The Second Cut

Louise Welsh
Canongate Books

In 2002 Louise Welsh’s debut novel The Cutting Room announced a new and groundbreaking voice to Scottish writing. Set in her home city of Glasgow, it introduced readers to people and places which were rarely encountered in Scotland’s fiction, and brought a true gothic sensibility to a city which was made for it. Then there was the central character of Rilke who is in the classic noir tradition. An outsider who keeps both friends and enemies at a distance (aware that those categories are not exclusive) Rilke is a man of bad decisions yet impeccable taste, one who is attracted to those dark corners of Glasgow where hard drink and dangerous sex are to be found.

20 years on and Rilke makes his eagerly awaited return in Welsh’s latest novel The Second Cut. Like Glasgow itself, he has changed over time but is still recognisably himself. Always drawn to brief encounters, and still defiantly single, he now has to negotiate a world of Grindr and GHB, not to mention COVID, and increasingly feels he just wasn’t made for these times. As old acquaintances begin to turn up dead he becomes embroiled in events which are more closely connected than they first appear as Welsh weaves multiple plot strands together beautifully.

The Second Cut is a classic detective novel by any other name, one which thrills, and often shocks as dead bodies are discovered on city streets, sex parties are taken to extremes, and human trafficking is a distinct possibility. But at its core there is a humanity which is heartwarming. When we left Rilke in 2002 there was a feeling that this was a man destined to stand alone and remain so. But it soon becomes clear that over the years he has gathered around him a family of sorts, one who would qualify as dysfunctional to many, but who prove they are there for each other when needed. In that sense it is a novel which celebrates and champions the outsider.

The Second Cut doesn’t have the impact of The Cutting Room—how could it? But it’s vicariously exhilarating to be in and around Rilke’s world once more. It’s like catching up with an old friend who you always feared the worst for, and finding out that while they appear to have changed little over the years, they have adjusted enough to survive. I hope this is not the last time we meet Rilke, but if it is then this is a fine and fond farewell to one of Scottish literature’s more memorable characters of the 21st century.

—Alistair Braidwood