Cork in the late 1990s. Grief, violence, drugs, family loyalties and the long shadow of the past. I went in expecting something somewhere between The Glorious Heresies and Wild Houses, with a dose of All Them Dogs for good measure.
And sure look, I really wanted to love it.
There’s plenty here that worked for me. Mark Gyves has a cracking ear for dialogue and a darkly comic streak that occasionally reminded me of Caimh McDonnell — very much a compliment. There’s a rawness to the writing too, and that particular mix of humour, brutality and people simply getting on with things that feels very at home in this setting.
It’s fierce bleak, though.
This is a book about damage passing from one generation to the next: wasted talent, grief left to fester, drink, violence and young lads being pulled into worlds that were waiting for them long before they knew enough to choose otherwise.
But the further it went, the less convinced I became.
Some of the criminal-underworld elements felt a little too familiar, and one particularly grotesque storyline involving abducted boys tipped over, for me, from disturbing into gratuitous. I kept wondering whether the novel really needed it. I’m still not sure it did.
And then there’s the Boy himself.
He’s never named, which I suspect is intended to give him a kind of universality. Instead, it kept me at arm’s length. I wanted to care about him more than I actually did and, dare I say it, the namelessness began to feel a small bit gimmicky.
So no, this didn’t quite become the cracking Cork-set crime novel I’d hoped it would.
Except…
I read the whole thing over a weekend.
Couldn’t leave it down.
And despite everything I’ve just grumbled about, I’d happily pick up whatever Mark Gyves writes next.
Which is perhaps the most useful thing I can tell you about this debut: flawed, unsettling, occasionally frustrating and somehow still completely compelling.
Make of that what you will.
Thanks to @randomthingstours and the publisher for the gifted copy. All opinions are my own.