If you google ‘Tom Fletcher’, you might find news about a floppy-haired focus of many a teenaged girl’s fantasy. You may come across the British ambassador to Lebanon.
If you are more blessed, however, you will find the writer Tom Fletcher, the skilled purveyor of elegantly nuanced horror.
I was recently at the launch of his third novel, The Ravenglass Eye (Jo Fletcher Books, 2012). The following day I had myself a copy and didn’t emerge for the next day and a half.
Ravenglass is a village on the coast of West Cumbria. It should be idyllic, with the mountains and the lakes, the Roman remains and steam trains and stone circles.
In The Ravenglass Eye, these attractions exist like a painted background, peopled with the cut out figures of tourists in brightly coloured waterproofs visiting antique fairs and pedalling their bicycles.
They are in another dimension from Edie and the other regulars of The Tup, on whom a dark heaviness is pressing in.