In my book Hoxton the sketches are ‘made’ by one of the characters, Jarvis. In the follow on book, Smithi, I am again using sketches, this time in the form of the main character’s diary /notebook as he travels from the Peak district to Londonia, after escaping from the Domes of Manchestershire (both stories are set in 2070).
The tricky part is making the handwriting and drawing sufficiently different from that of Jarvis. Of course I could ask someone else to do it, but in order to keep costs down and enjoy a further challenge, well . . . I’ll see how it goes.
Some try-outs of style, pen, pencil etc.
An extract from the book when the main character, Smithi (a teacher of botany) escapes from the Domes into Out-side and encounters real and non-genetically-aided plants for the first time.
My shoulders tense, brain scrambling for rational thoughts: there are none. I have no idea what will happen. No idea . . . Crunch. The truck hits the photoscene material, pushing it aside. The speed has slowed with the impact. Careless now, I swipe a finger over the screen – reverse. Finger pushing up – maximum speed.
The sudden sound of footsteps makes my stomach flip.
“Hey. You in the C25. Stop!”
I squint back to see one of the guys from the glass room. He’s gaining. The Camionette is perhaps a yard from the wall.
I yell: “Go back — the gas will get you!”
The footsteps stop. He’s shouting for security. Too late. The C25 hits the wall and the existing small crack zig-zags into a jagged gap. The motor cuts with a final-sounding grunt. God’s own shit. I look around wildly. People are approaching, dark blue uniforms, guns out of holders. I have seconds. Leaping out from the cab, I drag the bag and stumble towards the gap. A bullet zings past my head and lodges into a loudspeaker; another rasps the white cloth of my disguise. Grabbing a metal tube, I smash at the wall. Pieces fall, the gap just big enough. I pull myself and the bag through, cloth ripping, skin burning. Bullets rebound, shouts fill my ears.
“No crapping way – the gas!”
“Call the engineers – get this covered – leave him – he’s a dead man. Crazy bleeder.”
The voices diminish to a drone as I run and run, eyes to the ground, not thinking, just fearful of a bullet streaking into my flesh. Then I trip, something catching my foot. I collapse into soft greenery and lie for a long time, face down, breathing in raw plant smells, unable to turn and look at what I have escaped to.
My lungs calm; the racing pulse slows. I am alive. I laugh crazily at my improvised words – ‘The Gas will get you.’ A sound nearby stops silences me. No gas . . . but what other dangers. Raising myself slightly I turn my head to see an ambling spiky creature; its small black eyes regard me for a moment then it carries on snuffling amongst the leaves.
I twist round and sit still staring at the animal. The word ‘hedgehog’ appears in my mind: Grandada describing them: ‘Good f’garden they were, Smithi – ate slugs un’t like.’
My gaze wanders from the animal. I sit in a street, or what was a street; the road surface just visible between bushes, grass and brambles. A tree grows in a wrecked house opposite, its branches sprouting absurdly from the roof. The building next door had been a shop, the glass frontage smashed, bare bones of empty shelves pale lines in the dark interior.
Looking up above the rows of buildings, my mind anticipates opaque curves but my eyes tell of something else: the sky. In the domes it had been the month of Seventem; just a word that meant a division of time. Out here it is colour, smells, sounds and temperature. How incredibly strange to feel a breeze on my face. The air is warm but with a tinge of freshness that hints of cold when the sun leaves the sky. I think of the bag: jumpers, scarves and the matches that the girl gave me. Why had I not asked her how she had known of my thoughts? An odd child, always apart from the others.
I lie back into the grass and let my mind wander away from the classroom, from crowds, from the domes. Clouds are extraordinary; they grow and shrink, the edges boiling and swirling. Directly above two dragons approach each other mutating slowly, one to a dog shape the other a long-billed bird. The sky is an intense blue at the top, gradually fading to opal above the lower rooftops and golden-leaved trees.
I feel so overwhelmingly happy. I want to shout manically but fearing what might hear me, I content myself with digging out a notebook and pen from my bag. I will write down every emotion, record everything.
A shaky sketch of the street completed I add a note of the flora surrounding me:
Silver Birch, Plane – vast, English Oak and Deciduous Oak; lauristinous in profusion, ivy, welsh poppy, honesty, about twenty different grasses . . . the list is endless. Stashing the book, I stand up and look around, elation ebbing a little as I consider practical issues – food. My small supply won’t last more than a couple of meals and little, or actually, no thought was given to after that.
As I search for an apple in the bag my hand clasps around a small metal disc – my grandfather’s compass. So, amongst all the madness I had remembered something ultra-practical . . . I decide on southwards thinking of approaching winter; heave the bag onto my shoulder and set off down a once noble street.