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Satellite Image by Michelle Berry

Reviewed by Jerry Levy


It’s generally acknowledged that moving living quarters is among life’s most stressful events. So imagine moving from an apartment in the bustling city to an old, creaky house in the countryside, one replete with strange noises, where windows seemingly open at will, and where the unfinished basement holds untold secrets…rooms that are sealed and boarded up. Add to the simmering insidious brew in the small town of Parkville are odd neighbours, including one, Rain, a “skinny and pale” hippy-dippy vegan who believes no one on the street likes her, who wears layered floppy clothes “like she’s in a cult,” and who refuses to eat most food. Then there’s Pierre and Ruby, retreads from the 1970s in their appearance and dress, who, during a dinner party, huddle nervously on the sofa and whisper to each other. Ruby also reveals at that same dinner party the supposed true story of a teenager hidden and living in a box under the bed of kidnappers. As it is said of the female protagonist, Ginny, about her guests: “There’s something strange about them and Ginny knows she keeps inviting them to dinner parties to figure out what it is. Sometimes she thinks they are hiding something from her, as if they all know something she doesn’t know. She watches their eyes, the way they look at each other.”


If all that weren’t enough to cause panic, then perhaps the shadowy figure that appears not only in the ravine that borders the rear of the house but also in the house itself, would undoubtedly send any new homeowner scurrying back to the city in a mad rush. It just may be though that all this might not have been unexpected – for prior to actually moving, Ginny and her newly minted husband Matt, using Google Maps, see the outline of what appears to be a human figure laying in the snow in the backyard of the house, something red (blood?) trickling out the side of its chest. Or do they? For when they attempt to check the image a second time on their laptop, this figure, or whatever it was, is no longer there.


 This is the premise of Satellite Image, Michelle Berry’s 11th book (novels/short stories), a work that might very well be looked upon as a master class in how to write a mystery novel. It begins with the opening sentence, an intriguing, albeit disturbing hook: “Ginny hasn’t slept well in nine months, since she was attacked in the alley.” And that incident, known in storytelling circles as an “inciting incident,” sets the plot in motion, spurring Matt and Ginny to uproot their lives and flee the noisy, congested, and crime-infested city for the bucolic safety of the country. But as the story moves along, the couple begin to wonder whether they’ve made a mistake. After all, money is now much tighter (Ginny had to quit her bank job to make the move and the couple are now first-time homeowners, with all the costs that entails), they’re much further away from family (although this comes with both good and bad consequences), and the conveniences of living in a large city are now gone (Parkville has a single “good” restaurant, one that serves “fried chicken and mashed potatoes cooked in different sauces.”). There are no movie theatres in town and although it has a lake and some wonderful hiking and bike trails, the muddy ravine no longer has a walkable path as the foliage there has grown wild; in addition, hypodermic needles are strewn about, there is garbage everywhere, and the ravine smells not only of animal carcasses but also of smoke/fire.


Still, the hope is that the move to a safer environment will allow Ginny to wean off her antianxiety medication (prescribed by her doctor following the assault) and also, the house, considerably larger than the apartment they rented in the city, has so much potential, even if it needs a lot of renovations. And when Ginny gets pregnant, she and Matt think it will be the perfect place to bring up a child. Maybe. Because over time, the house, and all the creepiness it entails, begins to “infect their feelings,” and strains their relationship. This new abode of theirs affords no rest, no quietude, and at first glance, isn’t any safer. Because not only do they hear scratches in the walls and thumps coming from the basement, but the hallway window, as stated, simply refuses to stay shut. As well, Christmas ornaments inexplicably fall off the Christmas tree, as if they somehow have a will of their own, and both Ginny and Matt are beset with horrific nightmares. And just like in the city where Ginny was attacked, someone appears to now be following her. For not only does this mysterious person sometimes stand on the patio looking in, and other times break into the house (but does not steal anything), but on one dinner occasion, tiny Cornish hen bones are surreptitiously removed from the dirty plates in the kitchen and displayed on the counter, spelling out the word “Leave.”


As the tension ratchets up, Berry occasionally infuses the story with much-needed humour that dampens down some of the unease and jitters the reader undoubtedly feels. For instance, during the couple’s outdoor wedding, Ginny’s sister, Christine, trips and falls on to the ground. As Ginny laughs, “My mom tried to help her wash the dirt off her butt with a bottle of water, but she just smeared it. Poor Christine. Muddy butt.” And one day, Ginny sees her neighbours Matt and Pat and chuckles to herself at their rhyming names: “Matt and Pat. Like a little kid’s book. Matt and Pat own a cat and sit on a mat and each have a hat and are frightened by a bat.” Ha! Or sometimes she even directs her humour (this time somewhat caustically) toward Matt; the latter, a high-school English teacher who likes throwing out useless quotes from famous authors like Aesop and Virginia Woolf, is given a proverbial “taste of his own medicine,” when he tells Ginny he tried to fix the blasted window, he really did: “You could have asked Virginia Woolf to help you,” she grumbles in retort. Brilliant.


As well as comic relief, Berry uses the art of “misdirection.” A magician’s tool, but often employed in fiction as well. Especially mysteries. Authors such as Margaret Atwood, Edgar Allan Poe, Daphne du Maurier, Arthur Conan Doyle, and many others, have used it to great effect. And in Satellite Image, we see it as well: When informed of the break-ins and such in and around the house, the police conclude it was just a bunch of kids. Just teenagers up to mischief. Another consideration is that some of the strange neighbours have something to do with all of this. Or, perhaps much of the madness can be attributed to Ginny’s raging hormones now that she is pregnant, or even to her use of Xanax. For this drug is well-known for altering brain chemistry, even to the point of causing hallucinations. And even Matt, on occasion, wonders whether he is going mad; stress from his job, the move, the house’s many issues, finances, his wife’s pregnancy and mental instability. Maybe the house is really safe after all. Maybe it’s all a figment of imagination, of drugs, anxiety, PTSD stemming from the alleyway attack. Imagined madness, then, straight from the Mighty Oz, the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz, his head enormous, his voice amplified and screaming, surrounded by smoke and fire, who turns out to be a very little bald man behind the curtain; for years he has used Misdirection to fool and bamboozle all his subjects. Only when Toto pulls back the curtains do we see who he really is. But all this in Satellite Image diverts the reader’s attention and demands they consider other possibilities. It keeps them engaged and is the secret sauce in plot twists, leading to surprises throughout. Judicially and deftly used, as Berry does, it actually increases tension.


Satellite Image is a true page-turner, one that keeps readers guessing and on edge throughout. Overall, a remarkable and compelling read.


Satellite Image is published by Wolsak & Wynn.


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