![]() In a few years, it’ll just be another haunt for the butter-and-egg men. Now Croydon’s split down the middle, middle-class living digging its tentacles into the veins of the borough, spawning suits and skyscrapers and fast food joints every which way. ![]() I remember when it was harder, when it was chiselers and punks, knife-toting teenagers and families too poor to make it anywhere else in grand old London, when this body was just acres of hurt and heroin, waiting to stop breathing. Just read the passage below and tell me you’re not hearing it in the macho raspy-voice gruff narration out of a cloud of cigar smoke: But like it or not, this story is very much Lovecraftian in tone and feeling - combined with the tobacco smoke-filled atmosphere of Mickey Spillane’s hard-boiled noir detective stories. ![]() “I’d gotten into the detective business to escape the deepwater blues, from the songs that squirm in your veins like worms.”I’m not a big fan of describing things as Lovecraftian - I don’t care for the guy himself, I prefer tentacles in the form of calamari, and I can live without the overwritten language just fine. ![]()
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