Vox, by Christina Dalcher

            In Christina Dalcher’s debut novel, it has been less than two years since ultra-conservative President Dyer has taken up occupancy in the White House, and Jean McLellan marvels at the swiftness of the change in her circumstances:  prior to President Dyer’s election she was a respected Doctor of Neurolinguistics, juggling career, marriage and children with varying degrees of success, the same as most women;  now it has been decreed by Dyer’s new religious advisor that she stay at home 24/7, attending to the needs of her family ‘as all women should’.  Her computer and passport are gone, locked in her husband’s study;  he also has the key to the mailbox – not that she receives any mail;  all letters are addressed to him.  TV coverage is sparse;  cooking programs rule, as do ‘family friendly’ sitcoms, though these are sometimes interrupted by ‘public shamings’ of individuals who have broken the new laws against adultery and fornication:  women are the only sinners here and are sent off, heads shaved, to parts unknown for a life of slavery.  Those unfortunate enough to be exposed as homosexual share the same fate.

            But the worst thing, the most shameful  thing, is the bracelet.  The bracelet is a thin band that all women must wear around their left wrist.  It counts the words that are said:  if a woman utters more than 100 words a day she receives an electric shock so severe that it burns.  If she starts ranting against the injustice of it all, the bracelet is capable of incinerating her hand.  Even the president’s wife, a former model, (sound familiar?) is not immune:  Jean watches her on TV, silently attending a function, remote and beautiful as always, bracelet exactly matching her outfit.  Her eyes are dead.

            Until … until the president’s elder brother and chief adviser sustains a major brain injury in a ski accident.  Prior to the new laws giving all women’s jobs (except the menial ones) to men, Jean and her team were involved in an exciting new experiment to repair aphasia in stroke and injury victims, restoring speech and lucidity – which the president’s brother now lacks:  suddenly Jean’s former scientific expertise is vital.  For the duration of ‘the cure’ her bracelet will be removed and she has freedom of movement. 

            But she also has a lover.  And she is pregnant.  Two secrets that could send her into slavery in a heartbeat, not to mention another one she has discovered:  a resistance movement that could get them all killed.

            This powerful story has echoes of ‘1984’ and ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’;  it is an intelligent, chillingly real portrait of what could happen in a society where fear and hatred have an unassailable hold on people’s hearts and minds.  Great stuff.  FIVE STARS.

The Honourable Thief, by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios.

           Well.  This is definitely a novel of two halves.  Ms Anastasios has trained as an archaeologist, and her practical knowledge is vast, the research of her book’s subject thorough, well written and cleverly woven into the plot of her story based on a real-life 20^th century character whose archaeological career ended in disgrace, his reputation destroyed forever by his inability to prove the existence of a mysterious woman who showed him a priceless cache of treasures supposedly stolen from tombs in Northern Turkey.

            Ms Anastasios’s protagonist is American Benedict Hitchens, an archaeologist passionate about the exciting excavations he is involved with in 1950’s Turkey, a country he has come to love after spending the war years in Crete, fighting for the Resistance troops against the Germans, and facing his own almost unbearable tragedy:  he has put his past behind him (he thinks) until he encounters a young woman on a train who is wearing an ancient and priceless pendant.  Benedict can’t believe his eyes – or his ears – especially when the woman says that she has more like that at home.  Would he like to see?  With his superior knowledge he would be the perfect expert to verify the authenticity of ‘her father’s’ collection.  Needless to say, Benedict is hooked:  he excitedly catalogues her collection, even though he has to draw everything because she won’t have it photographed;  the woman repays his enthusiasm in the usual way (oh, really?);  and when Benedict wakes in a state of bliss the next morning, finds that the young lady and her treasure trove have disappeared.

            Everything turns to custard for him from then on:  his attempts to find her and her jewels attract the attention of the Turkish police, who take a dim view of the illegal excavation and sale of antiquities (especially gold and gems) and it is not long before Benedict is jobless, drowning his many sorrows in Turkish bars and subsisting on falsely verifying forged ‘antiquities’ for a clever friend.  He has hit rock-bottom and so has the plot! 

            Benedict is a horrid drunk;  he has an absurdly short fuse, and the number of times he shakes with fury nearly made me do the same.  Add to that some Mills and Boon soft porn sex scenes (SO much info!) and what was a very readable, rollicking adventure almost came to a tired old halt – until Benedict is given a second chance to resurrect himself - and the plot - by the discovery of an ancient tablet purporting to reveal the way to the Tomb of the Iliad’s legendary warrior Achilles.  Benedict’s heart beats faster, so did mine, and about time!  This is the first book of a series:  let’s hope he cleans up his act.  FOUR STARS.   Maybe.   

             

Country, by Michael Hughes.

            Irish novelist Michael Hughes has presented us with a modern version of Homer’s epic poem ‘The Iliad’, and what a gift it is:  ancient Greece becomes Ireland in 1996, the time of The Troubles, the time of a fragile ceasefire between the IRA and Sinn Fein (the Greek Armies) and the Protestants and Unionists of the North (the Trojan forces).

            The ceasefire is not going well for the local squads of the IRA.  They have snitches and touts in their midst, and a big internal stoush has erupted between the OC (Officer Commanding) Pig – called so because he farms pigs, smuggles pigs, eats pigs, and is a f---ing pig by nature – and Achil, a sniper so renowned and feared for his courage and skill that the British soldiers will not leave the local base if they hear that he’s about.  Achil is the IRA’s star, a true warrior they all want to be like, de ye see, so his squad points out to Pig the error of his ways:  he’d better make up with Achil or their next operation, scheduled after the ceasefire fails (as it surely must) – will fail too, without their greatest asset.  It’s kiss and make up time!

            But Achil has had enough.  Enough of the fighting and the killing for that  impossible dream, the unification of Ireland:  he’s going back to his Home county and his family.  No more fighting. 

            The lads are horrified, and true to prophecy, the next operation they mount when the ceasefire is broken is a disaster;  they are lucky to escape with their lives, and the hated British in their impregnable base are laughing and  not going anywhere – until one of their number, a much-decorated SAS officer, mercilessly kills Achil’s dearest friend Pat in the town square, causing Achil to swear vengeance and a gruesome death for Pat’s killer.  ‘I go to end that murderer, but not for him.  For his country.  To show them evil doesn’t go unpunished, that there’s consequences to taking the innocence of a quiet wee land and trampling it down.  They need to feel the pain we do.  They need to see what it is they’ve done, know it in their guts and in their blood.  They’ve called it on themselves. It’s about justice.  If they’re let think it’s right to rob the freedom of another people, that we accept them as our betters just because they say they are, then we surrender any claim to self-determination.  If we don’t fight, then we have nothing worth fighting for’.

            With prose as harsh and relentless as gunfire Hughes takes us through to the inevitable conclusion of Achil’s revenge, travelling the corridors of power in Whitehall to the bar of a border pub where the SAS officer’s superior bargains for his body:  This is hardly the first time that a writer has produced a modern version of ancient stories, but it is a rarity that Homer’s wonderful poem has been portrayed with so much vigour and power.  Even if readers know nothing of ‘The Iliad’, Hughes’s wonderful book is a page-turning thriller in its own right.  SEVEN STARS!!          

             

Chicago, by David Mamet.

            Pulitzer prize-winning playwright David Mamet has produced his first novel for some considerable time.  As the cover shows, it’s a story of that city and its lawless inhabitants set in the 20’s:  ‘that toddlin’ town where anything goes’, the song that Sinatra made famous all those decades later was not exaggerating.  It was a city and a time that laughed at the law, but was seen to pay lip service – and bribes – to the various Irish ‘Upholders’ (the police and politicians) so that some crime was kept at a manageable level.

Prohibition was openly flouted;  Speakeasies and brothels (run by the Italians led by Al Capone) flourished, and florists and funeral parlours did a roaring trade ‘cleaning up’ after the various gang wars, the florists often recovering flowers at the graveside so that they could resell them while still fresh.  The ways to make money were myriad and infinite.

The men who reported the daily news i.e. knifings, shootings, robberies and hijacks were of a special breed, inured to emotion and suffering, only concerned with presenting the facts – or as much fact as they were permitted;  they scorned sentiment and had total belief in journalistic honesty – and the restorative powers of the whisky always stowed in their desk drawer.          

Such a man is reporter Mike Hodge, a veteran of the First World War.  What he saw during the fighting in France prepared him well for Chicago’s lawlessness;  no-one could be more detached than he – until the little Irish girl he loves is shot dead in front of his eyes by a stranger in a long foreign overcoat.  Detachment is no longer possible and, after nearly killing himself with booze (so much for Prohibition), he decides he will find Annie’s murderer and exact the vengeance her killing demands.

Mr Mamet has painted a compelling and authentic picture of Old Chicago, peopled with fascinating characters of all stripes and a most satisfying solution to the mystery of Annie’s killing, but I have to admit to some confusion with the speech patterns:  the coloured characters have a dialect that suits their humble origins, while the fearless reporters of the Herald Tribune – and some of the villains – speak a courtly, old-fashioned English that seems wildly at odds with their everyday life.  And Mr Mamet is a lover of the comma and italics, all of which are sprinkled like confetti in the strangest places!  That said, ‘Chicago’ is like ‘The Untouchables’ - a great amalgam of humour, horror and heart.  FOUR STARS.   

Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard

The Sword of Summer (Book One) by Rick Riordan.  Junior Fiction

           Magnus Chase has been homeless for two years.  He has been living on the streets of Boston since his mother was murdered by supernatural wolves when he was fourteen:  he knows that something supremely evil is looking for him and so far, hiding in plain sight, dossing down under bridges and in parks, and fossicking in dumpsters for food feels a whole lot safer than contacting his few living relatives – all of whom could care for him, but he doesn’t want to bring mortal danger into their lives.  Until finally, it becomes unavoidable:  at an unplanned meeting with his uncle Randolph, an expert on Norse mythology, he is ordered to raise the Sword of Summer from the Charles River, where it has been submerged for a millennium – yes, it is Uncle Randolph’s firm belief that the Vikings did sail, plundering and looting, as far south on the eastern seaboard as Boston and Magnus, who is turning 16 on this very day, must call the sword forth from the river-bed, for the Sword of Summer is a vital weapon in the Doomsday War of Ragnarok, the destruction of the Gods of Asgard.

            Needless to say, Magnus wants to leave uncle as soon as it’s polite to go, especially when told he is the son of a God (!) -  but he is stopped by (yes, truly!) a gigantic fire-demon called Surt who, in his efforts to track Magnus down, has also set fire to most of the bridge they are standing on.  He wants the sword, so hand it over and he’ll promise a quick death.  Oh, Okay then.

 NOT!!!!

            So begins Magnus’s adventures  in the Nine Worlds:  he is introduced in many dangerous and undignified ways to various elves, dwarves – two of which are his firm friends from his homeless days – Valkyries (including Samirah Al-Abbas, Sam for short, of Iraqi heritage but deeply ashamed that she is a daughter of God Loki the Liar:  at the Hotel Valhalla it gets her into no end of strife) and he and his friends have to battle (or at least try to avoid) a giant, homicidal squirrel, one of the guardians of the World Tree, whose tangled branches conceal the entrances to the nine worlds, most of whom Magnus has to visit on his quest to prevent Ragnarok beginning.  The action is non-stop and the mythical beasts of Norse mythology all make an appearance, either to rescue the adventurers, impede them – or eat them.  In the meantime, the Sword of Summer gets sick of its name and decides to change it to Jack:  yep, time to be cool, dude.

            This is the first of the Gods of Asgard series, and as with Rick Riordan’s forays into Greek Mythology, he takes readers of all ages on a fabulous, action-packed ride through the old Norse tales.  It’s hard to know what is most admirable about his books;  his pinpoint accuracy of character and legend, or his wonderful humour which raises a laugh on every page (especially the chapter headings!):  either way it’s a winning formula.  FIVE STARS.      

What You Wish For, by Catherine Robertson.

           This is Catherine Robertson’s second instalment in her wholly addictive chronicle of life in a small New Zealand town – I still haven’t figured out where it is yet, and she herself says that it could be anywhere, or where we want it to be.  Fair enough, but she makes Gabriel’s Bay sound so inviting, so typical of a community that we would all like to join, that I would like to pay it an extended visit. 

            Her characters are very real, as the first book demonstrated (see review below).  Some have had an improvement in their circumstances;  Kerry McFarlane has made a satisfying life with Sidney, no-nonsense solo mum of two strapping boys, and is currently expecting a visit from his parents in the U.K.  His dad is famed for being monosyllabic, but his mum makes up for it in spades.  Kerry’s powers of oratory fall somewhere in between.  Mum and Dad are going to stay with struggling farmer Vic Halsworth in a guest cottage Vic’s wife established during their very short marriage.  Vic doesn’t say much either, and doesn’t really know how it came to be that Kerry’s parents are renting his cottage.  While the income will be very welcome, he has bigger problems to deal with:  there are squatters on his land camping by the river and the local council (who haven’t changed their spots at all since the first novel) wants Vic to move them on – health and safety, you understand, not to mention polluting the waterway);  now an anonymous person has started a blog naming Vic as a ‘dirty’ farmer.  Things are only middling!

            The beloved, long-serving and suffering Doctor Love has retired, replaced by earnest young Indian Doctor Ashwin Ghadavi:  he has his own cross to bear in the shape of his mother in Ahmedabad;  he must uphold the family honour by marrying soon – here are the details of a suitable twenty-five year old.  Return home forthwith, and look rested!  Yes Mum.  The only inconvenience with that plan is that he has fallen helplessly in love with Emma, gorgeous free-spirited daughter of Jacko, proprietor of The Boatshed, the best bar and café in the district – well, the best bar ever if measured on the friendliness and conviviality scale.  Yes, Ashwin has found his niche, and doesn’t want to return to Ahmedabad, looking rested.  Gabriel’s Bay is IT.

            Ms Robertson treats us to interesting subplots as well, characters such as Devon, so beautiful he is mistaken for a girl, not least because he refuses to cut his long blonde hair in defiance of people’s opinions that he must be a poof;  and Brownie, just out of jail and trying to integrate himself into the community again:  they’re all here in this charming story that ace journalist John Campbell said made us ‘not so much readers as neighbours’.  An entirely fitting compliment.  FIVE STARS.

Gabriel’s Bay, by Catherine Robertson

  

          Gabriel’s Bay could be any small coastal town in New Zealand, according to Catherine Robertson, so if your small town fits the description, then that’s where this charming little story is set:  easy-peasy.

            Gabriel’s Bay has high unemployment, an aging and diminishing population, and the attendant problems of petty crime, drug use and child neglect.  The local council are all dyed-in-the-wool practitioners of licking each other’s nether regions depending upon what it will get them, and those sterling characters who are genuine in their wish to see the town they love survive and prosper – somehow! – are at a loss to know how to remedy the situation before Gabriel’s Bay deteriorates into a ghost town.

            Enter Kerry Francis MacFarlane from London, employed as home help to an elderly couple who were one of the first families in the area, and therefore the Gentry:  they are of the mistaken belief that they have employed a woman, when in fact Kerry is a male, and a ginger one at that (every stripe and colour gets an outing in this book).  He has left his bride at the altar and feels that the farther he travels from the scene of the crime, the better:  to say that he is feckless is unkind, but he definitely needs to overhaul his ‘responsible-for-his-own-mess’ sensibilities.  Gabriel’s Bay is just the place to have a change of heart.  It rolls out its characters to him gradually;  they don’t accept charming strangers with the gift of the gab at face value, so it is up to Kerry to prove that he has stickability, especially when floating the idea of luring tourists to the town by opening a kind of Museum of Miniatures:  both his employers have made a wonderful miniature railway and a gorgeous dollhouse (with a real diamond chandelier!) and the local Doctor spends his rare leisure hours making intricate and authentic mini soldiers for war games of famous battles.  These  games are tremendously popular among the local aficionados because the historical outcome is not always achieved, depending on who’s playing:  Sacre Bleu – Bonaparte won against Wellington last week!

            Naturally, Romance rears its pretty head for Kerry, but not in the shape of someone gorgeous, lean and lithe:  instead Sidney is a struggling solo mum with two unruly sons and a waistline that disappeared long ago – in other words, someone real.  She is also a big-hearted minder of waifs and strays, not all of whom are poor – and she doesn’t tolerate any BS, so to Win Plump Lady and prove his worth as the town’s saviour, Kerry has to grow a spine and, for the first time in his life, Stay Put and Follow Through.

            Christmas is coming, and ‘Gabriel’s Bay’ is the ideal present for a hugely entertaining Beach or Airport read -  just the fun, feel-good story to relax with during the holidays.  Catherine Robertson has done small-town New Zealand proud.  FOUR STARS. 

  

Verses for the Dead, by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

           Woo Hoo!   Silver-eyed, silver-haired and silver-tongued FBI special Agent Aloysius Pendergast is back, and about time, too:  it’s all very well gadding off to the Himalayas to bring back Constance, his 120 year-old (or thereabouts.  Ask me no questions;  you will just have to read the previous books) ward, for whom he has developed a great love, even though she has been despoiled by his wicked  brother Diogenes and bore him (Diogenes) a child (looked after by monks in the same Himalayan Monastery.  Oh, for goodness’ sake:  do I have to fill in the whole backstory?  Read the books!)

            Anyway.

            Pendergast and Constance are back in New York, cosily ensconced in his Riverside Drive Mansion, when he is called to Miami on a most distressing case:  a young woman has been found dead, her heart cut out – and the same heart has been found on the gravestone of a young woman who committed suicide.  Also, Pendergast has a new boss in place of his late superior, who always allowed him free reign to employ often unconventional – and sometimes fatal – means to solve the many cases for which he is famous:  Assistant Director Pickett has no such intentions – it’s time Pendergast’s rogue behaviour and lack of discipline was curtailed.  The sooner he is exiled to a desk job in Utah, the better.

            To that end, Pendergast is given a partner of Pickett’s choosing, Agent Coldmoon, a rising, ambitious young star who will solve this awful crime and expose Pendergast for cutter-of-corners and lamentable rule-breaker that he is:  Coldmoon will report everything to Pickett;  the FBI will shine and Pendergast will be out the door. 

            But that doesn’t happen:  Three more young women are killed by the same horrible method, their hearts left on the tombs of three suicides, and it is patently clear that only Pendergast has the expertise and foresight to plumb the depths of the sick mind behind these crimes.  As always, our hero wears his usual garb in spite of the Florida humidity:  a series of black designer suits of finest wool, equipped with multiple pockets in which to secrete plastic bags of clues that he gathers at the crime scenes.  He invariably resembles a very rich undertaker.  He does change at night, though, into a white suit of finest linen, accompanied by hand-made loafers.  He is a polymath par excellence, and Coldmoon has never met anyone like Pendergast, ever;  eventually, he is so impressed with his unconventional partner that he defies his boss, offering to go to Utah too, rather than betray Pendergast. 

            And what of the killer, and who done what?  The big reveal is made in true Preston and Child fashion;   an entirely unsuspected villain is unmasked, snakes and alligators feature in large numbers, and Special Agent Pendergast, covered with gory glory (as usual) is free to return to his Constance.  Great fun!  FIVE STARS