blamebrampton | Book rec

I have a cold.

Which is entirely my own fault as I spent January to halfway through April not sleeping, then Easter getting wet and cold and then the last couple of weeks hanging out with the parents of toddlers, or as I like to call them, prime virus incubators.

But on the good side, it has given me a chance to catch up on my reading. The Read Everything By Agatha Christie in Random Order Project is now more than 60% complete so I have had to slow things down as it will be a sad finishing (and I have to knock over the romances soon, so I don't find myself with them all at the end). Happily, all those books I ordered for review for my mag and which didn't make it on time for any of my deadlines arrived in one fell swoop, and so I have been immersed in print media.

Which leads me to the point of this post: it is extraordinarily likely that you, yes you, will massively enjoy Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London. Because most of you have vaguely similar taste to mine, and I adore it.

Part Urban Fantasy, part Police Procedural, it starts with a murder, uncovered by Martin Turner, who was innocently making his way home through Covent Garden when he tripped over a headless body.

As Martin noted to the detectives conducting his interview, it was a good thing he'd been inebriated because otherwise he would have wasted time screaming and running about – especially once he realised he was standing in a pool of blood. Instead, with the slow, methodical patience of the drunk and terrified, Martin Turner dialled 999 and asked for the police.

Probationary Police Constable Peter Grant finds himself guarding the scene that night, which is when he sees the ghost. All things considered, it's for the best that he sees the ghost, since Inspector Neblett has Peter (easily distracted, slightly disappointing) slated for a desk job. But a copper who can see the incorporeal is not to be wasted, which is how Peter ends up both a fully fledged Constable and an apprentice wizard, in training, to Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.

Soon he is knee-deep in a series of inexplicably violent encounters plaguing the London metropolis, at the same time as trying to broker a peace between Mama Thames, who controls the tidal parts of the river, and Father Thames, who hasn't been down to London since the 1850s. And if you think that's odd, wait till you hear about Mama's daughters (Tyburn's a bitch).

Diana Gabaldon has a blurb on the cover saying 'What would happen if Harry Potter grew up and joined the Fuzz.' Which is wrong on multiple levels -- for a start, it's Blaise Zabini joining the Filth. But for everyone who loves Jo Rowling's passion for language and complex, clever worldbuilding, Aaronovitch will be a joy. The characters are appealing and the crimes intriguing, with enough learning the wizarding trade and other magical business to keep fantasy fans satisfied.

Throughout the novel little nuggets of London history and trivia are scattered -- excused textually thanks to Peter's passion for esoteric knowledge -- in a fashion that reminded me of Neil Gaiman, but compared to Gaiman's novels, as this one unwound, I found myself more involved, more enthralled and more entertained (I love Gaiman's cleverness, especially in the Sandman series, but it usually falls apart in more sustained texts.) Aaronovitch's geography is more convincing, too, and his weaving of lore into locale more effective. Though I have to say that I have always found the High Barnet branch of the Northern Line perfectly civilised in reality.

Even if you aren't ready to move on from The Bill as your Platonic ideal of British Police Fantasy, check out the excerpt below the cut and see if the consistent energy and wit of writing can't tempt you into binning Burnside. Best of all, Moon Over Soho, Aaronovitch's second novel, is already out. I have it right here. I have to type this excerpt really, really quickly so I can start reading it!

It was that thought which, ironically, distracted me enough for Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom to be able to sneak up behind me. I turned when he called my name and found him stalking towards me. His conservative suit jacket – pinstripe I saw now that he was close up – had lost a sleeve and all its buttons. He was one of those people whose faces twitch when they're angry; they think they're all icy calm, but something always gives them away. In Folsom's case it was a nasty tic by his left eye.

'Do you know what I hate the most,' he shouted. I could see that he would rather be adopting a sinisterly conversational tone, but unfortunately for him the riot was too loud.

'What's that, sir?' I asked. I could hear the heat from the burning Mini on my back – Folsom had me trapped.

'I hate police constables,' he said. 'Do you know why?'

'Why, sir?' I edged round to my left, trying to open an escape path.

'Because you never stop moaning,' said Folsom. 'I joined up in 1982, the good old days. before the PACE, before Macpherson and quality-control targets. And you know what? We were shit. We thought we were doing well in an investigation if we arrested anybody at all, let alone the perpetrator. We got the shit kicked out of us from Brixton to Tottenham and fuck me, were we bent? We weren't even that expensive! We'd let some scrote go for two pints of lager and a packet of crisps.' He paused, and for a moment a look of puzzlement crossed his face, then his eyes fixed back on me and the left one twitched.

...

I feinted at him to back him up and then darted to my right, away from the burning car and the rest of the riot. It didn't work. Folsom didn't back up, and as I went past he gave me a backhander that was like being slapped by a floorboard. It knocked me right back on my arse and I found myself staring up at a seriously enraged senior officer looking to give me a good kicking at the very least. He'd just managed to land one of his size tens on my thigh – I ended up with a purple heel-shaped bruise for a month – when someone clubbed him down from behind.

It was Inspector Neblett, still dressed in his impractical uniform tunic but carrying an honest-to-God wooden riot truncheon of the kind phased out in the 1980s for being slightly more lethal than a pickaxe handle.

'Grant,' he said. 'What the hell is going on?'

I scrambled over to where Folsom lay face down on the pavement. 'There's been an irretrievable breakdown in public order,' I said, while tugging Folsom into the recovery position. My head was still ringing from his backhander, so I wasn't that gentle.

…

'Oh my God,' said Neblett, squatting down for a closer look. 'This is Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom.'

Our eyes met across the twitching form of our senior officer.

'He didn't see you, sir,' I said. 'If you call an ambulance we can have him off the scene before he regains consciousness. There was a riot, he was attacked, you rescued him.'

'And your role in this?'

'Reliable witness, sir,' I said. 'As to your timely intervention.'

Inspector Neblett gave me a hard look. 'I was wrong about you, Grant,' he said. 'You do have the makings of a proper copper.'

Rivers of London, pages 275-277, lightly edited