The End by Gary McMahon – a review by
Gary Fry
I’ve read an
awful lot of Gary McMahon’s work, either in manuscript form when we were both
starting out together as regular writers or, more recently, in its published
form. Having reviewed him previously, I’ve described his work as unflinching,
inventive and powerful. I think my favourite book of his was the first of the Concrete
Grove novels, which contained a sustained passage of horror across multiple
scenes that truly got under my skin. And that’s why we read this kind of stuff,
isn’t it – to be rattled a little?
So I came to
this relatively short novel in the hope of a similar experience. The title
boded well – what could be more threatening, more viciously terminal, than the end? And then, suitably apprehensive,
I started reading the book.
In many
ways, as McMahon states in his afterword, the novel is his homage to those
short, sharp shockers from horror’s tawdry boom in the 70s and 80s, whether
dog-eared paperbacks or fingerprint-grubby VHS cassettes. It has a similarly furtive
feel about it, the opening sequence in London presenting lots of pungent omens
as an ostensible suicide cult begins to blight the city while the novel’s
central character and colleagues try to continue with their recession-affected lives.
These suicidal episodes escalate, spread across the country, and McMahon’s
characters end up going on the run – or rather, retreating to where their
hearts are: up north to their homes and to those they love.
What
surprised me most was a piece of fiction not mentioned in McMahon’s afterword,
though it’s a more recent one than those he does. It seems to me that, as the
characters reach a property in which a paramilitary group is being established,
the book’s principal influence might be Danny Boyle’s 2002 film 28 Days Later. We have the London
opening, a group on the run, the alt-military group occupying the place to
which they flee, the focus on breeding, etc.
This is
certainly not a negative thing, as McMahon’s source of national menace –
suicidees rather than zombies (and these scenes are done extremely well) – is very
different, but I did feel as if I was in very familiar territory here, as if
the narrative was merely documenting an expected sequence of events.
Nevertheless,
the multiple set-pieces which constitute the group’s stay at the refuge is extremely
well done (including a particularly effective sex scene, which truly captures
the feelings involved in such an act during a period of societal fragmentation),
and Thwaite, the cult’s leader, is an intriguing character, with his bizarre
dress sense and ridiculous aspirations. I could have done with a lot more of
him.
So far, so enjoyable:
well-written, tautly structured, conventionally and professionally developed. But
all the while I could sense something else going on, a suggestive undercurrent
of unease arising from a series of telephone calls the lead character makes
during his and his companions’ road trip. Something is not right here; the way
these conversational chapters are structured, like a stage-play script, is kind
of off-kilter.
This
certainly maintains the narrative’s momentum. As I consumed all the expected descriptions
of escape, I simultaneously wanted to know what all those calls amounted to,
what the guy would find when he got home. And this is where the book comes into
its own, where it transcends its many influences and becomes something a bit
special. You see, up until this moment, I’d felt as if the book was merely a
well-judged piece of homage; but all the while, McMahon had been doing a lot of
quietly accumulative work, building up to this gut-punch at the end. Which is
not to say the finale is wholly unexpected; I’d kind of anticipated it. It’s
just the way it’s done, the prose McMahon summons, which sends a chill deep
down.
It’s a
marvellous end to a book which is very definitely more than the sum of its
parts, an appropriately short novel which starts with a modest grim factor and
just elevates that by gradual degrees until the final bleak horror. Like a lot
of the best stuff in our field, its impact is artfully choreographed and I
think that’s the finest thing to admire here: its Gestalt vision, its unrelenting
tone.
You can buy a copy of the book here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-End-Gary-McMahon/dp/1907069216
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