Last Car To Elysian Fields By James Lee Burke, reviewed by Russel Robichaux's wife, Bootsie is dead, killed not by a criminal but by simple human error that ended in a housefire. An Irish Priest has been attacked, a lunatic Irish Hitman has come to New Orleans and Dave is trying to forget his wife by digging into ancient history. As complex as ever, Burke's twisting plot serves to highlight the trauma of his protagonist while his beautiful prose creates a concrete and still dreamlike vision of the south. Burke is one of the best writers going and the melancholic beauty of the Robichaux books show no sign of dissipating.

Halo for Satan, by Howard Browne, reviewed by Doug PI Paul Pine is after something everyone wants; a religious article of great importance. Trouble is that the other guys after this object don't seem to have read all ten commandments and if Pine's not careful he's going to end up dead. Classic pulp fiction, told with great style and encomony. The Chicago setting is wonderful and the only false note comes with the Italian mobster who might just be fashioned after a certain Mr Capone and speaks in a terrible, pidgin Italian accent that serves to pull you out of the book. That aside, this is an excellent, engrossing example of the best pulp had to offer in the late forties.

Psycho By Robert Bloch, reviewed by Russel At only 150 pages this is an exercise in economy and style that must have been terrifying on its first release. Even now, it sends more shivers down the spine than ninety percent of the doorstop psycho-thrillers being churned out. Hitchcock's film probably qualifies as the best adaptation out there, the only real changes being the fact that Bloch's characters are far more self-involved and unsympathetic and Norman's obsession with the supernatural is given far more prominence in the books. That, and after seeing Tony Perkins on screen its hard to see Norman as a fat, forty-something guy. If you haven't read this before, read it now.

Complicity by Iain Banks, reviewed by Doug If, like me, you've been annoyed with the lastes of Banks output (specifically the vanity project nonsense of his whiskey tour) then it might be worthwhile reminding yourself just why you thought he was so great in the first place. Complicity is a powerful, dangerous, sexually charged novel with a narrative that moves with such speed you feel like you could be thrown off and killed at any moment. The dual first/second person narration throws you off track when you're reading it the first time and upon a second read you find yourself laughing that you didn't see the obvious the first time round. Forget The Business and the banality and pompous self importance of Dead Air, this is the real Banks. This is the man who gave us hope for Scots literature and its modern relevance in depiciting a morally bankrupt world.