Oh, Jesus. It’s been a long time since I had to put a book down in mid-sentence because my stomach wouldn’t stop turning, and that should be taken as a glowing endorsement.
It’s not gory though, oh no no. We’re very firmly in mind-fuck territory here. The language is clear and blank, neither excessively florid nor ostentatiously simple; the stylistic equivalent of the serial killer whose neigbours can only describe him after the fact as, ‘a quiet man,’ who, ‘kept himself to himself.’ Exactly what it needs to be then.
People are psychos, and you can never tell until it’s too late. Take it from me, don’t read this on a crowded commuter train unless you want some properly paranoid nightmare fuel.