My heart began to pound in my chest, to pound so hard that it hurt. I hoped it could not see me, that, in a dark house, behind window glass, I was hidden.
The figure flickered and changed as it walked up the drive. One moment it was dark, bull-like, minotaurish, the next it was slim and female, and the next it was a cat itself, a scarred, huge gra-green wildcat, its face contorted with hate.
Where Fragile Things was about ghosts and faeries, the opening few stories of Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors are more concerned with trickery and magic; the title refers to stage illusionists and their craft. Tarot cards are featured, as are magicians and their victims; Queen of Knives features the young Gaiman witnessing the very strange disappearance of his grandmother in a feat of stage wizardry. The later stories in the collection move towards a preoccupation with sexual encounters, and Gaiman also moves away from the supernatural to experiment with Raymond Carverish short pieces; brief, sometimes inconsequential, but often with the power to still disturb.
Then there’s Jonathan Ross. I knew that Neil Gaiman is a friend of the talk show host; they appeared together in Ross’s recent documentary about the Spiderman comic artist Steve Ditko and Ross’s wife has written the screenplay for the movie adaptation of Stardust. So it was no complete surprise to find the Ross couple featuring in a tale called The Facts in the Case of the Departure of Miss Finch. Here, the circus masquerading as a horror show receives the Gaiman treatment.
I’m not really a fan of Ross, so his presence in the story is just a little too sickly for me, and where I was slightly disappointed with Smoke and Mirrors was with the high humour quotient. This collection has more comic tales than the more recent Fragile Things. We Can Get Them You Wholesale, about what happens when you wish for just a little too much, didn’t do very much for me and neither did Chivalry, concerning a very unusual charity shop.
Gaiman features far more autobiographical stories in this collection. As well as the Jonathan Ross adventure, we hear a lot about his experiences in Hollywood, up against the madness there as he attempts to deliver sane film scripts. Very good is The Goldfish Pool and Other Stories, which finds Gaiman staying in the hotel where John Belushi died, befriending an ancient gardener and musing upon the film stars of the past. Oh yes, and fish. Highly recommended.
Although I was surprised to find a higher number of stories that didn’t gel with me than expected, Smoke and Mirrors still has its gems. It’s like crazy paving; wild and varied and another example of Neil Gaiman’s fevered and incomparable imagination. For me, I still like the straight ghost stories, something he can do with aplomb. The Price features Gaiman again, this time protected by a black cat who sits outside the family home and who is discovered horribly injured and mauled every morning. Removing the cat to the safety of the basement, the Gaiman family are suddenly beseiged by bad luck. Well again, the cat returns to the outside. The good luck returns, but once again the cat receives injuries. Then the writer decides to do some detective work… with worrying consequences. A really great story.
Also worth mentioning is The Wedding Present, which Gaiman wrote for some newlywed friends as a gift but decided not to give it to them. Fantastic, although I can understand why he held it back. And then there’s Troll Bridge, which is an outstanding and adult take on the Three Billy Goats Gruff fairy tale. Quite brilliant this one too.
Smoke and Mirrors has its hits and misses, but Neil Gaiman’s hits are always superb. The Price is one of the best short stories I’ve ever read. As a cat lover (and especially black ones), it’s the best cat story I’ve ever read. So worth a look.
That long-drawn, wavering howl has, for all its fearful resonance, some inherent sadness in it, as if the beasts would love to be less beastly if only they knew how and never cease to mourn their own condition.
Angela Carter is an author I’ve returned to after nearly two decades, deciding to read her collection of adult fairy tales as part of my quest for the perfect scary short story. Written in 1979, The Bloody Chamber seems defiantly anachronistic for those times. It’s still very modern, very current – and for a collection of fantastic stories – very real.
Angela Carter certainly knows her fairy tales. She can take the basic premise and mould it into something far more chilling than anything that would be allowed at a child’s bedside. The title story in this collection tells of a young girl on her wedding night and it involves the usual suspects of fairy tale motifs; badly lit castles and forbidden keys to locked rooms – with a blind piano tuner thrown in for good measure. Carter is good at plunging the reader back into this storybook world before reminding that her fiction exists in the real world too. A telephone will suddenly ring, the dreamlike interrupted by the very real.
The story titles are very suggestive – The Tiger’s Bride, The Snow Child and The Lady in the House of Love all suggest what they deliver. Most recognisable is The Company of Wolves, adapted so magnificently for the cinema by Neil Jordan in 1984. It’s a vivid, weird film – itself I think out of place in the decade it was made – but the original is far more suggestive, impressionistic and – oh yes – scary.
I’m still undecided about The Bloody Chamber. Maybe I’ll have to leave Angela Carter alone for another long spell. In some ways her fiction is too demanding, too strange and ultimately too inaccessible for my simple tastes. Read it though, let me know what you think – let me know what I’ve missed. Or maybe she’s just still out of time…
Short Stories for Hallowe'en
Jack P came up with the idea to write a short story for Hallowe’en. I wrote two, both the product of sleepless nights and both written in the early hours. As I couldn’t decide on which to post, and as they’re both quite short, here’s both. Besides, I’m sitting here dressed as Dracula ready to scare some young kids and I’ve got to get going. Happy Hallowe’en…
Lock and Key
I slammed the front door behind me. I bolted it tight and drew the curtains. I turned out the lights and walked quickly into the kitchen.
I checked the back door. I locked the cat flap. I paused; there was a need to be systematic. Doors and windows had to be secured first. Smaller things came last, like catflaps. Like blocking drains and sinks.
I caught my breath. Checking that all the downstairs windows were closed, I hurried up the stairs.
I shut the bathroom and bedroom doors in the dark, feeling with my hands. I listened, and moved on. In my blindness, I stumbled on something. A small toy. It crunched underfoot and I fell, catching myself against the wall. I looked ahead towards the faint light from the box room.
I entered and closed the door behind me. I steadied myself as I held onto the side of the cot. The breeze ruffled my hair. I moved to close the window and noticed a shadow behind me. It was too late.
“Got you,” it said.
Spells
haunt:
aviarium -i n. [an aviary]; also [the haunts of wild birds].
obsessor -oris m. [one who besets , haunts, or besieges].
obsideo -sidere -sedi -sessum intransit. [to sit down near]; transit. [to beset , haunt, frequent]; esp. [to blockade, besiege; to watch over, be on the look-out for].
pervulgo (pervolgo) -are [to publish , make publicly known; to make generally available; to frequent, haunt a place]. Hence partic. pervulgatus -a -um, [very usual or well known].
praesaepes (praesaepis) -is f. and praesaepe -is , n. and praesaepium -i, n., [an enclosure; a crib, manger, stall; a hive; a haunt, lodging, tavern].
remordeo -mordere -morsum [to worry , haunt].
That boy has never liked me. I know it must be difficult for him, me moving in with his mother, but there comes a point where you have to draw the line.
I knew that moving into the flat wasn’t going to be the smoothest of rides. Is anything? And I knew that he’s something of a cry-baby. The evening I arrived with all of my things he’d missed school because of that tooth. Ah, the tooth. There was an atmosphere I could have done without. I told him to stop pulling at it and that it would come out of its own accord. But of course he didn’t listen to me. I made things worse. Telling me to go to hell like that! I was already halfway into my new home.
His mother is too generous, she’s too understanding. He gets his own way far too often. So I didn’t think it unreasonable to bring a few house rules with me…
On the first day I had an important meeting at work; a visit to the university for a translation. But it all went badly that morning. I almost missed the train due to several I would say deliberate obstacles placed in my path. My papers had been rifled through, disorganised. Why had the towel fallen into the bath? Why were my suit trousers screwed up and on the floor? How did I manage to cut myself shaving so severely with a blunted razor? His mother put it down to the loss of my glasses, another incident in a string of mishaps that week.
Rushing for the station, I saw the boy watching me from the window. The day proceeded with a coldness about me. I returned to my new home. Things visited me that night.
On the second day I left with a – how shall I put it – tugging tiredness pulling at me. I had not slept well. The boy watched me again from the window. His mother had put it all down to my stressful day previously; I was over tired. And although prepared for that evening’s nightmares, they still came upon me with a shocking reality. The birds stabbed at me. I cried out.
The third day I barely struggled through. I did not go to work. I dared not stay at home. I moved from street corner to street corner, like a ghost. I visited endless tavern and drinking den.
But then it all came clear. The third night was a revelation to me. As I adjusted the bed clothes on the settee I noticed something. Carefully sewn into the inside of the pillowcase. It took me a while to pull it apart gradually in the half light. Something wrapped in a small cutting of blood soaked tissue.
I slept well for the rest of that night. I even crept back up to bed. But I was cunning, I wanted to fool the boy. I sleepily moved around the flat the next morning waiting for an opportunity. And I found one. The tooth. Ah, the tooth. The nagging loose tooth had worked itself looser and the boy couldn’t stand the discomfort any more. He’d worked it right out, a messy business. But there were tissues to hand. I caught him off his guard.
He’d seen what I’d seen. We’d read the same things, although – come on – he’s merely an amateur. I’d looked at my papers differently. They were still disorganised. There is more than one way to skin a cat. The boy was clever and he certainly caught me off my guard, but there’s always a better way. My spell’s best.
And now I continue to sleep softly. The screams in the next room don’t really bother me at all. And he will notice when I watch him. I can stop it whenever I decide to, whenever that may be. It’s my decision. He’ll never find it. I’ve drawn the line.
reflect:
cogitatio -onis f. [thinking , conception, reflection, reasoning]; sometimes a particular [thought, idea or intention].
cogito -are [to turn over in the mind , to think, reflect]; sometimes [to intend, plan]. Hence partic. cogitatus -a -um, [considered, deliberate]; n. pl. as subst. [thoughts, reflections, ideas]. Adv. cogitate, [thoughtfully].
contueor -tueri -tuitus dep. [to see , survey, look at attentively];mentally, [to consider, reflect upon].
dispicio -spicere -spexi -spectum [to see clearly] , esp. by an effort; [to make out, discern, perceive; to reflect upon, consider].
recolo -colere -colui -cultum [to cultivate or work again; to resume; to set up again , rehabilitate; to reflect upon, to recall].
reddo -dere -didi -ditum (1) [to give back , restore]; ‘reddi’, or ‘se reddere’, [to return]; in words, [to repeat, recite; to reproduce by imitation, to represent, reflect]. (2) [to give in return]; hence [to answer; to translate, render, interpret; to make, render, cause to be]. (3) [to give as due; to pay up, deliver; fulfil]; ‘reddere ius’, [to administer justice].
referio -ire [to strike back , strike again]. Transf. [to reflect].
repercussus -us m. [reverberation; echo , reflection].
repercutio -cutere -cussi -cussum [to strike back , make rebound]; perf. partic. repercussus -a -um, [rebounding, reflected].
repulsu abl. sing. m. [by striking back , by reflection, by echoing].
