James Bradley's portrait of one man's descent into a hell of his own making, and his seduction by the darker side of life, has left me reeling. Gabriel Swift arrives in London in 1826 to work alongside one of the city's great anatomists, preparing corpses for lecture - but his increasing involvement with the resurrectionists of the book's title sets him on a different path. At once a claustrophic page-turner, there's something unusually classical here as well - the novel is Dickensian in its detail, and its characters often feel as if they walked straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy into the underside of 1820s London. Lucan, overlord of the city's illegal trade in human bodies, is majestically drawn - but it's Gabriel's slow slide away from innocence, and the way Bradley twists and plays with the reader's sympathy, that truly haunts. The moment when the reader finally understands how far Gabriel has come, how the city has corrupted him, how he has been touched and tainted by the things he has seen and done, comes upon you so viciously and abruptly that it's a moment I'm still brooding on.
Deeply addictive - and one of the most pleasingly unsettling novels I've read in years.