This is the third fiction offering from feted young(ish) London author Patrick Neate, previous winner of the Whitbread. But readers hoping for more of the same sub-Saharan spiked jollity or jazz-inflected lyricism of his first two novels may be temporarily disappointed. I say temporarily because, while the subject matter (internecine strife between newly-sentient flying rats in the sky above London, linked Escher-like to the lives of a sprinkling of the capital's more unusual suspects down below) is a real departure, the quality of his writing is arguably even more mature here. Neate has always excelled at the juggling act between fine farce and haunting seriousness - but in LPW he displays a writerly ambition that will keep him on many people's must-read lists for generations to come. From the linguistic effrontery of his pidgin / pigeon English to the sharp characterisation, via his obvious distaste for London and many of its cartoonish inhabitants, this is a vivid, biting, hilarious, scary, moving, touching, inventive, puzzling, and ultimately involving read. And how often can you say that?