THE TRICK OF THE GA BOLGA

Like McGinley's previous novels (Bogmail, Goosefoot, Foggage), this odd tale from rural 1940s Ireland combines unpremeditated homicide, illicit sex, bucolic surfaces, and darkly violent undercurrents--but the mood here is more grimly existential, less black-comic, than before. George Coote is a 30-ish, bearded Englishman who has stayed in Ireland as a retreat from life, from World War II in particular (despite gung-ho letters from chum Woodwind, who has enlisted). After a time in Dublin, Coote has now bought a stark little house-and-farm near the coast in Donegal--only to find himself in the literal midst of small-scale warfare: his neighbors on either side are aging, nicknamed bachelors--laconic ""Salmo"" on the one hand, ""the Proker"" (garrulous, violent) on the other--who are conducting a long-term, noisy feud. . . and both immediately want Coote as a new ally. Other unwanted signs of conflict also intrude: Coote discovers the drowned body of a Royal Navy officer; he becomes involved in the local debate over the proposed building of a small bridge--a quarrel which leads Coote to join in a bizarre donkey-race, complete with highly unorthodox play-by-play from the local schoolmaster. (""But look what's happening! The she-ass is defecating shamelessly and voluminously in the middle of the Ard Rua. . ."") And, worst of all, when ""the Proker"" pays a drunken, wild, assaulting visit to Coote, the would-be loner winds up as an unintentional killer, covering up the crime as best he can. Inevitably, then, feuder Salmo becomes the prime, soon-jailed suspect in this case--""the most popular murder since Rasputin's."" Coote writhes with guilt, trying to help innocent Salmo (who's curiously resigned to his fate) with a legal defense. More guilt will follow from Coote's two-timing affairs with a sensual married woman (who's sexually inventive) and a sweet young thing (who commits suicide). And after Coote's attempt to confess to the murder fails pathetically, this parade of horrific ""mischance"" finally comes to an end--with Coote's own grotesque, crucifixion-like demise. The point of it all? Well, both McGinley's theme and Coote's character remain rather murky here--despite periodic injections of musings on guilt, remorse, responsibility. ("" 'Is there something missing in my moral and emotional nature?' he asked himself. 'Or am I just remote from life as lived by other men, by Salmo, Woodwind, Churchill and Adolf Hitler? I know that the world I see with my eyes is not the world that Salmo sees, nor is it the world a dog or fish sees.' "") Still, if less engaging or coherent than McGinley's best work, this strange novel does display his distinctive gifts--for endowing eccentric Irish locals with both charm and creepiness, for creating a thickly effective atmosphere from the overlappings of death, sex, and brooding scenery.