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 Psychoville by Christopher Fowler
reviewed by XXXXX
Original appearance: Albedo one issue ??, date?
The other day I was speaking to Dublin author, Michael Carroll, and in the course of our conversation somehow the subject, as usual, turned to books. Immediately Michael recommended that I read anything by Christopher Fowler, which was the sort of coincidence I'm sure he would never dare use in his fiction: at the time I was in the middle of reading Fowler's latest. The title is PSYCHOVILLE and if it is anything to go by, then I must echo Michael's sentiments.
Previously, the only fiction by Fowler which I had read was contained in his short story collection, THE BUREAU OF LOST SOULS. Unfortunately, for me it would appear, I found the stories in the collection rather strained and unexciting. The net result of this exposure being that I avoided Mr Fowler's work for the past half decade or so. But I'm still young ( by some standards) so there's time to put my error to rights. I'm reliably informed that SPANKY is a cracker.
As for PSYCHOVILLE, it charts the life and downtrodden times of the March family, particularly their son, Billy. Forced to move from the safe haven of London's inner city through the vagaries of the soulless planning authority, the family is deposited In of those horrendous 'new-town' suburbs built on a green-field site miles from nowhere. To compound matters, the residents are middle (striving to be upper) class and consider the Marches all together too blue collar for the area.
In many subtly callous ways the neighbours make it obvious to the Marches that they are not wanted. Then begins a series of unlucky incidents which begin to force the Marches out of their new home. But is it merely bad luck? Billy March asks himself. His father is wrongly accused of theft and loses his job. His mother slips on spilled oil in the supermarket where she works but is denied compensation as a helpful neighbour cleaned up the mess and then denied its very existence.
Abandoned to the national health service, Billy's mother is left to wait months for a hospital bed. Her health and spirits deteriorate until finally she takes her own life. Finally Billy and his father are forced to abandon their suburban house and move back to the city. The snide, hostile, snobby and loathsome neighbours have won.
But this is a horror novel. The Marches will be avenged. Horribly. Inevitably. In part two. Welcome to Psychoville, the suburb in which anything an uninhibited maniac is capable of imagining for revenge can, and does happen.
What makes this such a powerful piece of horror is that for the most part it is so reasonable, so much a catalogue of everyday suburban bitchiness. And then Christopher Fowler allows his imagination off the leash and all we can do is sit back and watch, initially with pleasure, as Billy's vengeance unfolds. But as his eventual aim becomes clear so we see his mind unravel - or notice that it has been unravelled already. For the most part this is not a novel of gut-wrenching horror, but when the mayhem hits its stride I would recommend an empty stomach to readers. I would also recommend this book. Strongly.
The Bureau Of Lost Souls by Christopher Fowler
reviewed by Underview
Original appearance: FTL 7, Winter 1990
The Bureau Of Lost Souls by Christopher Fowler is a short story collection. The majority of the tales purport to be a modem urban horror, and each one seems to feature a 'yuppie', or merely an 'upper class git' who gets his comeuppance. I may be oversimplifying, but the book lends itself to such treatment.
The horror in almost every case is death and I'm afraid I found his treatment of the subject neither terribly original nor terribly frightening. Maybe the stories would stand up well individually in the context of magazine publication but together they are pretty ho-hum. Each one is similar in construction and pacing and several telegraphed the ending from very early on. Fortunately for the unsuspecting punter browsing the horror section, the cover of this collection is far less prepossessing than the contents. In fact the cover's designer, if I may use the word in the broadest possible context, deserves an award for unoriginality and lack of imagination.
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