MY ONCE SECRET VICE
True crime, my once secret vice, but now you all know about it. This unlovely genre, true crime - it’s so sleazy and it’s got everything. The piquant pleasures of the do it yourself abattoir, the discovery in the dumpster, the jolly uncle, the picnic spot, the man walking his dog, the folorn poster, the crucial forensics, the fortunate CCTV, the plausible absence, the pretty niece, the remains gnawed by animals, the cellar, the other hidden cellar, the bulletproof alibi, the trophy collection, the videos, the hard drive, the doormat wife, the unlikely suspect, the unusual receipt, the police overtime, the televised appeal, the incredulous son, the legwork, the blurred photograph, the last sighting, the uncertain identification, the kind repair-man, the white van, the planned randomness, the last house on the left hand side of the road, the intimidated girlfriend, the perfect hindsight, the happy faces, the clenched handkerchiefs, the driver’s license, the two and two put together, the sharpened screwdriver, the same gun, the misidentification, the derisory sentence, the anguished appeal, the idiocy of the jury, the blunt instrument of the law, the subtle instrument of the crime, the willing victim, the smiling man.
YOUR FAMILY IS A SMALL CULT
This little book recounts the murder by the clearly deranged Theresa Knorr of two of her daughters, I won’t go into the details because it’ll put you off your dinner. The Knorr family were pure trailer trash. What we learn here, if we didn’t already know, is that the crazy family is run on similar lines to the crazy cult, whereby the leader (usually male but in this case not) empowers his inner circle (in this case the sons) and scapegoats some lowly minions (in this case the daughters, one by one). The power structure is well known and clearly the life Inside operates so strongly on the mind that completely different rules apply when you’re Inside to those which apply Outside. We see this when guys like Josef Fritzl or Philip Garrido can live quite normal Outside lives whilst being high priest of their own lunatic sex cult as soon as they cross the threshold back Inside. Same phenomenon in the concentration camps – the top Nazis had nice little houses and sat with their nice pretty families every night a few hundred yards away from where human beings were being gassed and shot. This situation always strikes sane people as the acme of horror yet it’s the same every time, so we should expect it. I guess the word is compartmentalisation.
HOW LITTLE WE KNOW ABOUT EACH OTHER
How little we know, even in this information-soaked world, of how other lives are lived. Fiction in books and movies can sometimes throw some light into the dark parts of our society but even Mike Leigh, Ken Loach, Irvine Welsh, Carolyn Chute or Dorothy Allison necessarily by their acts of imaginative sympathy shape their underclass materials and therefore inevitably bring them into our moral universe. In true crime books, even (perhaps especially) those as atrociously written as this one, there is no redemption of art, no glimpse of understanding, just a sudden appalled trip into a shrieking chaos of people who seem to have no defence against each other’s rapacity. We want to regard the poor as noble, as capable of love and not just sex, as economically displaced, as people who would thrive if they just had this thing or that thing happen to them (an interested teacher, an inspired government outreach programme), and this ingrained desire sentimentalises everything it touches – so hail Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh’s brilliant black humour portrait of junkie life in Glasgow, and hail Last Exit to Brooklyn too, that was pretty unflinching, and hail true crime books whose just-the-facts approach steamcleans away most of these false perspectives. The only people otherwise who write about the underclass are the sociologists who are trying to figure out how to fix them. I did come across one great attempt to present these lives in all their hyperactive detail, Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, and it was alienating, exhausting, depressing and defeating. I need more brave writers who are willing to live in the trailer parks and sink estates here in England, and report back what they see, because I’m not going anywhere near these places if I can help it. The drawbridge is up, the attack dogs are roaming freely just inside the razor wire fence. And this is no way to live, for them or for us.