For their generosity or inspiration or both, the author wishes to offer thanks:
IN ENGLAND, TORONTO, LOS ANGELES, SYDNEY, elsewhere, or in my memory:
To my beautiful children, Laszlo and Clementine, and to their mother, Heather Gordon, who saved my life and has been each day since, “light of my life, fire of my loins.”
To my late mother and father, Val and Rob Thornton, whom I miss beyond measure, and without whom nothing would have mattered. To the rest of my family, Carl and Darren Thornton, Rache, Jack and Hannah Kenny, William Alan Thornton, Ernest Reid-Smith and Betty Darter, Diana and Sonya Kreuger, Shirley and John Eyre. I say a huge thank-you for the guidance and the access to your food cupboards; the wisdom and the love. I wish some of you were still here for a chat over a gin and tonic or a snooker table. I wish, too, that my brother Carl had been blessed with a portion of my good fortune so that I (we) could have known him.
In the seven years it has taken to bring this book to fruition, there have been many periods of fallow activity. This has meant that I have leaned on friends beyond their call of duty, and I am lucky and grateful that those of whom I had always thought the most highly were the ones who remained around to be there for me. You all gladly gave me keys, a bed, food, drink, and/or generous portions of love and patience. Your number is vast, but that does not devalue any one of you: Charles Kittrell; Roger and Maryum Malik; my oldest friends, Marie and Kevin Chappelow (and their children, Antonia, Saffron, and Elliot); Karl, Nikki, and Louie Domonkos; Neil and Sam Wilson; Chris Mould and David Chambers; Todd and Mari Stevens; Chris Fletcher; Torquil, Debbie, and Molly Macneal; Claire Best; Debbie Mason; Duncan James and Penny Lamanna; Sarah Polayah; and Nathon Gunn, who also helped to crack open the case of the search for a literary agent. This book was made possible by you.
To the artists who have inspired me and who took me away from the offices, the sales meetings, the telephones, and the strip lighting that would likely have seen me dead by the age of forty: Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger, Anton Walbrook, Deborah Kerr, Roger Livesey, David Lean, Orson Welles, David Niven, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Dorothy Parker, John Kennedy Toole, Jon Stewart, Jake Thackray, John Lennon, Joe Strummer, Sydney Greenstreet, Ricky Day, Tom Waits, Arthur Lee, Chris Morris, Peter Cook, Stephen Fry, rock god Steve Genn, and Miguel Maropakis. To Jon Snow at Channel 4 News for your generous encouragement in the early days of scribbling in Costa Rica. To Stephen Patrick Morrissey and George Harrison.
To the late Chris Gunn and all those from my previous incarnation in the international television market who made those years such a ride; Tony Mendes, Orsalye Valde, Cecilia Hazai, Tim Brooke-Hunt, Theresa Plummer-Andrews, Sharon Ward, Mark Hurry, Barbie Holloway, John Campbell, Erik Pack, Suzanne Gutierrez, Lan Mainville, Moving Pictures, Susannah Morley Wong, DCH, Adam Black, Chris and Margaret Wronski, Chris Hainsworth, Phil Nelson, Jerry Diaz, and David Jenkinson, and all at C21 Media.
To Tina Egerton, with much love. And to her boys. And to Hilary, Tony, Wendy, Hazel, and Christian.
To Nicole Vrbicek for reading the manuscript as you said you would. And by the next day. And then a later version as well for good measure. To the other crazy Croat, Illyria Pestich, for getting me out on the tennis court, for translating Serbo-Croat curses, and for making me smile.
To Michelle Kass, Harry Bingham, and Paul A. Toth for their early advice. To the preeminent Dr. Arthur Molinary at the College of Psychic Studies in South Kensington for his unerring insight and frighteningly enlightened encouragement. To Meredith Duncan for offering me both work and friendship. To Howden Library, Goole Bookshop, and the top fella that is Ray Adamson, my inspirational German teacher at Howden School, for being there in the sticks and fighting the good fight. To Nick Gaughan for being a true gent and a pal, and to his family, Finlay and Kirsty. To Dr. James Burton and George Hespe for their friendship back in the days of the class of 1989 at Sheffield University and since.
For staying in touch and for being as genuine as I ever could have wished them to be, the fine and smiling couple Gina and Walis Williams and the thoroughly unique and remarkable lady that is Sandy Santino.
For individual cases of friendship and generosity that need not be elaborated upon: Jeremy Gawade, Elizabeth Radford, Elena Stepantchenko-Efremova, Kirill Efremov, Philipa Davies, Laetitia Tetart, Lorraine Kent, Vicky Cavallero, Marcie Phoenix, Martin “Tetley” Smith, Solange Ribeiro, Chris Podge Day, Damian Barr, Pierre Doisneau and Justin Quirk at Soho House, Malik Meer at the Guardian/G2, Jagg and Petie Carr-Locke, Carl and Katy Liddell, all at the Football Factory in Toronto, and my particular strain of Aidan Butterworth, Nic Jones, Tom Wood, Irish Carl, and Darcy Richards. To Marta Radasova, Leroy Samuel, Kathy Nelson, Tim Cribbens, the late Jane Tomlinson, Martin Holdsworth, Roma Khanna, Dr. Tom Axworthy, John Andrew, Alison Digges, Hayley Gould, Bill Richards, Justin Morris, Boston Hommel, Raj Persaud, Eddie Bissoon and Ron Estey, Callan Burgess, Alexandra Park Cricket Club, Karen and Liam Dunwoody, Ted and B. J. Maude, Asem Azar, and John Mamajek, Martin Sainty, Dr. Stephanie Merrifield, Louise Wilson, and to Dove House Hospice. To Fabienne Fourquet and Isabelle Hen-Wollmarker.
To my amazing Canadian family: Jim Gordon Sr. and Simone Gordon, Christine Gordon and David, Susan Gordon and her supremely intelligent daughters, Madelyn and Shannon (look out publishing world), and “The Boomster” Jim Gordon Jr.
To all at the Compton Cricket Club and Paul Smith, the Hayes and Cazarez families, Anna Kowalski, Nick Compton, Charles Brotherstone, and Howard Lewis.
To two fine teachers of the old school who left their mark, the late Paul Howarth and David Lucas. And to others at Howden School, Anne Robinson, “Rupert” Robinson, Keith Green, Sue Butler, and Diane Meyers.
To the late and very great Don Revie and Billy Bremner, for invaluable lessons in running through brick walls.
To my darling goddaughter, Princess Nina Wilson.
To all of our armed forces past, present, and future, and to their loved ones. And to the decent folk of Sarajevo.
In Costa Rica:
Ati, el Gordito Edgar Villalobos-Esquivel, Mami, Papi y todo la familia Villalobos-Esquivel a Taberne Pariolis en Alajuela. Iancito, Lolly, Guapa Marjerie, and to My Friend who convinced me that the answer is indeed blowing in the wind.
To the unknown Costa Rican boatman who rescued my manuscript from a thieving spider monkey in Cahuita. To “de two badman” Bobby and Winston in Trenchtown. La Paz y Jah Rastafari.
In Mexico:
To Stephen M. Joseph for his patience, encouragement, friendship, and guidance in editing the manuscript in the early days. To Danny Blue and all at the Metro House in San Miguel de Allende: Pedro “Cantinflas” Alvarado, Sam Seaman, Sam-illo Oliver, the one and only Shamana Mexykana, Klaudia Oliver, the Lebanese Cowboy Simon el Habre, Nenita, and Cappu. Paradis continuas, cabrón!
And finally . . .
To Carolyn Forde and Whitney and Bruce Westwood at Westwood Creative Artists in Toronto for their trust and confidence in signing me to the finest agency in the land: of this I am sure. To Vadim Perelman and Christian Grass for their decency and the comforting proof that all is NOT lost in the film industry. And, of course, to the preternatural abilities and generosity of my editor, Barbara Berson, whose brilliance transformed a rambling, ill-disciplined manuscript into something more. And to Stephanie Fysh for her thoroughly illuminating line edit. And then that piece of the jigsaw of which I had madly dreamed for years: to Simon & Schuster for everything you have done for me and my family. To Kevin Hanson, Alison Clarke, and the team of Felicia Quon, Michelle Blackwell, Maximillian Arambulo, Amy Cormier, David Millar, and Sheila Haidon. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, for had I known in advance how difficult the postwriting bit can be, I might well have given up. But finding on the other side of this brutal, fantastic, and unrivaled adventure the final and shining treasure of those named in this paragraph forces me into the broadest of grins and has done every day since October 6, 2011.
I could go on, but I do not wish to fawn myself into a sublimate in the style of Archibald DeWitt-Vultura. I hope you will stick with these pages long enough to meet him. And the others.