Bulkhead by Ciaran Cross

Bulkhead
By Ciaran Cross
Self-published

I thought I’d lost this. I was chuffed to bits when I found it this morning, because it’s a really good read–worth repeat reads in fact.  Some things are left unexplained, leaving you to ponder them as you pack for your holiday, while others are unnecessarily explained when they needn’t have been.  The art first though: at first glance it’s got a touch of Renee French about it, that misty quality, but on closer inspection it’s less dreamy and, I don’t know, humid?  I’m probably only using that because the story takes place in a Central American country, but he’s got the closeness of that atmosphere spot on.

There’s a great page of Chris Ware-esque tiny panels showing our journalist finding and entering his hotel room that ends with a shallow landscape through his windows bars.  Same again on the facing page, waking up in a sweaty room, scratching himself, having a crap and trying to light a fag on a mosquito coil.  Our hero, as much as he is, is less mild mannered, more of a listener than a talker, being a freelance reporter sent to cover the guerrilla actives somewhere or other.  He has few friends while he’s there, being a nuisance to the few he meets at best, while being robbed in the kindest way.

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