Dana Stabenow's Reviews > The Lover

** spoiler alert ** It's London during the blitz, and as if it isn't enough that its citizens are being driven under their stairs and their tables and their beds by the German bombers overhead every night, someone is killing prostitutes, too.

The construction of this narrative is really interesting. The narrative tension comes not from a slow reveal of the murderer's identity, because we find out who it is early on. It is very difficult not to feel some sympathy for him when we follow him to work. (Trying not to give too much away.) You'll lose that sympathy immediately when you live through the first murder inside his head. Never has killing someone been more realistically rendered. This is not a novel for the squeamish.

No, the tension comes from the story being told not only by the murderer, but by three of his victims. We get to know them very well indeed, and to like them, and to agonize over who is going to die.

Outside of the murder, which provides the storyline, there is a wealth of riveting detail about the Blitz, which is very nearly a hymn to the stamina and endurance of the Londoners who lived through it.

When I looked over to my right I could see Mrs Everley's head, twisted to one side, just one eye and the corner of her mouth, and this bedstead right across her neck, squashing it. I think I must have called out her name, because I saw the eye move to look at me, and then she made a little noise like she was trying to clear her throat. I said, 'It's all right, the rescue men'll be here soon.'
She said, 'I'm only sorry I couldn't offer you a cup of tea.'
I said, 'Oh, never mind about that, I'm sure we'll be out of here in a minute,' She didn't answer, and after a few minutes I realised that she was dead, poor woman.

We follow pilots into cockpits as well:

It must have been Mathy who went down in flames. Must ahve been trapped in the cockpit. Burnt alive. Heard his screams over the R/T. We all did. Poor bastard. He'd dreamed about it--woke me up once, yelling and beating the bedclothes, trying to put the fire out. Called it the flames of hell...Jesus. I don't want to go that way. I could be next. This time tomorrow, I might not be here. It's possible. Might as well make the most of it while I am.

Jesus indeed. I've read a lot of World War Two history, but I can't say I've ever come away from another book more aware of what it was like to live through something like that, and wondering how the hell those people made it through. Ordinary people, gallant and courageous beyond imagination.

One warning: Someone got the date wrong on the prologue. This will lead to serious confusion and not a little annoyance. Try to ignore it.

Spoiler, don't read any further if you don't want to know who dies.


One thing I really dislike about this book is that it's the hooker who dies, not the so-called good girl. The wages of sin, my ass. Rene was a better person by far than Lucy, and had a lot more to live for.