Brighton Rock

Pinkie, the boy with death at his fingertips, was not just bad – he worshipped in the temple of evil as his parents had worshipped in the house of God.

Crime, in his dark mind, was a release so deep and satisfying that he had no need of drink or women.

There is a sinister, chilling fascination in Graham Greene’s story of the Brighton underworld – a story which, when it is finished, seems to have been injected into the veins.