The first two rounds of the Not the Booker have certainly been absorbing. As well as the excitement of all those hundreds of votes and nominations coming in, there's been the confusion and consternation caused by unusual voting patterns, the heat of accusation and counter-accusation, an involved debate on how to make things work more smoothly and quite a few good jokes. But amidst all that frenzy, as several posters have had the good sense to point out, it's been all to easy to lose sight of what the prize is really about: interesting books. So, after all that politics and intrigue it's been a relief to refocus and actually start reading. It's been even more of a relief to discover that the first on the shortlist – Jenn Ashworths's A Kind Of Intimacy – is really quite good. Not to mention admirably strange.
It tells of Annie and her attempts to get to know her neighbours after moving alone (except for her cat, Mr Tips) into a new home in Fleetwood, a quiet annexe of Blackpool where there's "really hardly anything". There's an enjoyably awkward comedy of manners as this overeager and morbidly obese woman invites the people on her street round for a housewarming party and serves them up hedgehogs made from cheese on cocktail sticks instead of the olives and wine they're more used to; as she plans to make speeches at neighbourhood watch meetings; and as she begins to develop a crush on Neil, the kindly man who lives in the terrace next to Annie's with his girlfriend Lucy. A crush that is in no way reciprocated. It almost has the feel of an old-fashioned sitcom, thanks to the presence of characters like recent divorcee Raymond who never goes anywhere without carrying a four-pack of lager, and of a terribly nice Muslim family who even manage to laugh when Annie compares their house to a curry restaurant.
There's a significant twist to the normal suburban social comedy, however, in that Annie is a frozen-hearted psychopath and as mad as a bag of snakes. Annie is the narrator and there's little in her tone to suggest that she might be unusual. Her voice is calm, measured and she's able to offer an explanation for everything she does. Nevertheless, it doesn't take long to realise that she is the cause of several problems – not everyone else, as she herself suggests. She neglects to tell the reader, for instance, that she has stuffed Lucy and Neil's letterbox with rubbish. We only learn about it indirectly when Lucy complains – and even then Annie tries to suggest it was some local teenagers. It also takes a while before Annie explains why she no longer has a husband or baby – insinuating only that she was wronged somehow…
This unreliable narration is for the most part deftly handled and a source of considerable amusement as well as horror. Annie's problems quickly become apparent as the stratagems she has formulated for successful social interaction (with the help of piles and piles of self-help books) go awry. Her attempts to win over Neil by – say – not blinking when she looks at him so his attention is drawn to her wide pupils, and playing the helpless woman and asking him round to change her light bulbs, are all too obviously hopeless. They also take on a distinctly macabre edge since she is simultaneously driving Lucy mad with fear by – say – digging up the primroses in Lucy's garden every time the poor woman plants them and dressing herself up in outsize versions of clothes she has stolen from Lucy's washing line.
All the time, Annie argues her corner, calmly states her viewpoint. Her insistence that her actions are justified and her calm, steady explanations become increasingly frightening – the hallmark of her madness rather than the means of concealing it.
Of course, Annie isn't a particularly likeable companion, but Ashworth does a good job in winning our sympathy elsewhere. Neil and Lucy are endearingly flawed: warm, a bit silly, happy to drink too much in public. Her first husband, too, although Annie tries to suggest he was abusive, gradually emerges as a kind, gentle man. A sweetheart, even. There's certainly enough here to ensure that any eventual tragedy will bite.
If I have a complaint, it's that these catastrophes seem a long time in coming after they start to feel inevitable. The atmosphere of doom adds another uncomfortable layer to the novel's carefully piled woes, but also diminishes any feeling of surprise. The tension doesn't build altogether effectively and it sometimes feels like Annie is acting to a pre-ordained pattern rather than as a real (albeit inhuman) character in her own right, so that I wasn't entirely convinced by her. Even so, this remains a satisfying and unsettling read – a book that would do credit to any shortlist.
What did the other judges think?
Next time: Neverland by Simon Crump
