By Neil Jordan
'I were improper for him such a lot of occasions that after he died it used to be as though a part of myself had died too.' Kevin Thunder grew up with a double - a boy so uncannily like him that they have been fallacious for every different at each flip. As young children in Nineteen Sixties Dublin, one lived subsequent to Bram Stoker's condo, haunted by means of an imagined Dracula, the opposite within the extra sophisticated areas of Palmerston Park. although divided, just like the urban itself, by way of heritage and sophistication, they shared an identical scent, a similar appears to be like, and maybe, as he involves discover, an analogous soul. They trade identities while it matches them, as their lives take them to England and the USA, and locate that taking up another's character may end up in darker locations than both had imagined. Neil Jordan's long-awaited new novel is a rare success - a comedy of manners whilst a Gothic tragedy, a mystery and an elegy. It bargains imaginitive leisure of the top order.
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Example text
Hello, stranger,’ she would say to me coming down in the morning, coming home from school, and I would discover much later what she really meant. Then the time came when I thought I knew, when my presence on those concrete steps became an embarrassment to me and to the other female bathers. My appropriate place would have been at the men’s shelter, beyond the rusted railings that traced the path of the cement steps down to the sea. So I stopped going and whenever I walked down the old wooden sleepers of the Bull Wall bridge with a friend my own age, a girl most often, I would watch the lazy, saline progress of the swimmers and wonder which one of them was her.
You mean what do I do? Nothing at the moment. I’m in mourning, amn’t I? I feel like I should be wearing a black veil. Some kind of habit. ’ 45 NEIL JORDAN 37 ‘To back off. Keep away. I don’t feel like talking. ’ And you brushed your hand over mine. It felt totally natural, yet brought a blush to my face. ‘You’re part of it, somehow. The feeling. It’s loss, but it’s not quite grief. ’ ‘Because I never knew him. ’ The word ‘father’ was like an old Chinese gong. It reverberated. ’ ‘Silence, that’s what it is.
1 But I already knew the word that was coming next. ’ 1 1 1 1 33 2 NEIL JORDAN 25 2 Sentimental value. The only kind surely, I thought, as the tick- 2 ing became a hushed symphony, an exercise in counterpoint; found a kind of rhythm, lost it again, and found a different one, seeking I 2 imagined a magical point at which they would make proper music. The auctioneer coughed behind me and I knew commerce was 2 about to raise its pretty head. It was always preceded by a hush or 2 a cough, indecency shrouded in a cloak of politeness.