Conspiracy of Cats by B C Harris - Contemporary fiction, paranormal, murder mystery -
Interview with B C Harris
Welcome to JB’s Bookworms with Brandy Mulder. Tell us about your newest book.
Conspiracy of Cats is a supernatural murder mystery set in
Northern Tanzania but with its roots in Edinburgh, Scotland. The story focusses
on Jos Ferguson; a young woman who, because of personal tragedy, has failed to
properly grow up. She is aware of her own shortcomings however and, when she
gets an opportunity to travel to Africa to visit the home of her dead uncle,
she sets aside her fears and anxieties to meet this challenge head on.
A colourful cast of characters await. The Nyerere family who
take care of Uncle Peter’s beautiful white house, Peter Sinclair himself… he
may be dead, but that was never going to stop him, Wendell, the good looking Australian
game driver, a Maasai Laibon, various Maasai warriors and some incredible cats…
large and small, who create the conspiracy of the title.
This is a story of magic as well as revenge, of incredible
love tempered by jealousy and greed. Take a journey to Africa inside your mind,
walk along with Jos in her quest not only to find herself, but also the killer.
Writing isn’t easy.
What was the most difficult thing you dealt with when writing Conspiracy of Cats?
I don’t have to go out to work these days, and no longer
have to worry about all the mum stuff... my daughter is thirty-five, she can
look after herself. But I’ve waited a long, long time to get to do something
that I’ve always wanted to do, so for me writing is an absolute pleasure!
Of course, in order to write convincingly about stuff I
didn’t know anything about previously, I had to do a lot of research. But
everything new that I discovered was something learned. Every day is a school
day and these are the things which keep us growing as people and keep our
brains fit. Something else that is wonderful about writing.
The most difficult aspects of writing Conspiracy of Cats was
what came after the manuscript was accepted for publication. The whole editing
process was such a long, drawn out affair, and also very repetitious. I have
had to learn to be patient; something I’ve never really been known for.
Tell us a little bit
about your writing career.
Now I can call myself a writer, I have some confidence in
the importance of that.
Let me explain.
Previously I was just someone with an idea, and a vague desire
to get that idea out of my head and onto a page. I didn’t talk about it much,
and most people didn’t even know that writing was something I wanted to do. Now
I’ve had my first book published I can say a lot of things out loud that I
previously chose to keep to myself. I can shout about it now. I keep a copy of
Conspiracy of Cats on my desk and, every time I look at it I smile, and I feel
proud of myself. It reminds me what I’m capable of.
As far as making a career from writing, that remains to be
seen. I’m aware that this isn’t a business where many make a living. It’s a
tough enough job getting published, but attracting readers is a great big
mountain waiting to be climbed. I must do that one step at a time, and hope
that my book… and any future books, will find enough readers.
Without readers, we writers are nothing.
They say Hind-sight
is 20/20. If you could give advice to the writer you were the first time you
sat down to write, what would it be?
If it isn’t already inside your head trying to get out, then
walk away. I learned fairly early on to walk out into the garden and weed. I
just daydream my time away as my fingers remove all those little unwanted
plants, and the ideas sneak up on me. I lost a number of small garden tools
back in France, cast aside in my hurry to get back to my desk. Hey ho.
What was your most
difficult scene to write?
A difficult question to answer without spoilers. Let me just
say that I have the greatest respect for cats, whether they are fluffy
domesticated moggies, or ferocious predators. However, in order to create the
conspiracy of the title, I had to write some very disturbing scenes between my
villain and some little cats. A necessary evil.
Are themes a big part
of your stories, or not so much?
The supernatural is a key component of Conspiracy of Cats
and also features in Making Sacrifices, which I hope will be my second book. The
supernatural elements are also in what I like to think of as books three and
four. It’s a fun concept that has a lot of scope. No one can tell me I’m doing
it wrong. I just let my imagination run riot.
What are you working
on now?
I’m working on the evolution of The Accidental Assassin, a
pitch black comedy starring a novice contract killer and her ghostly mentor.
Is there a release
date planned?
Conspiracy of Cats was published in August this year. As for
the rest… just another mystery yet to be discovered.
Who is your favorite
character from your own stories, and why?
Peter Sinclair is my favourite by far. He’s intelligent, amusing,
a man with enough drive to defy the limitations of death. But Peter is also a
character that has helped me out in the sense I dreamed about him most during
the writing process, and together we solved some of the plot issues.
Most writers were
readers as children. What was your favorite book in grade school?
My pre-teen book reading years were spent between the pages
of books by Enid Blyton and C S Lewis. The Magician’s Nephew is a personal
favourite. However, the book that turned me on to murder was The Bad Seed by
William March. I have re-read this as an adult, and enjoyed it just as much.
What are your plans
for future projects?
With Making Sacrifices in the lap of the publishing house
gods, and The Accidental Assassin coming along nicely, I’ve been collecting stories
from real musicians, as I set the ground work for Meat Raffle; a modern day
band, a murdered 70s prog rocker, a haunted guitar and the quest for a long
lost sister, a recording contract and the all important revenge.
Is there anything you
would like to add before we finish?
Thinking about all the women out there, women perhaps like
me who set aside their desires and dreams so they could raise their families.
Hang on in there. You’ll get your life back and, when you do, take hold of it
in both hands and shape it into something that will make you happy.
Good luck with Conspiracy of Cats, and thank you for being with us today.
Thank you!
Excerpt
It was as if all of them had known, because the Maasai came prepared for their ritual even though their little brother died only a few hours before they arrived. It was the largest group of Maasai Beola had ever encountered at the white house. At least fifty men, most of them warriors, all carrying their weapons and their shields. Their chests and faces and arms painted as if they were going into battle. She watched them from the master bedroom window, just as she’d watched the police arrive, having gone back up to finish changing the bed so it would be clean and ready when Jude returned. They arrived on foot just before sunset, and it would have taken all day to walk from their village on the western side of Mount Kilimanjaro all the way to the white house.
Some of the warriors carried armfuls of wood, and immediately began building a large fire in the middle of the lawn. The elders, including their bearded laibon, sat down on the porch steps to rest and, when Beola went out to meet them, they asked only for water. When she offered food they politely refused. When Beola moved to go back inside to fetch the water, a young warrior stopped her. ‘We must leave the white house in peace, little sister,’ he told her, and then he and several of his fellow warriors guided her towards the lodge where they fetched enough water for all. When that was done, the young warrior told her, ‘Word has been sent into the park so your husband and your son will come home soon. When they do, you must be ready to leave.’
‘But why?’
‘The laibon wishes to cleanse the white house of sorrow.’
Beola knew better than to argue with the wishes of a laibon, and so she nodded, resigned.
‘How long must we stay away?’
‘Moon die and come back again, man die and stay away. Come back with the new moon, sister.’
Back inside the lodge Beola began to pack, without any clear idea of where her family would go or who they would stay with. By then it was full dark, and the fire was burning so brightly she could see its orange glow above the garage blocking her direct view. Kissi and Ben arrived while she was still packing, in shock at both the death of their friend and the large gathering on the white house lawn. The evening breeze was becoming a wind by then, and the stars were obscured by gathering clouds. The warriors had begun to sing a sorrowful sounding song, their beautiful voices competing with the mounting voice of the wind.
By the time the Nyerere’s were readying to leave, a storm was in full flow.
The perimeter of trees bent and swayed in the wind that had initially made their leaves whisper. That wind was howling and shrilling by then, a tempest that thrashed and whipped the leaves and branches. Storm clouds had gathered so close, they were piled on top of one another, grumbling, rumbling, crashing with thunder directly overhead. Lightening split the night over and over. Up on the roof garden, a solitary figure braved the onslaught. The old laibon was yelling into the night, his spells snatched away by the wind that seemed, in turns, to want to blow him away and push him down. Rain pelted down upon him, it blinded his eyes, dripped from his beard, soaked his shuka and chilled his bones. He fought against it, at the same time as he embraced it, arms stretched wide and high. Calling out, over and over, to the spirit of his friend.
As the Nyerere’s were loading up their jeep, another vehicle arrived, lights sweeping across the scene as it circled the lawn. Beola thought that it must be Jude, but it was Henk de Vries, pulling up in his flatbed truck. She assumed he’d heard the news and had come to pay his respects. She ran towards him, but half a dozen warriors barred Beola’s way. They told her to go, to never speak of this night to anyone. Beola struggled against them, and called out to Henk in some distress, but either the wind stole her voice, or the Dutchman chose to ignore her. Kissi was next to her by then and had to impel his wife bodily into the back of his Land Rover as Ben sat quietly weeping in the front. He then got in himself and set off for his father’s home in Arusha, having called ahead to stay there were sanitation issues at their home, so they needed a place to say for a while. As they were moving around the lawn towards the drive, Beola watched Henk lower the tail gate of his truck and saw two warriors lift and carry something towards the fire. Meat for the funeral feast, he told her much later.
When Kissi’s Land Rover reached the foot of the hill, he turned north towards the main road that would take them to Arusha. They left the storm behind almost immediately. When they reached the top of the escarpment, he stopped and got out. Ben and Beola joined him. Together they stood atop the ridge, watching a small storm rage over the white house.
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