Breakfast At Libraries

Readers of Susan Hill's earlier works, in particular her modern classic, The Woman In Black, will know that she is a writer of beautifully-crafted ghost stories, full of all the subtleties and sensitive shifts in mood and atmosphere that all good ghost stories should have. The Small Hand doesn't disappoint on that score. As antiquarian bookseller Adam Snow becomes more and more affected by the 'small hand' of an invisible child that grips his as he explores the grounds of a dilapidated country house, the mood shifts gradually and insidiously as the small hand takes his more and more often and begins to reveal a more sinister purpose.

I'd actually picked up this novel and put it back on the bookshop shelves on several occasions before I finally decided to buy it last week. Why I put it back, I can't be sure - possibly I was put off  by the blurb on the back, which makes it sound like a trashy horror novel (the book is in the ever-diminishing Horror section in Waterstone's). I like horror; I dislike trashy horror. I'm glad, however, that I eventually caved in, because The Tooth Fairy was a thoroughly enjoyable and often touching read, part horror novel, part coming-of-age novel, part psychological thriller.

Sam Southall, aged seven at the start of the novel and living in the Midlands, loses a tooth. Debating the existence of the Tooth Fairy with his best friends, Terry and Clive, he agrees to the precocious Clive's plan: to find out once and for all whether the Tooth Fairy exists, he should put his tooth under the pillow without telling his parents. That night, Sam receives a visit from the reeking, androgynous, vicious Tooth Fairy - a Tooth Fairy who is dangerously furious that Sam can see it, and who comes to exert a dangerous influence over not just Sam, but his friends. Sometimes, the Tooth Fairy is threatening, even violent; frequently vindictive; sometimes, seductive; occasionally jealous and needy. Sometimes, it even professes to be helpful - but the Tooth Fairy's particular brand of 'help' is the most terrifying of all.

Is the Tooth Fairy real, or simply a manifestation of Sam's own negative emotions - his guilt, his shyness, the sexual frustrations of his adolescence and his sense of inadequacy? Sam's psychiatrist, muttering about paranoia and smelling of Johnnie Walker, thinks the Tooth Fairy will disappear when Sam meets 'a girl'. But if that's the case, how can Sam explain the accidents and misfortune that occasionally befall people who betray him?

Personally, I wouldn't have shelved The Tooth Fairy in the Horror section: it's so much more than that. The evocation of a suburban childhood in England in the 60s is full of well-chosen details, and the story of Sam, Terry and Clive, as well as the seemingly sophisticated Alice (whose 'relationship' with her 'boyfriend' suggests that she is actually the most vulnerable of them all), is perfectly realised.

My only issue with the story was perhaps the end - a bit too easy, perhaps, a bit of a cop-out? Otherwise, though, a chilling, intelligent, ambiguous read.

Yesterday I finished reading Jar City by Arnaldur Indriðason, originally published in the UK as 'Tainted Blood'.

Yes, yes, I know - another Nordic writer. I've reviewed a lot of them lately. But I thoroughly enjoyed Jar City, which is a dark murder mystery set in Iceland and with an incredibly gloomy hero in Erlendur, a Reykjavik police inspector who spends most of his evenings reading true-life stories of the many people who have died of exposure in Iceland's mountain winters until he falls asleep in his chair. Erlendur's almost relentless pessimism could have made him a rather unsympathetic, depressing lead character, but Indriðason (or Arnaldur, as I should call him, as Icelandic people are always known by their first names and not their patronymic surnames) cleverly balances Erlendur's old-school weariness by giving him two bright, efficient younger colleagues, Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg, who provide an excellent counterpoint to their boss. The mysterious Marion Briem, Erlendur's former colleague and mentor whose gender is never revealed (and which Erlendur claims not to know himself) is a fascinating and immensely original supporting character.

Arnaldur has said that when he writes, he always keeps in mind the Norse sagas, and their remarkable economy with words. Arnaldur, I think, certainly succeeds in that respect - his prose is spare and well-paced, very clear, very matter-of-fact, and extremely effective. Not a word is wasted. The conclusion of the mystery is bleak, almost fatalistic, and is well-suited to Arnaldur's style. The plot, in fact, is fairly straightforward - the mystery unfolds, gradually, and is solved - but the atmosphere, the 'feel', of this novel is, I think, unique among crime novels and peculiarly Icelandic. The plot relies partly on the small size of Iceland's population, and the notoriously wet, grim autumn weather, the stoicism of the people and the rapid changes Iceland has undergone as a nation over the last 50 years are all equally important, despite a (deliberate?) lack of local colour. The Iceland of Jar City is a long way from the Iceland of the tourist brochures, and yet, it still has a uniquely Icelandic atmosphere that pervades the novel from start to finish.

For those who like a dark, desolate and utterly unwhimsical (but still strangely wistful) crime novel, Jar City is highly recommended. I will certainly be seeking out more of Arnaldur Indriðason's Erlendur books. Jar City has also been filmed in Iceland, by the way - I've moved it straight to the top of my LoveFilm rental list.

I really do believe that Nordic and British crime writers are by far the best in the world, and I've no idea why that is. Perhaps it's because we share a tendency to extreme pragmatism and an innate pessimism... either that, or writing mysteries just gives us something do when it's pitch-black by 4pm during winter.