“Though it is only eight in the morning and he has not yet arrived at his place of work, he already knows the chances are he will have killed himself by the middle of the afternoon.”
“He sits in his deck-chair cradling a mug of tea and there he remains for a minute or two, eyes closed, acclimatising himself once again to his makeshift kingdom. He stretches his long legs and welcomes the dim crush of emerging light.
Soon, a contented sigh will slip through his teeth as he allows the tacky remains of a dreamless sleep to stitch the current day into a seamless extension of the day before where the interruptions of evening and night-time were nothing more than vacant interludes in the ebb and flow of his existence.”
Swell is a seminal tale of obsession, deviance and a mother’s unrelenting control of her only son, even from the grave.
Now, as he approaches middle age, he is outwardly a tiresomely pedantic, uncomplicated man living a mundane life in a town of suffocating ordinariness. But, when his body is discovered by a beautiful, voluptuous young woman, possessed of an overwhelming desire to be alone with him, we begin to suspect that nothing about this man, and the story of his life, is as it seems.
Only when you reach the end will you see whether you are right to believe what you think you know.
Swell is a tale for the 21st Century, yet the prose transports the sense of a grainy black and white movie, a Romance Noir, with its stark imagery and poignant drama drenched with connotation.
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