A list of writers name-checked by Dean Koontz’s ‘Relentless’:

Dostoyevsky; Ballard; Chesterton; Flaubert; Dr Seuss; Flannery O’Connor; Dickens; Capote; Hemmingway; Fitzgerald; Robert Heinlein; Zane Grey; Chandler; Edgar Rice Burroughs; Virginia Woolf; Somerset Maugham; Spillane; Longfellow; Aristophanes; Aristotle; Plato; Euripides; Plutarch; Herodotus; Hippocrates; Euclid; Archimedes; Dante; Chaucer; Thomas Aquinas; Shakespeare; Boswell; Johnson; Conrad; Bellow; Churchill; Orwell; Pasternak; Evelyn Waugh; Bertrand Russell; Rousseau; Shelley; Marx; Freud; Nietzsche; Tolstoy; Sartre; Jack London.

The plot of this bizarre thriller sees an author receive a scathing review from an influential critic, and then almost immediately afterwards the same critic attempts to kill him and his family. This is an odd and preposterous read (which at times doesn’t just rely on coincidence, but actual science fiction), where the main interest is held by trying to work out just what point Dean Koontz is striving to make.

Is he saying that a scathing review can be likened to a murderous assault? Does he believe that people who give bad reviews have rage and hatred in their hearts? As an author who rarely even gets the kind of grudging respect given to Stephen King, does he feel hard done by? Look at that list of authors again. In the main they’re critically respected in their fields and have eased their way – to some degree – into the Canon (okay, not Rice Burroughs). Is Dean Koontz pressing his nose forlornly against the glass and wishing he was there too?

Towards the end of the book, a number of those writers – Shelley, Marx, Freud, Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Russell, Sartre – are described thus: “Geniuses, yes, and some of them fine artists. But madmen. And their contributions to the world were irrationality, chaos, excuses for mass murder, despair.” (It’s a while since I’ve read Shelley’s poetry, but really? It offers excuses for mass murder and despair?) I think the reader is supposed to see that because the narrator is a decent man and good to his family, he is better than them and his work more positive even if it isn’t as long lasting (although its innate quality may be recognised after his death). But it’s difficult to really appreciate this point as we never really get a sense of what kind of books this author writes (except they’re not thrillers). Nor do we even get to read the review which starts this book in motion.

In fact, if the point of this novel is hitting back at any critic who has ever dared criticise the Koontz, then it really isn’t the best weapon. Prosaically written and poorly plotted, it assumes foreshadowing means just announcing something is going to happen a few chapters down the road, and has an ending which relies on pulling something incredible out of a hat to round things off neatly. There are one or two strong chapters, but not nearly enough to wade through the whole book for.

And if I’m honest it left something of a bitter taste in my mouth. A globally successfully writer jumping up and proclaiming: “WRITE WHAT YOU LIKE ABOUT ME, I DON’T CARE – I’M A GOOD PERSON ANYWAY AND THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS!” before flouncing dramatically from the room. I think we can all agree that the sight of multi-millionaires lecturing the rest of us because of the lack of respect they get is never an edifying one.

Two stars.

(And Dean, if you do happen to read this, don’t worry – I’m not going to try and kill you. I might not have liked your book very much, but I’m still one of the good guys.)