In a superb essay surveying the Reacher canon, Sam Leith notes that “he doesn’t live within the Army’s code has (at least insofar as it’s useful to him) internalized it”.
He is, at least in the abstract, an itinerant practitioner of artisanal fascism, educating even the pettiest of hoodlums in the doctrine of just war and opening pop-up dispensaries of overwhelming force wherever he identifies sufficient demand. This last element of Reacher’s nature ought to be troubling. He is, at least in the abstract, an itinerant practitioner of artisanal fascism The retributive-moral-justice element of Reacher’s nature ought to be troubling. In such moments (and they are many), we behold a virtuoso of bodily harm, an agent of fabulous violence equipped with both a monumental physique (he is 6ft 5in and possessed of fists “the size of supermarket chickens”) and an unshakeable view of retributive moral justice.
When he does, he shows himself to be a fearsome exponent of extrajudicial redress, confronting hired goons and hulking farm boys with a tranquil demeanour and a preternatural aptitude for physical combat. He doesn’t look for trouble, but he invariably finds it. This brings us to the other main thing about Reacher. This forlorn inventory varies only to the extent that Reacher’s cash reserves are occasionally supplemented in the course of what might be termed his vocational activities. Reacher carries with him a folding toothbrush, a lapsed passport and a modest stash of folding money. He renounces all personal possessions save for the contents of his pockets, which are itemised with such regularity that to the initiated they have assumed a liturgical familiarity. He adopts a vagrant and ascetic lifestyle, hitchhiking from town to town and bedding down in motels where the carpets are sticky but no questions are asked. Though decorated for acts of valour (which he seldom mentions), his fraught relations with authority stalled his advance, leaving him – in the service jargon he still favours – “terminal at Major”.įollowing his honourable discharge, Reacher embraces the freedom of civilian life with a characteristic maximalism. He is a former soldier, or more precisely (and he is a man who values precision) a former military cop who once commanded the feared 110th Special Unit. So, who is this Jack Reacher, and why does he inspire such devotion? Although a richer back story unfolds in the subsequent novels, Child’s leading man emerges more or less fully formed in the opening pages of Killing Floor, published in 1997. This was, as Reacher himself might put it, no kind of a small deal.
Child’s brother, Andrew Grant, would become Andrew Child and would – following a collaborative transition period – assume full authorship of the ongoing oeuvre.
I had by no means come to terms with what I had learned, as I fortified my coffee with a third shot of espresso, but by 9.45 or so I was at least in possession of the facts.Īnd the facts were these: Lee Child, whose real name is James Grant and who last year published his 24th novel to routine acclaim, had announced his retirement. While still hunched on the edge of my bed, I had scrolled in mounting dismay through rehashings by four or five different news outlets of what was clearly the same press release, with the same baleful import. I had seen the headline in a notification before I even unlocked my phone. I would be expected to arrive fully briefed.īut I had heard, of course. If I hadn’t already, I was required to scan my newsfeed and apprise myself of all available intelligence. No, this was a development of such magnitude that our little convocation of the faithful had been called into emergency session. We’d happily cluck away over a title reveal, sure, but not at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. There had been Reacher news, clearly, and not of an everyday kind.
The hashtag, of course, referred to Jack Reacher, hero of Lee Child’s long-running thriller series and for us the subject of endless discussion, all of it energetic if not dependably high-minded.Īs for her question, its ominous character was evident not just in its terseness but in its timing. It was from the writer and columnist Lucy Mangan, and though it might appear cryptic, it was all she needed to say. The first message I saw in my Twitter mentions on Saturday morning was brief, consisting of just three words and a hashtag.