I’ll be glued to the box tonight to watch the first instalment of Red Riding on Channel 4.
It’s a good few years since I first stumbled on the work of David Peace, starting with 1974, the tilted, erratic, autistically repetitive and nosebleed inducing first volume in his Red Riding Quartet.
A dizzying, disjointed and difficult read I was, nontheless, compelled by its originality. A fan of crime fiction, it seemed the UK suddenly had a writer of similar style and stature as James Ellroy.
Dysfunctional, gritty and pivoting on scarily believable characters who were corrupt, venal, unhinged or deranged. And all superheated with a literary blowtorch to weld and shape them round the story of the Yorkshire ripper murders.