Thoughts on a book- The Ninth Circle by Alex Bell

So, over the past fortnight I've perfected what I like to call the "commuter blinkers". Generally, people do this with a book. Or a paper. I chose a book, and headphones. The idea? To flit through the underground at breakneck speed, unwilling to focus on anything other than the book and the destination. Part and parcel to this is a complete and utter sixth sense that makes you aware of everything going on around you, including where to go and what train to miss/ get, where to stand for the doors to stop right in front of you.

I'd got it down to a tee, finished a couple of average reads and, mid-week, started a book that had loose connections to The Divine Comedy. I love that book, the visions of Hell, and if you get past the fact that it's written as an epic poem, it's the most stark portrayal of a heinous place. Cracking. Anyway, it was those connections that made me glance at The Ninth Circle.



Ah, I finally thought I'd found a truly great book, something fresh, new and exciting, that actually gripped me and had originality.

From the outset the story is interesting. The first person narrator writes it as a diary, with sporadic entries and a fragmented style. He has woken up in a flat in Budapest, a chair on it's side underneath a set of nearly completed shelves. His head is stuck to the floorboards by his own blood, and he can't remember who he is.

His head is stuck to the floorboards by his own blood

From there on, the story is a great mystery. It actually manages to make a fresh story of an amnesiac mystery man, with no sign of who he is other than that he was a struggling writer, apparently, with only one manuscript in the shoddy flat, and that he was or is religious, with his bookshelf full of volumes on angels, demons and saints. He then discovers his name (Gabriel Antaeus) and tries to find out more.
Somehow Alex Bell manages to make the city of Budapest and the character of the first person narrator real. The idea of the character being a struggling writer (such an overdone trope since The Shining et al) doesn't actually smack of laziness, but is fleshed out and interesting. He doesn't know whether to doubt his career or not, and everything is another question, never an answer.

The first person storytelling doesn't grate either, which happens so often. It isn't whiny, or self-pitying, just questioning, and everything the character sees and experiences, or doesn't see, or misses, comes together so the reader is so involved that... well, I felt the character was real, and that I wanted to find out things as much as he did.

The religious overtones, and the constant references to the legendary choirs of angels, Biblical figures and the menagerie of the Italian poet's Hell from Greek myth etc actually don't stick out as mysticism. The oddness of the cathedrals and the strange angelic podiums and statues across the city somehow befit the mental state of a man who doesn't know who he is, but has a feeling the he shouldn't go to the police and that he believes in God. They are the only two things he knows, and the only two things that can rule his life.

He shouldn't go to the police and that he believes in God. They are the only two things he knows

When he begins recieving photographs, quotes from the Inferno and begins to have vision/ flashback/ dream moments, it all begins to weave into an interesting web of secrets. He meets a man by chance who he instantly bonds with, and things begin to uncover themselves.

Then, the book turns. The originality of the entire build up is dashed against the rocks of cliche and overused tropes. He feels sick at the sight of blood, and deftly handles muggers and theives when he comes across them in the back streets of the dark city. Why? Look away now if you don't want to know.

Well, he's an assassin. And there's a holy war between real life angels and devils going on. The second coming of a baby Jesus could be imminent, but the baby could be the Antichrist, bringing the end of the world. And it is up to him to save the girl (conveniently, his neighbour) who is the mother of this immaculate conception.

That point is the beginning of an unravelling. All the grand mystery, so carefully crafted, becomes a simple write-it-by-numbers thriller catch-all ending. The sublimely subtle and grittily believable religious visions stray into the ridiculous. And it is a shame. Because before the novel rushes towards its predictable ending, it promised so much. Ultimately, I felt cheated by the hint of something more than just a quick fix cliffhanger that feels underwhelming and, doubly irritatingly, un-cliffhangerly. I couldn't care less what happens, because it has suddenly strayed into the unbelievable.

before the novel rushes towards its predictable ending, it promised so much

Alex Bell seems to have a good writing style, a great eye for character and a way of hooking his readers. It's just a shame that he let them down with the second half. I'll definitely read his next work, though. His ideas are outstanding- the way he executes them can only get better.

7.25/ 10