William Heaney is a middle-aged civil servant doing a job he doesn’t find particularly meaningful. In his spare time he deals in forged books, currently a fake first edition of something by Jane Austen. (Despite the title he’s not the forger, but he’s the one that organizes the forgery). He also writes poems that are published under the name of a friend of his (who’s young, good-looking, and likes publicity much better than William does).
(At this point it’s probably worth mentioning that the book is written under a pseudonym; the real author is Graham Joyce.)
The thing about William is that he sees demons around people, almost everyone he meets. It never becomes quite clear whether they exist or whether it’s just him, but that doesn’t really matter. The demons attach themselves to people as manifestations of their weaknesses, suffering, or failings, and one has recently become attached to him, too.
He’s divorced, his relationships with his kids are not exactly the best, and he has a bit of an alcohol problem. We also get flashbacks to his university time, which is when he first encountered demons, in an incident that he thinks left him doomed to suffering.
Sound depressing? It isn’t. He may be cynical but he’s also got a warm heart. He uses much of the proceeds from his frauds to support a charity for the homeless, as an atonement for what happened 20 years ago. And his current demon is one of love.
This is not exactly a recipe for fuzzy feel-good book but yet somehow it becomes a story of love and redemption. There is even a happy ending. William’s character is described with both depth and sympathy.
The book is a bit odd, doesn’t fit any category, but quite often that’s the kind of book I like best. This wasn’t a greatest-ever but it was a really good book.
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