How do you become invisible without becoming actually invisible? Hang onto that question, because it matters.
I've read a good chunk of Christopher Priest's body of work, and this one might just be my favorite of his novels. It's a tightly constructed psychological thriller that not only places its characters in tense situations, but continuously undermines the reader's confidence in what seem to be the underlying realities of the story.
This may sound gimmicky, but Priest, at his cool, precise best, is a master of games, illusions, and misdirection, painting pictures that at first appear to be one thing, but are revealed to be something else entirely when the perspective shifts (of course, there are plenty of clues that you won't think much of as they pass you by, but will jump out later). And the puzzles aren't meaningless fluff; they invite contemplation of significant human themes.
Plotwise, this novel seems ordinary enough at first. A young man named Richard is recovering in hospital from the aftereffects of being caught near a car bomb explosion, which include some amnesia. He's visited by a young woman named Susan, whom he can't remember, but who claims to have been his lover during the weeks before the blast.
Another narrative section (shifting from third to first person voice) fills in what seems to be the backstory. Richard is on holiday in France and meets Susan on a train. The two quickly fall for each other, but their love affair is gradually soured by the offstage presence of Susan's controlling, possessive ex-lover, Niall, who maintains a mysterious and seemingly unbreakable hold over her, much to Richard's frustration and anger.
Then, the novel takes a turn into some strange territory, somewhat reminiscent, I thought, of David Mitchell's The Bone Clocks. We get Susan's version of events, which contains some notable factual differences from Richard's, but also ascribes semi-fantastical powers to her and to Niall, who takes on a whole new level of sulky menace once the extent of their disturbing codependency is clear. But, this is Christopher Priest, and there are reasons not to take Susan's account entirely at face value, to suspect that author is playing further tricks on us.
Which, of course, he is, and the hints are there from page one. The turns that follow kept me glued to my reading device, and when Priest finally drops the floor in the last pages, it's a metaphysical mind-bender, revealing that Richard, Susan, and Niall might not be quite what we thought they were. So, what are they, then? That question kept my mind occupied for a while (hint: reread the first chapter), but the more I pondered, the more the conclusion clicked with the novel's interrelated themes of identity, memory, and visibility. What does it mean, in terms of human experience, to be "visible" (or not)?
Naturally, I'm putting this question in purposefully broads terms, so as to not spoil what I think is a gripping reading experience, but I'm not sure I need to make it more specific. Just keep it to the side, let your mind make its own connections, and enjoy this brilliant novel. It's the sort of work that might result if someone found a way to take the hamfistedness out of Gone Girl and the movie Inception, and combined them both into something quietly, unsettlingly mind-blowing. And did so thirty years earlier.
Audiobook narrator Barnaby Edwards is a good fit for Priest's style of writing, which maintains a certain level of emotional distance, but is able to be expressive when the moods of the characters warrant it. Some of his voices for minor characters sound a little cartoonish, but his use of different British regional accents for the major ones was a helpful cue.