Where are the Kings is the story of a boy who moves from the comfort and familiarity of his childhood home to live with his late mother’s family on a Tipperary hillside. To write it, I followed the signposts that appeared from the overgrowth along the back roads of my own life, and listened for the voices of my own people, like I always have. Nine books in, I’m used to the strange magic of a story that starts to live its own life, but I’m always amazed by it, and grateful for it.
This novel’s young hero, Jack, carries a burden of guilt and grief so enormous and consuming that he can’t even feel it, but he hears things everywhere: whispers and cries and disembodied voices; he can’t control his thoughts sometimes, and he definitely can’t control the mad laughter that bubbles up from inside of him at the most inappropriate times. Neither can he control the wild thoughts he has about his beautiful aunt Rose, or the annoyance he feels towards his flatulent and mercurial uncle JJ, who’s only a little bit older than him, and with whom he’s forced to share a bedroom. His older uncles Theo and Haulie are like men from a different time and place; they command the oily kingdom of Grandad’s workshop, while Nana rules the homestead lovingly with a stern tongue and a strong countrywoman’s hand. There are secrets in the shadows of the workshop and the yard, dark truths stirring restlessly, creeping towards the light. Jack doesn’t really want to know. He just wants his Mam back, and his Dad to stop acting crazy and just be his Dad again, but he knows deep down that everything is changed forever.
I loved writing this book and I hope you enjoy reading it.
