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Austin Duffy does not believe in quotation marks. Not once in the 304 pages of his latest book, “Cross,” does Duffy attribute a quote to its speaker, instead relying on em-dashes and spaces between lines to create a sense of minimalism and grittiness à la “Peaky Blinders.”

Needless to say, his novel is not for everyone. But for those who can overlook the lack of punctuation, readers will be completely immersed in a society of paranoia, vengeance, and fear that Duffy masterfully cultivates, as he explores the psyche of resistance fighters and the gradual decay of ideals into sadism.

Set in 1994, “Cross” tells the fictional story of a small town — Cross — in Northern Ireland during the summer before the Irish Republican Army (IRA) ceasefire. Lead characters include Francie, a persnickety officer in Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise Service who works part-time as a professional stalker for the rebellion, and the Widow Donnelly, who goes on hunger strike after her son is ostracized by the IRA.

Everything from the language and humor of the characters to the meticulous descriptions of ordinary settings contributes to the hyperrealism that makes “Cross” so painful to read. Full of needless cruelty, paranoia, and senseless violence, Duffy skilfully depicts the worst things that humans can do to each other when they engage in violence.

The plot of “Cross” is a series of moments flashing by — snippets of conversations, brief images of someone lighting a cigarette or pulling a door closed, garbled memories that flow past so quickly it is difficult to process. Duffy’s work could be read in two ways. The first is to carefully parse through the indefinitely expanding cast of characters, noting who says what in the unmarked dialogue and attempting to understand the complex neighborly and familial relationships that seem to link everyone together. The second way to read “Cross” is to relax, allow the plot to slip away from you, and imagine various voices, ranging from a fastidious old spy to a tearful schoolgirl, confessing their secrets to you.

The narrative voice of “Cross” is at times conversational and even playful, skilfully mimicking the beliefs and opinions of society. When introducing the character of “Our Francie,” Duffy writes, “Sure, he’d know all about your uncle before your cousins told you.” Describing the son of the woman on hunger strike, Duffy quips, “And let’s not forget, a druggie too, introducing that sort of thing into the community.” Duffy’s ability to establish a massive cast of characters with deft descriptions is amazing to behold — when describing a young rebel’s hands, Duffy writes that they were “like adders lurking there, coiling and uncoiling in the dark, capable of inflicting a quick hurt.”

The narrative becomes progressively darker as characters lose their morality, committing acts of violence through any means available to them without regard for who might be impacted. A particularly disturbing aspect of “Cross” is the appalling scenes involving the abuse of disabled people as well as those who have impairments caused by the horrific violence depicted within the novel. This part of the book may be difficult for readers — Duffy’s narrative voice remains consistent, but in this particular context the lavish imagery and biting criticisms are cruel and some might argue needlessly harsh.

“Cross” is a hard book to read. The subject matter is disturbing and the lack of quotation marks is quite disorienting. However, Duffy’s beautiful language and character-focused storytelling style do justice to a particularly complex period of history. Through Duffy’s skill, the reader can still empathize with each character and come away with a deeper understanding of the rebellion.

—Staff writer Laura B. Martens can be reached at laura.martens@thecrimson.com.