When They See Me - It’s Too Late ~ Gill Perdue

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die. 

Oscar Wilde

What makes a serial killer kill the thing he loves?  Oscar Wilde’s quote from The Ballad of Reading Gaol came to mind when reading Gill Perdue’s novel When They See Me, the second book in the Shaw and Darmody crime series. Is the obsession with his victim or the very act of killing itself? They hunt their prey, like a love object, only to destroy it. But why? This paradox is at the heart of Perdue’s novel as she reminds us, the prey they seek is a person, and their obsessive fantasies result in murder. She takes pains to humanise the killer’s quarry, refusing to allow her readers to lose sight of them as people, retaking the power that the killer tries to steal from them in his warped imagination. 

She also humanises the detectives in the story. Shaw and Darmody as not superwomen, they don’t have to be. Detective Laura Shaw has just had her second child, and has to navigate the feelings of anxiety, guilt, and exhaustion that most mothers deal with, in addition to juggling a demanding job. But what is different about Perdue’s observations, is that she doesn’t just glaze over this fact, she thoroughly investigates it and lays bare the gritty reality of motherhood. Leaking breasts, tops soaked in breast milk, post-postpartum sex, it is all there - fearlessly real. 

Our second narrator, Detective Niamh Darmody is still adjusting to living with her girlfriend, with all the newness and social manoeuvring that that entails. There is pressure to lose weight, conform to beauty standards and be more refined and elegant - a version of femininity that is ironically so appealing to this particular killer. When she speaks openly of getting her period, a colleague makes a complaint that she is being too intimate with him. But isn’t that the reality for many women? Why must there be silence around the female body and how it functions? This is a key when understanding the psychology of the book’s third narrator, the nameless killer, but if we are honest, in today’s world one does not need to be a psychopath to be repelled by the female body. 

The theme of misogyny is faced head on when Darmody confronts an assailant using her feminine physique having been forcibly silenced. Here, Perdue gives voice to the millions of women who just want to live, breathe, walk, and work in safety. The book is very much of our time and worth reading for this cathartic moment alone. What is so memorable about this scene, and in the book in general, is how the plot turns on the undeniable truth that women’s bodies are a source of power.  Lactation, menstruation, giving birth, menopause, are all processes that society tends to ignore. Perdue weaves this idea through her narrative asking her readers: isn’t time that we rethink how society views the female body and the lived female experience? 

This book, in no small way, is waving a fist at society saying, enough is enough! Women are not perpetual victims, we are powerful, and we can have it all. We have come a long way since the days of Jane Austen and Emily Brontë, when novels written about the lives of women only spoke in hushed tones of their heroines being ‘indisposed’ with a baby, or taken to their beds,‘suffering a headache.’ Perdue’s clear-eyed realism has no time for such niceties and even delights in the complex nature of the female body. It is wildly refreshing.

When They See Me is a gripping crime thriller, but it is also a study of societal misogyny, the innate power women possess, and the importance of supportive female relationships. I can’t wait to read the next novel in the series, The Night I Killed Him, which is out now in all good bookshops. 

The Compound ~ by Aisling Rawle

In a world where truth is being undermined daily—where facts and “alternative facts” are presented side by side - this text explores the limitations of truth.

In the compound, ten men and ten women play a game of survival under the watchful gaze of cameras, which broadcast their every move 24 hours a day. In such a situation, the audience can only guess what is real and what is contrived. Certain behaviours are rewarded; others are not. The competitors themselves face a similar dilemma: can anyone be trusted? The age-old adage “All’s fair in love and war” applies here - can we decry unkind, immoral acts when the rewards are so great?

This is one of the questions that author Aisling Rawle's book The Compound poses. It asks us what is truth and what is a lie, and can we ever know the difference?

The text goes further, as the parallels between this fictional world and our own become increasingly clear. There is little difference between the brinkmanship of a boardroom or a playground and the cutthroat acts of the compound residents. Who sides with whom at a union meeting or family court, or who sits next to whom in a staffroom or cafeteria openly declares a kind of fealty or loyalty. A simple act of where you sit in a meeting is always political. Just watch your colleagues at the next gathering. Decisions are made, calculations drawn. This is how humans build relationships and form communities. There are always those who are excluded - and those who choose not to play these games, preferring solitude and their own company. And this choice is equally political.  If everything is transactional, can we ever truly trust another person's motives? And if we recognise their motives, is there a sort of truth in that? In The Compound we are privy to Lily's thoughts as she narrates the story. Yet, her personality gradually changes, and at times we are shocked by her actions. The enjoyment she felt killing the ducks, the cruel destruction of Tom's record player, and her easy parting with Sam and Jacintha surpries us. Her greed for status, acceptance and wealth is unrelenting, despite the fire, and the mounting rubbish heaps; her obsession almost kills her. She continues to surprise us until the very end, leaving us questioning who Lily really is. 

In the world of this text, the residents of the compound must consider and reconsider every action before they act. The effect is exhausting, and some choose to leave the house rather than remain. It is a brutal world when any act of intimacy, kindness, or generosity must be viewed with suspicion. Even the attachment between lovers is questioned as potentially transactional. But isn’t that the same in the real world? You need only read Jane Austen to see that. Even the great Elizabeth Bennet must admit to falling for Darcy when first seeing his sizeable grounds at Pemberly!

In fact, this book lays bare the selfish root of human behaviour. Why else would we do the things we do?

You might argue that no, people do act out of love in the book, but The Compound seems to suggest that love cannot be trusted - even maternal love. Lily's relationship with her mother is evidence of that. Lily's feelings for Clarice, Jacintha, Ryan, and Sam, also come into doubt, suggesting that love only lasts as long as it is of benefit. This is quite a refreshing idea in a novel, where love is usually seen as a cure-all. Popular culture has long been sold on the “happily ever after” ending. This idea fits with the dystopian nature of the text. Here, truth itself is doubtful - just as trust, beauty, and love are. The book forces us to consider whether the same is true in our society, in our relationships. It also asks the question: if this is so, then what holds society together?

You don’t need to be part of a religious cult, the masons, or any secret society to flourish - but we instinctively understand the value of seeking out our “tribe” if we want to be successful or happy. Even that, the book suggests, is transactional. I’ll clean the kitchen if you mend the window. I’ll cook the meal if you take out the bins.

You might read this book simply to find out who becomes the last remaining resident in the compound - and as a game show, it certainly holds our interest. But for me, the most compelling aspect of the book is what it reveals about the society we live in the real world, our world. This book will not change your life, but it may start you thinking about where truth lies, and the limitations it holds.

Still Life ~ Sarah Winman

Because, in Italy - as on holiday - anything can happen.

Sarah Winman’s novel may initially draw you in with nostalgic echoes of the 1985 film A Room with a View, starring Helena Bonham-Carter, Maggie Smith, and Judi Dench. But while the Italian backdrop is undeniably enchanting, it’s the characters that will steal your heart.

Imagine Only Fools and Horses transported to Florence, and you're getting close. Winman gives us a cast of unforgettable characters - funny, and forgiving. Each one arrives with their own baggage and backstory, all of them searching for something: a home, a purpose, a sense of belonging. The warmth and bonhomie that radiate from every page make the novel irresistibly uplifting, even when the characters are at their lowest.

While the story’s themes are universal—identity, reinvention, love—it is the geography of Italy, and Florence in particular, that makes it all possible. Removed from their usual setting—mostly London—the characters find the freedom to remake their lives. Like travelers on an extended holiday, they are forced to shed what no longer serves them and carry only what’s essential.

Ulysses, the central figure, begins as a soldier and ends as a Florentine property owner. With him are a makeshift family: a wise child (Alys), a grandfatherly figure (Cress), and a startlingly human parrot (Claude). Together, they form the nucleus of a growing, unconventional family. Over time, others join—Pete, the soulful musician; Des, the flamboyant benefactor; Col, the irascible uncle; Evelyn, the sage grandmother; and Peg, the beautiful and flawed woman everyone seems to love.

But this isn’t a story of fixed roles. There is no designated mother, father, or child. Care and nurture pass fluidly from one character to another. Ulysses sometimes mothers Alys, Cress nurtures Ulysses, even the gruff Col surprises with tenderness. This fluidity makes the novel feel strikingly modern, despite its 20th-century timeline—spanning from Evelyn’s youth in 1901 to the 1980s.

Major historical events—World War II, the moon landings, England’s 1966 World Cup victory—anchor the narrative in a tangible reality. And yet, the story’s magic lies in its willingness to stretch plausibility: an almost-human parrot, windfall inheritances, properties donated like secondhand clothing . These fantastical elements allow the characters to remain, in a sense, on holiday—free of financial constraint, open to possibility.

Because, in Italy - as on holiday - anything can happen.

Could chance meetings change lives forever? Could lost lovers reunite after decades and pick up exactly where they left off? Could the forgotten, the unloved, and the aged find themselves cherished once more? Winman says yes. On holiday, all things are possible.

Of all the characters, Peg left me cold. In my imagination, she was part Jayne Mansfield, part EastEnders barmaid. For all the love and attention she received—largely because of her beauty—I found her undeserving. Even the formidable Evelyn, at 86, had a crush on her. For me, the male relationships held far more emotional resonance. They were warm, funny and supportive. And it’s because of them that I loved this book as much as I did.  
Michelle Burrowes