CILIP Carnegie Winner 2014 announced:Reassessing The Bunker Diary (again...)

Yesterday afternoon, the winner of the UK's most prestigious book prizes was announced, and my utter disbelief, that winner was none other than the novel I reviewed back in March as being the most disturbing, distressing and utterly unsuitable book I have yet to encounter on the Carnegie Shortlist: Kevin Brooks' The Bunker Diary.

So why did it win? 

Setting aside my own personal opinions of the novel itself for just a moment, I want to consider some of the reasons why this book has been selected as the winner, despite being surrounded in controversy and regarded with disgust by several readers, both those I have read online and those I have encountered personally.

'The Carnegie Medal panel can’t resist a controversy,' The Telegraph's Lorna Bradbury writes, and I cannot help but wonder if this is the case. Certainly, there has been no attempt to shy away from controversial subjects, and the majority of the shortlists in recent years have included a deliberately contentious novel, thrown in among innocent children's books to place a cat firmly among the pigeons. In 2011, it was Jason Wallace's Out Of Shadows, which deals with racism, violence and class oppression in Zimbabwe, in 2012 it was Ruta Sepetys's Between Shades of Grey, which presented a harrowing presentation of life as a minority in the Stalinist regime. In light of this, it can't be denied that the judges are no strangers to putting books on the shortlist that pull no punches. 

But even considering their track record, The Bunker Diary stands apart from such novels. There is no lesson to be learned from the book. There is no theme to be presented. There is nothing to take away of any meaning. As I discuss in this article, there are themes that could be detected, such as the overriding atheist nihilist perspective on life, but only after extensive analysis of the plot, character and content. 

The upshot of the victory is an upsurge in publicity for both the medal and its winner, which will, of course, lead to greater book sales and awareness for both. Whether it is the journalists that are praising the win as marking a 'new direction' in children's literature, or those like myself lambasting the choice, it's all more publicity for the writer (who has produced several similarly disturbing reads) and the medal (which presents itself as the foremost prize for children's writing. While this is no bad thing, I find it a worrying prospect that this most depraved of books will soon be being placed into the hands of unwary children. Is the publicity gained by CILIP worth those many nightmares, I wonder? 

More to the point, are such themes as do exist in the novel right to be presented to children? (They are, after all, the target age group of the Carnegie medal, as much as 'Young Adult' is the word of the day). Of course they are not. But maybe, the judges and most of the readers remain, by dint of age and outlook, blind to this. I was lucky enough to join a discussion group on the book before the winner was announced, and found that I alone was horrified by it; none of the other adults or children in the group shared my opinions. 

The adults suggested they were less shocked as they were perfectly aware of the horrors of life, and of the issues around violence and drug use presented in the novel. The children, on the other hand, seemed to miss the point in several cases. Some remarked that the book was 'boring and repetitive', citing horrifying scenes such as the suicide of a character using his own glass eye as a knife and the attack of a rabid dog as 'exciting' highlights in an otherwise boring novel. So perhaps, it is nothing more than ignorance that has taken this novel to the top of the list; the adults already know what it's going to say, the children self-censor it to the point where they are blissfully unaware of the bleakness and depravity. 

There is also the argument that children and teen literature is taking a turn towards presenting more adult themes through dystopia that renders the Bunker Diary nothing more than a natural extension of such a trend. What this argument fails to consider is the context within which Brooks and other authors present their chosen subject matter. Themes of murder, drug use and cannibalism are just as common in Michael Grant's bestselling Gone series as in The Bunker Diary, but presented in an altogether different environment. Grant's works are set in a town surrounded by an impenetrable forcefield, in which mutations are triggering young people to exhibit strange powers. In other words, the whole thing is a science-fiction fantasy, and while every bit as well-written and -presented as Brook's novel, it is ultimately far-removed from what life 'really' is. Brooks, on the other hand, has a habit of writing far too close to reality in this and other novels, making the content all the more vivid and relatable. While I don't deny that as a purely literary feat, it is a great achievement to present such matters so vividly, it is not something that should be being pressed into the hands of children. 

The only other answer I can think is that the novel was selected as a winner was purely for its literary value, and having not read the remainder of the competition, I can't pass judgement in that regard other than to say that The Bunker Diary is, for what it is, well-written, but as I point out above, rather too well-written. I also don't think the value of that outweighs the potentially damaging effect that the novel may have on a reader that is no thoroughly prepared for what awaits. Given that the book will now be being presented in bookshops worldwide as what is essentially the 'children's book of the year' without any kind of warning or alert about the content is a thought that is alarming in itself. As adults who read (and presumably understood) the book, do the Carnegie judges not have a duty of care to ensure that, if this book is to be plastered across bookstores, it is done so in a way that makes it quite clear the journey to the final pages will not be at all pleasant?  

This, then, is my real issue with the book: it should not be presented to children in the way that a Carnegie medal winner inevitably will, and to me, selecting it as a winner is at best misguided, and at worst, irresponsible and dangerous. 

So what is it about? Is this time to reconsider?

One question that has been playing on my mind, aside from why the novel was successful in winning the prize, is precisely what Brooks aimed to achieve with it, and there are some clues in his reaction to receiving the award. In his acceptance speech, Brooks suggested an interest in challenging the 'ingrained' attitude that books must offer some hope, or reach a satisfying conclusion, and also stated that 'teenagers do not want' to be presented with what he termed 'artificial hope' in novels. He concluded that it would be 'patronising' to reward the readers who survived his harrowing novel with something even close to a happy ending. 

I have to take issue with this; if anything, an ending that provides a hint of positivity or hope acts to make the previous events more poignant. While it is a harsh fact of reality that happy endings are largely the realms of fairy tales, that doesn't mean that such depraved reality and utter nihilism that is seen in The Bunker Diary needs pressing into the hands of children that, in many cases, are largely unexposed (or so I would like to think) to the events and situations presented within. 

Brooks puts a lot of focus on how the number of young people 'reading for pleasure' is dropping and becoming a minority, but then produces a book that is impossible to enjoy, which seems something of a dichotomy to me. To me, reading for pleasure is something synonymous with escapism, and escapism is not in any way compatible with depravity, cannibalism, insanity or extreme and undiluted violence of character. There seems to be a thread within Brooks' work of moral ambiguity, and that reaches a head in The Bunker Diary. His comment about it being 'patronising' to provide all the facts or answer questions or offer hope strikes me as a sign he is out of touch with readers. 

This may perhaps be a less innocent age than the heyday of The Chronicles of Narnia or The Famous Five, but sometimes, we as readers want a sense of justice. We want the Good Guys to win and the Bad Guys to get their comeuppance. We want the hero to escape and be rewarded in some way for his endurance of the unendurable. Leave the grim realism to the newspapers; it's impossible to escape the sometimes horrible real world if we are only presented with the same in fiction. There is a line between fiction and reality that Brooks does cross expertly well, but it's arguable as to whether he does so in a way that warrants being given to unprepared, unsuspecting children. There is no education to be had from The Bunker Diary; even the obvious 'don't talk to strangers' that one would expect to result from the capture of the bunker's inhabitants does not exist. They were all powerless to prevent their capture. The only moral is that 'as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport', or in the case of The Bunker Diary, abandon us and let us kill ourselves. Not really a message we want to be presenting to children, is it? 

So the Carnegie medal is over for another year, and a novel that is unprecedented among the winners for its sheer and devastating bleakness has been blindly selected as a winner. I remain convinced that it even being selected for the shortlist was a mistake, and appalled that it won. Feel free to leave a comment about anything in the article, and as always, thanks for reading. 

The Sentry

It's been a while since I've had time to write anything decent, but I've finally managed to put together the next piece in the Poet's War series. It's taken me a long time to decide where I wanted to take this one, but in hindsight I'm actually rather happy with the direction it's taken. Without further ado...

The Sentry

19^th February 1915, France

In the dark, the party were almost invisible as they crawled across the emptiness of no-man's-land; their presence was only betrayed by the tiniest movements and shifts in the blackness to a deeper shade. Shadows in the dark, silent and deadly. Ghosts in the night.

‘Ghosts in the night?’ Where did that come from? Robson thought as he watched from afar, casually peering through the gap between the sandbags, fighting for a glimpse of Smith and the others before they vanished from sight. Must be the corporal's blasted poems.

He kicked the dirt at his feet and stared up at the stars and tried to think about anything but where they were going and where he was not.

‘All this way for this, and the bastards beat me to it. Typical.’

 ***

Smith eased forward another inch, all too aware of the scraping thudding sound his rifle was making against the dirt, and the glint of moonlight at the point of his bayonet, and the creeping, crawling sensation as some unseen, multi-legged insect tap-danced across the back of his motionless hand. He resisted the urge to swat it away; any move could mean death for him, or worse, for his comrades lying in the dirt just feet from him, faces staring down, maybe wondering if the faces of their own fallen brothers in arms were staring back up from the blackness of this graveyard of the nameless, nationless dead.

What did it matter from where the bone came that crunched under his shifting boot? Why did he suddenly care about the name of the corpse whose foetid odour forced him to silence Johnson’s gagging with a sharp nudge? Who these men were that lay in the mud with him, living and dead, from worlds apart, were? Where they came from? None of it mattered. And yet, it did.

***

Robson folded the photograph back into his chest pocket, feeling his heart beat slightly faster against it, and drew the letter from his pack, five days old and creased beyond recognition. So many times he’d read and reread the meaningless words, and now he was reading it again. It was too dark to see, but he knew it by heart now. He sneered when she talked of an ‘afterwards’, when they could be together again. He laughed when she promised him she’d wait for him; he wished she wouldn’t. It would give him a reason to leave.

His fingers tore absent-mindedly at the corner of the crumpled paper, not quite ready to complete the motion on and down and rip the hollow words apart, scatter them on the still breeze that barely stirred the clouds above.

Robson tore his eyes from the words he couldn’t read and scanned the grey-black yet again, but there was nothing to see. Black sky showed through sheets of cloud, and white stars through that, but nothing moved. Grey hills rolled away to the south and a sea of mud stretched out before him, but nothing moved. Not a man or a beast or a light or a sound in that terrible, terrible darkness.

He knew that somewhere in that dark, a thousand rifles lay ready to be taken up and bring the starlight to this Earth. A thousand pairs of boots waited to be called to march forward, into the open night, and bring it to life. A thousand eyes, or maybe just two, watched this wasteland and waited for the call to arms, where drowned memories and empty, unlooked-for promises could finally be forgotten in clashes of fire and lead.

Maybe it was just him, he pondered. Maybe he alone was waiting for that moment; others had already had their honour satisfied. Certainly Smith and Johnson had seen battle, even Anders, the cook, bore scars along his cheek that twitched and narrated a history of battle. ‘The Sudan’, he would say, ‘when I was in the Sudan…’

Yes. All of them were heroes but him, and even now, Smith was crawling once more into the valleys of death with his very own Light Brigade, men different from Robson only in that they had been chosen while he was left aside. Did they not trust him? Had he not yet proved himself? How could he, when all the duty he was given was to watch, and wait, and wonder.

***

Just yards from the trench now, and once again, the words were building to a crescendo in Smith’s head. The dirt was not dirt but a brown river, streaked with red, frozen with the weight of untold dead. The moonlight was not simply silver but beams of day pouring down, casting shadows on this darkening ground, where men and ghosts must surely drown. The wire he eased himself under was a million barbs of purest spite, murderers in the still of the night.

He shook his head; this was no good. The poetry could wait. He had a job to do. The others drew closer around him, and on his signal, moved forward again, with more intent than before. In Johnson’s eyes, the moonlight betrayed a pallid hunger for revenge and death that would only be sated if everything went wrong. They would go in, silent and deadly, and get out with a prisoner, leaving no trace. Ghosts in the night.

Smith peered over the edge of the trench, drawing his rifle up beside him, and detached the bayonet, readying it like a knife. He lodged the rifle against a fallen sandbag; in the confines of the trench it would only slow him down. He gave the next signal, and as one, they moved up and over the trench’s narrow walls, sliding down in an avalanche of dirt and wood. Carefully as he could, he stifled the clattering planks, and got to his feet. Ten minutes, and they would be gone.

A pale face come round the corner,

Aghast with fear, agape with wonder,

And screaming with that final breath as-

Everything went wrong.

***

The night came to life, a single flash and a million echoes of that flash, and fire rising up in bursts from the distance. Screams began to cascade down, friend and foe indistinguishable in the chaos, united only in pain and suffering. And with every scream and rifle’s flash, someone was made a hero, in death or victory immortalised.

Everyone except him.

***

Author's Notes: 

- As noted in this post's introduction, this chapter posed something of a dilemma in direction in that it was my first chance to really depict Robson 'on the front' as it were, but at the same time, there is still a lot unresolved from the last chapter to feature Smith and Johnson. While the latter issues are only really hinted at in this piece, I wanted to make sure they were still there. Both threads of the story will be developed more, and hopefully brought together. 

I'm not yet at a point where I want Robson and Smith to be directly interacting, but at the same time, they both needed to feature in this story to exacerbate the difference between them. I'd already done that a bit in 'Shellshock' (chronologically after this piece) but by including the two perspectives on this same event, it threw up some interesting contrasts that almost wrote themselves. To Smith, the war is starting to become unimportant; the only thing he is fighting for is to save lives, it's no longer about flags and nations. Robson, on the other hand, is eager to be a part of the war but can't be for reasons that will become apparent later on. For him, the promise of glory is elusive, for Smith it has been proven to be a lie (in his first appearance, 'When the Clock Strikes Ten', Smith is not unlike the idealistic Robson seen here). 

- Robson himself is a very interesting character to write, because there's so much contrast within him. He doesn't want to die, but longs for the chance to prove he can survive. He's pining after a woman who doesn't love him, while mocking a woman who feels that way about him (See 'The Making of the Man if you've lost track of what I'm on about). He's bored with the lack of action, but totally unprepared when it does come.  So he is a fascinating character, although not a 'good' one; he holds double standards, longs for bloodshed but only to pursue innocent childhood dreams, and as such, he makes a very nice counterpoint for Smith's principles and sense of 'rightness'. I look forward to playing with that further down the line. 

- Again, there's the lexical difference between Smith and Robson; Smith describes things, Robson narrates them. There's some overlap, in an attempt to almost connect the two characters (but not quite), but Smith is certainly the more passive of the two, Robson the more active. In this piece, that contrasts a lot with the roles they find themselves in.  

That's all for now. As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a comment. All the chapters I mentioned above can be found in the Ongoing Works tab in narrative order. 

Review: Black Rabbit Summer, Kevin Brooks

Review: Black Rabbit Summer, Kevin Brooks

Having recently read Kevin Brooks’ The Bunker Diary, I was directed towards more of his work, and particularly Black Rabbit Summer. Altogether more conventional that The Bunker Diary, this novel is a murder-mystery that becomes a character-drama, not something I would normally read. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by Brooks’ style and manner of writing, so carried on regardless.  

In it’s opening, Black Rabbit Summer is deceptively simple. The premise of 5 teenagers, about to go their separate ways, is not anything particularly groundbreaking, or indeed anything that intriguing. One night at a funfair, and everything has gone wrong- two missing teens and one dead rabbit. On the while, fairly unremarkable given the genre. And yet, this book draws you in. Regardless of my expectations before approaching this novel (which were not high after being sickened by The Bunker Diary), I cannot deny that Brooks is an exceptionally talented writer. Rather than the plot, which is at first a little unremarkable, it is the strength of character that make this novel work.

There is no real sympathetic character in this novel, and every member of the cast is layered and flawed, some displaying tolerable foibles, others more extreme shortcomings. There are drug users, liars, manipulators, thieves and violent aggressors. As a narrator, Pete is incredibly unstable and unreliable, his clearly-illustrated thought processes constantly in flux. Repeated questionings by the police allow this constantly altering perspective to become apparent, emphasising the change that characterises this novel.

As in The Bunker Diary, Brooks seems unwilling to condemn any of the crimes or immoralities in his characters. There is no questioning that Pete is increasingly aware of the layers to his fellows (this in fact becomes the focus of the plot, overshadowing the crime-drama aspect) but he rarely admonishes them, instead leaving that to the parents and police. Pete’s own parents would be seen as particularly overbearing and judgemental, if it were not for the fact that they have been rendered just as human and fallible as the teenage cast. Pete is not afraid to question them, almost undermining their authority, and proving them to be just as accessible as characters as his peers. Similarly, the reader is unable to really come to hate any character- they are simply too ‘real’ to easily categorise. There is no good or bad, right or wrong, only shades of humanness.

The plot itself is perhaps the most mediocre aspect of the book, and certainly takes a back seat to the ever-evolving presentation of characters. Through Pete, the reader is never supplied with all the facts, but at the same time, enough hints are dropped for one to begin to put two and two together, and sometimes arrive at the right conclusion. There is never enough to make it boring and obvious, but also enough to reward the reader for actively thinking. However, it is a little inconsequential in the end; while some twists are entirely unforeseen and some brutally shocking, one almost gets the feeling they don’t matter. As much as it might pretend to be, this is not a crime drama, and the only place where the plot really seems important is when it’s directly changing Pete’s views of his fellow characters. Without giving anything away, every member of the ensemble are viewed entirely differently at the start and end of the novel, as old wounds are opened, new ones develop and entirely unforeseen events change Pete’s worldview in a major way.

One character I’ve omitted to mention until this point is Raymond, the apparent ‘fifth wheel’ of the initial group. The one who talks to his rabbit. The one who thinks the rabbit talks back. If anything, he is the most sympathetic character, and certainly the most innocent and scrupulous. Despite this, he is the first one to go, vanishing without a trace and ignored for a large part of the novel by a police force commenting on another, higher-profile disappearance. The reader really doesn’t get to know Raymond that well while he is present, and it is only in the response from the other members of the cast that his nature becomes clear. To some, he’s a threat, to some, an outcast, and only to Pete is he a friend. As much as he dominates Pete’s thoughts throughout the novel, though, he very quickly fades out of focus, particularly in the last third to quarter of the novel. A metaphor for his outcast nature? Perhaps, or possibly just another aspect of reality- not everyone can be the Most Important Thing.

Where I feel this novel perhaps flounders is in its presentation of the supernatural and the almost-real. Brooks’ grasp on creating a very vivid and real world is almost undermined by an element of the unreal that is never truly explained. Some elements are simply drug-induced hallucinations, but other aspects remain unanswered. Does Raymond really hear his rabbit speak? Does Pete then hear this same voice? If so, how? Although these points are obviously deliberately unresolved, I can’t help but feel they didn’t add to that much to either plot or character, and are simply a distraction to more important matters.

Overall, then, this novel gets a thumbs up, simply on the basis that it paints a vivid, vibrant picture of modern life, and while some aspects are more extreme than we’ve encountered, there’s something here that everyone can identify with. The characters are living and breathing on the page, the setting is everywhere, and while there is no real message or judgement, this is a novel where the process of change in environment, in interactions and in mindsets is genuinely interesting. Not a crime drama, but a drama based around crimes, this is a solid book that, while not completely inspiring, is very well-written and constructed.

Writing: 8/10

Plot: 6.5/10

Character: 8/10

Average: 7.5/10 

The Bunker Diary: What is it All About?

Three days from finishing it, and Kevin Brooks’ The Bunker Diary still has me perplexed. While I cannot honestly encourage anyone to read it, I am equally unable to dismiss it as the pointless or powerless novel it initially seemed. Or maybe I am. For the last three days I have been almost constantly contemplating what, if anything, Brooks is trying to convey through the novel. Perhaps I was right in my initial assessment that the message of the book was ultimately nothing, but I can’t stop myself trying to find a meaning to it; the harrowing content needs to be justified in some way for the unsatisfactory ending to be at all worthwhile. Be aware, if you are wanting to read this, that there are several large spoilers below; this is very much a retrospective analysis that requires reference to the text itself. Some of the theories I presented in my previous review, but they are examined in more depth here, others are new and very much a work-in-progress.

  The most obvious of the potential overtones to the novel is its nihilist perspective on life. Regardless of meaning, one has to accept that the Bunker itself is a microcosm for the ‘real world’, with the diversity of the characters representing snapshot of a larger society. In the final third of the novel, the mysterious kidnapper, who until this point controls every aspect of the prisoners’ lives, disappears. Whether he dies, or simply grows tired of his imprisoned playthings remains unknown, but what is obvious is how, from this point on, life for the protagonists becomes entirely futile. There is no way out of the bunker, even when it is unguarded, and as the lights go out and the supplies dwindle, survival becomes increasingly impossible. For the three characters alive at this point, it is only a matter of time, and every entry in the diary is only a sign that the inevitable is delayed a day longer. Death can be the only end for the novel, and going back to the idea of the Bunker as a microcosm, it is clear to see the nihilist perspective here; life is ultimately pointless. There can be no escape and nothing matters. The conclusion is inevitable, a happy ending is impossible.

The nihilist overtones are also evident in the way Brooks handles what could otherwise be relevant social issues. While he does present drug abuse, alcoholism, homosexuality and terminal illness, these themes are not at all developed, becoming little more than plot points and character traits. It may well be that Brooks simply chose not to expand upon these themes, but given the context and the above theory, it is perhaps another element of the nihilism. The lack of development relegates these themes to insignificance, suggesting once again the ultimate worthlessness of life.

Finally on that point, the fact that no motive is presented for the kidnappings also implies a degree of nihilism. Arguably, the reason doesn’t matter, only the events, but no conclusion is ever reached regarding precisely why the victims are imprisoned. While it may not matter to them in the end, the reader is left wondering, and never answered. Death is, in the end, the only concern for the protagonists, but for the reader, the need to know why and the lack of an answer again highlights the sheer pointlessness of the events for those of us on the outside as well as those on the inside.  Perhaps there was no reason, simply the old Shakespearean statement that ‘as flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods, they kill us for their sport.’

Which leads me nicely to the next point: the atheist overtones of the novel. There are some very obvious allusions to unnamed kidnapper as a kind of deity (or false deity). The lift provides a channel of communication through which his will is done, the notes taken back up are akin to prayer. He becomes omniscient in this microcosm, able to see, hear and know everything about the inmates. They come to depend on him for their very survival. Linus refers to Him (always capitalised) as an omnipotent being, sometimes even the direct reader of the Diary, and at one point suggest that only the perception and not the reality of the kidnapper/god matters. He is very much a deified persona.

So how is this seemingly obvious godlike being representative of an atheist undertone? Because he is, in reality only a man, his power entirely manufactured (perhaps allegorical to religious control?). Because when, in the last section, they are abandoned by this godlike figure, the prisoners’ experience becomes far more dangerous but far more real than before; survival is the only instinct and only driving force, and ultimately the most powerful.

Another theory that crossed my mind was that the novel was an attack on voyeurism. The microcosm supplied in the Bunker is in many ways similar to any number of television shows that give insight into very real events from a perspective so detached that misfortune becomes entertainment. Through the diary, the reader is drawn into watching as, one-by-one, the protagonists fall slowly into insanity and destruction, and by the point things turn exceedingly nasty, one is already too invested to easily look away. By making his characters so real and layered prior to the true trauma, the reader feels almost guilty when they keep reading. I think this could easily suggest that Brooks is attacking the society in which schadenfreude is the norm; we look at the televised misfortune of unknown strangers and laugh, but when we ‘know’ the characters in the same (albeit more extreme) situation, we are appalled.

Another suggestion, similar to the above, is that the manufactured world in which the protagonists exist in is potentially a mocking of our own. Time is controlled by the kidnapper, sped up and slowed down on a whim. They are entirely dependent on him to provide their food and to keep conditions at a point at which they can keep a grip on sanity. They are mercilessly punished for every transgression. Is Brooks trying to warn us against the dangers of a controlled society? Or is he suggesting that control is imperative for modern life, as the characters descend into madness as soon as the control is lifted?

The real question is, am I just clutching at straws? The answer is undoubtedly yes. I’ve spent the last few days desperately trying to derive some kind of meaning or explanation from this harrowing novel, simply because to read through such a level of insanity and hopelessness without some kind of reasoning or statement to be taken from it is, to me, just plain wrong. I imagine every answer I’ve attempted to come up with is simply a wild theory to justify the novel I was appalled by. That said, I hope you found this interesting. 

A Review: The Bunker Diary, Kevin Brooks

Unfortunately, the first review on this blog is for a book I cannot possibly recommend. If you are looking for suggestions on something to read, then this is not the review you're looking for. Instead, it's a hybrid of analysis and a warning. For one who does want to read the book, be aware that this review will contain some potential spoilers.

The basic premise of The Bunker Diary involves the kidnapping of 6 characters, who are placed in a blank, white-walled building with no way in or out. Every day, a lift delivers food, and their every movement observed by their unseen kidnapper. The novel is presented as a diary for the most part, although in places switches to brief script, and some poetry.

The warning I referred to is this: The Bunker Diary is simply too traumatic, harrowing and utterly bleak for anyone to enjoy reading. It charts nothing more than a descent into madness and depravity, offering no hope, redemption or consolation. The content is not at all enjoyable or pleasant for any reader, let alone for a book that is marketed as suitable for children, given its inclusion in the CILIP Carnegie shortlist for this year. Expect more on this particular matter over the next couple of days.

Undoubtedly, there are elements of this book that are good, if not great. The writing is of a high standard, and the voice of the narrator, Linus, comes across very strongly. Similarly, the presentation of his fellow prisoners is equally effective. Each of them are incredibly idiosyncratic without really being stereotyped, with character as strong as Linus's. For the first half of the novel, the plot is intriguing, and moves along at a good pace. Interactions between the characters is exceptionally natural and believable.

Where The Bunker Diary falls down is that it includes huge levels of traumatic, even sickening content (especially in the final third of the novel). While this is not unusual or even a fault in itself, other novels that include similar content generally have some kind of point to prove, debate to encourage, or event to highlight. As examples, Ruta Septys' Between Shades of Grey, which details the life of a victim of Stalin's horrific labour camps, or Jason Wallace's Out Of Shadows, which relates a story racism and intolerance in Zimbabwe both contain similarly violent content, but do so with the intent of raising awareness of those very real events. Brooks, on the other hand, offers no such agenda, making this tale at best pointless and at worst sadistic, serving only to present a harrowing tale of utter futility.

So, what is it all about then? This book was described to me as 'Atheist Nihilist.', and that does seem to be an accurate assessment. The ever-unnamed kidnapper, who observes the life of the prisoners, taking direct control over their lives, appears to occupy a position close to godliness. He supplies their quite literal 'daily bread' through the lift, the notes sent via the lift to him, demanding various food and commodities, are akin to prayers, and he responds only to a kind of reverence from the prisoners. Linus at one point refers to how the real nature of the kidnapper doesn't matter, only his perception, again a potentially allusion to his godlike nature.

This would seem to contradict the notion that it's an atheist nature behind this text. However, as, in the final parts of the novel (the most traumatic and impacting), this omnipotent being vanishes, his motives and nature remaining a mystery. The protagonists exist in abject terror of their kidnapper, only to have him cease to exist, leaving them literally in the dark, without hope or purpose. the god-character, if he ever existed, abandons the protagonists in the their microcosm, a godless setting. As such, it's no great leap to assume that there are distinct atheist undertones here.

The nihilism comes in slowly throughout the novel, with several layers leading to the impression of the ultimate futility and hopelessness of life. Apart from the completely bleak ending (if one can call it that), another element that adds to this feel is the characters themselves. Brooks proves he is willing to present some very real issues in this surreal tale, such as alcoholism, drugs, homosexuality and mental illness, but at the same time, these are merely character traits. They are not so much confronted as discarded in the face of the hopeless and futile plot, to the point at which they become insignificant. By the time the conclusion is reached, the nature, flaws and  issues present in the characters become largely irrelevant. Nothing and no one matters in the plot as it draws to a close.

Furthermore, there is no motive presented for the kidnapping. Every death becomes pointless, as does the imprisonment itself. There is no kind of resolution to the plot, no close, and no point. It simply leaves too many questions unanswered to be a satisfying conclusion, and unlike some other novels with similarly unresolved endings (Patrick Ness's More Than This springs to mind), The Bunker Diary is brutally clear in its ending. You know it's coming, and it is a foregone conclusion. Death, worthless and pointless, is the only end possible to this story.

There can be no denying that this novel prompted a very strong response on reading it, but unfortunately, that response was neither insightful nor enjoyable. It left me feeling physically sick at the sheer depravity of the last few entries into the Diary, and at points I had to actually leave the book for a while, too appalled to continue. Unless you want a similar experience, I really recommend avoiding this novel.

To conclude, I won't say don't read this book, but do not expect to a) enjoy it or b) take anything meaningful from it. It is unsatisfying, horrifying, appalling and traumatic. While aspects might be intriguing, and the real trauma doesn't set in until the final third, I wouldn't say it's worth reading at all. There are better books that deal with similar themes, and will leave you less shaken at the end. It's impossible to rate or score, as there is such a dissonance between the quality of the writing and the unpleasant content. I am almost considering reading more of Brooks' work, as his style and skill are obvious, but this particular novel is one of the few books that I genuinely regret reading. There is simply nothing to take from it but utter hopelessness.