When, two years ago, it was announced that Sebastian Faulks would be ‘being Ian Fleming’ and writing the 36th James Bond novel, Devil May Care, Bond fans rejoiced. Faulks, the award-winning author of Birdsong and Charlotte Gray, was personally requested by the trustees of 007 creator Ian Fleming’s estate, and the book was released on May 28 last year to coincide with what would have been Fleming’s 100th birthday. One year later, it's coming out on paperback. So sit back (not too far, or your screen will fade from view), and let the sex, violence, charm and opium consume you. If you like what you read, buy the paperback version of the book here.
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It took Bond almost ten minutes to get the ‘Locomotive’, the Bentley Continental he’d had rebuilt to his own specification, as far as Sloane Square. London seemed to have gone slightly off its head in the time he’d been away. Every zebra crossing on the King’s Road was packed with long-haired young people, ambling across, standing and talking or, in one remarkable case, sitting cross-legged in the road. With the convertible hood down, Bond could smell the bonfire whiff of marijuana he’d previously associated only with souks in the grubbier Moroccan towns. He blipped the throttle and heard the rumble of the twin two-inch exhausts.
"Bond could smell the bonfire whiff of marijuana he’d previously associated only with souks in the grubbier Moroccan towns"
Eventually, he made it to Sloane Street and up through Hyde Park where the speedometer touched sixty as the Arnott supercharger made light of the car’s customized bulk. Bond turned the car into the right-hand bend on the racing line and just missed the apex he was aiming for as he came out of the left-hander. He was out of practice, but it was nothing serious. This is more like it, he thought, an early summer day in London, the wind in his face and an urgent meeting with his boss.
All too soon he was in Regent’s Park, then at the headquarters of the Service. He tossed the car keys to the startled doorman and took the lift to the eighth floor. At her station outside M’s door sat Miss Moneypenny, a tailored Cerberus at the gates of whatever underworld awaited him. ‘James,’ she said, failing to keep the elation from her voice. ‘How wonderful to see you. How was your holiday?’
‘Sabbatical, Moneypenny. There’s a difference. Anyway, it was fine. A little too long for my taste. And how’s my favourite gatekeeper?’
‘Never better, thank you, James.’
Win a trip to Paris! Just because the book exists!