Faith, Hope and Love by Llwyd Owen
Hay Festival '10 Find of the Week, Guardian Books Blog
Wales Book of the Month, June 10
Wales Book of the Year Winner
Alun Brady was a bit of a Mummy's Boy, stuck at home in the suburbs. When grandfather Paddy makes his deathbed in their spare room, he makes Al face the hardest decision in his life. Later, just out of prison, Al's world is an emptier one. Drawn into Cardiff's underbelly, events darken as he discovers he cannot break free of his blood family.
Llwyd Owen is the author of four highly-acclaimed and controversial Welsh-language novels. His second novel, Ffydd Gobaith Cariad won the 2007 Wales Book of the Year award (Welsh language). Llwyd is also a published photographer and poet who lives in Cardiff with his wife and daughter.
NEE- NEE- NEE- NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The alarm cracks the whip and I'm up from deep sleep like a slave obeying orders. My eyes, though, are closing again slowly as the sun seeps past the bars and warms my white face. I come to slowly; no point rushing, not in here. These last two years, my life has shifted from the middle lane to the hard shoulder. Like iron filings to a magnet, the snores of Knocker, my cell-mate, jerk me closer to the waking state.
There's nothing worse than an alarm at the start of yet another day in captivity. It seems so spiteful: to wake you up for what? To remind us bad boys we're not the ones in charge any more. Control is what you lose once you commit a crime, or at any rate once you're caught and sentenced.
Like most mornings, the stink of urine is suspended in the air along with our sweat. I open my eyes: the clouds disperse. Against the opposite wall, near the poster of Jemma Jameson who's doing nothing to wilt my Morning Glory leans Paddy, my friend in spirit; he is smoking a non-filtered Woodbine. God knows where he buys his cigarettes. But chances are it's all up for grabs if you live in that limbo between the living and the dead?
The alarm cracks the whip and I'm up from deep sleep like a slave obeying orders. My eyes, though, are closing again slowly as the sun seeps past the bars and warms my white face. I come to slowly; no point rushing, not in here. These last two years, my life has shifted from the middle lane to the hard shoulder. Like iron filings to a magnet, the snores of Knocker, my cell-mate, jerk me closer to the waking state.
There's nothing worse than an alarm at the start of yet another day in captivity. It seems so spiteful: to wake you up for what? To remind us bad boys we're not the ones in charge any more. Control is what you lose once you commit a crime, or at any rate once you're caught and sentenced.
Like most mornings, the stink of urine is suspended in the air along with our sweat. I open my eyes: the clouds disperse. Against the opposite wall, near the poster of Jemma Jameson who's doing nothing to wilt my Morning Glory leans Paddy, my friend in spirit; he is smoking a non-filtered Woodbine. God knows where he buys his cigarettes. But chances are it's all up for grabs if you live in that limbo between the living and the dead?
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