The Price of Love and Other Stories
THE PRICE OF LOVE
“Banks fans will be delighted …. This [book] serves as an excellent introduction to one of the best voices in contemporary crime fiction.”
–
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“A suspenseful collection of short stories.”
–
Ottawa Citizen
“There’s not a weak entrée in
The Price of Love
. Banks’ latest is taut, tricky and terrific. It’s got everything: tales of love lost and misplaced … and beguiling mystery and bull’s-eye takes on the foibles and frailties of human nature.”
–
Hamilton Spectator
“The writing is … colourful and evocative, and the characters are brilliant in their unpersonable way. This book is a must for Peter Robinson completists, of course, but also for anyone who appreciates good stories well told.”
–
Globe and Mail
“Banks is the kind of detective for readers to embrace.”
–
Toronto Star
“The final novella is a deeply satisfying procedural that hints at the possibility of Banks’s renewing an old romantic relationship. Until the next Banks mystery comes along, fans can get their fix here.”
–
Library Journal
“The plots, the characterizations, the dialogue and the broody, angry mournfulness are impeccably present in all the stories, long and short.”
–
Toronto Sun
“All of [the stories] are the work of an accomplished and thoughtful practitioner of his craft …. This is a splendid collection, one that the reader can dip into just about any way in the confident expectation of finding something to entertain or promote reflection.”
BY PETER ROBINSON
Gallows View
A Dedicated Man
A Necessary End
The Hanging Valley
Past Reason Hated
Wednesday’s Child
Final Account
Innocent Graves
Dead Right
In a Dry Season
Cold Is the Grave
Aftermath
The Summer That Never Was
Playing With Fire
Strange Affair
Piece of My Heart
Friend of the Devil
All the Colours of Darkness
ALSO BY PETER ROBINSON
Caedmon’s Song
No Cure for Love
Not Safe After Dark and Other Stories
For Sheila
“Cornelius Jubb” first appeared in
Like a Charm
, ed. Karin Slaughter, William Morrow, 2004.
“The Magic of Your Touch” first appeared in
Murder and All That Jazz
, ed. Robert J. Randisi, Signet, 2004.
“The Eastvale Ladies’ Poker Circle” first appeared in
Dead Man’s Hand
, ed. Otto Penzler, Harcourt, 2007.
“The Ferryman’s Beautiful Daughter” first appeared in
A Merry Band of Murderers
, ed. Claudia Bishop and Don Bruns, Poisoned Pen Press, 2006.
“Walking the Dog” first appeared in
Toronto Noir
, ed. Janine Armin & Nathaniel G. Moore, Akashic Books, 2008.
“Blue Christmas” was first published by Crippen & Landru in an edition of 353 copies for friends of the publishers, Christmas, 2005.
“Shadows on the Water” first appeared in
Men from Boys
, ed. John Harvey, William Heinemann, 2003.
“The Cherub Affair” first appeared in the
Toronto Star
newspaper, 2003.
“The Price of Love” first appeared in
The Blue Religion
, ed. Michael Connelly, Little, Brown, 2008.
“Birthday Dance” first appeared in
Thou Shalt Not Kill
, ed. Anne Perry, Carroll & Graf, 2005.
“Like a Virgin.” Peter Robinson, 2009.
For someone who considers himself primarily a novelist, I seem to have written rather a lot of short stories. I have also been very fortunate in that my publishers want to publish them in collection form, which induces in me a retrospective frame of mind as I gather these tales together and prepare them for publication.
Most of the stories in this collection were written at the request of one editor or another. I know that sounds rather mercenary, and that, in the Romantic view of art, the writer is supposed to work from pure inspiration. But I think of the stories as challenges, and sometimes a challenge can bring out the best in a person, or at least bring to the surface something he didn’t know he had, something he hadn’t explored before. And that is very much the case in this collection.
I’m not going to go into details here about the content or origins of any of these stories. I’m saving that for the afternotes, because I don’t want to spoil anything for those readers who, like me, want to know as little as possible about a story or novel they are about to read. I will say, though, that some of these requests for stories opened up new directions for me, took me places I would not normally have
gone, and forced me to dig deep into areas where I might never have ventured if left to my own devices.
In some cases, I simply set off into the dark without even a light to guide my way, moving from one word to the next and letting the story find itself. In others, I thought and fretted about the story for months, shaped it in my mind, despaired over it, scrapped it, started again, and when I was finally driven by the demands of a deadline to put fingers to keyboard, it came out as something different, often something better than I could ever have hoped for.
I have said before that I find short stories difficult to write, and that is still the case. The discipline is exacting and the amount of space in which I sometimes feel I have to manoeuvre feels quite claustrophobic. The bits I have to leave out would probably make a novel. But the satisfaction level is high. I remember when I used to write mostly poetry, I would sometimes work for weeks trying to get a poem right, especially when I began to value form and structure as much as, if not more than, Romantic self-expression or postmodernist confessional. Everyone who has ever written a poem knows that to make it work you sometimes have to sacrifice your best line or image, and working on a short story is far more akin to that process than is writing a novel, which in some ways is a constant search for more things to put in.
So here are the stories. I hope you enjoy them. People often ask me whether they should start with the first Inspector Banks novel or with one of the later ones, and I usually answer that it doesn’t matter unless you are the kind of person who
has to
start at the beginning. The stories are not presented chronologically, and nor did I agonize over their order according to some secret code or system of symbolism known only to me. Please feel free to jump in wherever you wish.
Peter Robinson,
Toronto, January 2009.
M
ost of us around these parts had never seen a coloured person until Cornelius Jubb walked into the Nag’s Head one fine April evening in 1943, bold as brass and black as Whitby jet.
Ernie, the landlord, asked him if he had a glass. Glasses being in short supply, most of us brought our own and guarded them with our lives. He shook his head. Ernie’s not a bad sort, though, so he dug out a dusty jam jar from under the bar, rinsed it off and filled it with beer. The young man seemed happy enough with the result; he thanked Ernie and paid. After that, he lit a Lucky Strike and just stood there with that gentle, innocent look in his eyes – a look I came to know so well, and one that stayed with him throughout all that was to happen in the following weeks – for all the world as if he might have been waiting for a bus or something, daydreaming about some faraway sweetheart.
Now, most of us up here in Leeds are decent-enough folk, and I like to think we measure a man by who he is and what he does, not by the colour of his skin. But there’s always an exception, isn’t there? In our case, it was Obediah Clough, who happened to be drinking with his cronies in his usual corner, complaining about the meagre cheese ration. Obediah’s too old to go to war again, and I suspect that he
also sat out most of the last one at a comfortable hospital in Skegness after sustaining a Blighty. Now, Obediah drills the local Home Guard and helps out with ARP, though air raids have been sporadic here since 1941, to say the least.
Obediah swaggered up to the young coloured gentleman with that way he has, chest puffed out, baggy trousers held up with a length of cord, and looked him up and down, an exaggerated expression of curiosity on his blotchy red face. His pals sat in the corner, sniggering at his performance. The young man ignored them all and carried on drinking and smoking.
Finally, not used to being ignored for so long, Obediah thrust his face mere inches away from the other man’s, which must have been terrible for the poor fellow because Obediah’s breath smells worse than a pub toilet at closing time. Give him his due, though, the lad didn’t flinch.
“What have we got here, then?” Obediah said, playing it up for his cronies.
Whether because he recognized the question as rhetorical or because he simply didn’t know the answer, the young man made no reply.
“What’s your name, then, boy?” Obediah asked.
The man put his glass down, smiled and said, “My name’s Jubb, sir. Private First Class Cornelius Jubb. I’m very pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, but Obediah ignored it.
“Jubb?” Obediah’s jaw dropped. “Jubb? But that’s a Yorkshire name.”
“It’s the name I was given by my parents,” said the man.
“Tha’s not a Yorkshireman,” Obediah said, eyes narrowing. “Tha’s having me on.”
“No word of a lie,” said Cornelius Jubb. “But you’re right, sir, I’m not a Yorkshireman. I’m from Louisiana.”
“So, what’re you doing with a Yorkshire name, then?”
Cornelius shrugged. “Maybe my ancestors came from Yorkshire?”
Cornelius had a twinkle in his eye, and I could tell that he was joking, but it was a dangerous thing to do with Obediah Clough. He didn’t take well at all to being the butt of anyone’s joke, especially after a few drinks. He glanced towards his friends and gestured for them to approach. “Look what we’ve got here, lads – a black Yorkshireman. He must’ve come straight from his shift down t’pit, don’t you think?”
They laughed nervously and came over.
“And what’s that tha’s got on thy wrist?” Obediah said, reaching towards some sort of bracelet on the GI’s right wrist. He obviously tried to keep it out of sight, hidden under his sleeve, but it had slipped out. “What is tha, lad?” Obediah went on. “A bloody nancy boy? I’ve got a young lady might appreciate a present like that.”
The young man snatched his arm away before Obediah could grab the bracelet. “That’s mine, sir, and I’d thank you to keep your hands off it.”
“Oh, would you, now? Doesn’t tha know there’s a price for coming and drinking our beer in here with the likes of us?” Obediah went on. “And the price is that there bracelet of thine. Give us it here, boy.”
Cornelius moved a few inches along the bar. “No, sir,” he said, adopting a defensive stance.
I could tell that things had gone far enough, and that Obediah was about to get physical. With a sigh, I got to my feet and walked over to them, putting my hand gently on Obediah’s shoulder. He didn’t appreciate it, but I’m even bigger than he is, and the last time we tangled, he came out with a broken rib and a bloody nose. “That’s enough, Obediah,” I said gently. “Let the lad enjoy his drink in peace.”
Obediah glared at me, but he knew when he was beaten. “What’s he think he’s doing, Frank, walking into our pub, bold as you like?” he muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it.