A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks
Hutchinson, £19.99
Gabriel Northwood, a poor and hence worthy barrister, says in Seven Days that a good book is “based on what’s real but with the boring bits stripped out”. Exactly how much reality is included in this book is undoubtedly reflected in the fact that there are disclaimers (“characters not based on anyone, honest, your honour”) at both the front and the back. Clearly Mr Faulks is taking the opportunity to settle a few scores, which is always a good sign. After all, there’s no point in picking up a pen if you’re not going to stab someone with it.
This is a book about money, and those who manage to make obscene amounts of it while not “engaging with anything that actually exists”. The central character is Veals, a marvellous monster of a man: a greedy, grasping, immoral, uncouth, cynical, calculating hedge fund thug. I loved him. His quasi-legal income profits on the loss of innocents: the ones he tramples for not knowing the tricks and the margins. Veals isn’t exactly a “people” person.
When his wife is explaining that their son has fallen prey to a drug-enhanced psychosis he asks her to call back. “I’m expecting a call from Duffy in Zurich”. And his way of suggesting that the literary reviewer Tranter is a harsh critic is the phrase: “If he was a chocolate drop he’d fucking eat himself.”
When Faulks goes into depths of detail about Veals’ arcane financial manoeuvres it reminded me of when our Peter worked nights. When he came off shift there was nothing on the telly except Open University modules on higher mathematics or quantum theory. So he watched that, and loved it: “It’s brilliant. They talk English and say words I know, but it doesn’t mean anything.” Veals’ shenanigans offer the same joy, fascinating although not comprehensible, rather like John Prescott on a good day.
Tranter – the chocolate drop – is a wonderful observation. Like all reviewers he is insanely jealous of people who write books, especially good ones. But, unlike the rest of us, he lets this vile if understandable emotion sink into the bile of his sadistic reviews. Next to him scuttle pickle kings, tube drivers, barristers, footballers, politicians, apprentice terrorists, Islamic extremists, drug dealers, media moguls and even a Windsor prince. It’s a rushing thrusting bonfire of London vanities: a splendidly lively and darkly funny book that ends with the chilling sound of Veals having the last laugh. God save us all.
Chris Proctor
