The One is based on a true story, and it’s all about the main character; his name is Jools. Jools is one of those pretty decent, nice, intelligent but un-educated guys living a dead-end, dolebird kind-of life. So far, so common, only, at the beginning of the novel, after a suicide attempt, something has entered Jools’ life that will make it a little more book-worthy:

'He could sense another’s proximity in the pitch darkness of the bedroom. His heart pounded and he froze, hardly daring to breathe. The other took on a human form although it seemed to lack substance, as if made of shadows. It moved towards Jools who was trembling like a child, then it started to enter his body.'

The ‘other’ starts off as one voice, berating Jools for being a work-shy Jew, but this is only the beginning. The voices are legion, more join in, and it isn’t just insults they’re throwing, it’s warnings, stories, conspiracies. Jools is at the centre of something huge which, Jools is led to believe, involves (among others) the government, the SAS, the IRA, various university programmes, all the local Muirhouse psychos, Steven Seagal and the singer Anastacia.

What can Jools do to stop the voices? Only The One will accomplish that, and doing The One involves clearing your mind of all thoughts for 24 hours. Which, with SAS guys screaming orders and sadistic students sending electric shocks through your body, is pretty hard. Jools ends up in a mental ward, tries to escape a few times, and all the time the voices are warning him not to speak to anyone who might be able to help.

That was me trying to sum up the plot, which is hard, cause either there isn’t one or, if you believe the voices, there’s a million of them. But that isn’t important. What is important is that ‘The One’ is one of those novels that seemed to have been puked into existence, like the writer spilled it into a basin after a hangover. That’s a good thing, by the way; it means it was unsullied (I know what I mean.) I mean, everything about it is desperate and true.

Just flick through it. There are no chapters (which tends to put me off) and nearly every sentence begins ‘Jools . . .’ Despite the third person we’re drawn completely into Jools’ world. It’s all about him, his experiences, the physical and mental pain he goes through. It’s exhausting just to read the fucking thing, never mind live it.

Some amateur psychology: What are the causes of the schizophrenia? What do the voices say about Jools? Well, his mum dying and the solitude it led to are the main factors in the former. As for that second bit, they reveal a lot. For a start, Jools is guilty about his lack of achievement, his dossing. More violent self-loathing seems to seep out from under, the voices choosing the Worst Insult Ever, that of a beast, a paedophile. Since they’re his voices, since they’ve lain dormant his whole life, there’s plenty of material to dredge up and throw back in his face (shoving his fingers up his arse when he was wee, having a wank over a fifteen year-old schoolgirl.) Throw in a nice bit of PC paranoia (is he a racist? He wonders more than once. Well, he says ‘Paki’) and let it stew.

The voices are relentless. It’s like a jazz band improvising with a good dose of Mark E Smith’s 3 Rs - Repetition Repetition Repetition. So we get the ‘YA WEE FUCKIN JEW!!!’ voice at the start, and it hangs about for the whole gig, and after every few pages, we get a new voice – Yours Truly, Jimmy Love ‘Shut up Jools! Just literally shut up!’– some of whom stick it out, becoming part of the mix. And they all make up a twisting, writhing, Russian Doll of a delusion.

Which is another thing I liked, the imagination in the sickness. It’s like Jools’ subconscious has taken everything that makes up his life, has pulled faces, voices, and stories from the Muirhouse community, TV, films, books, and news reports, and recast them in its own multi-million paranoid blockbuster. Some of the plots are straight out of film noir and Terry Gilliam, some of the details lifted straight from the news – even the pop stars are involved, their songs relating specifically to Jools. For Jools, in amongst the suffering, there’s flattery – for the first time in his life, the whole world is revolving around him, a wee diddy from Muirhoose.

Not that this book is faultless. Some of the writing is a wee bit clunky, but that may well be intentional (beautiful sentences would probably dilute the power.) I’d have preferred the book to be shorter though – The repetition of the voices does serve a purpose, communicating some of the frustration/exhaustion Jools must be feeling, but some passages could definitely be cut. It might be my TV-shredded low attention span, but most books – and especially one as dense, disturbing, and exhausting as this – could do with a 250 page limit. The only part that might need lengthening is the end, which leaves you crying out for more. But those are criticisms regarding structure, and as you’re reading this review, you probably know I don’t really know my arse from my elbow when it comes to that.

And as for that ending – well, it’s a cliffhanger, isn’t it? You have to use the author bio to fill in the big blank. So, Jools seems to have gotten better, good enough to write a book about his hellish experiences. And once you’ve finished the book you’ll be happy for him. You hope he ends up settled down, happy, and free from experiencing this stuff . . . ever again.

Iain Bahlaj lives in Fife, Scotland. His short stories have appeared in Front & Centre, Fife Fringe, Chapman, Pulp.net and The Macallan Shorts 3 and 5. His novel, 'Tilt' was published in 2003 (Pulp Books, London). The short story 'Sugar' is a prequel to 'Tilt.' Iain currently works as a night-shift shelf-stacker, while working on a novel about vampires, in this spare time.

© 2004 Laura Hird All rights reserved.