Library Limelights 167

P.D. James. Innocent Blood. Toronto: Vintage Canada/Random House, 1980.

From the grand Dame of psychodrama, a classic gem (see the date? ... before internet, before CCTV). Precocious eighteen-year-old Philippa Palfrey learns that her biological mother is being released from prison, having served her time for murder. Philippa's adoptive family has taught her to stretch her fine intellect, without offering love and warmth. Identity becomes her major mission – she wants to know who she is. So she embraces the opportunity to explore this new maternal relationship; parents Maurice and Hilda are agreeable but skeptical. Philippa has no memory before the time she was eight years old, except for fleeting images she can't quite grasp. She moves into a flat with her mother, Mary Ducton, where living together strikes a mutually cordial routine – a hiatus for Philippa before going on to Cambridge University. But a victim from Mary's past, Norman Scace, is stalking them.

James evokes the rich atmosphere of a living, breathing London, all senses employed in street and park scenes. Not only that, she captures the conflicts among the main characters, deftly drawing us into their world: seeking love subconsciously, often finding pain. Caustic voices cover up unexpressed emotions. Contrary to Maurice's expectations, Philippa adapts to her "new sphere of existence" in a lower class order. When the surprises begin, tension ratchets up the scale. Yet Philippa's venture to ground her identity was perhaps not the only experiment in the family. A slightly distasteful reference in the denouement seems out of character somehow, hard to digest.

Words: rebarbative - irritating, bothersome (probably noted this before!)

concatenation - unconnected things or events linking together

One-liners:

"I don't think there's been any research to examine the correlation between acne and left-wing opinions." (51)

"Facts are sacred, if you can discover them, and as long as you don't confuse them with values." (92)

She had the look of a woman who has found life recalcitrant since childhood but has finally succeeded, at some cost to herself, in pounding it into shape. (107)

He found that he was crying, soundless, wordless, unassuageable tears. (260)

She had seemed so strong when she first came out of prison. (297)

He had the mind of a thriller writer, obsessive, guilt-ridden, preoccupied with trivia. (339)

If it is only through learning to love that we find identity, then he had found his. (355)

Philippa:

The advantage of remembering virtually nothing before her eighth birthday, the knowledge that she was illegitimate, meant there was no phalanx of the living dead, no pious ancestor worship, no conditioned reflexes of thought to inhibit the creativity with which she presented herself to the world. What she aimed to achieve was singularity, even eccentric, but never ordinary. (5)

Typical Maurice:

"None of us can bear too much reality. No one. We all create for ourselves a world in which it's tolerable for us to live. You've probably created yours with more imagination than most. Having gone to that trouble, why demolish it?" (91)

Cleaning lady appraises refurbished bedroom:

She had stared round the room before giving her customary unenthusiastic verdict. "It's very nice, madam, I'm sure." But she had lingered a few seconds when Hilda left, then coming quickly up to Philippa had pushed her face close to her cheek. The words had come in a hiss of sour breath. 

"Bastard. I hope you're grateful. It isn't right. All this for a bastard when decent kids have to make do four in a room. You ought to be in a Home." 

Then her voice had again become respectful: 

"Coming, madam." 

Philippa could still recall the shock and anger. There were no tantrums now. Words, she had discovered, were more effective than screams, more hurtful than kicks and blows. She had said coolly:"You shouldn't breed four children if you can't afford them. And I expect they'll go on living four to a room if they're as ugly and stupid as you." (45)

Hilda's hot flashes:

She would feel first the clutch of fear at the heart, as physical as pain, and then it would begin, the burning flush spreading over her neck, mottling her face and forehead, a scarlet deformity of shame. She felt that every eye in the courtroom was fixed on her. The child with his parents, fidgeting in his chair, the clerk lifting his head from the court register to stare in wonder, the social workers watching with their pitying professional eyes, the chairman briefly pausing to glance at her before averting his eyes in embarrassment, the attendant police, stolidly gazing at her with their dead, controlled faces. And then the red pulsating tide would recede, leaving her momentarily as cold and cleansed as a wave-scoured beach. (231)

Yrsa Sigurdardottir. My Soul to Take. 2006. USA: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009.

Genealogy alert: This novel includes three generations of several families, guaranteed to keep you on your toes and debating cui bono in the context of two murders, just as lawyer-cum-sleuth Thora Gudmundsdottir gets involved. In a series featuring Thora, the author takes us to Iceland, that interesting country of sophisticated DNA application. Thora's new client, hippy entrepreneur Jonas, invites her to his New Age holistic resort complex to resolve a real estate problem. Rural Iceland has its share of traditions and family stories, in this case hauntings by former occupants of the old homes being incorporated into the hotel. Then Birna, the architect designing an extension for Jonas, is murdered on a beach, followed by the brutal killing of a hotel employee.

Thora wants to keep her client – a suspect – out of jail; searching for meaning and alternate motives means trying to sort out dozens of hotel staff, guests, and local residents ... as in various physical and mental therapists, fitness trainers, nutritionists, aura readers, "healers" and the like. Boyfriend Matthew arrives from Germany, then Thora's kids drive up unexpectedly, including her son Gylfi's pregnant girlfriend, adding assistance or confusion as the case turns. In all this activity the police seem to play a marginal role. Some family trees and a map would have been of great benefit (how many times have I said that?). While the insertion of Icelandic legend and poetry may not be entirely convincing, Sigurdardottir has created lively characters with a sense of humour.

One-liners:

She knew that it had been a custom at that time to take pictures of the dead, but she had never seen such a photograph, let alone held one. (62)

Anyone who was not interested in Eurovision would hardly last a week in Iceland. (75)

With her devious plotting, Birna had ruined what was most dear to him: his childhood haunts. (115)

"He's so ancient he couldn't kill a potted plant." (183)

After borrowing an empty box that once contained (and was labelled for) sex toys:

Thora woke with a start. She had set the alarm clock to wake her up after an hour, but it hadn't gone off. She looked around the room, perplexed, until a knock on the door made her realize where she was. She reached for the dressing gown she had put on after her shower and called out hoarsely, "Who is it?" There was no reply, just another knock. She put on the gown, ran over to the door, and opened it enough just to put her head outside. "Hello?" 

"Hello, yourself," said Matthew. "Aren't you going to let me in?" 

Thora cursed herself for her lack of makeup and for her damp hair, which she had been sleeping on. She ran her hand over it in a vain attempt to tame the wild mop. "Well, hello. So you found it." 

Matthew came in, grinning. "Of course. It wasn't complicated." He looked all around. "Nice room." His eyes came to rest on the box from the sex therapist. 

Thora hadn't thought to push the box out of sight. She smiled awkwardly. 

"Looks like I came just in the nick of time," he said. (73-4)

Sister calls brother:

"What's going on?" Elin asked, although she knew it must involve Svava, Borkur's wife, who was a bag of nerves, always on the brink of a nervous breakdown over something minor. 

"None of your business," growled Borkur. "What do you want?" 

Accustomed to his unfriendliness, Elin ignored it. In fact, she enjoyed winding him up. She had always been against selling the land but had given in to his constant nagging in the end. It was a pity their mother had not opposed the idea, because the place had still belonged to her even though the proceeds would go to her children. Now Elin had the chance to take revenge on her brother for his bossiness. "A woman called Thora phoned. She's a lawyer for Jonas, who bought Kirkjustett and Kreppa." She paused deliberately, determined to force him to ask. 

"And?" asked her brother, irritated but intrigued. "What did she want?" 

"Turns out there's a problem, dear brother," Elin said smugly. "She wants to see us about a hidden defect Jonas has found in the property." (140-1)

Follow the leader:

"Matthew, you go first," she said, pushing him toward the hole. "Where's the flashlight?" 

After all three had squeezed through the hole, Thora and Gylfi followed Matthew along the passage. The slender beam from the flashlight only helped Matthew in front, and the Icelanders bumped into him when he stopped at a door at the end of the passage. He turned around, shining the flashlight under his chin. Both Thora and Gylfi recoiled in horror, much to his amusement. He took the flashlight away from his face and lit up the door. "Shall I open it?" 

They should have said no. (291)

Chris Bohjalian. The Flight Attendant. USA: Random House Large Print, 2018.

Wake up next to a dead man in a Dubai hotel room with blood and gore soaking the sheets? That's what happens to Cassie Bowden, flight attendant (and risky lifestyle practitioner) after a one-night stand. With no idea what happened during her alcoholic blackout, the dazed Cassie sneaks away with her "tectonic hangover" to start a series of lies and coverups; she carries on - shakily - with her flight schedules. At the back of her mind she wonders if it's possible she killed the man; meanwhile the FBI is on it because the victim was American. The suspense gets unbearable ― will she be connected to the scene? Could things get any worse for her? Yes. Despite her innocence, Cassie is her own worst enemy, inadvertently entrenching herself as the suspect.

We learn that a woman called Elena cut the American's throat, a woman who spared Cassie while passed out in the same bed. Elena is associated with some ruthless Russian oligarchs known as the Cossacks. We don't know why the man was killed but the FBI has a clue ― allusions to drone technology and chemical weapons. The story goes deeper as Cassie tries to deal with her family, the airline, her union, her lawyer, and staying sober. It's a relief when she tells the truth but it doesn't save her from danger. Deservedly on the summer's top reading lists, Bohjalian has produced many other novels. Love the Atwood introductory quote: Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.

Word: noctivagant - wandering in the night

One-liners:

Dubai was a vertical world between the flatness of sand and the flatness of sea, a cutting-edge outpost just across the Persian Gulf from Iran. (23-4)

These days, no one felt entitled to anything in economy, and so the passengers—especially on an overnight flight to Europe—were rather docile: the airlines had beaten out of them the idea that they had any rights at all. (168)

He was up against people who'd grown up in a culture in which paranoia was a survival skill. (393)

Keeping score?

The irony of blackouts was this: you had to have a spectacular alcohol tolerance to black out. Amateur drinkers passed out long before they put the hippocampus―those folds in the gray matter where memories are made―to sleep. She was a pro. Partial blackouts happened when the blood alcohol hit the magic 0.2; en bloc or total blackouts occurred when you ratcheted up the number to an undeniably impressive 0.3. The bar for drunk driving, by comparison, was a fraction of those numbers: a mere .08. (129-30)

Elena debriefs with the boss:

"I just feel bad. She did nothing wrong. She's just a pathetic drunk who got in bed with the wrong man on the wrong night." 

"She's dangerous," Viktor reminded her. 

"Perhaps." 

"Perhaps? You should have taken care of them both when you found them together. You know that. I know you do. Besides ..." 

"Besides what?" 

"She saw you, Elena. She saw you. Be realistic: one of you has to die." He shrugged. "I think it's your choice." (143)

Elena carries on:

But this flight attendant? Not her usual quarry. It would be like drowning a kitten. (229)

Cassie's lawyer:

Ani put down her wrap and took a breath. "Now, this meeting with the FBI isn't precisely a situation where you can perjure yourself. This isn't a sworn deposition. But they will try and catch you in a lie, and it is a federal offense to lie to an FBI agent. You may not even feel the knife going in until they begin to twist it." 

"I had been planning to lie like crazy when we landed. But they never asked me anything that demanded a lie." 

"That's good." (239)

Inspiration:

She thought of the Fearless Girl standing tall against the Bull a few blocks to the south. Cassie understood that there was nothing heroic about who she was, nothing courageous about what she was doing; she was here because she drank too much and a decade and a half of bad decisions―especially one night in Dubai―was catching up to her. But she thought of that bronze little girl with a ponytail, her hands on her hips and her chest out, facing off against the much larger bull. Cassie wanted now to be just that plucky and do the right thing. (242)