By Martin Pevsner
Greg wakes up in a distant warfare quarter, sole survivor of an air crash brought on by a suicide bomber. Aman faces the disappearance of his spouse and youngsters in a family members blood feud. Samira is pressured to deal with the complexities of existence as an asylum-seeker within the united kingdom. Nuala needs to care for the inside track that her husband is lacking, presumed lifeless, sufferer of a terrorist atrocity. Divinity highway, Martin Pevsner's first novel, lines the lives of 4 participants and the unforeseen hyperlinks that bind them jointly. From violent clash in Africa to the suburban streets of Oxford, it inspires a global of alienation and separation, fanaticism and cruelty, yet eventually celebrates the ability of human unity and resilience.
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Extra resources for Divinity Road
You barely registered my existence, answering my gently probing questions about your studies with a vague detachment. You said later you were worried about a test you were due to take that day, but I think in truth I simply made no impression on you. When, as you paid the fare and made to leave, I asked you what your name was, you hesitated, as if waking from a day-dream and realising for the first time that you were in someone else’s company, then shrugged and answered with a non-committal but not unfriendly smile.
It was an odd time, a period of uncertainty and paranoia. I was trying to seek out the smugglers who had offered you their business, and my attempts to make contact with them were met with hostility. At the same time, I became increasingly conscious that I myself was being watched. I realised that the tentacles of the boy’s family were still spread across Addis and that spies had become aware of my return and were monitoring my every move. What I learned about your flight was confused and contradictory.
Locked in the back of the lorry along with twenty or so fellow Africans, I passed the endless hours in complete darkness, the air fetid with sweat and human waste, the continual motion and lack of light creating a sense of total disorientation. How many days and nights did the journey take? Which countries did we pass through? After a day or two I could barely differentiate between sleep and wakefulness, let alone answer such complex questions. But I was getting closer to you, my darling. So when the back of the lorry opened for the last time and we emerged, dazzled by the light and still nauseous from the Channel crossing, onto the potholed tarmac of a lorry park on the outskirts of some English coastal town, the loss of nerve I experienced was tempered by my belief in your proximity.