It’s patently obvious when I’ve enjoyed a book – said enjoyment being directly proportional to however-long-I’ve-ignored-the-kids (Not Even Joking). Sorry, little ones, but I devoured Simon Bestwick’s DEVILS OF LONDON (Hersham Horror Books) in one sitting while you were fending for yourselves. Then I went back for seconds to ensure I hadn’t missed anything—at a speedy 114 pages, there’s no excuse not to indulge twice. We’re in London, in the not-too-distant future. That future is now, and we’re immediately thrown in at the scorching deep end. No meandering, no faff, only relentless storytelling. As an all-new, all-singing, all-dancing Great Fire of London breaks out, we follow John’s journey as he makes his way through fire and life and a fuckton of horror. John’s just a regular geezer, because of course he is (Bestwick sure knows his shiz about creating identifiable, quintessentially British characters). And along with John and his buddies—co-workers, really—we flee the impending apocalypse. I say ‘we’ because young Bestie m’lad knows how to engage the reader: hook ’em, reel ’em in, and keep ’em there, right in the heart of the story. Along the way, we meet something ’orrible – and something even ’orribler. But which is which? Who’s worse? That’s for me to know and you to find out (neh-neh). I don’t want to get all spoilery on you, but what a joy it is to hear from the other side (literally), the main narrative being interspersed as it is with a chunk of first-person Devil-POV, which might have been jarring had it been poorly executed. Which this wasn’t. So there. No, it’s a welcome change: the author has given the Devil a platform here and it’s refreshing AF. With a subtle colour palette, the artist that is Simon Bestwick paints a nicely-rounded cross-section of society and frames it in terror. Through the greys of the smoke, through the filth and the ash raining down upon the city, we see red cars, red eyes, steel toecaps glowing cherry red in the heat, all making for a cloying, suitably uncomfortable effect. The heat, as they say, is on. But in a refreshing deviation from convention and trope—call it subversion, if you will—yellow gets a say here, too. Typically associated with cowardice, this colour is given a new definition: people are twats. They just are. They always have been, and they always will be. Bestwick knows this, so he plays with it in DEVILS, giving us just enough info about an ’orrible lot known as the Yellow-Scarves. Somewhat ambiguous to begin with, we learn their names later on, the author’s instinct serving his tale well – familiarity breeds contempt, humanity, and in this case, horror. Sure, these particular twats might have been a tad creepier had they retained a smidgen of that aforementioned ambiguity, but making them real and giving them humanity is equally as terrifying when you think about it: the beast within, and all that. So there has to be something bad, right? There’s always something you’d have done differently (and if not, you should make up something negative to give a balanced review, yes?) Ah, bollocks to that. Bollocks, I say. You can take this story any number of ways – as you find it, it has a beginning, a middle, and an end: something happens, and we follow the journey. Or you could get all deep and thinky; there’s philosophy in them thar words, I tellzya. Through a trichotomous viewfinder, though, I found myself contemplating the hierarchical structure of the piece, what with hell being empty, ’n’ all. But who—and where—are the devils? DEVILS OF LONDON is an easy read, which is fine by me because I have the attention span of a splattered gnat these days – if you don’t hook me by page one (paragraph one, if I’m being honest), then down goes the book. For me to read anything twice is …erm … a first. HISTORY is Simon’s thang, and it shows. The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose; Bestwick can cite history. The point is: do we learn from it? *****Five flaming stars.***** Devils Of London Paperback |
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