A Work Of Fiction

A Work Of Fiction

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A Work Of Fiction
A Work Of Fiction
The Muldoon Book Club

The Muldoon Book Club

Episode two: Getting the ball rolling. James Lacey is on his first case.

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Hanna Delaney
Jul 01, 2025
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A Work Of Fiction
A Work Of Fiction
The Muldoon Book Club
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Hi and welcome to the Muldoon Book Club. This series is for paid subscribers, or those who have purchased a copy of the book and have been comped with a 1 year paid subscription. Welcome.

The Muldoon Book club newsletter goes out to paid subscribers once a fortnight. This gives us plenty of time to discuss things and get questions answered. Questions are welcome throughout this series. I may even address answers as future articles if it’s something we can go deeper with. Don’t hesitate to DM or comment with questions about the novel. It’s so much better than me writing pages and pages of things I’m not even sure you’re interested in.

If you’d like to join the Muldoon book club, either upgrade your subscription or contact me with proof of purchase.

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In this week’s episode, we’re looking at getting the story started, particularly James Lacey and the setting. Let’s look at the opening of chapter one again:

Constable Lacey turned the corner of Ashfield Street and stopped outside a shoddy, multi-storey brick tenement. In the early days of the building’s life, he presumed that the bricks must have been red once, but on closer inspection, they had always been grey. Now, they were tired and as soot-ridden as the people that existed within their walls. He passed a beggar who rested against one wall, his head slumped, probably in sleep. Lacey sidled past, trying not to smell him, and moved through to the courtyard.

The steps in front of the building, lined with hungry-looking, flat-capped men made him shudder. Each dull, hollow eye focused on him, his suit, his clean-shaven face. The uniform, reserved mostly for the beat and attending to street brawls and other cases of public disturbance, remained on the hook back at the station. Behind him, women were talking quietly to each other, casting a suspicious glance at the young man as they did so. When he turned to look at them, they quickly returned to filling their pots and buckets at the standpipe.

Filthy, ragged children played in the courtyard below the hideous building, stopping dead in their tracks when they saw the young man standing there. They stared with curious, wide eyes poking out of blackened, dishevelled heads. He tried not to make eye contact. The sad, filthy windows could have harboured a thousand faces, none of whom he’d be able to see watching him through the glaze of soot.

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