The writing is first-rate (as you'd expect from the consummate wordsmith that A F Harrold is), and the pictures are similarly brilliant. The plot, surprisingly, is strangely prosaic, which makes this book unexpectedly better than you might otherwise expect.
When you pick up such a book you expect all sorts of improbable events, including heath-robinson contraptions which achieve remarkable effects; oddly-constructed humanoids with bizarre powers; physics-stretching occurrences which allow impossible events to take place - but everything, and I mean everything, in this book is not only within the realm of the possible, but also in the realm of the everyday. And such is its charm, and, dare I say, its chill.
It describes a particularly nasty experience that happened to two young lads which is slap-bang in the centre of contemporary Britain. The only weirdness you meet is the eccentricity of the people who populate it, all of whom are well within the parameters of the possible, and all described with a precision that suggest that these people actually exist, have been met, and are out there living a life.
I refuse to give this a 5, on the grounds that I wanted there to be more to the plot than there actually was - but I'm pretty damn sure there *will* be more, in due course.
I particularly liked the encounter with the local kids, where Fizzlebert introduces himself:
"Your name is Fizzlebert?" the tallest boy asked. "Really? Fizz? All? Bert?"