Danyl McLauchlan.
How gratifying to have a prophecy fulfilled. When I reviewed Danyl McLauchlan's gleefully Gothic first novel, I speculated that "Aro comic noir just may become a literary cult". Now the author/semi-hero has done the decent thing, and proved me right.
Danyl, the protagonist, is back after a six-month absence caused
by a misunderstanding with the justice system. Back to "the worst place in the world", that idiosyncratic Central Wellington enclave of saggy houses, stuffed letterboxes, the organic beetroot juice stall with its queue of silent men. It's the only place in this universe where you can thwart a terrible conspiracy by distributing leaflets.
And indeed, the unemployed knight errant and clinical depressive faces a (nother) terrible conspiracy. He does so with his engaging blend of self-doubt and self-indulgence, brilliant plans and uncertain personal hygiene.
He has to find his vanished girlfriend, Verity. It's not a straightforward quest; the multiple mysteries of the title obstruct and perplex him. Why is a bath full of ashes? Why are pale people buying up an entire book stall? Who is the comely treasurer carrying a golf club? How is Danyl to find the missing number theorist?
On it surges. Why are the streets emptying and sinister spirals appearing? Coincidences, lucky breaks, preternatural abilities and blatant evasions swarm by: three figures in camouflage and masks step into a room at exactly the right time; Danyl's mate Steve just happens to possess a precision-tool brain; characters escape from a crisis by waking up. You'll accept it all.
