David Cowzer's A Matter of Life and Death review

World cup nostalgia, rollicking picaresque adventures and class A narcotics are all to be found here, says Claire Ryan.

With the World Cup in full swing, David Cowzer's first novel A Matter of Life and Death is released just in time to relive Ireland’s glories in Japan four years ago, as a way to console ourselves over the fact that we didn’t qualify this year. But this book isn’t just about the highs and lows of the World Cup; in fact, that only plays a small part in what is a high speed dash half way across the world on the trail of gangsters, smuggled cocaine and a passage home. The book introduces us to the world of Nick Dunne Davis, an obnoxious garage owner and small time cocaine supplier. When a shipment of cocaine goes missing, Tony Doyle, one of Dublin’s toughest gangsters, sends his associates around to the garage to have a word with Nick. As luck would have it, his mechanic Barry turns up at just the right moment to get him out of trouble.

After a fast dash across Dublin where they inadvertently cause the death of Tony Doyle’s nephew in their efforts to escape him, they realise that they must go on the run before they are the next to be killed. Armed only with a Honda 50 and the missing cocaine, they take off across Europe on a mission to sell the cocaine and buy their way out of trouble back in Ireland. Needless to say, their plans don’t work out exactly as they would have liked, and they have to find an alternative route to safety. With a possible stop off at the World Cup on the way.

All the while, they are blissfully unaware of everything that is taking place in Japan, in what was possibly Ireland’s most eventful World Cup as Roy Keane was sent home from the Irish squad. But as far as Barry is concerned, his hero is leading the team to victory, and apart from trying to escape certain death, all that is on his mind is making it back to Ireland, or just to a television set, in time to see Keane lift the trophy.

The action doesn’t let up for a minute in this book, and Cowzer’s creative style of writing leaves you feeling like you are on the run with the two men, living through their adventures with them. The story progresses well and it is interesting to witness the way in which Nick and Barry’s relationship moves on from hating each other, to grudgingly getting along to actually enjoying the other’s company, but of course never admitting it.

In Barry and Nick, Cowzer has created two of the most interesting and lively Irish characters to be seen in recent years. Barry really progresses throughout the story, going from a hardworking Dub who minds his own business, brought through disappointment and fear as their journey continued, to final triumph. Nick Dunne Davis provided most of the comic relief through the story, with plenty of laugh out loud moments. While we were first greeted with an impression of a spoilt young yuppie who you would love to hate; you do grow to love him and his schemes as the book goes on. And who couldn’t feel sorry for a fully grown man who had to ride on the back of a motorbike that was being driven by a naked Barry, while wearing a size 10 summer dress and a German war helmet, and being chased by an angry Dutch farmer with a shotgun? It goes without saying that this isn’t the most conventional book ever written about two men going to the World Cup!

There is also a strong set of background characters, whose stories are an interesting respite from the main action of the book. Their personalities also give a good insight into the two main characters as we get to see what they are really like through the eyes of the people who know them best.

This is Cowzer’s first book, written after taking a year out from his job as a copywriter, and with the wealth of talent he has shown here; hopefully it won’t be the last we see of him. It goes without saying that this book will appeal to all football f

And then reality did something very strange.
It started with what sounded like a gunshot. And there was a very good reason for that: It was a gunshot. It was followed rapidly by another gunshot. And that was followed by Nick Dunne-Davis charging through the fields, screaming like a butcher’s boniff and headed straight towards Barry. That would probably have been enough to shock Barry’s brain into disbelief; the fact that Dunne-Davis was wearing a red and white floral-patterned summer dress with splits down the sides almost pushed him over the edge.
—Start the fucking bike! Dunne-Davis roared.
For the first time in his life, Barry wished he were hallucinating.
The sight of an angry farmer aiming a shotgun out the window of a Land Rover finally kick-started his brain into action. Dunne-Davis was very athletic, there was no doubt about it, but the farmer was definitely gaining on him. Even Carl Lewis would have had his style impaired by a knee-length dress that couldn’t have been more than a size 10; Barry wouldn’t have sworn to it, but he reckoned Dunne-Davis was at least a 16, if not an 18. The farmer screamed something in Dutch that Barry guessed – correctly, as it happened – translated as ‘Pervert!’ He slowed down briefly to reload and fired another volley in Dunne-Davis’s direction. With a bit of luck, Barry thought, he’d kill Dunne-Davis and let him go. Unfortunately, neither scenario appeared likely, so he fired up the Honda and grabbed his clothes. Dunne-Davis hurdled straight onto the saddle and shuffled backwards to make room for Barry to jump on.
—Holy fuckin’ Jaysus! screamed Barry, in an octave he had previously believed to be the exclusive preserve of pre-pubescent girls.
Thinking back on it, Barry would remember it as the most painful experience of his life. He still woke up at night screaming when he dreamed about the tackle that had broken the two bones in his right leg and ended his career before it had started – but that was a stroll in the park compared to this. The black leather saddle must have been edging towards the two-hundred-degree mark. He could have fried eggs on it. He certainly felt like his nuts had been sautéed in burning oil.
He vaulted up off the saddle, which proved to be his second big mistake. The delicate skin between his legs had bonded with the near-boiling leather, and it didn’t respond well to the sudden attempt at extrication.
—Nnnnggrrrhh! he screamed through his nose.


When his penis eventually did come unstuck, the worst of the pain was over. Then there was just the stinging pins-and-needles sensation of first-degree burns that would last for two or three days. He somehow managed to turn the bike over and get them moving, but their hasty departure had resulted in the loss of everything but his T-shirt, which he held on to for dear life. He was totally naked, straddling the bike like a jockey. The worst bit was Dunne-Davis holding his hips for balance and tearing the skin off him with his nails. It was funny: even in all the commotion of being chased through a field by a homicidal Dutchman, he still had time to imagine the situation from Dunne-Davis’s point of view. It couldn’t have been a pretty sight. With a deft flick of the wrist, Barry whipped the T-shirt onto the saddle and lowered himself onto it. It was like dipping into a scalding hot bath at forty miles an hour. The motorway was only a hundred metres away, and Barry was praying that the farmer would give up once they reached it.
He did – but even then, they felt like their problems had only just begun. Cars and trucks honked their horns wildly from all directions. A naked man riding a souped-up Honda 50 down the motorway, with a man in a summer dress on the back, was a fairly unusual sight even for Amsterdam. It was all too much for one oul’ one travelling in the opposite direction: Barry saw the shock frozen on her face, and then heard the crunch of metal and glass