The Cutting Room by Louise Welsh

 

James Purdy’s second novel, The Nephew, written in 1961, was controversial in its day and – sadly – the reason for that controversy still affects a lot of fiction today. It tells the story of a (possible, never explicitly proven) homosexual love affair between a young man, Cliff, who subsequently goes to war in Korea and is posted missing in action, and another young man from his home town, called Vernon. What makes the novel so powerful is that this is not its principal theme; indeed, it is only late in the novel that this plotline emerges at all. There is no didacticism here; the homosexuality is not being written about as an “issue” with the characters only existing because they are homosexual and the novel only existing for the reason of debating that. Fifty plus years later, too many writers still cannot routinely create characters who just happen to be gay (or black, or Muslim), without this being a crucial element of the plot. It is the same problem Percival Everett bemoans when he says he wishes to be read as a writer, not as an African-American.

All very interesting, I’m sure you’re saying, but what does this have to do with Louise Welsh’s first novel, The Cutting Room?

The reason is that the novel’s protagonist, the wonderfully dissolute Rilke, is a gay man who, in the course of the novel, has a few sexual encounters. As with Purdy, however, Welsh doesn’t use this as a way of exploring gay sexuality: Rilke just happens to be a gay man. He is a beautifully created character, rich and complex, highly believable, as are the other main characters in the novel, and they all combine to provide a rich evocation of the seedier side of Glasgow living. The sense of place Welsh creates is profound, and you really feel you are immersed in this milieu.

Rilke is an auctioneer who is called by Miss McKindless to clear the property of her recently deceased brother. She wants this done quickly, and she advises Rilke that he is likely to find some unsavoury material. This, she wants destroyed. Rilke finds in an attic a complete library of pornographic material which he realises contains very rare and valuable works. As he looks through it he discovers some photographs of a young woman being tortured and killed. They are so realistic Rilke wonders whether they might be real, and he begins to investigate.

This pitches him into a shady Glasgow community of pornographers and fetishists and bent police. The novel zips along at a tremendous pace and we’re drawn willingly into Rilke’s world, as curious as him to find out the truth behind these terrible photographs. That truth, when it comes, is shocking.

I first read this when it came out in 2002, and Louise Welsh has just published, twenty years on, the sequel, The Second Cut. I’ve been looking forward to that but felt I needed to re-read The Cutting Room before I did. I’m glad I did. It was fun to make Rilke’s acquaintance once more, and I’m even more excited now to read The Second Cut.