In the morning there was hope. It sat like a fleeting gleam of light in my mother’s smooth black hair that I never dared touch; it lay on my tongue with the sugar and the lukewarm oatmeal I was slowly eating while I looked at my mother’s slender, folded hands that lay motionless on the newspaper, on top of the reports about the Spanish flu and the Treaty of Versailles. My father had left for work and my brother was in school. So my mother was alone, even though I was there and if I was absolutely still and didn’t say a word, the remote calm in her inscrutable heart would last until the morning had grown old and she had to go out to do the shopping in Istedgade like ordinary housewives.
Is Throw Me To the Wolves a story about media manipulation that corrupts ordinary people? Is it a well-written, if too long, crime novel? Or is it, as The Guardian says, “an elegaic exploration of memory and the legacy of childhood trauma”?
Imagine, for a minute, that you’re a schoolgirl in an English boarding school in the 1950’s. You’re out walking in the woods and you run into an escapee from the Broadmoor Psychiatric hospital ten miles away. What do you do?