Tench
(Sprache: Englisch)
After his release from psychiatric prison due to insufficient evidence for his charge of sexual assault, Jonathan returns to live with his mother. He finds that he has a new neighbour - a young girl. The controversial subject matter is treated with subtlety...
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After his release from psychiatric prison due to insufficient evidence for his charge of sexual assault, Jonathan returns to live with his mother. He finds that he has a new neighbour - a young girl. The controversial subject matter is treated with subtlety and intelligence by Schilperoord, who uses her experience as a criminal psychologist to weave a tense and unsettlingly believable story.
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Dark and shocking psychological suspense about a man at war with himself. This is a skillful and assured debut about a deeply unsettling subject.Jonathan has returned from prison to his largely deserted, run-down neighborhood. He has returned to his mother, to his dog, to filling the hot days with walks on the dunes and caring for the fish he keeps in an aquarium in his bedroom - struggling, like him, to survive the oppressive summer heat. But there is a young girl with a chipped front tooth living next door, and feelings he thought forgotten are coming back to Jonathan. His growing obsession with Elke threatens to overwhelm his whole life, as well as hers, but he is determined to make the most of this second chance he has been given. He is determined not to let it happen again...
Tench is criminal psychologist Inge Schilperoord's daring first novel: unnerving, morally complicated and utterly gripping, it moves brilliantly through true darkness.
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Now I have to pay attention, thought Jonathan. Now.It's starting now. He laid his trembling hands on his lap
and rubbed the middle of his left thumb with his right in the
hope that it would calm him down. It was his last morning in
jail. Like always, he was alone in his cell. The cell the others,
the guards, called his room. He was sitting on the bed waiting,
staring at the wall. He didn't know what time it was. It was
early, he knew that much. The first strip of sunlight had just
forced its way through the split in the too-thin curtains. Halffive,
maybe six o'clock. It didn't make any difference to him
today. I've got time, he thought. From now on I've got plenty
of time. They'll come when they come. When they think it's
the right time, they'll come. I can't do anything about that. No
earlier, no later. I'll see.
Until they came he would watch the morning light push
further into his cell and slowly, imperturbably, move across the
walls in its own orbit, ignoring everybody. It had been ages
since he'd known exactly what time it was. The first night here
he'd immediately fiddled the batteries out of the wall clock. He
couldn't stand the ticking. Plus the clock didn't tell him anything
that was any use to him. Day activities weren't compulsory and
he didn't sign up for any of them. Walking in circles, education,
sport. Work. If you didn't smoke, eat sweets or buy expensive
clothes, you didn't need any money here.
He preferred to watch the position of the sun, the fullness
of the light, the way it caught the clouds drifting over the
watchtowers. That told him how much longer it was going to
last, how long till dark. How much longer he'd have to put up
with the racket: men's voices creeping up from the exercise
yard, music through the walls. Shadows across the floor of his
cell, across the bed and the small table. But now it was going
to be different. "Everything will be different," he whispered.
He waited. It was still quiet outside.
... mehr
After a while he stood
up, walked from the bed to his table, from the table to the
window, stood there for a moment and went back to his bed.
He sat down again, knees creaking quietly, then stood up once
more. He paused in the middle of his cell, then went back
to the table and looked down at it. On it were his therapy
workbook, his exercise book, pencils and pens. The bookmark
his mother had sent him. He sat down at the table again,
his back straight, and opened the exercise book. A beautiful,
blank page. He used both hands to smooth it out, arranged
it in the exact middle of the table, unscrewed the lid of his
pen and thought for a moment. After what seemed like ages it
turned out he couldn't think of anything sensible to write. He
nibbled at the inside of his cheek. Why not? Why should he
run dry today?
He stood up again and clenched his fists. Walked from his
table to the window, from the window to the table and back
again. He sat down on the chair. "Nothing," he wrote. And then,
"Never." Followed by, "No!" He banged the exercise book shut.
The rest would come tonight when he was back home. He'd do
the next therapy assignment then. A little later he opened the
exercise book again, stared at what he'd written and crossed it
out. "Different," he wrote beneath it, then drew a line through
that too. "Better."
He rolled up the exercise book, picked up his pens and pencils
one at a time and put them in his pencil case, and slipped the
workbook into his bag with the rest. Then he sat down on the
bed, hands trembling on his lap, and waited for the moment
when the guard would unlock the door.
Now I have to pay attention, thought Jonathan. Now. It's starting
now. He was sitting next to the last window, at the back of
the bus to the village. There weren't any
up, walked from the bed to his table, from the table to the
window, stood there for a moment and went back to his bed.
He sat down again, knees creaking quietly, then stood up once
more. He paused in the middle of his cell, then went back
to the table and looked down at it. On it were his therapy
workbook, his exercise book, pencils and pens. The bookmark
his mother had sent him. He sat down at the table again,
his back straight, and opened the exercise book. A beautiful,
blank page. He used both hands to smooth it out, arranged
it in the exact middle of the table, unscrewed the lid of his
pen and thought for a moment. After what seemed like ages it
turned out he couldn't think of anything sensible to write. He
nibbled at the inside of his cheek. Why not? Why should he
run dry today?
He stood up again and clenched his fists. Walked from his
table to the window, from the window to the table and back
again. He sat down on the chair. "Nothing," he wrote. And then,
"Never." Followed by, "No!" He banged the exercise book shut.
The rest would come tonight when he was back home. He'd do
the next therapy assignment then. A little later he opened the
exercise book again, stared at what he'd written and crossed it
out. "Different," he wrote beneath it, then drew a line through
that too. "Better."
He rolled up the exercise book, picked up his pens and pencils
one at a time and put them in his pencil case, and slipped the
workbook into his bag with the rest. Then he sat down on the
bed, hands trembling on his lap, and waited for the moment
when the guard would unlock the door.
Now I have to pay attention, thought Jonathan. Now. It's starting
now. He was sitting next to the last window, at the back of
the bus to the village. There weren't any
... weniger
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Inge Schilperoord
- 2018, 192 Seiten, Maße: 18,1 x 21,6 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Übersetzer: David Colmer
- Verlag: Pushkin Press
- ISBN-10: 1782272348
- ISBN-13: 9781782272342
- Erscheinungsdatum: 18.04.2017
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Austere, powerful and thought-provoking, it is a book that deserves to be read and one that lingers with you, simmering, for many hours afterwards." - The Idle Woman (blog)Reviews from the UK:
- "A dark and powerful read, underpinned by a growing sense of terrible tension." -- Daily Mail
- "Stunningly accomplished ... claustrophobic and compelling ... deeply unsettling, strangely beautiful ... an extraordinary debut." -- Daily Telegraph
- "Tench is a mesmerizing read. I cannot recommend it highly enough." -- Asymptote Journal
- "A brilliant, necessary novel." -- De Morgen
- "A dark and impressive feat." -- De Volkskrant
- "Takes your breath away." -- Antwerp Gazette
- "A book your eyes stick to like magnets." -- NRC Handelsblad
- "A flawless novel." -- De Telegraaf
- "A portrait of a good person with dangerous tendencies - more terrifying and infinitely sadder than a portrait of a monster." -- HP / De Tijd
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