THE SLOWWORM'S SONG

When a former soldier in the British Army receives a letter inviting him to testify before a Belfast tribunal about a fatal incident that happened 30 years ago, during his tour of duty in Northern Ireland, the reawakened past threatens to destroy not only his hard-won sobriety, but also his newfound—and equally delicate—reconnection with his adult daughter.

Stephen Rose, at the age of 51, has a precarious hold on a quiet existence in Somerset, England. A recovering alcoholic with a wrecked marriage behind him, he is sustained by the reappearance in his life of his daughter, Maggie; by his doctor; and by the unobtrusive support of his Quaker brethren. Stephen knows, however, “how fragile it all is, how we have nothing under our feet, nothing that can be depended on.” A letter requesting his appearance before a Belfast tribunal investigating crimes committed during the Troubles reminds him of this, prompting him to begin the epistle to Maggie that constitutes this moving and insightful narrative. “My head is so crammed with the past,” he writes, “I sometimes have to hang on to things...to stop myself sliding down into it.” Stephen doesn’t slide; he plummets back into the memory of a summer day in Belfast in 1982 when a house search by the British Army turned deadly. The novel’s evocation of that time and place is cinematically clear, and the narrative revolves around that single dread-filled moment. But Stephen’s daily life, in all its middle-aged dreariness and incidental sweetness, is just as sharply drawn, as is his sojourn in the rehab center that sets him on his unsteady feet again and heading back to Belfast. “For a minute or two time circled,” he observes of his first night there. “I was a fifty-something-year-old lying in the filtered air of the hotel room, and a twenty-something sprawled post-patrol on the black plastic of an army mattress.” This immensely skillful novel suspends the reader, too, in that mysterious midway state.

A moving drama of trauma and recovery.