'Memoirs of a Master Forger' by Graham Joyce

This book is something of a rare and special treat for those who appreciate fiction with a twist.

Narrator William Heaney is a middle-aged bureaucrat who writes fake prose for a fraudulent poet and forges Jane Austen first editions for a huge profit. A flawed person, it is fair to say, he is not only prey to his own demons, but sees other people’s too, literally. They stand, hunched and shadowy, waiting for weakness, for the opportunity to pounce and wreak their havoc. Heavens, it’s no wonder the man drinks so much.

Still, scratch the surface and William is not really such a bad chap after all. Turns out his current dirty work is not done to fill his own coffers but to keep a homeless shelter afloat. Scarred by an accidental forgery in his youth, he’s been trying to make up for the calamity that ensued ever since, hoping to atone for the sins of his past. But time is not proving to be much of a healer in William’s case and as he ekes out the supernatural details of what went wrong all those years ago and why it haunts him still, it becomes clear the biggest demon of all is the past itself.

Picked up and read from cover to cover, this book is a page-turning, heart-thumping, rip-roaring eye-opener. And that’s not the best thing: it is itself a forgery. William Heaney is the invention of established novelist Graham Joyce whose previous books, largely in the fantasy genre, have enjoyed nowhere near the success of oemoirs of a oaster Forger; a state of affairs inclined to put a writer’s nose out of joint if ever there was one. William Heaney has effectively whipped Graham Joyce’s butt. “So what’s a fellow to do?” Graham wonders on his website www.grahamjoyce.net. “Publish more work under the name of William Heaney? Kill off Graham Joyce? Invent more pen-names?” I’m sure he’ll think of something. And whether he next turns up as Peregrine Nash or Japonica Stark, or indeed as himself, I for one will be turning those pages.