The cover of The Rainbow Man and Other Stories is innocent enough. The bright rainbow hangs in a storm hued sky over an idyllic village, with lush fields in the background, cliched vernacular; but do not for one moment be deceived. David's central voice is that of the Rainbowman himself, his words weave through the fabric of each perfectly crafted and provocative story like that of a harbinger from another dimension or a superior being which, by its own divinity, knows how things really are. There is warning in his voice, wisdom and an almost gleeful, riddling prophecy as if from the mouths of babes themselves.

Collateral Damage is a prime example; an old soldier living alone is condemned to being mollycoddled in locus parentis, his neighbour 'spies' on him for his daughter. The old soldier is indignant, he does not need baby-sitting! Did he not fight for his country? Did he not live through Hell for his country? His memories of the old days are more resolutely vivid in his mind than the dull monotony of daily, dressing gown shuffling. So real are his old memories in fact, they can leave the past and blend with the dreary present with the most startling, disquiet ease. Knight Errant is another of the 28 stories that lead you quite astray, if you ever had an imaginary friend as a child you will find yourself wondering how the world viewed your nocturnal whisperings. The Lies of Sleeping Dogs will provide more questions than it answers and is a powerful argument for living in the present, providing its a present you have a right to. David refers to the tinkers in the story and I feel it only fair to say that there must be something of the tinker in David; travellers, tinkers or Irish gypsies notoriously much maligned for their double dealing and slight of hand deception. You pick up this book with its charming exterior thinking you are going read a collection of equally charming short stories, seasoned perhaps with a little grit to raise it above the tame, but what you actually get are jawdropping vignettes of the sort of lives only a writer of David's calibre could relate with such vivid and at times disturbing realism and all this whilst at the same time managing to avoiding the usual, the jaded and the hackneyed to ensnare your attention. Nothing is as it seems and the more mundane the surface, the more layers there appear to be; we are talking about a true literary onion here, multi-layered and quite able to bring tears to your eyes.

In their way, short stories are the hardest of all genres to write, for it is in the very economy of words that volumes are spoken. David is masterful with his word budget; he can induce more impact, chill the blood and widen more eyes in half a dozen pages than some authors could every dream of doing with 30,000 words. It is a gift and one rarely offered to the reading public in this Godforsaken age of heinous, ghost written, celebrity dross which is laughably called literature and the steady, gentle voice of a true storyteller is often sadly too hard to hear with any clarity over the cackling of a cash-fuelled mediocrity. But when you hear it, you will hear a voice which will remain inside your imagination long after the book is closed, set aside and that whatshisname mediocrity has grown too unlovely for the public at large.

Binnacle Press Book of the Month Review

(Copyright 2004)