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  • Pup speaks the ritual language of geomancy which no one can understand; later, when he has lost faith in magic, he invents a mumbo-jumbo with which to deceive his sister. Harold, the father, is invariably too busy reading to speak: later, when he remarries and brings the red-headed Myra into his house, he speaks in port-manteau phrases culled from BBC programmes. The isolated Bawne says as little as possible, even when he goes into a shop, since he does not believe that he really exists.

    Minor characters are brought in to demonstrate that they too do not communicate: the Indian neighbour whom no one speaks to, the Greek butcher who prefers silence, the medium who only speaks with the voices of spirits. People sit by their windows watching what is going on, but are themselves apart from it, cut off, isolated. The chief symbol of non-communication is the disused railway line which lies at the back of these Late Victorian houses. It is not clear why the characters behave as they do.

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    Dolly is ready to kill a woman whom she thinks is Myra, and it is only by chance that she is prevented from doing so. In her despair, pursued by the voices of her dead mother and stepmother and haunted by a vision of the dog-god Antrobus, she wanders into the tunnel on the deserted railway line, where she is killed by the waiting Bawne. In The Tree of Hands the successful novelist Benet lives by herself with her infant son James, having refused to marry, or to live with, his father Edward.

    When her mad mother, Mopsa, comes to stay with her, James is taken ill and dies in hospital. Mopsa then kidnaps Jason, another boy of the same age. Barry is suspected of having murdered Jason.

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    We are told that when Barry is with Carol sexually he loses himself in a manner that is mystical. The novel revolves around these confusions of identity.

    Mopsa is sometimes a screaming mental case, and sometimes a sensible housewife, baking cakes and answering the telephone. Benet dreams about her real son, but associates herself with the kidnapped Jason. In both novels there is violence, but there is no mystery, no detection, no discovery, no revelation and no explanation of behaviour. Because Ruth Rendell is a good writer, she succeeds in creating a certain amount of suspense and in bringing her plots together, but there is little drama in the fact that Bawne kills Dolly and that Benet becomes attached to Jason: these things have come to seem inevitable.

    Bangladeshi 'Tree Man' begs for hands to be amputated to relieve pain, report says

    The reader is not held in ignorance, no tricks are played, no dazzling displays of logic or of intuition conclude the stories. Nothing could be further from the detective novel than this form of thriller-writing, and one may wonder why Ruth Rendell has moved from the comfortable world of Kingsmarkham where Wexford always gets his man to the lonely, desperate, mist-shrouded world of the Dollys, the Bawnes, the Mopsas and the Benets.


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    • Perhaps there is something logical in the move. Many of the detective novels already had some of the same characteristics as the thrillers. There was, for example, a similar preoccupation with identity. Was the girl who turned up unexpectedly in Put on by cunning really the daughter of the famous flautist? The man who had disappeared in A Sleeping Life was not a man at all, although he had posed as one for many years: he was the woman who had been murdered.

      How to draw an autumn tree palms of hands

      The corpse that had been discovered in Shake hands for ever was not that of the wife, as the husband had alleged. In Wolf to the Slaughter the police, looking for a corpse, discover one that they did not expect to find. The Wexford stories, like the thrillers, placed unthinkable events within an everyday context, explored confusions that revealed an apparently ordinary person to be abnormal. Both in the thrillers and in the detective novels, Ruth Rendell is meticulous in describing the details of everyday life, the food that is bought from the supermarket, the geography of buses and tubes around North London, the plants and flowers that surround the houses.

      The precise emphasis on the real and ordinary makes the eruption of the fantastic all the more terrible. What we all wish to know is how Myra Hindley lived her life, surrounded by relatives, friends and colleagues who never suspected anything, or how Peter Sutcliffe went off to work and came home at night, without someone discerning the violence within him. The readers of detective fiction have never cared about morality, and they have rarely been moved by the characters presented to them. Why not then cut out all the stuff about Wexford and his daughters and his grandchildren and his remorse when he has spoken sharply to an underling?

      We no longer want to see dedicated policemen or eccentric amateur sleuths defending society.