I’ve been reading the fiction of Ramsey Campbell for well over thirty years, and there are many observations I might make on it. For the purposes of this review, however, I’ll say only one thing: you never quite know what you’re going to get from one book to the next. That isn’t true of many of his weight-by-weight contemporaries. For instance, with Stephen King, except for a few exceptions down the years – the structural peculiarities of Gerald’s Game, the multi-novella composite that is Hearts in Atlantis, and the recent oddity “Life of Chuck” – you can pretty much guarantee that you’ll remain in familiar literary territory: everyday folk in everyday locales dealing with the outlandish.
Not so much with Campbell. Yes, the stories usually occupy the north of England, boast quirky characters battling some form of badness, and are related in richly lyrical and ambiguous language. But the tales themselves often come from leftfield. Take The Overnight as an example, a haunted place novel unlike any other you’ll ever read. Or maybe The Kind Folk, a book so strange as to be almost like a recollected dream. And now here we have The Lonely Lands, which I assure you is as distinct as any the author has ever written.
Joe Hunter meets Olivia at a library, and they soon wed. Life is good until, during a Covid anti-masking protest, the shop next-door to Olivia’s is broken into by a thug, Darrell Swann, who inadvertently coughs into her face as she tries to intervene and communicates the virus to her. Later at hospital, Olivia dies, and thus begins a nightmarish period of grief during which Joe simultaneously engages in Swann’s trial while also experiencing intimations of the afterlife, at first Olivia’s voice drawing him into her new realm and then less welcome denizens emerging from beyond that veil.
Campbell’s depiction of two worlds – the socially real and the spectrally unreal – hint at something like hell and heaven. For all the sordid activities of earthbound thugs, there’s an idyllic balcony in a sun-soaked hotel (the location of a honeymoon) to which Joe is first drawn and where he believes Olivia is safe. But soon the darker world starts bleeding into this other. It begins with irrepressible memories from Joe’s youth, a grandfather rather more interested in bullish games like football than studious pursuits such as reading. The older man and his ignoble cronies seem to represent the same kind of attitudes unworthy folk in the present day uphold, and on his death bed, the cranky grandfather threatens Joe with a visitation after he's passed on.
And so it goes. In the early sequences, some of the newfound amorphous imagery Campbell has evoked in later books – the finale of The Way of the Worm, especially – is drawn upon to depict a frightening lack of coherent form among the realm of the dead. For example, Joe’s grandfather, finally putting in his promised appearance, shapelessly lopes around a room before disappearing through a hole no larger than that of a mouse. That’s unsettling enough, but it’s only a start of the shape-shifting menace our lead character endures.
Then there’s Olivia’s sternly religious parents who seem determined to communicate their loss through passive aggressive meddling. There’s the court case, which, owing to a sharkish solicitor, soon becomes less clearcut than Joe had hoped. There’s also Joe’s female next-door neighbour, on the surface a sympathetically benevolent other, who often appears to be spying on him – or at least to know his every move. And worst of all, there’s the dead, who gradually, as Joe’s mind starts buckling beneath so much strain, start gaining a tenuous grip on his memories.
Memories is the prevalent theme of The Lonely Lands. From the name and nature of Olivia’s shop – Made of Memories, an outlet stocking nostalgic artefacts – to the struggle Joe has in keeping his recollections of his late wife untarnished by negativity. The chief threat is of course his late grandfather and his wastrel companions, but later, in a truly disturbing scene, quite another pursuer becomes involved, leading to a grim climax that involves a sacrifice perhaps representing the insuperable power of grief.
I shan’t give away more of the story, except to say that the whole experience is evoked in Campbell’s increasingly majestic command of prose. Some of the sentences here have a grandeur about them, being unashamedly adjectival and richly tessellated in their construction. Take this one, for instance:
He found himself wishing she could see the sights he saw, which might almost have been tributes the September afternoon was staging: a delicate intricate dance of butterflies kept in the air by an invisible juggler, an unstable elongated skein of geese high overhead like a hairpin reflected in rippling water, the comic relief of an extravagantly loose-limbed hound that had to keep halting to sneeze as it lolloped through the empurpled heather.
Just a few months ago, we literary folk said our sad farewells to Martin Amis, but with writing like this still in the world, our own grief needn’t be suffered so heavily.
Mix in a typically Campbellian collection of menaces and we’re treated to a claustrophobic narrative that veers between the ethereal spookiness of its dreamlike afterlife sequences and the gritty nastiness of its real world counterparts. The Covid-related protest activities out in the streets invoke a sense of things not being right in our familiar world. The court case, with its sleight-of-hand defence, adds further woe to Joe’s mental environment. A cold-call scam attempt shows how duress is unavoidable even when you think you’re being private.
It’s no wonder that Joe wants to keep Olivia where she is, free from such persistent unpleasantness. The visions of heavenliness in which she appears hint at the sanctuary of love, that unfailing refuge in the crisscrossing bullishness of life at large. Are we the readers encouraged to conclude that even the happiest times are shadowed by the imperiousness of death, its unknowable nature? If so, that would make Joe’s attempts throughout the book to wrestle with the terror of the void pitiably universal.
As I said earlier, this is an especially strange book, even for Campbell, and one that creeps inside you, slowly encouraging you to decode its dreamlike enigmas. Part paean to love, part meditation on death, it dramatises how the heavenly – communion with another – can only exist in the context of the grim: an inevitable termination of that bond. And I have a sense that, somewhat fittingly given its themes, The Lonely Lands will linger long in memory and stand alongside some of Campbell’s more idiosyncratic works, the kind of fiction only he can write.