Mister B. Gone
Clive Barker
HarperCollins
***1/2
Clive Barker is dreamy. Well, his writing at least. He’s a writer who creates such detailed worlds that any adventure with him is dreamy… or rather, dream like. He lulls with context, subdues with the mundane reality of a world and then, when he has you piqued with momentary flashes that conflict with the everyday of his story he suddenly snatches you, bed socks and all, into a mad world of his imagining, one which is relentless. With Mister B. Gone, Baker once again warps reality but instead of leading us from our world into an imaginary one reverses the formula to lead us into the plot of the book, literally.
Mister B. Gone concerns itself with Mister B. That’s Jakabok Botch. He’s a daemon from the ninth circle of hell. That may sound impressive but it actually isn’t: Botch is snivel of a thing, his most exciting traits an incredible grasp of the English language, an even more incredibly imagination which revels in how to torture people, and two tails. Well, there are those impressive aspects, plus the fact that Botch seems to have been captured within the pages of the story itself. Yes, this means the conniving little whelp coos and cajoles you directly, demanding… neigh, pleading… that you burn the very book you’re reading.
What follows is Botch’s recount of how he came to be trapped within the pages of the book you are reading. The world Barker engages intinally is that of Hell, but it isn’t long at all until Botch is scooped up and out into a very medieval real world. Here Barker thrills us with his wonderful descriptions, even throwing in a homosexual undercurrent as Botch meets the handsome and devilish devil that is Quintoon. Yes, gay demon love – sacrilious. This all leads Mr B to the birth of a most marvellous secret, one directly responsible for his ultimate demise.
The premise of this story is outstanding – selling a story where the story itself is something dangerous since it contains an evil, one which clambers for your attention, one that threatens you relentlessly while lapping up the sweat from your fingertips. However, it is this same technique which lends Mister B. Gone a certain degree of banal protraction. Botch, at times, is just plain whiny. His persistent pleading is… persistent. And slightly annoying. This also lends to the story having a slight degree of predictably. We would burn the book, Mr B., but the clever among us know what would entail.
Which best sums up Mister B. Gone: clever, but perhaps a little too clever. The overall impact is sheer Barker – there are most that will make you squirm while others merge the perverse with intrigue and titillation. It would’ve been great to perhaps have seen another instalment in Barker’s Books of Abarat series, especially since Mister B. Gone misses the mark a little. However, it does deliver a wonderful distraction, one which is genuine and true to the vision of the only gay prince of horror that is Mr C. Barker.
