“You could get lost in here and never find your way out,” says psychic investigator Ed Gaughan to a curious client.
He’s talking about memories, which he and his partner routinely revisit as part of their day jobs, seeking (metaphorical) skeletons in people’s (actual) closets. It’s a danger he knows well.
Exploring the temptation and torment of having access to fragments of the past (like Harry Potter’s Pensieve), Nick Whitfield’s peculiar debut plays out like Samuel Beckett by way of David Brent, with mordant humour undercutting the parochial oddness.
Though there’s a little narrative drift in the middle, as a portrait of lives wrecked and remedied by memory’s narcotic pull it’s both strange and strangely moving.
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