Review: He Died With His Eyes Open

He Died With His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Think of this as “Krapp’s Last Tape” if Raymond Chandler had written it.

Our protagonist is an unnamed detective in the Thatcher years with London’s “Factory,” a branch of the police tasked with solving crimes no one else is concerned with. He’s divorced, lives in a depressing bachelor pad, and has no life outside of his work. Over time we learn that he’s an excellent detective, a handsome and appealing lover (if he chooses), and a tough physical presence, but the central fact of his life is an emptiness.

He begins to fill that emptiness when, investigating the brutal murder of a middle-aged washout, he finds himself replaying dozens of diary-style cassettes on which Staniland recorded his frustrations, philosophical digressions and, above all, infatuation with a tough “club woman” who emerges as a clear suspect in his murder.

Our protagonist sets about interviewing everyone he can, finding himself ever drawn into Staniland’s life as he constantly replays the tapes. Unlike Samuel Beckett’s Krapp, who listens to stories he told himself in his youth, our detective here begins to fill in the blanks of his own life with the experiences and frustrated passions of Staniland

This gets a bit clunky near the end when [SEMI-SPOILER] he finally locates the Barbara and manipulates her through the insights Staniland has given him, but even there there’s a disquieting sense of impersonation and parasitism.

As a word of caution, some of the cassette passages begin to drag as well.

Set aside those concerns, though, and this book lives up to the glowing introduction from none other than James Sallis, who calls Raymond one of the real greats. And I can well imagine that Sallis is right. There are, apparently, four other novels in the Factory series. I will certainly be looking for another one soon.

As a bottom line, this is noir like few are able to accomplish. It’s existential in the way it challenges us to see how flimsy our hold on life/reality is, and it teases us with a mystery that’s compelling in its own right but ultimately just a symptom of a greater despair.


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