Dark Tales for Dark Days

the watchersThe Watchers by Neil Spring is based on a series of real and unexplained events near the coast of Wales in the late 1970s. In the winter of 1977 a spate of UFO sightings took place, the most compelling witnessed by the children of a primary school who believed strongly that they saw a spacecraft land, whilst others were convinced they had seen giant silver-suited figures staring in windows. There was so much media concern over the sightings that the Ministry of Defence secretly conducted research into the area, though what their officials made of it is still unknown. I was a child of the 70s and the premise of the novel sparked long-buried memories of those UFO sightings. It struck me as an intriguing idea to go back to that era and to resurrect the old UFO concept – but although the novel begins there, it isn’t quite where the story ends up.

Robert Wilding is a tortured man. He suffers from anxiety and OCD, a legacy of the traumatic deaths of his parents in a flood and from the fear-fuelled adolescence he spent with his religious extremist grandfather in Wales. Even now as a grown man his nightmares and worst fantasies concern ominous pounding on doors and the need to hide from the Watchers, whoever or whatever they may be. He’s trying to do his best to right the wrongs of the past, however, through his government job. His father worked in the military and his mother was a protestor, so both were caught up in the events at RAF Croughton in 1963, when a demonstration went wrong and his mother was badly burned in the subsequent fire. Now, in 1977, with the help of the local Welsh MP, Robert is involved in the government enquiry into this event. When the enquiry is disrupted in a catastrophic way, the American Lieutenant Colonel who Robert was hoping to see in the witness box contacts him to arrange a midnight meeting. He suggests that the UFO sightings in the area are not in fact extraterrestial in nature, but high-tech surveillance from Russia. When Robert’s mentor in the government also encourages him to return to Wales to look more closely into what’s happening at the American and British bases, Robert must swallow his personal fears for the greater cause.

What he finds in Wales is a community living in extreme fear. Along with unexplained sightings such a balls of fire that travel as fast as a car, there have been animal mutilations and a strange sickness that sounds like radiation poisoning. Robert is forced to confront his grandfather and his memories of the past, but what is more alarming, he is beginning to understand his grandfather’s point of view. From here on in, events spiral into a waking nightmare in which no one is what they seem.

Having begun this thinking it would be a sort of thriller-ish affair, it turned out to belong much more readily to the horror genre or the book form of the disaster movie. There’s a lot going on and a great deal happens, each short chapter containing some incident that ratchets up the tension, resulting in a taut and compelling plot. However, I have to confess that I think I’m a bit old for this novel. If you love the kind of rapid-fire plotting that dominates a lot of current television and film, you’ll really get behind this. Me, I’m old school, so I would have liked to see more characterisation. If your main character begins the novel traumatised, is then thrown into the depths of his fears and never really has a chance to catch his breath, you don’t see many sides of his personality. I’m also not a believer in the paranormal. The thought that the UFO sightings might be military-based excited me; I love that sort of clever rational explanation, but quite quickly we are moved onto other, darker motivations. Essentially, I suppose the novel explores dangerous hypnotic beliefs, either in the form of satanic rites or mass hysteria. I fell out of the fantasy frame about halfway through and struggled to get back into it. I think it’s a good book; well-written, very well plotted, and conceptually it holds together on its own terms. You have to decide if the subject matter is up your dark and menacing alley or not.


smoke and mirrorsI was also sent for review Smoke and Mirrors by Elly Griffiths. Griffiths is known for her crime fiction featuring Dr Ruth Galloway, a forensic archeologist (who knew that obscure department would gain so much fictional credence?). This is the second in a new series set in Brighton in the 1950s. Her main protagonists are a stage magician, Max Mephisto, and his detective inspector friend, Edgar Stephens. The two met during the war, when they were part of a team coming up with more unusual ways to confound the enemy. In this novel, it’s a very snowy run-up to Christmas in 1951. Max is in pantomime on the pier (Aladdin), while Edgar is dealing with a sad and disturbing case: the deaths of two young children, left in a snowy hollow surrounded by sweets. The press are quick to make Hansel and Gretel comparisons, and they may not be so far off the mark. The murdered girl, Annie, was a keen playwright, organising her band of young local friends into an impromptu theatre group. Encouraged by her school teacher, Annie has been rewriting fairy tales in gruesome ways. In her character of the child snatcher, did she have some real life counterpart in mind?

But the solution to the crime may lie instead with the adult theatre troupe performing pantomime. Those with longer memories can still recall a murder that took place in the same venue in 1912, when a young girl, a Babe in the Wood, is found with her throat cut. By uncanny coincidence, several of the 1951 cast have family links back to that earlier play and the earlier unsolved crime. Could the police be dealing with a copycat situation?

For some reason or other, I had it in my head that Elly Griffiths didn’t write very good prose, and so I hadn’t read her before. This turns out to be a complete nonsense – Smoke and Mirrors was a very well-written book with an especially nice line in dialogue. Max Mephisto gets all the fun character attributes, being dramatic, egotistic and a tad louche; poor old Edgar is the worrywort with a tricky conscience. Edgar also has two promising henchmen, the dour, class-conscious Bob, and bright, moneyed Emma (who is treated in a way that will please all 21st century sensibilities, though somewhat anachronistic to the 50s setting). This was a well-conceived and highly atmospheric story, and my only real criticism is that by the three-quarters mark we still had absolutely no idea what had happened and not much to show for the efforts of the police. That’s not unusual in contemporary crime fiction, however, and it didn’t mess with my motivation. I found this a compelling novel and in fact have since begun on the Ruth Galloway series (I read The House at Sea’s End which was even better than this one). If you like crime fiction, Griffiths is definitely worth a try.

Out of Sheer Enthusiasm: The Prison Book Club

the prison book clubI will confess up front that teaching literature in prisons is something I have long been interested in doing – only whenever I start to think I might have enough energy for it, Mr Litlove says no, more forcibly than usual. He says he doesn’t want to come home one night to find a burly ex-con emerging from the shadows, saying in menacing tones, you ain’t treatin’ Litlove right. So when I saw Ann Walmsley’s book, The Prison Book Club, I was extremely curious to read it and enjoy vicariously an experience I’m probably unlikely to have.

And it was one of those books that did exactly what I’d hoped it would do, which meant I was glued to it most of the weekend. Ann Walmsley was invited by her friend, a determined and powerful philanthropist, Carol, to join in with her scheme of starting book clubs in prisons. Ann was intrigued but scared; when she lived in London a few years previous to this invitation, she had been mugged in the private lane running just alongside her house. One man had throttled her whilst the other took her phone and only the sound of the garden gate opening by remote control frightened them off. After this, Ann had suffered from post-traumatic anxiety for some time. Putting herself in the company of violent inmates seemed a terrifying prospect. But her friend, Carol, was someone who never took no for an answer, and Ann was evidently keen for a book project. She took a recorder with her to all the book club sessions and over time, as she grew to know and like the men, offered some of them journals to record their thoughts as they read the books, and spent one-to-one time with them.

Ann’s role is initially to help suggest books the men will enjoy reading. There are not, as you might wonder, that many issues around literacy levels; Carol plunges in with pure, unadulterated literature. But as always, the very question of book choice makes us think about how books work their magic. Lawrence Hill’s The Book of Negroes was a huge hit with the men, who could relate to a story of poverty and slavery. But they equally loved The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, the metaphor of the Occupation having a more powerful resonance with them than, say, The Zookeeper’s Wife by Diane Ackerman, the story of the immensely brave Polish zoo owners who hid Jews in the animals cages before spiriting them out of danger. Equally big hits were The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway and John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Essentially, the prisoners enjoyed chewing over a book with profound themes, and had as much empathy as any other set of readers for social problems.

Some of the books they read alongside the Toronto book club that Ann and Carol both belonged to on the outside. On the occasion of Roddy Doyle’s tale of domestic abuse, The Woman Who Walked into Doors, coming up for discussion, the Toronto ladies, gathered in someone’s lovely home, eating pear and apple crumble and drinking a nice wine, were horrified and concerned.

Lillian-Rose asked bluntly who screened these books. If an inmate had engaged in domestic abuse, she said, wouldn’t the book provoke, disturb or even excite them? Ruth said that since Carol and I were not psychologists or therapists, how would we handle it if the material brought out something in a book club member that he hadn’t faced before. But Carol and I explained that the men had managed well with other books about abuse and neglect, like The Glass Castle. In fact, every prison group that had read The Glass Castle had absolutely loved it, Carol said. “Many of them have been through anger management programs and a lot of them have more self-knowledge than just about 95 percent of people I know,” said Carol’.

And in the event, the men have a full, frank discussion with sympathy and insight. Carol’s stated intention with her book club idea was to ‘hoist them [the inmates] into the middle class through reading.’ And Carol never misses an opportunity to bring the discussion around to her favourite point – that an essential part of humanity is looking out for, and looking after, other people. Yet what becomes obvious is that criminals are not necessarily idiots, or hopelessly morally corrupt; the prisoners have plenty of sensible, intelligent things to say about the books they read, not least because they have a fair bit of time to read them, especially when the jail is on lockdown as it often is, because of some outbreak of violence. Not that they don’t have a particular way of expressing things, however. One of the keen members, Dread, explains to some new recruits who are struggling with a book: “The book is not a predator. It’s a prey. You have to go after it. It’s not like a Sidney Sheldon read. Sidney Sheldon books are predators that go after you.” I’ll bet Barthes wished he’d thought of predators and prey rather than lisible and scriptible. But what they get out of the club is the same as anyone who has enjoyed a bookish discussion. “You get a chance to relive the book, but through someone else’s eyes,” says Gaston to Ann. “What makes this book club so interesting is people bring alive the points that you don’t even notice.”

All of which made me ponder long and hard about this strange thing ‘mentality’, what goes on inside each of our heads, and how any of that translates into doing the wrong thing. How stories, a litmus test for our beliefs and anxieties, can be so powerful in one way and so powerless in others. Ann grows very fond of many of the men, and meets with some when they are out on parole. She is surprised and saddened to learn that the inmate with the most writerly sensibility, the keenest insight into the books they are reading and the best self-expression, is the one who fails to flourish in anyway on the outside, and who is quickly rearrested for first degree murder.

I remember reading somewhere (and oh how I wish I could recall where exactly) about this intriguing test. Think of the worst crime (proper act of lawbreaking) that has happened to you. And then think of the worst thing that you have done to someone else. It could be anything – an act of disloyalty, a betrayal, an act of omission, of not doing something that should have been done, a little bit of cheating. For the majority of us, that bad thing we did is much worse than any crime that has happened to us. People are people; we do good things and we do bad things, all of us, every single one. Most habitual criminals come about out of a toxic mix of poverty, injustice and violent backgrounds. But we all have the capacity to transgress and do things we shouldn’t. Literature offers us all a very safe space to consider issues that are just too personal, too threatening, when we relate them to ourselves. Stories are fearless, and they open us up to all the extremes of human behaviour, the best and the worst. The Prison Book Club wisely offers no interpretations, or solutions or answers to the problems encountered in its pages, real or fictional. Ann Walmsley just lays her experience bare for us, and a fascinating one it is, too. I loved this book and will be thinking about its implications for a long time to come.

Recent Reading: The Goldfinch, Frances & Bernard, Cop Town

the goldfinchI have stalled in my reading of The Goldfinch at an embarrassingly early part of the book, well, if we are counting in inches, that is. Maybe it’s the fault of the strange combination of part-listening to the audio book, part-reading the wrist-breaking real thing that has left me floating still on top of the story, rather than stitched down into it. But essentially it’s because the next couple of hundred pages appear to be a teenage drink-and-drugs odyssey and I can’t think of anything I’d rather read less. I was going to suggest maybe two hundred pages of unpleasant hospital treatment, but then that would be a book I would never pick up in the first place.

Most books, when you hit a dull patch, you can think to yourself, oh well, thirty pages tops and then we’ll be past it. Not this one. And whilst Donna Tartt’s writing is fine (somehow I remember The Secret History as much better written, but that could just be the work of unreliable memory), she’s only going to tell me what happens, in minute detail. If I thought it was the kind of writing that would be rich in psychological insights and what events mean, I might be more interested. But The Goldfinch so far has been a novel of painstaking description, with a faint fairy-tale quality to the story and its characterisation. I never had the least interest in drink and drugs as a teenager, and I have even less now. I don’t enjoy skim-reading and I’m not sure I have the stamina to plough through what lies ahead. I don’t want to give up, and yet I don’t have much interest in continuing.

frances and bernardOn a happier note, Frances and Bernard by Carlene Bauer was pure delight. An epistolary novel set in the 1950s, we follow the correspondance between novelist Frances Reardon and poet Bernard Eliot, who have recently met at a writing commune. Bernard has now gone to Florence to finish his book, whilst Frances has returned home to Philadelphia to write hers. Shortly they will both end up in New York. Bernard is attracted to Frances because of her devout religious views and her upright, stern moral demeanour. Bernard is a Catholic in love with ecstasy in all its forms and he is drawn to Frances’ gravitas, as an anchor, perhaps, to his volatile and fierce emotions. They are unlikely friends and even less likely lovers, not least because Frances is determined to remain single and avoid the complications of domesticity that might ruin her work.

But Bernard is a big heart and an outgoing spirit; he loves easily, deeply, magnetically. The downside of this is an inevitable mental fragility, and before long his letters will grow wilder and a spell in an institution is inevitable. Frances values their friendship by now and assures him that she is not afraid of him (Frances would not want to be afraid of anything), and almost against her will she is drawn closer to his vulnerability.

The writing in this novel was just exquisite. It’s a brilliant character portrait of two very different writers and of an unexpected and awkward relationship that nevertheless has moments of sublime grace. Given that she has two writers engaged in a battle of wits and wills, Bauer can just have fun with their voices, which she most certainly does. Apparently, the couple is loosely based on Flannery O’Connor and Robert Lowell. I would not have guessed this myself and I don’t think it matters much one way or another to know about the biographical background. There is a great deal of chat about religion, though, which might strike secular readers as unusual. But it echoes and questions the way art can become a religion – this in a very subtle way – how passion is necessary in one form or another though we might make very different uses of it. I think it’s fair to say I enjoyed every sentence of this one.

cop townAnother book I enjoyed, from the opposite end of the reading spectrum, was Karin Slaughter’s latest novel, Cop Town. Set in the 70s in Atlanta it’s essentially the story of new recruit to the force, Kate Murphy and the woman who gives her a helping hand on her traumatic first day, Maggie Lawson. Maggie has grown up in a police family and, against just about everyone’s wishes, joined the force alongside her brother, much beloved ex-football star, Jimmy, and her brutal, misogynist Uncle Terry. Terry represents everything the white male police force is about; he despises women, he despises foreigners, and he has no respect for the law when it’s in his own hands. When the book begins Jimmy’s partner, Don, has been the latest victim of a cop killer wreaking havoc in the city. The force is on red alert, determined to mete out its own justice to the killer when they find him. With a black mayor and a black head of police, times are changing, and the old boys have no faith in the authorities, which is rich given that Uncle Terry’s planted evidence on their last conviction caused the case to fall through.

Into this ugly regime stumbles Kate, a widow whose husband recently died in Vietnam. She is well-spoken, attractive, and Jewish; she’s also lived a gentle life up until now. Oh boy, is she in for a nasty shock. What Karin Slaughter does so brilliantly in this novel, as well as in the best literary fiction, is recreate the conditions of the 70s that we all have convenient amnesia about. It’s a man’s world, in which women need to shut up and stop asking stupid questions, and anyone who isn’t white and American needs to remember their place. Her description of the bad side of town is particularly hard-hitting too. Whilst a lot of novels depict places you might actually want to visit, Cop Town makes a reader feel very relieved to be safely in the new millenium. An excellent novel about how we used to be, but a violent and graphic one, be warned.

In Which I Learn More About Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

This year has not been good for chronic fatigue; I’ve been low in energy for most of it, apart from a brief spell over the summer during which I crammed in as much writing as I could, probably not the wisest idea. About three weeks ago, I was so annoyed by this extended period of low quality health that I started looking about on the internet for information. I hadn’t done this in a long while and it occurred to me that research might have moved on.

I was, in fact, surprised, shocked and motivated by what I found out. The information I’m about to pass on comes from two main places: the website of Dr Sue Myhill who seems to have devoted her research to CFS, and the Optimum Health Clinic, who have been dealing solely with CFS/ME/Fibromyalgia sufferers since 2004.

Both places argue that chronic fatigue syndrome is caused by mitochondrial failure. If we compare the body to a car engine, ‘mitochondria are the engines of our cells – they supply the energy necessary for all cellular processes to take place’. Whilst we might have all kinds of different cells, they all gain energy by the same means: the supply of ATP (adenosine triphosphate). As we use energy, ATP converts to ADP and back again, but when we stress the body, demanding more energy than we are creating, this convertion happens faster than we can recycle ADP back into ATP. So ADP builds up and converts to AMP – a ‘metabolic disaster’, because it is lost in urine. So, our ATP levels drop, meaning energy is supplied more and more slowly, and now the body is struggling to create new ATP, a very slow and complex process.

It’s one of those great corporeal wobbles; once the body is out of balance, it’s difficult to get back on track again, and since all our cells are running on low speed, we clock up other forms of damage to the body: our immune systems are poor, hormone production is compromised, brain function suffers. Essentially, the heart (which is nothing more than a big muscle) is impaired, which is why CFSers really badly want to lie down. Standing up, we may be in borderline heart and organ failure. But the problem doesn’t show up on an ECG. I remember reading on a website several years ago that ‘fatigue’ is so much the wrong word for what we are feeling, and that ‘prostration’ would be better. CFSers feel so ill they are prostrated, and this is why; the imperative to protect our heart function is overwhelming.

It’s serious stuff this, and more problematic because the way medical authorities have treated CFS has not been helpful. Graded exercise and anti-depressants have no impact whatsoever on the root cause. What does make a difference? Well, you’ve got to cure your mitochondrial function, which means most importantly, not to make more energetic demands on the body than it can cope with. You’ve got to live at the level of ATP you are managing to produce. Then you need to sleep really well, and eat really well and supplement any deficiencies in magnesium, B3, B12, Co-enzyme Q10, and acetyl L-carnitine. Detox helps, oh and by now you’ll probably have a host of other issues in your liver, immune system, hormone glands and digestion that also need fixing. All of which will challenge your ability to eat and sleep well, never mind anything else. It’s hard to know where to begin.

I have to say this chimes perfectly with my experience.

And when we do finally get back to better health again, the chances are that we will trip our systems once more. The clinic (which supplied me with a very informative brochure) argues that CFS comes about as a combination of physical weakness with personality type. There are four personality types pre-disposed to CFS because of their tendency to maladaptive stress response – a bodily ‘high alert’ in the face of chronic stress. They are ‘helper’ types, who put the needs of others above their own, ‘achiever’ types, who push themselves and are perfectionists, anxiety types, which is self-explanatory, and finally those who have experienced trauma. Oh good news! I tick ALL FOUR boxes. And the experience of CFS itself tends to exacerbate the high alert response that causes all the trouble. The whole thing is like a big vicious circle.

Let’s talk briefly about adrenal glands. Adrenaline has obvious functions in stress, sport and all sorts of performing, but it’s essential every day. Adrenaline gets you through when a busy day is followed by an evening event. Adrenaline also acts as a buffer to anything that’s in the least stressful – which is why CFSers jump a mile when the telephone rings. Without enough adrenaline in our systems we end up hypersensitised, everything is much more stressful to do, and has a greater impact. And if you have properly fried your adrenals, it takes on average TWO years to heal them.

So, you might be wondering how I felt, as someone who’s had CFS on and off, mostly on, for the past 18 years. I felt: YIKES. I felt it was time to get myself in order. I suppose I have always been persuaded by the idea that CFS was no big deal, that it was a silliness on my part, my own fault for being a stressy sort of person, and that I really needed to keep working whenever I could. But to think I am doing long-term damage to my cells is not comfortable. Mitochondrial production goes down with age – I have effectively aged my body too fast. It’s a scary thought. And what about my poor toasted adrenal glands? No wonder I’m anxious about ordinary things; I’m wringing those poor old glands and barely a drop of adrenaline comes out.

I told all of this to my reiki practitioner, who has a wonderfully pithy way of summing things up. ‘So do you understand now that you are not weak or oversensitive, but there is a biochemical basis to your illness that has to be healed?’ Well, I said, if you put it like that. ‘And are you able to forgive yourself for not meeting your impossibly high, fear-fuelled standards?’ she continued. Hmm, trickier. I only like myself as a helper and an achiever. Now they tell me I have to be selfish, underachieving and calm about it?

When I was discussing this with Mr Litlove, the cat barged through the door, flopped down between us with his paws up for some fussing, and then fixed us with the deathstare that says: you’ve got hands, don’t you? Why aren’t you putting food in my bowl? ‘There’s your role model,’ said Mr Litlove.

So I have to live like a cat. Well, a cat that can read and cook, at any rate. We’ll see how that goes.