Twenty years ago, in a series of mysterious, incandescent writings, David Seabrook told of the places he knew best: the declining resort towns of the Kent coast. The pieces were no advert for the local tourist board. Here, the ghosts of murderers & mad artists crawl the streets. Septuagenarian rent boys recall the good old days & Carry On stars go to seed. Clandestine fascist networks emerge. & all the time, there is Seabrook himself
- desperate perhaps, & in danger. Dark, strange & immediate, this is a classic work of sui generis British literature. There are devils here, & the reader will remember them.