Underground

Just finished reading King Rat, a novel that I've been meaning to read for sometime as it is set under London. This is becoming something of an obsession of mine and I believe they should be seen as a sub-sub-genre in their own right. I think an article should be written as subterranean literature has an excellent pedigree (think Jules Verne and going back even further the Greek myths).
I think I'll look in to it.

Read this week: King Rat by Chine Mielville

Gloriously Bloody

Finished the new Clive Barker last week, one of the many books I received for Xmas. His new book moves him away from his roots (horror) and more towards the mythic literature his stories have displayed over the last few years. It's a good read, short but precise the narrator speaking directly to the reader. It is also very funny.

****

Saw Sweeney Todd last night. Gloriously bloody in the Hammer Horror style with a fine cast and some wonderful over the top acting. London looked great, dark, brooding and nasty. Depp and Carter are slowly being turned into one of Burton's own character drawings, with the darkness under the eyes becoming more pronounced and the hair becoming a living entity.
The only thing I couldn't get to grips with was the singing. It was often quite distracting and fell slightly flat, only the acting keeping it on target for me.

****

Finished the first draft of what I am currently calling 'Mind the Gap' (though this will probably change). I'm taking a week off as I need to send out a few short stories and want to do a rewrite of the the script for 'The Park'.

Read this week: Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker

Mole People

While I was in New York I was able to pick up a copy of Jennifer Toth's 'The Mole People', a book I became aware of several years ago when working at Waterstones. Due to the lowly wages I then earned I did not buy a copy but as it is was about people living under New York I noted it as a future purchase and put it on the long 'Books I plan to buy when I have enough money and enough space to house them all' list.

The book is a first hand account of the people Toth (a Los Angeles Times journalist) found living below ground during the 80s in New York City. There they had created pockets of civilisation, linking up to electrical cables and running water while surviving hundreds of feet below the surface of the city. Some used these hidden underground places as convenient stop overs, places for a nights shelter, while others never left the darkness and shunned human interaction. The people living the deepest underground, amid rumours of cannibalism, were called the mole people. They had completely given up their humanity and gone wild.

The interesting thing about this book are not the stories (told in a mix of social journalistic and tight prose) but the fact some of it is now doubted, with skeptics saying that Toth made it all up. There is lots of chatter on the net which covers both sides of the arguments (try here and here), they are many and varied.

I'm sure some of it is embellished, even with the cool, calm collected mind of a journalist (an oxymoron surely) the experience half seen in the darkness of a tunnel, deep under the city are bound to grow in stature with each telling. The underworld has a strange effect on the minds of people. Personally I'm both scared and fascinated by these places below our feet. Over Hogmany we took father down 'Mary Kings Close' where in a group of twenty we sat in darkness as ghost stories were told. Looking at that hidden street from the back of the tour group I could believe anything could happen down in the darkness and in my mind it frequently does.

The Mole People is worth reading if not for the characters, then the encroaching darkness and the heighten sense of threat that she portrays well. Whether real or not, for me doesn't matter.

Also just finished Dark Harvest, a quick frightening read that takes the reader on a roller coaster ride through a brutal world where children must fight against the 'October Boy', a manifestation with a jack 'o' lantern head. Save it for Hallowe'en.

Read this week:
The Mole People by Jennifer Toth
Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge

Snowing on Edinburgh

It's the new year already.

Having some time off work after father's visit. I'm catching up on the writing that I had planned to do over that period and hope to reach the concluding parts of the new novel by early next week.

It is also snowing outside and while people look thoroughly miserable at the bus stop, inside it looks all magical and wintry.

Here's a quick video from outside my study window.

Top Trumps

As it's that time of year I decided to review the highs and lows of what I've seen and read over the year. The media do this all the time so I thought I would do my own (as the things I like never make it into the top 10 lists). It's also a good cheap way to fill blog space (can this be classed as a repeat?)

Novel
The Unquiet by John Connolly - Still on top form with his books featuring the dark and brooding Charlie 'Bird' Parker. There is something about the way that Connolly writes without giving way to the usual horrors. His stories are undeniably dark but he has created a brooding darkness implicated more by what his character represent than what they actually do. I’m really looking forward to ‘The Reapers’ when it comes out next year.

Scar Night by Alan Campbell – This has reignited my interest in fantasy fiction. Unlike most examples of the genre it is not contrived and creates a world all of its own without brutal world building. Campbell is a star in the making and I’ve ordered a copy of his prequel ‘Lye Street’

Film
Stardust – A beautiful rendition of a beautiful story. Fairy tales for adults either work or fail miserably. This never does and I think that is in the main due to Gaiman’s perfect tone and pitch. Also, very funny.

This is England
At look at the skin head counter culture of which I remember my older cousin being a member but for me was a completely closed off area. I was still a child in 1983 and had no idea about the politics and music, all I knew was that the songs were angry and not all adults approved. This film helped me understand what it was all about.

Comic Book
Alice in Sunderland by Byran Talbot – Dream like but informative with little snippets of detail coming at you from all angles and via many different art forms. If this does not prove to those who say comics are just for children that they are wrong, then I don’t know what will.

TV
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip – This was by far the best thing on TV in 2007. It was slow to start and at the first the characters seemed simply ‘too smart’ to be real. But the writing was so cleverly crafted that it grew on you and after episode 4 it was clever, sassy and intelligent. The last few episodes should be held up as examples of what TV can and still does best.
It is such a monumental shame that the series ended after just one season. Whoever decided that really has no love for the medium and should instead be working in a bank, not in TV.

Flight of the Conchords - Funny from the first moment to the last. Understated from beginning to end (like anything from New Zealand) but having some of the bestlaugh out loud lyrics I have ever heard. They make it all sound so effortless when in truth to be muscians as good as this involves being born talented. Only they could make a song about sellotape meaningful.

So as a little present....take it away boys.

At-choo!

Well Christmas has come and gone already and it was great. Roast beef for dinner, presents under the tree, the company of Madame Vin and Dr. Who on the telly.

It also involved a strenuous walk up to the top of Arthur's Seat (picture below to prove it) that might have resulted in me waking up Boxing Day morning with a cold. Madame Vin has one as well (share and share alike, I say) so after a quick trip to Boots (thankfully everything seems to open and the chemists even threw in some free vitamin C) we sat on the couch and watched one childrens film after another.

The ham is now in the oven and I think I'll try to have a quiet evening before putting the presents away.

Reading Material

While I was away in NY I was able to do a bit of reading, these are the books and my comments on them:

Supping with Panthers - I've read one of Tom Holland's previous books (Deliver us from Evil). He has some interesting ideas with regards the lore of vampires, mixing the Dracula story into many other myths and history. Panthers includes the British Empire, Kali worshipers, 19th century London and Jack the Ripper. The book does seem to labour the ideas a little bit but its still good to see someone doing something different with the vampires.

Lint - Did not get this at all. I see what Aylett is trying to do, but a mock biography (mockgraphy?) has to have more basis in reality to work. There is an underlying Woody Allen style to the work but whereas Woody keeps his prose style to the short story, this 178 page style is exhausting.

Just One Look - I saw the film 'Tell No One' in the year so decided to give Coben a try. His style is fast and to the point. His thrillers seem perfect for the screen. Interesting element of this is that it is all set in New Jersey close to the out of town shopping complex we visited. I didn't know this when I started reading.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier: I was looking for to this, a third LOEG comic but was actually a bit disappointed. The visuals are great (especially the 3D comic) but it feels more like the deleted scene elements on a special DVD. The sort of thing you'll look at once and then never bother with again. It felt like a scrap book rather than a story.

Angel of Darkness: De Lint wrote this many years ago under the pen name Samuel M. Key. he claims it is the 'darkest books I've written, and probably the most gruesome as well', well is true. Very different from his Newford books but worth reading. Thoroughly enjoyed it and those short the story seems well formed.

Read this week:
Supping with Panthers by Tom Holland
Lint by Steve Aylett
Just One Look by Harlan Coben
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill
Angle of Darkness by Charles de Lint

Pratchett's News

Heard the news about Terry Pratchett and must admit it is very sad news indeed, but like he says in his statement, 'he's not dead yet', and so I refuse to treat him as such. No doubt there are a plenty of book still in him, and no doubt those books will be as good as the last ones.

Goodbye to all that...

Saturday, and our last day in NY. We had to get to the airport for mid afternoon and Madame Vin woke up with a bad stomach. I think the food portions are wearing us down and I actually opted for muesli this morning for breakfast.
Not wanting to spend time on the streets as it was very cold we headed to the cinema and saw the new Coen brothers film ‘No Country for Old Men’. The film is dark and amusing and certainly their best for some time (I could never understand the fuss made about O Brother, Where Art Thou?). It reminded me of some of their earlier works such as Blood Simple, with the actor Javier Bardem playing a killer of truly frightening potential.
And that’s it. We’ve finished our NY trip. So it's back to Scotland and the build up to the Christmas week, plus I have to get the contract to the publishers.

Tango Look-a-likes

Friday night we made a booking to go to a jazz bar just off Park Avenue. It was great night and after I had tucked into to a bucket of barbecued ribs smothered in a thick sauce we sat down to watch the Pablo Ziegler Quartet (you can here them play here) who just blew me away. The music is Latin tango and wonderfully complex yet so full of emotion. They were joined on stage by Nestor Torres, a flutist of considerable skill and power.
The other thing I noticed about them was that they seemed to be a band of look a likes. Ziegler looks like the actor Danny Aiello, Torres reminded me of a Latin Jerry Seinfield and I swear the bassist was Robert De Niro on a night out.

A Rockefelling Good Christmas

We went to the lighting of the Rockefeller Christmas tree last night. The area around the complex was brought to a stand still as people from all over the world joined to watch the lights being switched on along with entertainment (most of those who appeared on stage I had never heard of but from the roar of the crowd they were quite famous).

We had dinner booked at a restaurant in the centre itself but it seemed the restaurant had a private party on instead. This was a shame as it was a place Madame Vin had wanted to go for time.

Dragons and Woody Allen

Visited the Natural History Museum by Central Park to see an exhibition for creatures that have never existed. Mythic creatures such as the Kraken, unicorn and dragon are covered along with lesser known creatures such as the mermaid water goddess Mater Wata and the giant eagle Roc. The exhibition is interesting but like most things in the US it feels like a lot of style over substance. I wanted more information, more history, more ideas but all I got was a lot of pretty pictures. It also feels as if the curators are laughing at the ideas rather than understanding and expressing the social and mythical meaning of such beasts.
Back down to the village after with a trip up and down Bleeker St. looking for a comic shop that seems to have vanished. But I did stumble across a club, The Bitter End, which is one of the places Woody Allen started out back in the early 1960s.

After lunch in a bar we end up down town and pass by Ground Zero. It’s still a big hole in the ground, though building has started on the skyscrapers that will replace the lost twin towers. It’s a poignant reminder of the world we now live in, a world of our own creation.

Drinks with Dylan.

5th Avenue is alive with Christmas shoppers. We join the crowds and head uptown after a NY breakfast of eggs, bacon and home fries. Passing through Macy’s (which takes a couple of hours) we join the throng of people moving from store to store. All the names are here and we make it is as far as Abercrombie & Fitch, where they play music so loud you feel more like you are in a night club than a shop. It’s dark, thumping, hot and sweaty with frantic shoppers desperate to buy a piece of Americana. I think I prefer John Lewis.
Dinner that night is back at the White Horse which is becoming a bit of a local. Madame Vin has researched the bar and found out that this was the place that Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. It seems to have had a rich and colourful past and though now nothing more than a good local it still feels as if some of its liberal disestablishment past is written into the walls.

Retail Therapy and Monsters

Awoke very early as my body clock asserts that it is time to get going but the clock tells me it is only six in the morning. Whereas yesterday had been golden with sun today is muggy, grey and foggy. Not really having the clothes for that sort of thing I sweat around the stores of Fifth Avenue, but Madame Vin is very happy with all of her purchases. I buy some more jumpers and head back to the apartment to drop them off before heading uptown. I want to see Beowulf, the Neil Gaiman co-written animation at the Imax and in 3D. Last year we saw Superman in 3D in San Francisco, but this film is something else. The whole film is 3D and the world of 5th century Norse lands open up on a screen three storeys high. Swords, axes, arrows, dragons and Angelena Jolie’s breasts fly from the screen, causing you to duck or grab depending on what affronts you.
The movie is good, the story lengthened and added to from the original. Though the accents are all over the place (I’ve come to kill ur mawnster!) and the horses waddle rather than run, the action is none stop and thoroughly enjoyable. Perhaps have hit on a new vein of entertainment in the rewriting of 5th century myths.
After the movie we return to the Meat Packing district and dine at Nero’s which is great food but so dark inside I nearly eat my neighbours’ meal by mistake. Finish the evening at the White Horse with a pint of Samuel Adams.

Hello New York!

Travelled to upstate New Jersey, the route passing through an industrial scarred land, populate by blast furnaces and large corporate buildings interspersed with wasteland given back to nature.
About thirty minutes out of New York you hit the wooded hills of Harriman State Park, now a riot of auburn and russet as the trees desperately try to hold on to the last of their leaves.
We are visiting Woodbury Common, a Mecca amongst Mecca’s for discount shopping. It is the ultimate American dream with row upon row of shops selling high end goods at knock down prices. It is also a very good place to purchase socks, which I did, along with a jumper.
That evening, back in Greenwich Village, drained of all commercial industry we went to a great bar on Bleeker St. that served ale including Speckled Hen which Madame Vin dabbled in. Had pizza at John’s, an old dive that apparently serves some of the best pizza in NY.

'The Missing', is to be Published!

Well some good news was had very recently when I received an email from Libros International. They have decided to publish 'The Missing', so hopefully it will be hitting a book shop near you soon. No publication date has been set as of yet and I'll update you when I find out more information.

It's early days yet, with contracts and marketing details to sort out but it has made me feel all beam-ey and twinkle eyed. I always knew it was a good story, I just had to put in enough work to make it seem real and and get the flow of the story correct. If nothing else it's given me the confidence to crack on with the new work.

I'm in New York next week, hitting the sales and making use of their dollars which are worth so little in real money. I'll post photos and a run down on what we did when I get back.

It's alive, alive!

It’s been a quiet last few weeks but that means I’ve been able to get plenty of writing done and have already reached the 200 page mark. The book and the story have been growing in all directions and to have generated a life of its own. What started life in my mind as a small children’s book with several illustrations has now become something more complex, darker and yet far more interesting. That’s the great thing about writing; you never quite know where a story is going to take you until you put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). I still hope to have the first draft done by Christmas but what with visits from family and New York looming that might be a tall order.

The other good thing about it being so quiet is that I’ve managed to knock a few books off the reading pile.

In the Night Room – Thinner than ‘The Black House’ and having lost his writing partner this is Peter Straub’s work that deals with some of the same themes. In the novel Willy Patrick’s life has become a dream come true, she has just won a prestigious writing award and is about to marry a handsome rich man, following the murder of her first husband and daughter. But problems arise because Willy starts to hear her daughter calling for her in the night.
At the same time Tim Underhill, another writer is haunted by the death of his sister many years earlier and he has started to receive emails from people who should be dead. Then he meets Willy Patrick, which is strange because she is the character he has created for his new novel.
The idea of writing and the relationship a writer has with his creations has been done before, but Straub colours it dark and mysterious. His writing style is quick and furious, and though the story takes several pages to get going it’s a thrill of a ride, where even the reader is unsure as to what is real and what is not. He also uses some excellent typography devices within the structure of the novel.

The Big Over Easy – I haven’t read a Jasper Fforde for several years but once again he had taken something that at first sounds ill suited to a novel and turned it on its head with hilarious results.
Nursery celebrity Humpty Stuyesant Van Dumpty III, is found shattered at the foot of his wall with all evidence pointing at his ex-wife. Detective Jack Spratt and his new assistant are not so sure she’s responsible and start to investigate while getting on the nerves of the rest of the Reading Police Department.
Many authors have tried to ape (Orangutan-ed?) Pratchett’s satirical style and nearly always failed. Fforde manages something similar but retains his own voice, ideas and humour.

Abarat: Days of Magic, Nights of War – What a fantasy novel should be. No rehashing of old ideas or treading the ground of all that has gone before, but an original and entertainingly dark world created to exist alongside our own. This is book 2 and Candy Quackenbush’s (great name) adventures continue in the Abarat, a world made up of many islands, each stuck at an hour of the day. Christopher Carrion, has sent his henchmen to capture her, but why? Why are they so concerned about a girl from Chickentown and what hill happen when the world she comes from learns about the existence of Abarat. Also the book is wonderfully illustrated in Barker’s bold style. If you can make sure you get a hard back copy.

****
My only other request this week is that if you get the chance click on the below link and help feed the world.

http://www.freerice.com

Even if they don’t hold true to their statement, you’ll learn lots of nice new words so that you can hold your own when next in conversation with Stephen Fry.

****

Read this week:
In the Night Room by Peter Straub
The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde
Abarat: Days of Magic, Nights of War by Clive Barker

Jack

I was clearing out my metaphysical drawers (hard drive) and found an old short story that hasn't been published anywhere. So I've put it up here. It needs some work, but you get the idea. Enjoy.

Jack

By Adam J. Shardlow


Tobias Small had never accepted that the creature completely owned him. Free will, strength and determination, plus his abounding belief in the power of the Lord, had helped him remain liberated. But the chance to resume the persona for one night, while at the same time bringing a solution to his daughter’s financial circumstances was more than he could resist. Every other avenue had been considered, his thoughts keeping him awake late into the night, while his prayers remaining unanswered. He knew he had no choice.
The creature would once again be unleashed, initiating an evening of panic and mischief. Again the dark muttering in the street of a creature foul and ancient would haunt him and the realisation of what he had done would cause him anguish and a desire to be penitent.
It was time for Springheel Jack to return.
Though the name was still spoken of with due reverence, it was becoming less and less likely to tumble from trembling lips. Instead it had become a story to frighten small children tucked up in bed, a fable of times gone by.
He had kept the monstrous suit, hidden behind a sliding panel in his room, well oiled and maintained; the skin had been repaired when necessary and kept supple. The tightly sprung boots were sound while the mask, with its daemonic grin and painted horns looked as new as the day it had been created from the skull of some lesser creature.
Sometimes at night, from the safety of his bed he could hear the mask calling him, mocking him, daring him to once more wear the outlandish costume and resume the mayhem. But he had been strong and refused to let the devilish creature take full reign and allow wicked thoughts to manifest themselves in his mind.
He was not evil or malicious; in truth he had created Springheel as a way of getting even, a response to all the cruel practical jokes played on him by those who were meant to be his friends. As a scholarship boy at school he had always been treated as an inferior, those with money deemed him nothing more than a servant. They would taunt him with names such as ‘Small Change’ or ‘Small Pockets’, forever mocking his impoverished circumstances.
Standing at the back of church one Sunday, listening to the ranting of the God fearing priest, the idea of Springheel had lurched fully formed into his imagination as if placed their by God himself. Now he knew the idea must have come from the Devil. Born for retribution, Jack was a creature of the night that played on superstitions and fears.
Shrouded in darkness Springheel would launch himself from the rooftops into the path of an unsuspecting witness. He would choose a daughter of his now adult school friends. Landing by her side, the creature would make a great play of screaming and snorting, flexing long bone claws and rolling globulous eyes. Hysterical at the sight of this denizen of hell, the girl would more often than not faint leaving the creature to take a token of appreciation and as witnesses arrived on the scene the monster would leap high into the fog and disappear accompanied only by the sound of malevolent laughter.
The following morning Tobias Small would hide his face in shame and wince at the cries of the barrow boys who hollered the dramatic headlines, ‘The Devil is among us’ or ‘A Daemon in Aldwych’. He knew it was sin, but felt powerless to stop. As Jack he felt more alive and more powerful than those who had once dared to taunt him but at the same time he felt wretched for those he scared and humiliated.
As time wore on he discovered that Jack had only to put in an appearance every few months to keep the stories alive, which grew in stature and detail, until his exploits became penny fictions and Springheel Jack was turned into a mythical apparition, forever on the hunt for the souls of the defenceless.
Lucy, his daughter, had come to him recently with a young looking man in tow to request permission to marry. The boy had spoken nervously of his love for the girl, and his plans for the future. Coming from a good family the marriage seemed suitable but a dowry of some kind would be expected and Small knew he had little to give. Lucy’s heart was set on the union and he hated to think that he might disappoint his only daughter.
He had thought long and hard on the issue and it was late at night, just before sleep claimed him that he once more heard the voice of Jack. The creature reminded him that it was perfectly able to get into the houses of the rich, and in return for a night of mischief, money or goods could be found to pay for the wedding. For Small, the chance to revive the daemon became irresistible.

***

He wore the suit under his work clothes and walked to the house. He did not wish to be spotted too early and risk a hue and cry. Small had selected his target carefully; a wealthy American doctor by the name of John Chalice had a practise in Belgravia. He spent a good portion of his time abroad, travelling Europe with his property locked tight but empty. It would be little trouble to Springheel to fashion entry through a skylight and under the cover of darkness search the doctor’s house for loot.
Later, having completed the crime, Springheel would dance between the chimneys pots and roof tops, while Small would await the morning headlines with dread.
In a small park where the tall trees shivered in the breeze, Small removed his outer garments and retrieved from his bag the long fingered claws, the short cape shaped into the wings of a bat and the mask of the daemon. Hidden from prying eyes, he placed each item reverently upon himself and Springheel Jack was released.
***
It stood for a moment, a night prowler tasting the air, deep ruby eyes open wide, nostril flared while sniffing. Content that it was alone, it moved with an outlandish grace into the open where it bends slowly, its hideous countenance turned to the sky. It took two tiny steps as if testing the ground and then launched itself free of the earth. Air rushed past the creature, arms out for balance, cloak stretched tight like rodent wings, it fires upwards in a parabola, legs bent as if a hawk coming in for the kill.
Reaching the zenith it alters position, aiming for a rooftop, a small alteration and it lands. Silhouetted against the night sky the creature freezes into position, its shadow takes on that of an ancient gargoyle that looks out on the brick and stone of the great city.
It moves now, carefully inching its way up the roof line towards a small set of windows that are dark within. It dances with cat like precision, tentatively testing each roof tile for fault before placing weight upon it. Between the windows sill one talon is slipped, the lock snapped apart. It opens the window carefully and with a final look behind, the creature of the night slips inside.
It was darker within. Rough floorboards under foot and dust in the air. It smells dry, unused and empty, an attic room. Moving forward the wood creaks underfoot, unaccustomed to the weight. If anyone is in the house they would hear the sound, but all is quiet.
The creature traces the trap door in the floor, it is pushed open and Springheel peers down into the gloom. It sits on the rim and swings down landing on all fours with feet splayed. It smells down here. Sniffing at the air the creature can detect a definite fetid reek. Perhaps something has died while the doctor was away, a rat or a pigeon that got locked inside.
Eyes adjust and Springheel spies four doors - four rooms to look through. The first contains nothing of importance, a guest room perhaps. The bed is unmade, the furniture covered with dust sheets, the wardrobe empty.
The second is also a bedroom, a man’s room, unfussy, neat. The good doctor is a bachelor and it shows. The bed has a single dip in the middle, the scent is male. Again nothing to take, the only decoration being a poor painting and a carriage clock, while a few dusty medical manuals stand next to the bed.
The third room is more interesting. It's smaller, a study. A desk with papers and a library of books. The smell is stronger in here; it’s a putrid organic stench. There is a small fireplace in the corner; perhaps it comes from within. With no time to check the creature moves to the desk and looks through the drawers, eyes alight on a silver cigarette case; it disappears into a hidden pocket.
A sound. Springheel turns slowly, conscious of its own beating heart. The noise came from behind it, small and indistinct yet audible. It turns, senses alert. All is quiet again. It can wait, it’s good at waiting. It had sounded like footfall and perhaps a muffled exclamation.
Now it stands and moves forward. There is a curtain at the far end of the study, deep red, the colour evident even in the dark. It pulls the curtain to one side to reveal another door.
What treasure must the doctor hide in the concealed room beyond? It places a hand on the door knob but then hesitates; the sound came from this room. Should it enter? Should it risk being seen? But it needs the money and this desire drives the beast onwards. It presses the handle down and enters.
The smell makes the creature gag, a wave of nausea forcing it to hold an arm to its face. It wants to be sick. In the darkness, a windowless room scrubbed bare something evil, something dead lurks.
All senses dictate that it should leave this room, turn and flee, return to the night but at the same time the hidden makes it curious.
The smell is making it hard to breath and it is hot inside the mask, but the creature has no desire to be seen in its true form. It must remain an enigma.
There is a lamp on the desk, it returns and it picks it up and takes out a strike. It flares, the light burns at the retina and leaves dancing scars. The lamp gutters but then takes, there is not much oil left.
It enters the room and turns up the light. Bare brick and stone floors, no windows to let in light – a secret place, hidden from prying eyes. There is a clinical feel to the room, a place of surgery. A tray on the side contains knives, scalpel and saws. They are stained pink, a long blond hair it attached to a blade, it moves in the breeze from the open door.
There is a trolley in the room, something covered with a sheet stained black and brown. There is no sense in looking but something makes the creature take a tentative step forward, and then another and another until it stands within an arms length.
It checks behind and decides to risk a peek, just quickly and then it will vanish back into the night with its spoils.
It lifts the sheet, higher, higher and then pulls.
The creature shrinks back from the horror. A body, once female lays open, slit from abdomen to chest; the head pushed back, the neck arched while the face is set in a mask of agony, a scream etched into eyes and the open mouth. Naked, mutilated, treated like a base carcass, strips of skin removed from belly and thighs, incisions across breasts that ooze dark clotted blood.
It is too much, what terror has been uncovered, what perversity? The body moves. An intake of air, a gasp that erupts in spittle and blood. The girl lives, she knows someone is present, someone who might be able to help. She thrashes, her body making an involuntary spasm, the last dance of those sliced open and left to die slowly. Eyes blink and breath rattles in her throat, eyes pleading for any death.
As it watches, transfixed with disgust the creature is grabbed from behind. Strong arms lift the lithe daemon from the floor as a fist is punched deep into its side, forcing all the air from it. A scalpel is waved in front of its face and then held close to its throat as the girl begins to slow. Old wounds have reopened and pumped livid blood across the floor, skin gapes wide and innards are revealed, they snake out accompanied by a breathy scream. The girl falls back as death claims her.
***
The mask is ripped from him as an arm spins Tobias round and a giant fist slams into his face, his own blood erupts now, it splutters from his nose and enters his mouth. He is pushed into a wall and falls to the floor. Still winded he vomits copiously, adding to the slaughterhouse stench. Tears sting his eyes as he looks up at his tormentor.
The doctor stares down at the revealed daemon and is unimpressed. He pushes at him with his foot moving the man from side to side. He smiles and speaks in a voice that is quiet but firm.
"A man in a pitiful suit with a sheep skull for a mask. Is this the creature that women talk of in hushed tones? Is this the horror that stalks the city of London? I thought you would be so much more, but I see nothing more than a cheap parlour trick."
Tobias Small looks up into the eyes of the doctor and sees his own fear reflected back. He is scarred, horrified by this evil that preys on the innocent.
The monster laughs out loud, a howl of pleasure.
"What was there to be scared of? Springheel Jack - an old man hiding in the dark. It's pathetic. This great city deserves something far better, the greatest place on Earth, the heart of the Empire and the best we can come up with, to keep the shits and whores down, is you?"
He comes closer. Small can smell the stench of death on him, his walking cloak, the weave of the wool splattered with drying blood. The doctor wields the scalpel with a practised hand.
"I plan to do so much better. When they speak my name they will truly know fear, I will become something altogether evil, something straight from hell."
The man bends and Small feels the blade sting at the thin skin of his neck and knows that the doctor will replace Springheel and bring a red death to the city.
"I like the name though. Can I borrow it?"
Before Small can even answer the blade cuts deep into his flesh.
A new Jack is born.

Man cold

Finally, this time I'm definitely, surely, must be over my cold. It seems to have dragged on for an inordinately long time and has been both draining and sleep destroying and no its not just a 'Man cold,' but a real snot inducing, sore throat making, headache crippling cold. Madam Vin is still ill and walking around the flat sneezing and coughing but I've been to the gym, wrote several new pages of the 'Gap' project, sent off three book reviews and two short stories to a couple of magazines and feel great.

If England win tonight, everything in the world will be just fine and dandy.

Population Explosion

Feeling unwell all weekend. I believe PC Benny and Madam Vin left more than a feeling of bonhomie after the visit last week. No need to worry though, as it allows me time to write, sit inside, read and watch games of rugby where I shout and make my sore throat even worse.

Just a few quick notes...Congratulations to my erstwhile colleague, Hampton, whose lovely and no doubt extremely tired wife gave birth to twins this weekend. I would like to welcome to the world Ava Mirabelle and Miles Dylan, please wipe your feet on entering, don't drop litter and always remember keep a clean handkerchief about your person (I feel that might be some musical influences in the names but haven't asked yet).

Also well done to an old friend who recently joined Facebook and had a daughter in July called Jessica Rose Swift.

The world keeps on getting bigger so I guess we better add on some kind of extension.

To celebrate here are some fire works from the closing night of the festival.



****

Due to being so ill over the weekend I was able to read the new Pratchett which aptly enough is set in the world of banking. Pratchett brings back the character of Moist Von Lipwig (a wonderful name) to take over the affairs of a bank that has a small dog as its chairman and a shady Medici style family in the background.

Expect the usual bunch of golems (one of which thinks it's a she), Igors, werewolves and the Watch. The best character is still Vetinari who I believe is based on Sir Walsingham (who has managed to crop in the new novel) and his ability to maneuver all the other characters around the chess board of life without ever breaking a sweat.

This story is not as good as the last Lipwig novel, but it feels like Pratchett is gearing up for something big in the world of Ankh Morpork and that this novel was necessary to get the spades in the ground (pun - you'll have to read the book).

****

Read this week:
Making Money by Terry Pratchett
Loving Mephistopheles by Miranda Miller