London, in the summer, is like a bitch on heat. Sweltering, can't settle, roams around in your mind and makes you dream of electronic sheep. The sun never quite disappears, hovering at the edge of the horizon as you stagger slick and sweaty from club to club, chasing the buzz of the next beat, and grinning brilliantly at you as you crawl home, spent and abused, from another night in the pleasure heart of the capital. Be grateful you can sleep it off, despite the flies congregating along your carcass.

Richard, lame, never really in the game, and rolling punch-drunk with the unravelling of his career (his ex-wife has already seen it all coming and done a bunk, leaving his autistic child in the welfare hands of the state) realises, at the bottom of the stairs, that his massive heart attack has left him very, very, dead. His body is no longer a temple, but a charnel house, and the loss of his earthly goodness is the proverbial kick-in-the-butt he needs to metamorphose into his nemesis, his partner in film crime (who incidentally, has been boning Richard's ex). Now that he's dead, Richard feels he has enough reason to rid himself of his partner. He shoots him, and his ex-wife, into the bargain.

Meanwhile, something odd is happening on the street. The punters, chasing the elusive Soho good time, are getting off on public suicide. Blood is being spilled in tres bizarre fashion. A couple of unlikely cops are called in to piece together the motley clues, leading to the local minder, Midas, who possesses the rare ability to everything he touches not just into gold but green. Loverly, vibrant, verdant, blossoming, green. Midas is a modern day Satyr.

It is only when Richard realises the truth of his life, the necessity of his death, that Midas bankrolls his next film project. Richard doesn't win any Oscars, but at least his week in hell has been worth it. ( )

Death. A wall that had suddenly appeared before me. One short climb over it and I was free to drop from the other side, my worldly cares dissolving as I fell.
Death. I could say it now, knowing that I finally had the measure of its power.
Death. Each time it formed on my silent lips, it shrank a little.
Death. The word replaced the sound of my heart.
Death. Reduced to a dictionary position.
Death. Its strength vanishing.
Death. Smaller still.
Death. Smaller.
Gone.

And Life.

This was actually quite an unpleasant book, and not one to read while eating. I nearly didn't make it to the end, when all was explained and wrapped up neatly.

But although I found "Soho Black" unpleasant, it was also an interesting story and I sort of enjoyed it (except for the gross, gory bits). ( )