Lorenzo Silva’s novel is short and disturbing. It begins with a minor fender-bender in Madrid that gradually sends the protagonist over the edge of reason. Having been responsible for the collision, the narrator takes umbrage with the “Chanel-clad bitch” in the other vehicle who upbraids him in the foulest language possible for causing the accident. He begins to stalk her. His hunt is interrupted when he takes an unpleasant sexual shine to her teenage sister Rosana, and she, inexplicably, responds to his advances. Tragedy ensues. Silva’s male, middle-aged protagonist is red raw in his dealings with life and language. He has had enough and someone is going to pay for his lack of success at the local bank. Barely suppressed anger mixes with man-rage and bubbles to the surface in brutal, calculated behaviour. The language used is the sort of talk you hear on All-Ireland day when the ref gives an unpopular decision. The story veers between dog rough and cod philosophy. Much like real life, really.
