He's not talked about now in the same way as Susan Cooper or Nigel Kneale, but for me Robert Westall was at least as much of a fixture of a Haunted Generation childhood. Maybe a little too haunting; the scenes I remember really got their hooks in, but I never read all that many of his books, for saying how many he wrote. Certainly not this one, which came out in 1993, when I would have thought myself far too grown up for kids' books. Which this was, back then, despite the narrator being a middle-aged and moderately dodgy antiques dealer, not exactly the stuff of YA protagonists nowadays. And also despite quite how nasty it gets in places. But the main reason I'm glad only to be coming to it now is that it's a book which works much better if you have a little familiarity with the deep lore of London. Inventing a new district is a bold move, and the first rule is not to get greedy; the centre is too full of too many big beasts, but get a little further out and there are plenty of areas only their residents and neighbours know, and then often hazily. Westall's Wheatstone is one of those, and it's also one of the ones where you can tell, even on a brief acquaintance, that something isn't right, a certain shabbiness and nastiness and bad luck that seems to go beyond the usual. And after yet another fatality is linked to the pond on the common, it's finally decided to drain it, except it turns out there's more than model ships lurking in the depths... The niche focus could have ended up faintly silly, but instead gets under your skin, and much like the smell of the seeping sludge from the pond, it seems horribly as if it might linger.