I have a problem with Gun Machine. It’s really good. It should be bloody brilliant. It is. Sometimes. Just not all the time. A policeman is revived and renewed by his finding of a treasure trove of guns, each used in a single murder, in an exact and particular manner. Character development. Fucked up redemption. The book drips with craft. The emotion and feeling and style emanate. I like this book a lot, but it makes me angry because it flashes with brilliance – the passage with oil heating in a pan – I want the whole thing like that. All mine.