Tapping out words on the back bench of a rolling red rig returning from fires is perhaps not the ideal venue for writing but that’s what I do. I’m a firefighter and I’m a writer. The ‘job’ not only helps to keep a roof over my head but it is also provides an inexhaustible source of human interaction and plenty of food for thought. We meet people when their guard is down and often when everything that matters in the world is at stake.
My novel, The Judging of Abigail Perdue, is a work of fiction, a creation of my imagination, as are all its characters. Yet writers often have someone in mind when drawing on characteristics or physical attributes. For me, that was especially true for the character of Mike.
The seed of a story that germinated and became a book began its journey a couple of years after 9/11, when a memorial T-shirt was carried across an ocean by a grieving mom. (It would be more than 10 years before I’d learn her name.) I never met her but the shirt would end up in my hands, faded now from a deep navy blue to the colour of stone-washed denim on account of several hundred wash and spin cycles and rough embraces from scalding steam irons. I am still its custodian. This much loved ‘Nut House’ cotton garment – New York firefighters’ affectionate nickname for their firehouse – is my link to a real man whom I never knew. It’s significant to me for several reasons. I’ve worn it, lived in it, slept in it and turned out to fires in it. I wondered about the names imprinted on its sleeve: Chris, Carl, John, Ken & Michael – in particular, Michael. In his picture he looks like a young Matt Damon, perfect for a lead role. What were these guys like? I’d imagine they were a lot like my buddies sitting across from me in our station – regular guys and girls. It was for this reason I began to write about all those people who have gone before us.
In almost every house and home sit rarely disturbed boxes of old photos, many of half-forgotten, long-departed relatives. They stare out at you from the oxidised, yellowed paper, with their strange clothes and funny hair. What did they hope for? Where did they all go? I heard Malachy McCourt remark in a tribute to his brother, ‘We come from a long line of dead people,’ and it’s true. In our line of work you get accustomed to the unwelcome arrival of sudden death, but after an incident two years ago, where I found myself on a hospital gurney, it hit home like a punch in the heart – my turn will also come.
It was maybe at that moment that somewhere in my neural architecture a story formed about our final journey and became in fits and spurts The Judging of Abigail Perdue . A young woman is taken in the prime of her life; a New York firefighter falls from a burning building (from the outset I knew that he would be called Mike) and four other strangers with one thing in common – all have died within the past hour. Welcome to Stasis – a holding block for the recently deceased. It is here that Mike and Abigail are introduced to the Advocates, guides who are assigned to each new arrival and who prepare them for ‘The Chair’.
In Room 5 they are coupled with a Lebanese fisherman, a Scandinavian millionaire, a Japanese teenager and a retired plastic surgeon from Paris. They will tell their stories and then they must judge each other. You need three votes to move on. If you don’t get them, you risk oblivion. Yet all have secrets that they are not ready to reveal and some have even been to Stasis before.
The Judging of Abigail Perdue is not about religion. It is instead a book about all of us. In particular what happens to those we love when they are no longer visible. It is a tale that looks at how we see each other, people of different economic means, diverse beliefs and in some cases no beliefs at all. How we would judge each other in such a circumstance. You get to ask if it is in you to condemn another soul.
Brian Langan at Transworld Ireland encouraged me to send it to America. I took his kind advice and it caught the attention of my agent Steve Kasdin at Curtis Brown in New York. Steve said that the story made him think of his life in a way he hadn’t done before. They liked it so much they even published it under their own imprint.
Of course Mike Roberts, the character, is fictional, not a literal representation of this brave soul. It was my attempt at a quiet tribute, an honouring of his name. A simple demonstration that even when you’ve left this earth your actions can ripple out around the world and resonate in someone you’ve never met before. I knew very little about him when I began writing, other than that he was 31 years old. We are of the same generation. Shortly after the book came out, I got a delightful message from his mom, Veronica. She is the indomitable lady who arrived at our door all those years before. She shared stories of Mike and I was truly astounded when she mentioned his sister, Karen. I had inexplicably chosen the same name for his sister in the book.
We each wake up thinking that our existence is a most normal event. Yet that we are here at all is either an outrageously absurd fluke or there’s something imperceptibly beautiful at work. Who wouldn’t be curious? The afterlife, it doesn’t make sense, but as Mike Sheehan, a sage young philosopher from Kerry wrote – I thankfully live in a world where love outranks logic. I’m inclined to agree.
The Judging of Abigail Perdue was published in August 2015 by Curtis Brown Unlimited. New York. It is available on digital download or in paperback from Amazon.
For more information visit www.danielmallen.com
