Dead in his tracks

The narrative of a fastidious killer will leave you uneasy and queasy.

Just when you’ve got used to the Unreliable Narrator, along comes one so reliable, so meticulous, he makes your goosebumps quiver. The anonymous narrator of Leo Benedictus’s second novel is full-frontal from the start: “I do not consider myself a complicated person … I have lived strangely for the past four years … I have only tried to live by simple principles.”

It’s the reasonable voice of unreason. “Lived strangely”? Our protagonist has come into unexpected millions from his bitter, banking Aunt Kathy. He uses it to stalk people. As you do.

First there’s pretty Laura D, “a hairdresser, but queenly in her ways”, and Nina M the scriptwriter. But soon, he settles on Frances, a brisk, brittle, not terribly likeable management consultant. He sneaks into her flat and installs cameras.

Leo Benedictus: reasonable voice of unreason.

He sends clever emails to her work, accusing her of multiple misbehaviours.

You may be reminded of John Fowles’s The Collector: the solitary, emotionally malfunctioning young man; a windfall; the methodical preying; the crawly horror growing out of calm narrative.

But Benedictus has made his own monster, fastidious (he chooses his crockery with care) and grotesquely considerate. He researches and plans with academic rigour, follows family members to build up a complete portfolio. Most unsettlingly, he talks of his victims with respect and frequent affection.

His nuanced, yet always elusive, character – “Me: who am I? A complicated question about anyone” – is one of the book’s achievements. You can’t distance yourself from him. He takes you into his confidence, shares trade secrets with you.

Beautiful women are the easiest to follow; they expect to be watched. You (I use the pronoun because that’s what he does) find yourself comprehending his queasy eroticism. You feel contaminated.

A scene with a chisel … well, consider yourself warned. There are body parts to hide, and haughty disapproval of the shoddy workmanship of gravediggers. A pair of brown lace-up shoes becomes utterly terrifying. The good don’t always make it through, which is another jolt.

You have to suspend disbelief a couple of times. You (hell, I can’t stop using his pronoun) have to go outside and walk in the fresh air when you finish. You’ll tell people about it, with shuddering admiration.

CONSENT, by Leo Benedictus (Faber & Faber, $32.99)

Benedictus has made his own monster, fastidious and grotesquely considerate.