Konkelwerk
Ek het twee meesleurende rillers verslind. Een speel in Engeland af, die ander in die VSA, in New York. Al twee skrywers is Brits. Sarah Hornsley 'n literêre agent van Sussex, Steve Cavanagh eintlik Iers.
One Dark Summer deur Sarah Hornsley
Die roman speel in Londen en op die eiland Osea in Essex af. Die leser beleef die gebeure deur die oë van verskillende karakters in verskeie tydsgleuwe. Daar is 'n anonieme spreker wat soms in kursief kop uitsteek, met troebel kinderjare en 'n duister agenda.
Dan is daar Lily, 'n eerstepersoonverteller in die hede. Sy woon in Londen. Haar ma het hulle verlaat toe sy klein was en nooit weer van haar laat hoor nie. Haar pa het haar grootgemaak en sy woon nog by hom. Sy het angsversteuring en word geteister deur allerlei onsekerhede. Sy is 'n sielkundige. Haar pa het geweier om ooit oor haar ma, Penny, te praat, maar Lily is vasberade om meer oor haar uit te vind. Sy besluit om sonder haar pa se wete Osea-eiland te besoek, waar haar ma se ouers 'n vakansiehuis gehad het.
Hier loop sy haar vas in haar ma se tweelingsuster, van wie se bestaan sy onbewus was. Haar tante, Rosie, was onder die indruk dat haar tweelingsuster in die somer van 1990 op die eiland verdrink het. Hoe meer Lily die verlede oopkrap, hoe onheilspellender kom haar nuutgevonde familie voor. Voordat haar ma weg is en sedert Lily se geboorte het haar ma alle kontak met hulle verbreek.
Dan word die leser teruggeplaas in die verlede, na die somer van 1990. Die tweelingsusters is klaar met skool en raak bevriend met twee musikante wat in die hotel optree. Die susters se gesin is disfunksioneel - hulle ma, Chrissy, is sieklik en haar siekte gooi 'n skadu oor alles. Sy eis konstant aandag op en hulle pa waak getrou oor haar, sodat die dogters aan hulleself oogelaat word. Hulle moet boonop wedywer vir hulle ma se aandag. Die ouens is ouer as hulle, in hulle twintigs, en opwindend gevaarlik en bandeloos. Daar word baie gedrink. 'n Tienermeisie raak vermis. Dan verdwyn Penny, Lily se ma. Die eiland huisves duister geheime wat nooit opgelos is tot Lily kom karring het nie.
Skielik begin sy raaiselagtige terugflitse van haar vroeë kinderjare kry, en begin wonder oor haar pa. Het hy die waarheid gepraat toe hy sê dat hy nog nooit op die eiland was nie?
Dis 'n riller wat jou heelnag sal wakkerhou. Ek beveel dit hoog aan.
One Dark Summer deur Sarah Hornsley is deur Hodder & Stoughton uitgegee en kos R395 by Graffiti.
One of Us is Guilty deur Steve Cavanagh
Hierdie misdaadriller speel in New York af, onder die superrykes. Dis die tiende boek in die Eddie Flynn-reeks, waarvan ek al 'n paar gelees het. Flynn is 'n heerlike karakter. Hy was eers 'n conman wat advokaat geword het. Hy verteenwoordig slegs mense in wie se onskuld hy glo. Dit gaan nie vir hom oor geld nie. Hy het beginsels, maar sal nie huiwer om kortpaaie te neem nie. Hy is so slim soos die houtjie van die galg. Sy sidekick is 'n afgetrede regter wat soos 'n vis drink, Harry Ford. Hulle is 'n gedugte span.
Flynn aanvaar die saak van Vanessa, vrou van Patrick Vanderpool, 'n politikus wat met 'n goue lepel in die mond gebore is. Patrick se assistent en minnares, Molly, word in haar eie woonstel vermoor en onthoof. Haar kop is skoonveld. Vanessa was bewus van die verhouding en het Molly gewaarsku om van haar man weg te bly. Beide Vanessa en Patrick was die aand van haar dood by Molly se woonstel en is op sekuriteitskamera vasgevang. Sou hulle so dom wees?
Patrick se pa, biljoenêr Julian Vanderpool, is 'n grusame karakter. Die wit van sy oë is bloedrooi van lewerskade, hy loop oor almal en geen wet geld vir hom nie. Maar miskien het hy nie rekening gehou met Eddie Flynn nie.
Dis vir Flynn duidelik dat Vanessa vir hom lieg, of hom nie alles vertel nie. Tog glo hy in haar onskuld. Watter geheim steek sy weg? En het Molly self ook 'n agenda gehad?
Dinge lyk maar beroerd in die hof, waar die regter Flynn herhaaldelik beboet vir minagting van die hof. Sy werkswyse is onkonvensioneel. Dis duidelik dat die polisie en selfs die regter in die Vanderpools se sak is.
Intussen is sy eksentrieke handlangers, Block en Lane, hard aan die werk om leidrade op te spoor. Kan hulle betyds 'n deurbraak maak? Gaan Flynn 'n skuldige vrou loskry?
Die sleutel is 'n ouer moord op 'n vrou wat vir die laaste keer saam met Patrick gesien is. Hulle moet die kloutjie by die oor bring en werk teen tyd. Intussen plooi Flynn die wetboek om sy kliënt te pas en uitoorlê telkens die vervolging se peperduur regslui.
Dis 'n heerlike spannende hofdrama en sielkundige riller met skerpgetekende karakters. Ek beveel dit hoog aan. Dit sal aanklank vind by lesers wat van John Grisham, Scott Turow, Michael Connely en Lee Child hou.
One of Us is Guilty deur Steve Cavanagh is deur Headline Publishing Group Limited uitgegee en kos R425 by Graffiti.
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Edgar Allen Poe