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208 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 2, 2023
Q: Quinn is just 196 pages long. Is that down to the poet it in you?
A: I think so. I just so love concision and I can’t stand waffling on. In a way, Quinn is a long-form poem. The fiction that I read and love is all short – so Claire Keegan’s work, Cynan Jones’s and Sadegh Hedayat, the Iranian writer’s. It’s an intense experience to read a short novel.
I’ve spent a decade working with long-term prisoners in Scotland, trying to understand and come to terms with notions of justice and responsibility: does guilt begin and end with the perpetrator of a violent act or are we all in some way culpable? It’s been a difficult book to write, not least because it focuses on male violence towards women – such a pressing issue of our times – and tries to treat Quinn as a whole person, rather than neatly labelling him. Sitting with that broader perspective has been profoundly unsettling, but necessary: how else can we arrive at a place where restorative justice might be possible?
I don’t know how to forgive you, but I’m finally prepared to try. I’m not sure what that means, except that this forgiveness is for me, not you. There’s something in it that seems to relieve me, a kind of letting go, I suppose – not of the pain, but of the constant replay of the pain. Without some kind of forgiveness, you’re a cancer festering inside me and I refuse to be held to ransom like this for the rest of my life. Bitterness and anger make for a sordid, barbaric life, as you must surely understand. I refuse to turn into the kind of person that Andrea would not have liked. It would feel too much like betrayal.
It is not for me to say what any of this means. I am caught between suffering and surviving, and I cannot imagine it to be otherwise. All I know is that once the pond had been lined and filled, and the wire fence between Jennifer’s garden and Farah’s repaired, a series of events took place that unravelled every story ever told about injustice. It was as though a violent curse landed with the ducks on the pond.
The woods were darker than I remembered and dense. Daylight had not yet fully penetrated the crisscross of branches and the place felt inert, more plantation than woodland. Birds were calling – tits, wood pigeons – and everything was wet from recent rain. As I stepped forwards, mud and leaves reluctantly let go of my boots. There was something erotic about it. I understood about mud and reluctance and rain.
I headed straight for the silver birch, our tree. The sun was beginning to shine between clouds, and the bark glowed. One white incisor in a forest of teeth – that’s what Andrea called it. She was bound to be somewhere near here. This was where we met on Fridays, after she had finished with her mother and I had completed the week’s story. A single silver birch in the middle of larch and pine, and the big car-wash brushes of spruce.