‘I don’t know what he was up to . . . some kind of moral crusade, as if he was trying to right all his ills . . . The thing is, it’s all a jumble, and I can’t make any sense of it. Then there’re the recordings . . . The recordings, his diary recorded each year, on random days, explaining to those who’ll listen . . . As if he’s talking to me and no one else.’
‘Maybe that’s how he wanted it to be, messy like real life, over before you can take hold of it . . .’
‘It’s these recordings, hundreds of them, spanning decades . . . all his daily frustrations are spilled onto them . . . words, language is such a mess when you are confronted with it . . . head-on, you know . . . Him, leaning in, staring, facing the camera in his favourite chair . . . No one in my family knows they exist, and I don’t know what to do with them. The ones I’ve watched, hours of footage, he’s just so . . . angry and lost . . . and he’s drunk and high on weed so much of the time that he’s practically incoherent, to the point where he’ll burst into song, usually something by Dr Feelgood . . .’
We are proud to bring you an exclusive extract from Lee Rourke‘s new novel, Vulgar Things (Fourth Estate) out on 3 July.
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