You know that rare reading experience when a book unfurls in your hands like a blood-red rose—beautiful, dangerous, and laye⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (and then some)
You know that rare reading experience when a book unfurls in your hands like a blood-red rose—beautiful, dangerous, and layered with quiet menace? That’s The Book of Guilt. It doesn’t announce itself loudly. It slips into your consciousness, petal by petal, and before you know it, you’re gripped, unnerved, and whispering what the hell is going on to an empty room.
Set in a chillingly plausible alternative Britain, Catherine Chidgey’s novel operates with all the precision of a scalpel and the emotional weight of a confession. From the opening lines, there’s a sense of something not quite right—Vincent, Lawrence and William are triplets living under the gentle tyranny of three ‘Mothers� in a government-run home where sins are recorded, dreams are documented, and the ultimate aspiration is to be chosen for Margate. (Yes, that Margate. But not as you know it.)
The writing hums with dread. It’s subtle and sophisticated—no fireworks, no gore, just that creeping sense that the world you're in has slipped a degree off its axis. Chidgey’s slow-reveal mastery is on full display here: the truth arrives like mist off the sea, and by the time you realise the extent of the horror, you're already in too deep to turn back.
The speculative premise—copies, created in labs, grown into children, monitored, medicated, and eventually disposed of if they show “deviance”—is a staggering metaphor, and a gut-punch critique of systems that dehumanise in the name of progress. These are children who “weren’t the same,� who drank their tea differently, wore colour-coded shirts, and were punished for things they never chose. And yet—they dreamed. They loved. They suffered.
I was floored by moments like this:
“We didn’t know the name of our sickness, and its symptoms varied from month to month and boy to boy: we just called it the Bug…�
Or this:
“We knew the basic set-up, but we put it out of our minds, the same way we ignore the origins of our pork sausages.�
You see what she’s doing, right? Chidgey doesn’t preach—she implicates. She turns the reader into a complicit observer. The “copies� become a mirror, and the reflection is uncomfortably human.
Vincent’s narration is beautifully controlled—fragile, intelligent, full of small griefs that bloom into larger ones. Nancy, living an eerily domestic life that slowly intersects with the boys', becomes a second axis of emotional weight. And as for William—cruel, chaotic William—the relationship between him and Vincent wrecked me. It’s about the kind of love that hurts and binds at once.
“And yet, I loved William better. I still can’t explain that, but perhaps you can understand—perhaps you have loved in that way too.�
Yes. I have. That line alone earns this book its stars.
There’s no clean resolution. No sermon. Just this quiet devastation that stays with you. You think you’ve reached the end, and then Chidgey throws in one last quiet horror:
“We were ever so relieved when we found out it wasn’t an actual boy.�
Reader, I stopped breathing.
Fans of Never Let Me Go, The Handmaid’s Tale, or We Are Not Ourselves will find a familiar ache here—but The Book of Guilt is entirely its own creation. And I mean that in every sense.
It’s smart, unsettling, achingly tender in places, and deeply, deeply political. But most of all, it’s necessary. Chidgey is writing at the top of her form. And this book? This book is a classic in the making.
Thank you to John Murray and NetGalley for the ARC—I will be thinking about this one for a long, long time.
There’s something about Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall that deeply moved me. It’s the kind of novel that wraps itself around you, quiet yet intenThere’s something about Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall that deeply moved me. It’s the kind of novel that wraps itself around you, quiet yet intense, like the hush before a storm in the English countryside. A story of guilt, sacrifice, and the unbearable weight of secrets, it is beautifully written, deeply atmospheric, and emotionally resonant.
Set in a small British village, the novel unfolds in dual timelines�1955 and 1968—tracing the tangled relationships between Beth, her husband Frank, and her first love, Gabriel Wolfe. In the past, Beth and Gabriel’s summer romance seemed full of promise until it shattered, leaving Beth to build a new life with Frank, a steadfast and kind-hearted farmer. But when Gabriel unexpectedly returns to the village with his young son Leo, Beth finds herself drawn back into his orbit, haunted by memories of their love and the echoes of her own tragic loss. When a gunshot is fired, setting off a chain of events that culminates in murder and a trial, the novel becomes as much a mystery as it is an exploration of human connection and regret.
Hall’s writing is exquisite, her prose rich with sensory detail that brings the village and its inhabitants to life. The farm, the seasons, the weight of history in a close-knit community—all are pictured with a painterly precision that makes the setting feel as much a character as Beth, Frank, or Gabriel.
Beth herself is a fascinating protagonist, shaped by loss and longing, but also deeply flawed. Her internal conflict—between duty and desire, between the life she has and the life she once imagined—feels achingly real. Frank is a quiet, steadfast presence, but there’s a heart-breaking tenderness to his love for Beth, one that makes the reader ache for him. Gabriel, meanwhile, is both a catalyst and an enigma, embodying all the things Beth was forced to leave behind.
The twists in Broken Country are well-placed, some shocking, others subtly creeping up on you, and while I did predict a few, that did not lessen their impact. The pacing is deliberate, with a simmering tension that builds towards an inevitable yet devastating conclusion. This is not a simple love triangle—it’s a study of the choices we make, the secrets we keep, and the consequences that unfold when the past refuses to stay buried.
While I wouldn’t call this a thriller in the traditional sense, Hall masterfully weaves elements of mystery and courtroom drama into the narrative, making it compulsively readable. Broken Country is a stunning novel—melancholic yet beautiful, heart-breaking yet hopeful. It explores the fragility of love, the permanence of loss, and the way guilt can shape a life. For those who love character-driven fiction with a literary touch, this is not one to miss.
What a read! Wild East by Ashley Hickson-Lovence is a triumph in contemporary YA literature - a verse novel that speaks directly to today’s youth whilWhat a read! Wild East by Ashley Hickson-Lovence is a triumph in contemporary YA literature - a verse novel that speaks directly to today’s youth while delivering a universally powerful and hopeful message. With its immersive narrative and well-fleshed-out characters, it’s a poignant story of loss, identity, and resilience that I can see becoming a major hit in my library.
The story follows Ronny, a young man thrust into upheaval after the tragic murder of his best friend. Moving from London to Norwich, Ronny’s journey unfolds in lyrical prose, grappling with themes of mistaken identity, systemic racism, and the tug-of-war between ambition and circumstance. Through Ronny’s passion for rap and lyricism—despite his reluctance to label himself as a poet—Hickson-Lovence masterfully blends poetry with narrative, making this book accessible even to reluctant readers. It reminded me of Crossing the Line (a big hit last year), as it similarly captures the raw, authentic voice of youth and tackles challenging issues with grace and optimism.
The characters are beautifully constructed, from Ronny’s mum, a tenacious single parent working tirelessly to support her son, to Malachi, whose struggles are both heartbreaking and relatable. Hickson-Lovence’s attention to detail—even quirky touches like Lucas’s tote bag collection—breathes life into these individuals. Ronny’s voice is especially compelling; his emotions, struggles, and growth feel deeply authentic, making his journey one of self-discovery a resonant and rewarding experience.
Wild East is a fabulous read for young people—and adults—offering hope, empathy, and inspiration. I can already imagine recommending it to students who loved Crossing the Line or who are looking for something fresh, real, and empowering. A potential classic in the making.
Thank you to the publisher who has provided me with a copy of 'Wild East' as a part of Spark! Awards nomination process. ...more
"Stand Up Ferran Burke" by Steven Camden is a captivating coming-of-age novel in verse, showcasing the author's exceptional talent for storytelling th"Stand Up Ferran Burke" by Steven Camden is a captivating coming-of-age novel in verse, showcasing the author's exceptional talent for storytelling through poetry. Set in the West Midlands, this unique narrative chronicles five years of Ferran Burke’s life as he navigates the tumultuous journey of adolescence.
Ferran is a multifaceted character—a comic collector, vinyl connoisseur, and Air Jordan enthusiast—but to most, he is merely Emile Burke's little brother. As Ferran steps into the new world of high school alone, he must quickly learn how to survive, make new allies, confront new enemies, and explore new feelings and passions. The novel brilliantly captures the chaos and excitement of teenage life, painting a vivid picture of Ferran’s struggles and triumphs as he searches for his identity amidst the constant comparison to his seemingly perfect older brother, Emile.
Written in a lyrical, free verse style, "Stand Up Ferran Burke" is both heartfelt and humorous. Camden’s economical use of language conveys deep emotion and complexity, making Ferran an unforgettable character. The fragmented structure of the novel mirrors the fragmented nature of adolescence, while the strong pace and engaging point of view make it a quick, compelling read. Full of genuine, heartfelt moments, this novel is a must-read for anyone experiencing, or reminiscing about, the trials and tribulations of growing up.
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