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Ray’s troubles are more arbitrary than gormlessly self-inflicted, allowing The Adulterants to dramatise the inadequacy of the social safety net. A series of calamities descends on Ray, following an outbreak of rioting in their London borough, in which he loses his (freelance) job and their (rented) flat — and worse. The main point throughout, however, is Ray’s voice: alienated, sardonic, pithy and frequently very funny.
But such is his ironic smart-assism, his first-person narration can sometimes fail to convey the narrative adequately; his actions are relayed as though in inverted commas. This especially mars the novel’s opening, when the initial narrative trajectory is laid out. But as a lunatic series of events conspire against Ray, his mocking take on everything gets the novel into gear.
There are bullseyes on almost every page: uncovering bare floorboards is ‘bourgeois archaeology’; during the riot a man hands Ray ‘the sort of lager I considered myself too good for’; and skinny jeans no longer fit Ray ‘ideologically’.
Spiked with wit and caustic irony, this novel isn’t quite what it says it is — and is much the better for it.
Because you read about fiction
Also by Mike Cormack
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