Mary, Mary Magnificent! Says I, loudly .mp3 (3.53 MB)
Julie Parsons
Town House, 1998
Dear Mick, Dear Mary!
Inquiry. Judgement. Plus paper towels.
A friend of the site wrote to share her most recent visit to Dublin, and to seek some advice:
...While I was there, I perused bookstores every chance I got, looking for some good Irish authors who write contemporary suspense or mystery. One shop clerk recommended a couple of authors but they weren’t what I was looking for. I was wondering, if you have the time, if you could recommend some good reads in contemporary suspense or mystery. Something that captures the distinct flavor of Ireland.
Critical Mick wrote back (and later embellished):
One of the best books I have read in 2005 is Mary, Mary by Julie Parsons. Very polished, great depths. Full of twists and shocks, which are hard to pull off when planted firmly in the why-dunnit camp rather than the who-dunnit. This novel's quite dark, but I enjoyed it thoroughly. Mary, Mary is admirable and more than a little sexy.
Noteworthy trivia time: Julie Parsons, like the main character is her novel, is from New Zealand. It's funny how outsiders can capture details missed by eyes too used to a place. Her Dublin felt more authentic than a native's.
Julie Parsons has written several other novels since 1998's Mary, Mary. These are definitely new additions to criticalmick's Amazon wish list. The chick's got style. She has so much spare talent, she uses it for kitchen roll. A little spill in le Kitchen de Parsons? She rips off:
'You have beautiful hair,' he said, winding a long strand around his fist and draping the end across his mouth like a moustasche. 'You'll miss it.'
The kitchen scissors with the orange plastic handle stroked her cheek....
Ha! How's that for absorbing power? Or if there's a spot, around the house, that needs a polish:
...And she [Dr. Margaret Mitchell, the main character] had seen them a couple of months later, Ellie and Mick, and the four kids, on the beach. One Sunday. A picnic basket and a cooler of beer. The kids making sandcastles and playing rounders, and Ellie and Mick lying on a blanket, their arms around each other, their legs entwined. She had sat up and watched them, jealousy burning a hole in her stomach, until she couldn't bear it any longer and she called Mary and walked along the beach, as far away from them as she could. And had come home later that day, and got drunk herself, sitting on her own on the verandah, watching the stars. Until the doorbell rang, and it was Ellie, screaming, holding her side. And underneath her dress, a burn where he had held the iron to her skin, until it smoked.
That's rough, scouringly rough! But smooth. Smooth the way that in each chapter the present slides into memory, deep into its regret and sex or pain. End result: clear prose that sparkles.
Soak up one last kitchen roll analogy. In Mary, Mary Julie Parsons wrings more menace and emotion from one victim than most writers can manage with a whole heap o' corpses.
2005 has brought other Irish crime novels and authors, ranging from the bad to middling. Most of the rotten ones are straightforward procedurals that star a detective. I like Colin Bateman and Neville Thompson. They're edgy, funny and sharp, and never star cops.
Let me know what you've come across in the field of Irish suspense. If you're afraid you'll receive the Danbrown treatment, a good forum to voice your opinion can be found is the discussion section of mysterynet.com.
Critical Mick bought Mary, Mary for his wife, but read it himself.
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