BACK in the Forties and Fifties, when one went to the movies there would be a main feature supported by what was known as a B picture. But sometimes the support turned out to be better than the so called chief attraction then it became known as a "sleeper", and usually attained the dubious distinction of gaining a cult following. One such that comes to mind is The Narrow Margin, with square jawed Charles McGraw and whiner par excellence Marie Windsor, made in 1952 and still one of the best terror on a train movies ever made.
This is by way of introducing Robert Wilson's The Big Killing (HarperCollins, £14.99 in UK), the literary equivalent of a screen sleeper. It arrived unheralded, its modest cover and blurb giving little notice of its quirky and inventive contents, but I was only into the first couple of pages and had made the acquaintance of villains Fat Paul, George and Kwabena when I realised that this was something special in the line of original crime fiction.
Set in the exotic locations of the Ivory Coast and Liberia, it tells a steamy tale of violence, double dealing and passion. The prose style is as intricate as its plot, the set pieces are last moving, the pace is careening, and the one liners flicker as numerously as fire flies in the tropic night.
The anti hero is Bruce Medway, a kind of go between and fixer, who works for the obese Syrian known as B.B, but who also freelances whenever the chance of handy money beckons. Hired by Fat Paul to deliver a pornographic video at a secret rendezvous, he is soon wading knee deep in Grade A inconvenience people terminated with extreme prejudice an erratic hit man with a penchant for human viscera, conniving agents of various government secret services, terrorists high on drugs and attired in pink nighties, and a 13 year old girl/woman lusting after his rather well used body.
Through the length of the whole farrago, Medway manages to maintain an absurdist sense of humour and a will to survive, qualities that just about get him through and that has the reader up and cheering for him. If 1 come across as original and blackly funny a thriller again this year, I'll feel myself doubly blest.
The other offerings, I'm afraid, pale in comparison to Wilson's exuberant tour de force, being formulaic and stereotyped. At least James Kennedy's Armed and Dangerous (Heinemann, £10 in UK) is highly topical in its' depiction of a breakaway group of IRA people seeking to assassinate the Queen and send London into shock.
But the book opens with a highly unlikely jail break from a high security prison on the English mainland which stretches credibility one of the escapees "vaults" a 30 foot high wall and lands up sitting on it. I ask you the first terrorist to win an Olympic high jump medal?
There are strong points, however, that make up for a certain naivety in the writing and the plotting fast pace, well maintained of tension, good character development and, of course the topicality of the theme which makes the book read like today's headlines. But the climax a mistake to have it told in flashback arrives with a bit of a dull thud.
Robert Littell's Walking Back the Cat (Faber & Faber, £14.99 in UK) is a weird mixture involving KGB spooks under deep cover being reactivated, a young veteran of the Gulf War seeking and failing to find a peaceful existence and a band of Apaches on the war path. The chief spook is called Parsifal and his quest for the Holy Grail is marked by a fine leavening of violence and holy terror. Finn, the soldier, is his chief opponent, and the Indians circle around dropping wise sayings such as "If you're gonna go hog you might as well go whole hog" and "You are who you think you are." Didn't hold my attention and Indian names like Paradeeahtran only gave me a pain in the head.
In Poisoned Sky (Little, Brown, £16.99 in UK), Gordon Thomas gives us a fifth episode in the adventurous life of David Morton, billed as "the James Bond of the 90s". This is crash, bang, wallop stuff, with the technology taking pride of place over the human participants and the body count reaching mega proportions. Environmental issues are given a perfunctory shaking out, but comic book heroics are the order of the day. There's an Apache in this one too, but instead of a bow and arrows he wields laser guided Hellfires. So it goes.
Back to more traditional themes in our final three volumes, but no great excitement in any of them, I'm afraid. Michael Molloy, in his Dogsbody (Heinemann, £15.99 in UK), has cocaine sniffing killer dogs which eat up the evidence of the various murders, but other than that his plot, his cast of characters, and his style of writing are cut from second hand cloth.
In Leave the Grave Green (Macmillan, £15.99 in UK), Deborah Crombie, an American, gives the English traditional mystery story a go, but comes up with nothing exceptional. Her protagonist is Scotland Yard Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, aided by Sergeant Gemma Jones. The plot hinges on the finding of the body of one Connor Swann in a Thames river lock one dreary November morning. There is a lot of talk, a bit of mild flirting, some family secrets uncovered, and the denouement, when it comes, is about as surprising as butter melting on a hot day.
At least Michele Bailey, in Haycastle's Cricket (Macmillan, £15.99 in UK), provides an intriguing title, a different location and a bouncy sense of humour. The eponymous cricket plays an integral part in the plot development, the book is set in Brussels, and the sense of humour lends a good natured veneer to what is basically a rather superficial tale.
Finally, I would like to put in a word for Daniel Woodrell's First novel, Under the Bright Lights, reprinted on this side of the world by No Exit Press (£4.99 in UK). Woodrell writes prose that comes off the page like a plaster off a hairy chest. His killers and cops are practically indistinguishable, morality is of the kick them when they're down variety, and violence is never less than a knife blade or a gunshot away. Not for the squeamish, but it'll certainly part your hair, if you have any.