Reviewed by David Gow

James McKimmey's 1962 novel is the literary equivalent of a tough but quirky road movie, and it is a surprise as well as a shame that it has apparently never been filmed.

Sharing the petrol costs on a car journey from Loma City (In the Midwest) to San Francisco are: Harry Wells, a murderous bank robber who has lost his loot; John Benson, the FBI agent sent to collar him, and Allan Garwith, the troubled and unlikeable character who has happened upon and stashed the stolen money.

Mrs Landry is the respectable widow who owns the car, her driving causing alarm even to her tougher passengers. Also riding are Garwith's adoring and maligned wife Cicely; the shrill librarian Miss Kennicot, and the alluring drifter Margaret Moore.

Whether in the car or in the towns where they stop off, these characters are trapped together in a frantically strained situation. The author exploits many angles of this set up, creating a building sense of tension but also moments of humour.

While he is immediately drawn to Margaret Moore, John Benson quickly finds himself the target of Miss Kennicot's cringingly unattractive romantic advances (and some pretty bad love poems):

Miss Kennicot fitted her hands around John Benson's arm like a wrestler about to try for the first fall. She grinned wickedly and said, "Why, imagine, John! I guess we both had the same idea, didn't we! Coming down here? [...] And here we are, both of us! Two minds with but a single thought. I'd call that a mental marriage, wouldn't you, John? [...]" There was a full, long gale of laughter, as Miss Kennicot's fingers tightened on John's arm to the point of pain.

Benson is a likeable protagonist, and not without his subtleties; but, as is often the case, the villains of the piece are far more complex and interesting characters. From the brutal opening chapter onwards, Harry Wells is a convincingly portrayed psychopath, inhuman and relentless. The intensity of Wells' focus is shown not just in scenes of violence, but perhaps more so in the calm moments where we encounter his character alone, and particularly in one strangely chilling flashback to his army days. It's at the end of chapter eight. I'd like to have quoted a few lines, but as testament to its quality, I realised this scene couldn't really be conveyed without quoting the whole thing, and I don't have space for that [click here]. Suffice to say, these couple of pages seem to me a very good example of character development within the constraints of a fast-moving narrative. Read and they will stay with you.

Allan Garwith is a still more impressive creation. Once the footballing hero of his high school, at 24 he is a wife-abusing nobody whose only distinction is having shot off his own hand in a botched robbery attempt.

The description of this dark incident is, for me, the highlight of the book, an alcohol and lust-fuelled nightmare which has permanently scarred Garwith's mind even more than it has his body.

The last he remembered was Charissa's face close to his, those bright, white teeth gleaming. He'd heard her voice, soft, polite, "You are good for nothing, eh, little baby?" Then felt her long, sharp fingernails gouging down the side of his face.

He'd awakened on the side of a swamp, muddy, face bloody and sore, arm stump hurting because he'd been rolled down to the edge of that swamp; there was a fever in his head.

The Long Ride is a satisfying book that manages to be both playful and dark. If you can buy or borrow yourself a copy, it comes highly recommended.

Copyright© 2004 David Gow

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DAVID GOW works as a shop assistant in Edinburgh.
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