A title taken from Webster’s The White Devil? Oh, Randolph Stow, you shouldn’t have. It’s as if you want me to think this is a gory little chapbook of a thing.
Well, it is, really. This is a novel about murder. But it’s not the usual type: there’s no neat little bow to wrap around everything. Here, it’s a bit different. It’s a meditation on the endpoint of murder – death – and a refraction of four years of Western Australia killings, written from half a world away. (more…)