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Summary
Summary
"Searing, searching, finally scorching. Think Making a Murderer via Patricia Highsmith: an elegant kaleidoscope novel that refines and combines multiple perspectives until its subject is brought into indelible, tragic focus." --A. J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window
"Pitch-black and superbly written." --Ruth Ware, New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in Cabin 10
"Top-notch grip lit...incredibly brilliant." --Marian Keyes, New York Times bestselling author
Oliver Ryan has the perfect life. Elegant and seductive, he wants for nothing, sharing a lovely home with his steadfast wife, Alice, who illustrates the award-winning children's books that have brought him wealth and fame. Until one evening, after eating the dinner Alice has carefully prepared, Oliver savagely assaults her and leaves her for dead.
But why?
The people who know Oliver can only speculate about the reasons behind his brutal act: his empty-headed mistress Moya, vain and petulant; Veronique, the French chatelaine who tragically lost everything the summer she employed him in her vineyard; Alice's friend Barney, who has nursed an unrequited love for her since childhood; Oliver's college pal Michael, struggling with voiceless longings that have shamed him for years. What none of them understands is the dark secret that lies behind his immaculate façade.
The revelations that come to light as the layers of Oliver's past are peeled away are as brutal as his singular act of violence. His decades of careful deception have masked a life irrevocably marked by abandonment, envy, and shame--and as the details of that life are laid bare, Oliver discovers that outrunning his demons is harder than it looks.
With its insight into the mind of a psychopath emerging from the wreckage of his own misbegotten past, Unraveling Oliver is a chilling page-turner, brilliantly crafted and unexpectedly moving, by a stunning new voice in fiction. Liz Nugent "presents a fresh look at a man hiding his violent personality in this intense character study" ( Publishers Weekly , starred review). As powerful as Patricia Highsmith's unforgettable noir classic, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Unraveling Oliver will enthrall you from its mesmerizing opening line to its equally shocking last page.
Author Notes
Liz Nugent has worked in Irish film, theater, and television for most of her adult life. She is an award-winning writer of radio and television drama and has written critically acclaimed short stories both for children and adults, as well as the bestselling novels Unraveling Oliver and Lying in Wait. She lives in Dublin. Visit her at LizNugent.ie or follow her on Twitter at @ Lizzienugent.
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The unfathomable motive behind a seemingly unprovoked attack by children's book author Oliver Ryan on his wife, Alice, drives Irish author Nugent's outstanding first novel. To most people, the handsome, charismatic Oliver and the plain, shy Alice appeared to have had a decent marriage for more than 20 years. The relationship was enhanced by Alice being the illustrator for Oliver's world-renowned kids novels. Despite Oliver's frequent affairs, he was discreet and the couple enjoyed a comfortable life in Dublin. The narrative alternates between those who knew Oliver and Alice at different times. Family members, friends, and acquaintances seek some clue to what caused Oliver's brutality as Alice languishes in a coma. Even Oliver seems amazed at his actions because he was "fond of her, in my way," and appreciative that Alice made no demands on him. The tension subtly rises as Oliver's past unravels, revealing a loveless childhood rooted in religious hypocrisy. Nugent presents a fresh look at a man hiding his violent personality in this intense character study, which won the Irish Book Award's Crime Novel of the Year. Agent: Marianne Gunn O'Connor, Marianne Gunn O'Connor Creative Agency. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
Secrecy and sadness permeate this rich debut novel by Irish author Nugent, an award-winning radio and TV writer. Named Crime Fiction Book of the Year at the Irish Book Awards, the tale centers on the mysterious, lonely Oliver, an Irish boy and then man who is scarred by his father's rejection and visits that same rejection on all around him. Chapters that are narrated in turns by Oliver, his wife, friends who accompanied Oliver on a fateful working vacation in France when he was a teen, and a member of the French family that became his fixation. This is a successful device, as it allows a puzzle involving the trip to come slowly into view as readers are skillfully given glimpses of events and of the resulting devastation that Oliver so nonchalantly metes out. Catholic-clergy dysfunction and its effects on families feature strongly here, making the thriller a satisfying read-alike for John Boyne's A History of Loneliness (2015).--Verma, Henrietta Copyright 2017 Booklist
Kirkus Review
This psychological thrillera debut novel by an Irish TV and radio writeris not a whodunit but a why'd-he-do-it.In a seemingly random burst of violence, Oliver Ryana children's author with an enviable career and a stable home lifeassaults his wife, Alice, during dinner, nearly fatally. Oliver calmly relates his crime in the opening chapter, and then his back story is related by various people in his life, including his half-estranged brother, Philip; Barney, the childhood friend who secretly loves Alice; Michael, the brother of Oliver's now-dead girlfriend, Laura; Moya, the actress neighbor with whom Oliver had an affair; Eugene, Alice's mentally disabled brother; and Vronique, who employed Oliver during a fateful summer when he moved from Ireland to France. The story keeps returning to Oliver's relationship with his father, who banished his son from his life because of his illegitimate birth; and to that French trip, which scarred Oliver for reasons that aren't immediately apparent. While Oliver's story becomes more tragic with each flashback, the reasons for the violent outburst don't become clear until the very end. Despite all the different narrators, the voice doesn't change much except in Eugene's chapter, and because Alice doesn't speak, her relationship with Oliver feels underdeveloped. Though some of the scenes feel at first like digressions, the pieces all wind up fitting together. Unfortunately, the story's big revelation hinges on two characters meeting in a not-quite-plausible way and a piece of information that one of them just happens to blurt out. The book works as a page-turner, but it's surprising that a screenwriter couldn't populate her book with a few more vivid characters. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
[DEBUT] Children's book author Oliver Ryan is known for his elaborate fantasy novels, which have inspired a devoted following among children as well as academics. He met his wife, Alice, when the publisher suggested that Alice illustrate the first novel. For 20 years, despite Oliver's many mistresses, the couple have the semblance of a good marriage. Until the day that Oliver beats her so hard that she enters a comatose state from which she may never awaken. Readers slowly discover through the alternating viewpoints of Oliver and his various friends, family members, and enemies what precipitated his violent act. Oliver is a complex protagonist, and Nugent does a good job of eliciting sympathy for a reprehensible character. Unfortunately, the book lacks a chapter told from Alice's perceptive. Consequently, the real victim, Alice, is largely ignored and her motivations for her relationship with Oliver remain hazy. Still, readers will eagerly turn the pages all the way to the shocking conclusion. Verdict Already an award-winning debut in the author's native Ireland, this will attract fans of domestic suspense. [Profiled in Barbara Hoffert's "First Steps: Debut Novels," LJ 7/17.]-Lynnanne Pearson, Skokie P.L., IL © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Unraveling Oliver 1 OLIVER I expected more of a reaction the first time I hit her. She just lay on the floor, holding her jaw. Staring at me. Silent. She didn't even seem to be surprised. I was surprised. I hadn't planned to do it. Usually when you hear about this kind of thing, it is the 1950s, and the husband comes home drunk to his slovenly wife from the pub and finds that his dinner is cold. On the contrary, it was November 12, 2011, a wintry Saturday evening on a south Dublin avenue, and Alice had prepared a delicious meal: lamb tagine, served on a bed of couscous, with pita bread and a side dish of mint yogurt. Though the lamb was a tad lukewarm by the time she presented it, I really couldn't fault it. I had washed the meal down with two glasses of Sancerre while Alice prepared the raspberry roulade for serving. I certainly wasn't drunk. But now, here she lay, the lower half of her body nearly hidden behind the legs of our mahogany dining table, her arms, head, and torso curled inward like a question mark. How had she fallen into that shape? There must have been considerable force behind my closed fist. If the glass had been in my hand, would I have stopped and put it down before I hit her? Or would I have smashed it into her face? Would it have shattered on contact and torn her pale skin? Could I have scarred her for life? It's very hard to know. The words that come to mind are "circumstances beyond our control." I emphasize the word "our" because, although I should not have done it, she really should not have provoked me. The phone rang. Maybe I should have ignored it, but it might have been important. "Hello?" "Oliver. It's Moya. How are things?" These rhetorical questions irritate me. "How are things," indeed. Sorry, Moya, I've just punched Alice in the face, and she's lying on the floor. And we've had a marvelous dinner. Of course, I didn't say that. I made some ham-fisted attempt at an excuse and bade her farewell. I waited for the reciprocal adieu. There was a moment's silence and then: "Don't you want to know how I am? Where I am?" I was short and to the point. "No." Another silence. And then, whispered, "Oh, right, okay, is Alice there?" Go away, you stupid, irritating woman. I didn't say that either. I told her that now was not a good time. She tried to inveigle me into a conversation, prattling about her new life in France. Even amid the turmoil, I could tell that she wanted me to be jealous. Bloody Moya. I ended the conversation politely but firmly. I thought that the decent thing for me to do was to leave the house immediately. Not permanently, you understand. I thought there was more chance of Alice getting up off the floor if I wasn't looming over her. I went to get my coat from its peg in the hall. It was a little difficult to fasten the buttons. My hands suddenly seemed to be too large for my gloves. * * * Two hours later, I was on my third brandy in Nash's. Nervously I buttoned and unbuttoned my shirt cuffs. It is a habit from childhood, a thing I do when I am distressed. Even John-Joe commented on my rattled demeanor when he served me. Brandy would not have been my normal tipple. But I had had a shock, you see. Now I was drunk. I wanted to phone Alice to see if she was all right, but I had left my cell phone in the house in my hurried exit, and I thought that perhaps borrowing somebody's phone would make a bigger deal of the situation than it warranted. Don't get me wrong, I knew it was serious. A significant error of judgment had been made. She should not have ended up on the floor. I am aware that I am not the easiest of people. Alice has told me so. I have no friends, for example. I used to, many years ago, but that really didn't work out. We drifted apart and I let them go--voluntarily, I suppose. Friends are just people who remind you of your failings. I have several acquaintances. I have no family either to speak of. Not in the sense that matters. Over the years, Alice has never pried, has never been too curious. In fact, I would describe her as habitually obedient with just an occasional rebellion. I am not, have never been, violent. I went to the bar and bought a packet of cigarettes. Strong ones. I was worried that my hands were still unsteady. Isn't brandy supposed to help at a time like this? Or is that an old wives' tale? Old wives. Outside in the "beer garden" (a yard with half a roof beside the front door), I lit my first cigarette in years. Barney Dwyer, a neighbor from the Villas, approached from the public bar. Barney spent more time in the beer garden than inside the pub. "Thought you quit?" he said. "I did." "Jaysus," he said, a swagger in his voice, sucking on a Rothmans, "they couldn't break me." Here we go. Barney prided himself on his forty-a-day habit. When the smoking ban was introduced, most of us did our best to quit. I am proud to say that I was the first to succeed. I became known as the man with a "will of iron." Barney, on the other hand, made no such attempt. If Barney had never smoked, he would have started the day the ban was introduced. A contrary bugger if ever there was one. Thin head, big ears. "Welcome back," he said. "I'm not back. I'm just having the one. It's been a bad day." "Jaysus, Oliver, it's never just the one. You're back on the smokes. Face it." I threw my almost-smoked cigarette on the ground. Stamped on it. Tossed the packet containing nineteen cigarettes at Barney. "Keep them," I said. "Go on, kill yourself." * * * My wife had finally brought out the worst in me. It was most unexpected. I had always been fond of her, in my way. She was a marvelous cook, for example, after all the gourmet cuisine courses I made sure she attended. Also, she could be very athletic in bed, which was nice. It is terribly sad to think of such things now, considering her current state. We met at the launch of a book she had illustrated back in 1982. My agent wanted me to meet her. He had suggested that she could do the illustrations for a children's book I'd written that he was pushing around to publishers. I resisted the idea of illustrations initially. They would just distract from my text, I thought, but my agent, I admit it, was right. The drawings made my books far more marketable. We were introduced and I like to think there was an immediate . . . something. "Spark" is not the right word, but an acknowledgment of sorts. Some people call that love at first sight. I am not so naïve. Neither of us was in the first flush of youth. Both in our late twenties, I think. But she was lovely in a soft way. I liked her quietness and she made little or no demands on me. She just accepted whatever attention I gave her and then withdrew into the background without complaint when I didn't require her presence. The wedding happened very quickly. There was nothing to be gained by waiting around. Her frail mother and half-witted brother stood behind us at the altar. No family on my side, of course. We didn't bother with the palaver of a hotel reception. We had a rowdy meal in a city-center bistro owned by a former college friend, Michael. Barney was there. Back then I quite liked him. He was very emotional at the wedding, more than anybody else. One couldn't blame him, I suppose. We rented a spacious flat in Merrion Square for a few years. I insisted on a big place because I needed privacy to write. I can only write behind a locked door. Those were good times. We made a bit of money when nobody else did. It made financial sense that we would collaborate on what was becoming quite a successful series. During the day we would retreat to our separate corners to work. Me, producing my books. She, cleverly matching pictures to my words. She was good at it too. Her work flattered mine appropriately. I became quite well-known as a critic and occasional scribe for the weekend newspapers and for an infrequent guest spot on televised talk shows. In those days, everyone was more discreet and low-key about their achievements, their successes. Not like current times--I can't tell you how often in the last decade I was approached about partaking in a "reality" show. Heaven forbid. Alice avoided all of that, which suited me really. She didn't like the limelight, and she underestimated her own contribution to the success of my books, insisting that my work was more important, that she was just a doodler. She was timid and didn't even want it known that we were a husband-and-wife team in case she would be "forced onto television." Rather sweet, and it meant that for a lot of the time I could continue my life as a seemingly single man. It had its rewards. Truthfully, she couldn't have been a better partner. Alice's mother died suddenly in 1986, at the end of our fourth year of marriage. Thanks be to God. I can't stand old people. Can't stand it even more now that I am getting to be one. I used to make excuses to avoid visiting her and her doily-draped furniture. Used to pretend to be too busy to eat with them when she came to visit us. It was never pleasant to witness her struggling with her dentures, the half-wit dribbling by her side. Her death was a mixed blessing. We got the house. But we also got Alice's imbecilic brother. The house is quite a pile on Pembroke Avenue. The brother goes by the name of Eugene. Alice begged me to let her keep him. Until now, that was the biggest upset in our marriage. Bad enough to have a child, but this was a twenty-seven-year-old, two-hundred-pound dolt we were talking about. Eventually I had him accommodated in a home for the "mentally handicapped," or "special needs," or whatever they are calling them this year, at considerable personal expense. When we got engaged, I made it very clear that children were not on the agenda. Well, I said I didn't want children, and she agreed. I should have got that in writing. She must have been extraordinarily besotted with me to sacrifice something so fundamental to her in order to marry me. Maybe she thought I would change my mind, because it seems that lots of men do. Or maybe she knew that if I didn't marry her, I'd marry the next quiet one that came along. Of course, five years into our marriage, Alice began to whine and grew more shrill with each passing month. I reminded her of our agreement. She claimed that at the time, that was what she had wanted too, but now she desperately wanted a child. I am nothing if not a man of my word. I couldn't depend on her to protect herself, so I took control. I made a ritual of bedtime cocoa with a little crushed pill as an added extra. Alice thought that was so romantic. I haven't exactly been a saint within our marriage. Women, by and large, are attracted to me, and I do not like to disappoint them. Women you would never expect. Even Moya, for God's sake. I eventually resent the ones who try to cling. In later years, I had begun to satisfy myself with some tarts that operated near the canal. I never objected to them, even before I became a client. They were objects of curiosity. They were cheaper and more desperate, mostly addicts with raddled bodies and ropey veins but perfectly adequate for my needs. I would order them into a shower before any congress was allowed and I always provided a new toothbrush. Some of them took it for a gift. Pathetic. They are usually too emaciated to be good-looking. One would think that they might make an effort to make themselves attractive. Alas, they were only selling their various orifices; the packaging was immaterial. But still, they held a fascination for me. After all, my mother was one, or so my father said. * * * Returning to the house on the night Alice pushed me too far, I fumbled with the key in the door. I stepped into the dining room. She wasn't on the floor, thank God. She was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a mug of tea. Her hand rubbed at her face. She looked at me without affection. I noticed that her jaw was quite red on the right-hand side. No bruise. Yet. I looked at her. Smiled. The wooden box in which I had locked away my darkest secrets lay open on the table in the hall, its lid agape, lock smashed, contents violated. "Liar!" she said, her voice breaking. It was clear that she intended to ruin me. The second time I hit Alice, I just couldn't stop. I am very sorry about that indeed. I have been in control of my life since I was eighteen years old, and to lose control is a failing. Needless to say, I am not allowed to visit her in the hospital. It is silly really. It is February 2012, so it's been three months now. In her condition, she wouldn't know if I was there or not. It turns out that I am a violent man after all. It comes as a shock to me. I have been psychologically assessed. I decided to tell them almost everything. Apparently, I have been harboring bitterness, resentment, and frustration since my childhood. Now, there's a surprise. What will the neighbors think? What will anybody think? I really couldn't care less. Excerpted from Unraveling Oliver by Liz Nugent All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.