achieved powerfully through humour and honesty. Smith dissects and analyses ideas without propagation. The book showcases inner city struggles during a tense period of time in London where social changes were huge.

White Teeth was Zadie Smith's debut and it was met with critical acclaim. Here's my quick breakdown.

WHAT I LIKED:

Zadie Smith's writing style flowed. I loved how nonchalantly she described London and I identified with a lot of her depictions of the old city. She injected a lot of humour into the story, making the darker moments more striking. Her characters were authentic. I knew them, and felt I could have had conversations with them. I shouted at Samad Iqbal's character constantly. His hypocrisy was infuriating at times, but I guess my emotions represent a good character.

Her depiction of the difficulties of cultural integration and identify was powerful. I felt sympathy for some characters and utter distain for others. My own views on identity came into play. Any book that gets its reader feeling and thinking, as Smith does in White Teeth, is a great piece of literature.

The fear of cultural assimilation from the Iqbal's and the ignorance toward it from the Jones' was explored well. Just seeing the two families have such different core views but be so close depicted modern London.

WHAT I DISLIKED:

Length, length and length. The story is 560 pages and I did feel there was a lot of surplus narrative.

WOULD I RECOMMEND?:

Smith's writing is easy to read. Her words roll across the page, which helped with a book that was too long. The characters are interesting. The themes that underpin the story are woven with skill. This book has grown on me massively. Initially, probably due to length, I would have recommended Smith but not this book. However, with time, I wholly recommend this book. I've even got a few colleagues at work into it.

Dunnoattar Castle. Home. It's bigger than I remember. Was it always this black? Were the waves always this pissed off? Where is our flag?

This isn't home. He has raped it, tortured it's soul and killed anything left. Why did I leave? Why did I turn my back on my people?

... I must fight on, fight past the horrors, and find the monster that has done this. The monster that I once called brother.

You can feel good dates. Time flows, smiles rally back and forth, and conversation pulls you to each other. You just know.

Sat in ‘Groupons best dining deal of the week’, Tommy, 29, and Rosanna, 21, knew. They knew their meeting was a mistake. Tinder had thrown them into the coliseum of Blindius Daticus and left them to socialise for themselves.

-->

Tommy’s joke about the new £5 note went down like gloves and a touch screen phone. Nothing could save them. All they could do was get to the bill, avoid a hug and any substitute embrace, and be free from the nightmare.

"Hickory Dickory Dock!" He sunk his cleaver into the table. Its legs trembled but didn't buckle. "The mouse ran up the clock..." He stopped. His nails scratched his hair shy head.

He dipped into his many pockets and clawed out a watch. "Best part of this job is the monumentos I collect. Personal rewards for my hard work." He pulled the watch close to his eyes and gawked it. "Love clocks! I never did learn to tell the time. Mum did try and help me. She used nursery rhymes. She’d sing ‘em every night after her bottle of whiskey. But after Dad hacked out her tongue and sliced off her fingers she didn't want to do much counting or singing." He stuffed the watch into a different pocket. "Now I sing rhymes to help me relax, remind me of the good times. Do you have any requests?"

Silence crawled around the room.

"Oh, of course. Let me help you." He ripped off the tape covering her mouth and almost severed her head in the process. She fought back the screams, but her lips burned like an Englishman eating a Vindaloo.

"Hurry up little one, I don't usually take requests." He peered at her for a moment and then bounded over to a flickering lamp in the corner of the room. He pulled it closer to the girl and beamed it at her face.

"Request?" He said, popping a boil on his neck and rubbing away the flowing puss.

"Let me go… please." Tears wobbled her words.

"Don’t know the tune to that one. How about Humpty Dumpty?" He placed the lamp on the floor and readied his throat.

KNOCK KNOCK.

"Oh who is it now?" He searched his heavily pocketed jacket and found his tape. "Right don't move. I'm a little heavy handed sometimes." He held the tape between both of his hands and knelt down. The girl twisted and turned but her binds held her. He slapped the tape against her lips. "Beautiful." He beamed his tooth starved smile.

KNOCK KNOCK.

"Alright, alright."

He stomped over, mumbling to himself, and yanked the door open. "It’s three knocks. Not two! Three. Oh, it's you. What do you want?"

A man in a black coat stood at the door. His collar was upturned and his head barely rose above it. "You are to kill the girl. She is no longer needed." He pulled an envelop into the air. "Take this. You are to wait here for further instructions."

"I don't kill. I torture, I maim, I break, I starve, I reattach in the wrong place, if the prize is right, but I don't kill. It goes against my code." He beat his chest and it echoed like an empty oil drum.

“If she isn’t dead within the hour, you both die.” The honesty in his words was clear. He waved the envelope in his hand.

The mercenary grabbed and examined it.

"Open it when you are told and wait for further instructions." The man turned around and walked away. As the click of his heels grew quiet, he stopped but didn't turn around. "And make sure you dispose of the body properly. That's Princess Amal you have there, most of time and space are looking for her. Last thing we need is to be traced." He continued walking.

The mercenary grumbled and slammed the door. He threw the envelop across the room onto a pile of clothing.

Turning to the girl, he scratched his head. "I don't do killing! I don't…” His hands moved to his chin. “But it’s me or you."

He wandered over to the cleaver spiking from the table. Like Prince Arthur, minus the grace, he pulled it from its resting place and held it aloft. He turned back to the girl, who fought to shake her shackles. "No use wriggling little one, I've been tying knots since before my first pint. My Dad couldn’t break my knots and he wrestled bulls in his spare time. So there really aint no point trying." He stood over her. "I think I'll sing... oh you'll like this one. Wait, you have a request? That's the spirit." He bent down and peeled the tape from her mouth.

"Please don't do this." She pleaded.

"I must.”

"My father can protect you. Just return me to him. Please."

He waved the cleaver at her throat. "Or I kill you, Mr. Trench Coat is happy, and your father never even knows I exist. That's a cleaner option I think."

"But your code?"

"My code is my code!" Anger heated his words. He waved the cleaver above his head like a fan. His eyes closed as if he was meditating. "My code!" His eyelids flung open.

"Please!" Her screams bounced off the walls. “Please.”

He lifted the cleaver above his head and she shut her eyes. Everything she could control tightened.

...

Death shouldn't feel this painless she thought. Where was the flashback? The shiny white light? The voice of your maker?

She peeled her eyes open. Her hands were free. She turned to the mercenary.

He flashed his tooth scarce smile at her. "My code is my code."

Death Suits You

Book Review: White Teeth by Zadie Smith

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