Fire Rush feels like a modern epic as it travels from the tired suburbs of 70’s London, through the haunting hidden tunnels of Bristol and finally Jamaica’s historic Cockpit County. The characters are a tapestry, coming and going but still connected to the protagonist, Yamaye. Crooks intended to create a soundscape where everyone’s voices echo on even after death. Not only does her plot pull off the near impossible with such scope in around 300 pages, her language is that rare combination of complex poetry and clarity for the modern reader. She delivers ingenious, detailed descriptions with refreshing economy, drawing on the richness of patois and 70’s slang. As she tells me, it’s a chance to show these dialects are also part of “high culture”. And Fire Rush does indeed feel like a Classic. It’s partially influenced by Crooks’ own experiences in 70’s Britain, having traveled from Jamaica with her parents during the Windrush era. The empowering car chase, as Yamaye escapes arrest, is based on a time she drove away from a gang. When I asked her about her ability to bring people’s faces to life in her prose, she attributes it to her memory of real people from her youth in Southall. Although, I suspect there’s a lot more to it.

One character who isn’t based on a memory is activist lawyer Herbert Peters, an homage to Peter Hebert OBE who gave his permission and helped with her research. Crooks’ novel stands out for its examination of grief and finding one’s voice alone but it is also an invaluable contribution to British historical novels. Later in the book, Yamaye meets marine archaeologists who dive to sunken slave ships and revive lost stories. It’s a deliberate and astute comparison to the author’s own work and the recent advances in storytelling on our island and around the world. Yamaye’s life is constantly affected by the systemic oppression of ‘Babylon’, costing her an impossible amount and crushing her childhood bonds from the very start. Crooks shares the stories of lives lived partying underground, even in the local crypt, and hiding from undercover police officers. At the heart of this existence is Dub Reggae, the precursor to so much of the modern music industry. Yamaye is not just one of the people dancing until sunrise, she dreams of taking the mic for herself and sharing her voice. Crooks includes poems between transitional points in the novel to show Yamaye’s lyrics at these phases in her life.

It is this inner voice that makes Fire Rush such a rewarding read. Crooks manages to present an exploration of developing one’s voice that captures progressive growth with attention to the frustratingly cyclical feeling we can all get. I was keen to learn more about how she captured this and what her own creative voice feels like. She’s a rare example of the intentional artist, someone who knows what they are doing while they create something remarkable, as much an engineer as a painter. Something similar can be said of her book. Crooks has made a novel that will no doubt mean different things to different eras, all valuable. Right now, it stands out as a work that brings overlooked parts of history and art into high culture. Within this are so many stories, from complex female friendships to the mental impact of sexual abuse to the lasting presence of unconditional love. Crooks focused on how music and love create an invisible space for her protagonist to feel safe. In the process, she has formed a permanent location where her readers will always discover something new each time they return. 

For the full interview listen to upcoming Jacqueline’s episode in the second season of the San Clemente podcast. 

Cover Photo: Jacqueline Crooks via Twitter