No Second Chance
No Second Chance
…when I get seriously lost or afraid in the realm of raising a child, I look at the helpless bundle in the crib and she looks up at me and I wonder what I would not do to protect her. I would lay down my life in a second. And truth be told, if push came to shove, I would lay down yours too.
.. I can only be as happy as my saddest child.
The very day I started reading this book – another Harlan Coben thriller, No Second Chance – a new little life came into our family. Infinitely precious. Unutterably fragile. Totally innocent.
Dr Marc Seidman is a specialist in paediatric reconstructive surgery – he takes care of children, mostly from overseas, who suffer from deformities through birth, poverty or conflict. Then one day he wakes up in ICU himself, and discovers he has been shot twice, lost consciousness, and his heart had stopped. He learns he has been hovering between life and death, battling sepsis, for twelve days. His rich but volatile wife Monica is dead – also shot. His beautiful baby daughter Tara is missing. For twelve days already.
The police find fingerprints in the house belonging to Stacy, his drug-addicted sister, whom he hasn’t seen for six months. And then she too is found dead.
The day Marc is released from hospital his father-in-law reveals he has been sent a snippet from Tara’s babygro, pink with black penguins. And little wisps of baby hair. The ransom note demands two million dollars. Marc himself is to deliver it. But he doesn’t follow directions to the letter and the robotic voice on the phone is implacable: No second chance. Marc will live with the consequences for the rest of his life.
But with no grave, no body, a glimmer of hope flickers on, hiding, taunting, never quite leaving Marc. By now he must also contend with some of the police believing he was the mastermind behind the kidnapping.
Then an old flame – Rachel – turns up, a former agent with the FBI. Why had she suddenly retired? Are the rumours true that she shot her husband dead?
A second ransom note is sent eighteen months after the first, again with hair genetically matched to the first sample. But are they from Tara? Is this a trap? A glimpse of a child silhouetted beside the man in the flannel shirt spurs him on; a second look at the face of the child in the man’s car convinces him it is not his daughter.
But if there is the remotest chance she could still be alive, Marc cannot give up. He co-opts Rachel and her skill as a special agent and together they unravel circles of heartbreak and need, deceit and greed, leading them closer and closer to answers to the big questions that have been haunting Marc. Who shot him? Why didn’t he hear the glass breaking? Why was Monica naked? What is the connection between his wife and the girl who lived in his house before he bought it? Is Tara still alive? One by one the pieces of the jigsaw slot into place but … there’s still one vital piece missing.
In his acknowledgements Coben lists seven technical experts who helped him in the creation of this book, adding, ‘Any mistakes are theirs and theirs alone. After all, they’re the experts, right? Why should I take take the heat?’ Goes with his whole confident style, I’d say! Wish I had his courage and assurance.
First lines
What is it that makes us pick up a book and then buy/borrow it? The author’s name? Title? Cover? Back cover blurb? A combination, maybe?
What makes us open the book and having started, keep reading? First line? First page? First chapter?
Well, last week I told you about Ian Rankin releasing the first line of his new novel. I doubt very much if that will ever become an oft-quoted introduction, but it led me to thinking about famous first lines and what it is that makes them memorable. Ones that spring instantly to mind are …
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. (Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina)
The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. (George Orwell, 1984)
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. (Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca)
Marley was dead, to begin with. (Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol)
But I rather think that some of these have acquired legendary status, not just for their literary merit, but because they evoke fond memories of classic favourites.
There are other first lines, less well known, that instantly grabbed my attention and made me want to read on to see what the book was all about. If this author could write a few words this well, I’d be happy to commit a day or two/a week or two to finding out what he/she has to tell me.
It was the day my grandmother exploded. (Iain M Banks, The Crow Road)
Not an everyday occurrence, grandmothers exploding, so intriguing. How? Why? Where? When? What happened next?
The scent of slaughter, some believe, can linger in a place for years. (Nicholas Evans, The Loop)
Who’s been slaughtered? Who’s smelling their deaths today? Is it true?
I am a lawyer, and I am in prison. It’s a long story. (John Grisham, The Racketeer)
A story I want to hear. Why? What’s he done? How will he be treated? Is he guilty?
In their sacks they ride as in their mother’s womb: knee to chest, head pressed down, as if to die is merely to return to the flesh from which we were born, and this is a second conception. (James Bradley, The Resurrectionist)
Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it? Who are these people condemned to such a death?
When the first bullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter. (Harlan Coben, No Second Chance)
Was there a second one? Who was shooting him? Why was it his daughter who sprang to mind?
The clothes of the dead won’t wear long. (Barbara Vine, The Brimstone Wedding)
There is so much wrapped up in this thought that transcends this one story, but I want to know what happened to make it an apposite statement.
My name, in those days, was Susan Trinder. (Sarah Waters, Fingersmith)
So, why has it changed? What happened when she was Susan Trinder? What has transpired since?
I’m now thinking hard about my own first line. To date I’ve tended to concentrate more on getting the first page gripping. That introductory bit is so important; if you haven’t hooked your reader from the outset, he/she’s probably not going to bother to read on. I’ve actually often written the beginning last, spent ages refining it, for that very reason. I’ve sometimes even added a prologue to bring all the key intriguing elements to the fore and make the reader want to know how everything was resolved.
But first line? That’s a different level of demand. Fascinating to ponder.
New vision
Eebie jeebie! A year ago I invested (I use the word advisedly) in new spectacles. One pair cost some astronomical price so I got the second pair for next to nothing – they call it a special offer. Hmm. But hey, my eyes are beyond priceless, so they need cherishing.
This week I had my next regular annual check and oh woe, both eyes need stronger lenses. Ahah! Time to capitalise on the old investment and just replace the lenses, methought. And yes, these lovely smiling gentlemen specialists assured me, they could do that in such a way that I was able to keep one pair on while the other was re-glazed, and then swap them, so I’ll still be able to function as normal throughout the transition. Perfect.
However … yep, you knew there was a ‘but’ coming … even allowing for the miserly skin-flinty, curmudgeonly, option of recycling the old frames, the bill for four small ovals of plastic came to over £300! Phew! And it’s not as if everyone exclaims over one’s sartorial ocular elegance, is it? Who notices your lenses are brand spanking new? Who even recognises you’re wearing designer frames? Only an optician!
But hopefully my own eyes will, and they’ll return to days of intensive reading and peering at computer screens with renewed energy, comfort and ease. A precious blessing.
By way of celebration, after two weeks of intensive promotion of Inside of Me, I’m giving myself a mini break, allowing some reading-purely-for-pleasure to creep into the days between bursts of promotional activity. Feels like a weekend away! But just as I was starting to relax into Harlan Coben’s No Second Chance, up pops a profound thought to challenge my belief and opinions and put me into more work-like mode. The narrator is Dr Marc Seidman whose infant daughter Tara has been kidnapped and his wife Monica shot dead. Marc is a plastic surgeon who uses his skills, not to pander to the vanity of the rich and famous, but to help children severely deformed or damaged in accidents or war. I know people just like him and I really admire their selfless dedication and sacrifices. Marc also goes regularly to wheel his disabled father around the neighbourhood, and during one such jaunt he reflects on the values he holds:
‘I could be doing cosmetic plastic surgery and making a mint. My parents would be able to afford better care for my dad. They could move someplace nice, get the full-time nurse, find a place that could cater more for their needs. But I don’t do that. I don’t help them by taking the more traveled route because, quite frankly, working such a job would bore me. So I choose to do something more exciting, something I love to do. For that, people think I’m the heroic one, that I am the one making the sacrifice. Here’s the truth. The person who works with the poor? They are usually more selfish. We are not willing to sacrifice our needs. Working a job that provides for our families is not enough for us. Supporting those we love is secondary. We need personal satisfaction, even if our own family is made to do without. Those suits I now watch numbingly board the NJ Transit train? They often hate where they are going and what they are doing, but they do it anyway. They do it to take care of their families, to provide a better life for their spouses, their children, and maybe, just maybe, their aging and ill parents. So, really, which one of us is to be admired?’
What d’you think?
Then much later defence lawyer Lenny Marcus says ‘I can only be as happy as my saddest child.’ Is this a universal truth? Does it apply to me?
Challenging thoughts. Such is the power of the written word.