This book takes you on a journey in the borders between England and Wales. It's also a journey through a mind and the history of places. There are characters you may think you recognise and people you may think you have met. It's fractured, funny, tragic and banal all at the same time. The narrative is broken but the voice is compulsive, and will see you through to the end. Stick with it and you'll be rewarded with plenty of brain food.
Her eyes were a chilling blue. She was fit, well-preserved, with nice legs. A thirtyish body with a worm in the brain, a noise curse. She reduced all living things within a two-hundred yard exclusion zone to a state of abject terror, chicken-on-a-hotplate frenzy.
It was the voice: the scream of a washing machine hitting the peak of its cycle. It wasn't a sound television had learnt to mute under layers of baroque syrup, catgut sawings that signal sanctity. She screeched at the underlings, then tried to speak to the camera like a dimwit runner some arsehole had foisted on her. This woman was everything that TV requires: front, feral intelligence, compulsory rudeness, impatience with the past.