By Ian Rankin
ISBN-10: 0752880942
ISBN-13: 9780752880945
Mary Miller had constantly been an outcast. As a tender woman she had fallen into the recent burn - a torrent of hot chemical run-off from the neighborhood coal mine. Fished out white-haired and half-dead, sympathy for her speedy pale while the younger guy who driven her in died in a mining twist of fate simply days later. From then on she was once appeared with a mix of suspicion and fascination by means of her God-fearing group. Now, years later she is not often much less by myself. She is the mummy of a bastard son, Sandy, and stuck up in a faltering affair with an area instructor. Sandy, in the meantime, has fallen in love with a wierd homeless lady. the quest for happiness isn't really effortless. either mom and son needs to face a gloomy mystery from their previous, within the becoming wisdom that their small dramas are being performed out opposed to a far higher canvas, glimpsed basically in symbols and flickering photographs - of deterioration and regrowth, of fireside and water - of the flood. The Flood is either a coming-of-age novel and an grand portrait of a time and position. darkish, atmospheric and robust, it's a impressive debut from a impressive writer.
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Example text
She knew immediately when it had happened. Boxing Day. The whole house had been changed somehow when she had walked into it on the afternoon following. She should have guessed. People had always said that they were very close, even for brother and sister. Unnaturally close. She should have known. She stroked her daughter's silvery dark hair and contemplated telling her husband the news. Would he guess what she had deduced? As it turned out, Mary's father said nothing, just drifted further into his own numbed world where nothing, it seemed, could hurt him.
He knew that some of his friends even had to lie to their parents in order to go out with him. Fuck that. Fuck that. Could he dye his hair and change his mother into something else? That was it all right. That was it. His shoes stamped deeper into the soft earth as he trudged towards his destination. At least he could be sure of being accepted there without fear of embarrassment. Even if it was dangerous. Even if someone saw him and told his mother. Did anyone care about him that much or mind him that much?
It was a good stone, and he would keep it. By the following morning he had forgotten it, and when he finally did remember a few days after that the stone had disappeared. He found another, better one, and thus had started his collection of good stones. He thought about his mother's hair now as he walked up the street from the Soda Fountain. Black and silver, hanging in thick threads. Black night shot through with wisps of moonlight. He had described it like that in one of his English essays. He liked English, and especially liked writing essays.