julio-alexi genao

Y'know... It's the third J.L. Merrow story I've read that lays out unappealing or disturbing or even outright repellant circumstances and still manages to make me feel things for people who are, at best, disquieting, and at worst outright appalling.She's a crafty one, that Merrow.How else to explain why the travails of a mooching, self-absorbed demi-prostitute should even register with me, let alone make me cry a little in sympathetic misery?Even the revolting poser friend who mangles French managed to surprise me, when he pops round the pub to tell the narrator to fuck off, there's a good chap, Russel's too good for you.And then stays to make sure.Crafty.Fearless, and skilled, Merrow is. No other explanation.Keep your eyes open when you read this one.