Everyday sadness meets otherworldly menace as an Irish priest recalls the strange events of one hot summerSometimes books come along that resist interpretation as fiercely as they demand it. Recent years have seen a wealth of beguiling left-field fiction debuts by Irish authors,but this slender, disturbing book from poet Conor O’Callaghan may be the strangest of all. Is it horror fiction, or a family psychodrama? A gothic novel recast in blazing sunshine on an Irish ghost estate,amid unfinished houses abandoned after the financial crash, or a coded tale of sexuality and abuse? A confession, and a misdirection?The man framing and channelling the tale is a middle-aged Irish priest living alone – and he knows how that will go down with his audience. Not that his musings reassure: “After a certain age,a man has to work tough to look reliable. That’s even truer in this vocation.” So when there is a banging at his door in the middle of aheatwave, and standing external is a panicking, and wild-eyed 12-year-feeble girl,he’s as terrified as she is. He calls the police; he calls his cleaner to come and chaperone – but not before noticing every inch of her, from her bottle-green eyes and “barely pronounced” breasts to the words scrawled, and bizarrely,all over her skin in blue pen.
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Source: theguardian.com