Alright, strap in, you sickos, because Lucy Rose’s latest, The Lamb, is a hell of a book that’ll leave you equal parts horrified and horny for more. Picture a windswept shithole in Cumbria, England, where the sheep outnumber the people and the Wi-Fi’s a myth. In this 336-page fever dream, Rose, a filmmaker turned word-slinger with a hard-on for gothic nastiness, serves up a story about a cannibal mom and her creepy kid. It’s like if the Brothers Grimm got drunk, fucked a slasher flick, and birthed a feminist nightmare baby. Let’s dig into this delicious pile of entrails.

The book kicks off with a line that hits like a sledgehammer to the nuts: “On my fourth birthday, I plucked six severed fingers from the shower drain.” That’s Margot, our eleven-year-old narrator, popping off with the kind of casual fucked-uppery that makes you wonder if she’s gonna grow up to be a serial killer or just a really weird chef. She’s holed up in a rotting-ass cottage with her mom, Ruth, a chick who’s less “nurturing matriarch” and more “Hannibal Lecter with a uterus.” Ruth’s got a side hustle luring dipshit hikers—“strays,” she calls ‘em—to their doom. She spikes their tea with hemlock, chops ‘em up like it’s a fucking Jamie Oliver special, and serves ‘em rare. Margot, dubbed “Little One,” just shrugs and chows down like it’s Taco Tuesday. Bon appétit, you twisted little gremlin.

Shit gets wilder when Eden, some hot-ass enigma with a wolfish vibe, rolls in during a snowstorm. She doesn’t get the chop-chop treatment—nah, she gets in Ruth’s panties instead, turning their murder shack into a fucked-up throuple situation. Suddenly, Margot’s relegated to third wheel, watching her mom bone this new chick while the body count piles up. Eden’s all in, hacking up strays like she’s auditioning for Texas Chainsaw, and Margot’s left picking fingernails out of her porridge, wondering what the hell’s going on. Then she meets Steve, a school bus driver who’s too goddamn nice for this mess, and Abbie, a classmate who’s maybe her first crush—hello, baby queer vibes! It’s a slow burn to Margot figuring out she doesn’t wanna be her mom’s meat puppet forever, building to an insane climax.

Cumbria’s the real MVP here. Rose, who grew up in that damp hellhole, paints it like a fairy-tale forest blended with a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The cottage is a moldy death trap, the woods are crawling with vibes that scream “you’re gonna die here,” and the whole place feels like nature’s telling you to fuck off. It’s isolated—no cell service, no neighbors, just you, your cannibal mom, and a whole lotta screams. Perfect spot for a murder spree or a really bad Airbnb rental.

The Lamb is all about hunger, and not just the “I could eat a horse” kind—though Ruth’d probably eat the jockey too. This is hunger with teeth, literal and metaphorical. Ruth’s chowing down on randos like it’s a fuckin’ buffet, but it’s deeper than that—she’s starving for control, connection, something to fill the black hole where her soul should be. She’s a monster, sure, but she’s also a mom, cuddling Margot one minute and bitching about how the kid ruined her life the next. Ruth’s a walking paradox: part nurturing goddess, part flesh-eating psycho. You almost feel bad for her, until you remember she’s got a fridge full of hikers.

Margot’s hunger starts off just as fucked. She’s scarfing down dude-steaks like it’s no big deal—kid’s got the palate of a goddamn wendigo. But then she grows a brain and a heart, starts craving things like friendship and maybe a smooch from Abbie. It’s a coming-of-age story wrapped in a butcher’s apron, and Rose nails that shift from “yummy, finger food!” to “maybe I don’t wanna be a cannibal freak.” There’s a queer thread here too, subtle but juicy, like Margot’s figuring out she’s got appetites her mom can’t carve up and serve.

Then there’s the whole “sins of the mother” stuff. Ruth’s a trainwreck because life screwed her, and now she’s screwing Margot by proxy. It’s generational trauma with a side of gore—Ruth passes down her damage like a shitty heirloom, and Margot’s gotta decide if she’s gonna keep the cycle spinning or burn it all down. The title’s a cheeky nod to sacrifice—Margot as the lamb to Ruth’s slaughter—but don’t expect some holy redemption arc. This ain’t Sunday school; it’s a blood-soaked cage match between love and survival.

Rose writes like she’s got a poet’s soul and a butcher’s hands. Her prose is fuckin’ gorgeous—“lyrical as hell” meets “I need a shower after this.” She’ll describe a guy getting gutted in a way that’s so lush you almost forget it’s disgusting, then hit you with a line like Margot calling Eden “a wolf or something older and more watchful” that’s pure fairy-tale gold. It’s a tightrope walk between beauty and brutality, and Rose balances it deftly.

Margot’s voice is the star of the novel. She’s eleven, so she’s got that kid logic where murder’s just another chore, but Rose layers in this dawning awareness that’s equal parts heartbreaking and badass. Lines like “Her story had to be mine” hit you in the gut—here’s this tiny psycho yearning for something normal, and you’re rooting for her even as she’s licking blood off her fingers. The pacing is a bit slow, like Rose wants you to marinate in the dread, but when it pops off, it hooks you with a fireworks show of guts and glory. The ending? Holy fuck, it’s a tender trainwreck—brutal enough to make you flinch, sweet enough to make you cry.

The Lamb ain’t for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. It’s a nasty, beautiful, fucked-up ride through a world where love’s a meat cleaver and family’s a death sentence. Lucy Rose storms in like a rookie champ. She’s not here to coddle you—she wants to leave you shook, and she does it with style. If you’ve got the balls to crack this open, you’re in for a story that’s unforgettable. Now excuse me while I go bleach my brain and hug my mom.

W&N
Published February 4, 2025