The One About The Sheep And Other Stories E-Book

• Herausgeber: Inkspot Publishing
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 328

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The sheep that's a good listener. The woman and the ice cream salesman. The young man who falls in love with a washing machine. That age old tale. Funny, macabre, heart-breaking, eerie, disturbing, provocative...the 21 stories in this collection of originals are all winners of the Chipping Norton Literary Festival Short Story Competition Winners from its inception in 2016 to 2022. The stories are hugely varied in style and genre, and will appeal to any lover of fiction and the much-loved short story form. They have impressed the likes of Tessa Hadley, Nicholas Royle, Rachel Sieffert, Sarah Franklin, Martyn Waites, Isobel Dixon and Yasmin Kane.

Leseprobe

The One About The Sheep And Other Stories

The One About The Sheep And Other Stories

ChipLitFest Short Story Winners 2016 - 2022

Edited by Catherine Evans

Copyright

Copyright © the contributors

ISBN 978-1-7396305-0-8 (PRINT)

ISBN 978-1-7396305-1-5 (E-BOOK)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Photo: Peter Heeling, skitterphoto.com

First Printing, 2022

Inkspot Publishing

About ChipLitFest

Chipping Norton Literary Festival is a registered charity, no: 1152866.

Every April since 2012, (with obvious exceptions during 2020 and 2021 lockdowns) we have celebrated writing and reading in attractive venues at the heart of our charming Cotswold town. Everyone at ChipLitFest is a volunteer, from the venue ushers to the Festival Director. Dozens of people work tirelessly throughout the year to deliver the programme of literary events and we are hugely grateful for the support of local business and individuals who value our contribution to our community. In particular, we work in partnership and consultation with Chipping Norton Schools Partnership, Chipping Norton Theatre and Jaffé & Neale Bookshop.

ChipLitFest is one of the friendliest and most innovative festivals, bringing a wide-ranging array of writers, poets, public figures and creative people to the town and drawing large and lively audiences from a wide area. Over our history, we have welcomed Monica Ali, Jim Al-Kahlili, David Baddiel, Jo Brand, Candice Carty-Williams, Lee Child, Lyse Doucet, Guy Gunaratne, Natalie Haynes, Armando Iannucci, Adam Kay, Prue Leith, Jenni Murray, David Nicholls, Richard Osman, Ian Rankin, Tony Robinson, Alan Rusbridger, SF Said, Dominic Sandbrook, Nina Stibbe, Polly Toynbee, Kit de Waal, Justin Webb and Reggie Yates, among scores of others. Our innovative profit-sharing scheme benefits all participating authors equally.

Aiming to create and maintain lifelong readers, our renowned Children’s Programme reaches out to children and young people throughout the Chipping Norton Schools Partnership, including those not in mainstream educational settings and those who have been school-excluded. Much of the programme is free or accessibly priced at £2.50 a ticket, and we also arrange author visits to 18 local schools. Our creative writing programme for local schoolchildren finishes with the publication of a book of their work, launched at the festival. 

We are committed to diversity and inclusion, and are delighted to offer our audiences opportunities to hear from those whose voices may be under-represented.

Our events and workshops encourage people to sharpen their reading, writing and creative skills. The annual ChipLitFest short story competition attracts hundreds of entries, and we are delighted to be able to offer this collection of the winning stories from 2016-2022, wonderfully varied in tone and theme, and a true blend of local and worldwide talent. We are grateful to Inkspot Publishing and to HW Fisher for making this possible, and of course, we are immensely grateful to you for buying this book, thus enabling us to continue with our work.

Jenny Dee, Festival Director

Contents

Ghost The Closed Cabinet Below The Line Refuge Walking to Dalkey The Equalizer Bird, Man, Dog Ice Cream Sunday Dirty Boy The Librarian The One About The Sheep Having the Time of My Life Whale Watching Poppin’ Down the Chippie Last Mother’s Day Kenny, Winking Mrs Brooker Requiem For A Woolwich Canary A Place in the Sun Waiting for the Light I Used To Live Here Once Behind The Scenes Of A Short Story Competition...

Ghost

by Jan Harvey

I am running my fingers over the back of your hand, seeing how the skin wrinkles beneath my touch; it is warm and alive. I know every hair on your hands, every line, bump and tiny mark. How many times have they touched and caressed my body? I press my face to your wrist and as I do I feel the rough texture of your skin against the softness of mine. This, I know, will be the final time.

The machines that surround you invade your body with plastic tentacles and sharp invasive needles. Everywhere are the mismatched patterns of plasters, the bedclothes, your horrible gown. I smooth out the sheet for the hundredth time and wish it was the fine linen we are used to. I wish it was a normal, boring everyday morning and we were curled up in bed, spooning, thinking only of who will make the coffee and warm the croissants.

The machine beeps, rhythmically, endlessly, it prevents any line of thought. I wish it would stop but, of course, it must not. That is a stupid thought. It must keep going monotonously on and on. I feel that I will remember it for the rest of my life; hear that sound in the back of my mind forever.

I study your nails. There is congealed blood under them. I run the edge of my thumb around the curve of one, it catches on a snag and instinctively I feel for my purse so that I can file it back for you. This thought gives me a tiny scrap of usefulness in a world that I suddenly cannot control, but I do not have my purse, I left it behind in all the confusion. I suddenly realise I have no way of getting home and no money, but now a deep, encompassing weight has descended on me and I cannot even begin to contemplate all that.

The nurse approaches and gives me a sympathetic nod. She is small. Thai, I think, and has a kind face, but she speaks very little English. She shines a tiny torch under your eyelids and I can see a glimpse of blue in your irises. I am willing you to catch sight of me, to know I was here, but it is clear to me that your eyes are glassy and unseeing. The nurse smiles at me, with pity, and leaves and I stand up to stretch the stiffness from my body. Outside it is dawn, a shaft of lemony light is breaking from between inky clouds, it falls over the cars in the car park and suddenly, as I watch, all the windscreens are gold. It is beautiful, but it has no right to be beautiful, no right at all.

I feel so sad, so heavy, but I must be aware. I must check the car park, listen for footsteps in the corridor. I’m conscious that even now, with my brain feeling like soup, I have to keep alert. The flight is two hours twenty from Ottawa to here, they will be here any minute, I have a last few precious minutes with you.

I am running through everything in my head, the places we’ve been, the things we’ve seen. Vancouver, California, Seattle; remember the fish men? I want to ask if you remember the men selling fish in the market throwing them to each other, shouting, chanting, joking. Of course you remember them, you remember everything, every last second, don’t you? It’s what we had, us.

I hear the sweep of the main doors in the lobby and the sounds of their footfalls. I know that is them. I just know. I kiss you for a final time, a brief awkward peck as I lean over the wires and then I move to the other end of the ward, where there is drinks dispenser tucked away behind a smoked glass screen.

Helen is there first. She is taller than I imagined, and more striking. She clutches your hand immediately, the hand I have just been holding. There are tears in her eyes. Kierra is next, she is tall too, and blonde, so pretty, she looks just like her mother. Leo is holding back, awkward, frightened. He is too young to see this. Instinctively I want to move forward, wrap my arm around him because he is being ignored, no one is holding his hand. His bottom lip is quivering and he is trying to hold back his tears. God, he looks like you. He has your forehead, your lips. I wonder if he will be a replica of you when he grows up, I so want to know this. I want to see him when he is your age, a preview, to see if he is a living breathing duplication of you.

The Thai nurse is handing over to the day staff. They are talking about you at the nurses’ station. I imagine them using your name and saying ‘subarachnoid hemorrhage’ to describe you and not ‘professor,’ or ‘expert in his field,’ or ‘father’…or ‘lover.’ The Thai nurse leaves and I know I must go too. I must walk past Helen, Kierra and Leo and I must not glance or give away any clues, I must be invisible.

They are gently stroking your face with the backs of their fingers. Can you feel it? Do you think it is me touching you? Helen is talking to you; can you hear her voice? They all look so pale and shocked, so bewildered. I know I must look like that too and then it occurs to me that I have not even brushed my hair this morning.

As I move out into the ward I tread as quietly as possible towards the doors at the other end. It is Leo who turns towards me and I try to avert my eyes, but he is staring right at me. I cannot manage a smile, my face seems to be set hard like concrete, yet I feel so sorry for him so I try. Then I realise he is not seeing me at all, he is looking right through me. His blue eyes are glistening with tears, he has turned towards me as an excuse to look away from his father. Later, if someone asked him if anyone else was there, in that ward, he would say no.

I don’t look back. I must give no clues, the nurses acknowledge me and one of them nods, but they do not know who I am. I am no-one, I don’t exist.

I must go back to the apartment. I will have to remove my belongings one by one, leaving no clues, nothing at all. Toothbrush; face creams; the English tea; (you don’t drink tea,) my book; my medication. These are the small things, like tiny grappling hooks that gave me a grip on you. I moved them in slowly, over time, but they are all easy to remove at a moment’s notice.

As I walk though the empty streets, on shoes that are not meant for walking, I feel a chill even though the day is warm and full of expectancy, I am dying inside because I know that, whatever the outcome, if you survive or if…you die, I have seen the last of you. One way or another they will take you back to your house in Ottawa. I will never see you again. I picture her, Helen, looking after you, praying over your bed. You scoff at her religion but she has that now, we don’t. I don’t. I had you, my point of reference.

She was not as cold as you said she was, she looked so concerned and frightened that she might lose you. I rationalise that she was with her children, she was putting on a display of affection for them. You and she were over years ago. That’s what you told me. She was more beautiful than I imagined too, I thought you said she had let herself go, yet I was the one with the straggling hair and no make-up. I feel my stomach lurch and I take a deep breath, which becomes a juddering sigh.

I reach up and touch my hair; it feels flat and greasy. I need a shower, but I will have to do that at my house. I have to make my exit swift and clean, take everything I can and yet, against my nature, I must not clean or tidy up. Should I straighten my side of the bed? I ought to smooth out my pillow, make sure there are no thick, dark hairs on it. I should spray some air-freshener too. It occurs to me that I will be like a criminal hiding the traces.

I feel overwhelmed with the thought of it all but I must ensure, at all costs, that I was never there. When they open the door later on they must not sense that I exist, no trace of me can be left behind, it will be as if I were a phantom that passed through their lives, unseen, unheard.

A ghost.

Jan Harvey is the author of two novels, The Seven Letters and The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick. Both books are set in the present day Cotswolds and Paris during World War II. Jan's four years of research into the women of the French Resistance took her to many parts of Paris where gradually, she uncovered the secrets the city has tried to erase from history. Her website is www.janharveyauthor.com.

The Closed Cabinet

by Cathryn Haynes

‘...and remember, the water for the tea must be just boiling, and always put in a good heaped teaspoonful. I don’t want any more complaints like last time.’

‘Yeah, yeah, you told me that already. Why can’t we just use teabags, like a normal shop?’

‘Because this is not a normal shop,’ said Donald. ‘This is a combination bookshop /café. We serve fine quality loose tea and freshly-ground coffee, and the customers choose their own mugs and teacups. That’s one of the reasons why it’s special.’

‘Don’t know what’s so special about a bookshop. Half the books aren’t even new.’

‘Listen, you cheeky bugger, my customers want unusual books, not just endless Judith Krantzes that they could pick up at any branch of Oxfam. That’s why my stock’s second-hand as well as new; that’s why the shelves are chronological, not A-Z.’ His voice rose. ‘Ten years ago, this town was full of independent bookshops! Now we’re practically the only one left; so our standards are high. Now stop whingeing and get on with that Orange Pekoe. And when you’ve served it, nip over the road and get two litres of semi-skimmed, we’re almost out.’

Stuck in the queue at the Co-op behind some old bag who wanted to know whether the shortbread fingers were gluten-free, Clive simmered. What a bloody annoying week. Partly his own fault, he supposed. Walking down Walton Street last week, he’d seen the Part-time Help Wanted sign, and thought: Bingo!

Big mistake.

The place was a nightmare. First all this tea-party palaver, then the endless sweeping and cleaning. Books were dust-magnets, Dennis had proclaimed, almost proudly, as he’d handed over the dustpan and brush on Clive’s first day. Walls and furniture painted all over with stupid names, like a bloody kindergarten (Famous authors, Dennis had said. He’d never heard of any of them. Who the fuck was e e cummings?). Then there were all the stupid Groups. Poetry- reading, Creative Writing; they were a right pain in the arse. Groups meant having to come in at funny hours, dance attendance on them like he was some kind of waitress. Even worse, the Jazz Evenings. He hated Jazz. Made him remember when he was a kid, stuck in the flat while his Mum went to work, nothing to do but watch his Mum’s old man sitting on the settee in the lounge, getting pissed and playing those bloody Miles Davis 45’s. The last thing he’d done before he’d left home forever was trash his Grandad’s record collection.

‘You want a carrier bag with that?’

‘Just the milk.’

Worst thing, he thought as he crossed the road, was that Donald was far too sharp-eyed for him to skim his usual percentage off the till. And what else was there worth nicking? Who wanted books, for Christ’s sake?

‘Got the milk.’

‘You took your time. Pop it in the fridge and help me unpack these Daedalus Decadences.’

The way he worked was this. He’d find a shop with a sign in the window advertising for part-time staff. He’d turn up, nice and smart, false surname, false address and the false references that one of his mates would guarantee for him. He’d answer the interview questions politely, and as soon as he’d landed the job, he’d get to work. Only not in the way they expected. Then after a month, he’d bugger off and they’d never be able to find him.

The big shops had the most valuable stuff: perfumes, watches, I-pods, but they had security staff and the tills were monitored. So he preferred the small, independent shops. The stock was less pricey, but their security was usually pathetic, and he could skim the tills and nick stuff all day long if he felt like it. He’d once got a thousand pounds in a week from a small Paki jeweller’s, while its overworked manager hadn’t noticed a thing. Not much chance of that here.

The Orange Pekoes had finished their teas and were long gone. The Daedalus paperbacks were unpacked and correctly shelved, the box folded flat and put out for the recycling. The front door of the shop was locked, the CLOSED sign displayed and the main shop lighting switched off.

‘I’ll be off, then.’

‘Oh no you don’t, my lad. I’m expecting a customer this evening. A very special customer, and I’ll need you to serve the refreshments. He likes Lapsang Souchong.’

Clive wrinkled his nose.

‘That the stuff that smells like Coal Tar Soap?’

‘Smoked, yes. I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate it. You’ll get your overtime, don’t worry, and while we’re waiting for him it’ll give you a chance to do all the sweeping that you avoided earlier. I’ll be sorting out the Closed Cabinet. Call me when he arrives.’

The Closed Cabinet? Now that was interesting. He’d been wondering about that big old wooden cabinet on the wall out back ever since he’d started here. The door was padlocked, and locks meant valuables.

Clive got the broom and swept round the leather sofa, then the steps leading down to the body of the shop. Sweeping the dust out of sight under the tables, he turned over plans in his mind. He knew padlocks; that one would need more than a hairpin to open it. He could manage it tonight. Nip in with the duplicate key that Dennis didn’t know he’d had made, and get to work. He hadn’t intended to bust the cabinet for some time yet; but if it had stuff worth selling in it; well. Besides, he’d had enough of this dump. Yes, why not try it tonight…?

‘Ahem.’

Jesus!

Standing in the shadows by the closed door was a tall old man. He wore a long black overcoat with an astrakhan collar. A worn leather satchel hung from his right shoulder.

‘Did I startle you? My apologies.’

How the hell did he get into the shop? Didn’t hear him open the door. Couldn’t have opened the door. Saw Donald lock it.

‘If you would be good enough to inform your master that Dr. Hesselius has arrived?’

Then the old man wasn’t by the door anymore but standing right in front of him. Bald head, tufty white eyebrows, beaky nose, and a smile with sticky-out teeth. The broom slipped from Clive’s fingers. His mouth felt dry.

How can he move so fast?

The old man bent down, picked up the broom, and propped it gently against one of the chairs. ‘Butterfingers...’

Don’t let him touch me. If he touches me I’ll piss myself.

‘Long time no see, Doc!’

Oh, thank Christ.

‘Donald, my dear boy! Always a pleasure.’

Clive stepped aside as Donald exchanged back-slaps with his guest.

‘Didn’t have too far to come, I hope?’

‘I took the Bodleian short-cut, so no, not too far. I’m afraid that I gave your charming young assistant rather a start.’

‘He was probably sweeping the dust under the tables again,’ said Donald. ‘Clive, the Lapsang’s all ready in the kitchen, and there’s some farmhouse cheddar and a tin of Bath Olivers on the counter. Get cracking. Just boiling, remember; and clean plates this time.’

More bloody waitressing. Clive sullenly ferried the tea-things to and fro, while the young man and the old sat on the sofa and chatted.

‘Seen anything of Jack Torrance lately ?’

‘Alas, no. I gather he still struggles with his Writer’s Block. I bumped into Pierre Menard the other day. He insisted on reading me his new chapter of the Quixote.’

‘Oh dear. He’s started writing it again, then?’

‘As always. Mm! Scrumptious cheddar!’

After about half an hour, finishing the washing-up and half-listening to the conversation in the shop, Clive heard Doctor Hesselius say: ‘And now; to business.’

‘Washing-up’s all done; I’m off now,’ he called.

‘Don’t be late tomorrow; we’ll need to get ready for the Sharkspark Story-Tellers.’ Donald called back.

‘No worries.’

He slammed the back door loudly, then crept silently out of the kitchen and into the shadows behind the central bookcase. They’d moved down to the body of the shop and were sitting at the big wooden table.

‘Have you got the first edition?’ Donald was asking.

First editions were supposed to be valuable, weren’t they?

‘Have you got the scroll?’

‘Right here.’

Donald placed a long cardboard roll on the table. The old man took a slim hardback with a worn cloth binding out of his satchel, and slid it across the table towards his host. Donald picked it up, and began to examine it carefully with a magnifying-glass.

‘Hmm... bit foxed... spine’s broken...but that signature’s genuine, and the publication date’s right.’ He laid down book and glass. ‘Definitely a signed first edition of the Motets of Lassus. You’d be willing to make an exchange?’

‘For the Scroll, most assuredly.’

Donald slipped a scroll of parchment out of the cardboard roll. He laid it on the table as Dr. Hesselius pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves.

‘Better safe than sorry, eh?’ the old man grinned, and carefully unrolled the scroll. It was covered with columns of scribbly letters in reddish-brown ink. Clive was standing too far away to make out what was written, but he thought it looked nasty; as if it was written about nasty things. A sweety-sick, perfumed smell drifted up; it reminded him uncomfortably of being dragged off to church at Christmas by his Mum.

Doctor Hesselius smoothed the scroll lovingly with his gloved hands. 'It is indeed The Al-Azif of the Mad Arab Abdul Al-Hazred! A manuscript edition of that mighty work, in the original Arabic. Remark the beauty of the calligraphy, my dear Donald! Written in the blood of Circassian virgins, if I am not mistaken?’

‘Yup. Took me a lot of trouble to get that scroll.’

‘I do not doubt it. And you would be willing to exchange this priceless text for the Lassus? 

‘Hell, yes. I’ve been searching for that pamphlet for ages. Just what I need to complete the Victorian part of my collection.’

‘Then we have an accord.’

Hesselius rolled up the scroll, returned it to its container, and slipped off his gloves. As the two men shook hands solemnly, Clive stole out to the kitchen and snuck out by the back door, closing it silently behind him.

Gripping the handle of the torch between his teeth, Clive positioned the blades of the bolt-cutter, and brought its handles together with a snap. The padlock fell to the floor with a clunk, and the door of the Closed Cabinet swung slowly open. Three shelves were visible in the wavering light, tight with books. Brilliant! He started to stuff them into the big army-surplus rucksack. Some were small as birthday cards, some thick and heavy as paving slabs. If all these were signed first editions, he was onto a nice little earner. When the Cabinet was empty, he slipped the bolt-cutters inside the rucksack, zipped it up, and swung it onto his shoulder. Funny how light it felt.

Time to go. He took the torch out of his mouth, and stepping out into the shop, shone it round. Why not crack the till before he left? Just so’s he could imagine Donald’s face when he found it tomorrow morning. Lovely.

The torchlight was flickery; batteries must be low. He snapped off the torch and slipped it into his pocket. No harm in putting on the shop light for a tick; nobody would notice it at 2.30 in the morning, and it would be easier to count the cash. He stretched out his hand through the darkness to find the light-switch… and touched another hand.

‘Allow me.’

A click, a glow of light, and Doctor Hesselius was standing beside him. Clive made a croaking noise.

‘Pray don’t mention it.’

He backed away and stumbled down the step, the old man following.

‘You keep late hours, young man.’ he remarked, raising tufty eyebrows. ‘A spot of overtime, perchance?’

‘I’m - I’m stock-taking.’

‘How very conscientious. I’m sure Donald will be most impressed.’

‘Got to go now. Got to be in early tomorrow-’

‘And you need your eight hours. But need you leave quite so soon? Stay for a little chat, do.’

Clive swallowed. ‘OK, yeah; just for a bit.’

He’s only an old git. I can get out of this. I’m young. I’m fast. I can do it.

Hesselius sat down on the leather sofa.

‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ he beamed, and steepling his fingertips, fixed Clive with a penetrating gaze. ‘Tell me; do you like working in a bookshop?’

Clive shrugged. ‘It’s all right.’

I fucking hate it.

‘You should deem it a privilege,’ said the old man solemnly. ‘Consider the great bookshops and libraries of the world. Consider their contents. All those philosophies, histories, biographies, comedies and tragedies, thoughts and dreams, loves and hates; chained in words and crammed into the small space between the covers of a book. After a while, these books will begin to affect the dimension that surrounds them. The late lamented Mr Pratchett dubbed this dimension L-space.’

What the fuck’s he wittering on about?

‘The effects vary,’ the Doctor continued. ‘A department that exists one day will cease to exist the next, and vice versa. A shelf that only seems to continue for a few feet will, if browsed incautiously, stretch on in perpetuity. The fictional characters within the books are affected, too, often attaining their own reality. I myself started life in a collection of short stories by Sheridan LeFanu. Last week, as it happens,’ he chuckled, ‘I was passing through The Murder and Mayhem Bookshop in Hay-on-Wye, and chanced to bump into my respected colleague Dr. Van Helsing. We had a lively debate as to which of our creators, LeFanu or Mr. Stoker, originated the figure of the Psychic Detective!’ He paused. ‘Do you follow me?’

Clive nodded vigorously.

Humour him, humour him.

‘Some characters’ personalities even change and develop in this wondrous dimension. Did you know that Hamlet and Ophelia are happily married and running the Philosophy section of an academic bookstore near Wittenberg University? And I was a German, until my dear friend Molly Bloom told me that my accent made me sound,’ his clawed fingers hooked into quotation marks, ‘loike the fookin’ Kaiser!’

He’s a nutcase. Got to get out of here.

Clive backed towards the kitchen door, but Hesselius did one of his moving-without-moving things and was blocking his path.

‘Not leaving so soon, I hope? Oh, but we have so much to discuss.’ His voice hardened. ‘The contents of this, for instance.’ He yanked the rucksack out of Clive’s grip, at the same instant kicking his feet from under him. Clive crashed to the floor and scrambled into the corner as the old man strode down to the large table and up-ended the rucksack.

‘Now, what have we here?’ He picked up a book with a binding in elegant marbled paper. ‘The Abject, by Gustav Von Aschenbach.’ He sighed. ‘ Do you know, whenever I visit the Sansovino Library in Venice I see poor Gustav, wandering disconsolately, still searching for his beloved Tadzio? So sad.’

He laid down the book and, grunting with effort, lifted an enormously thick volume, tufted with pencilled notes. ‘The First Encyclopædia of Tlőn: Volume IX, Hlær to Jangr. Jolly lucky that only this volume exists, eh, or there’d be no room in this shop - or this world - for anything else!’

Laying down the Encyclopædia with a thump, he took up a small book with a cover in florid mauve calfskin. ‘Ah, The Home Life of Lucretia Borgia by Mrs Asp. Very spicy anecdotes in this slim volume,’ he leered. ‘And some rather revealing mezzotints!’ Turning the open book sideways and upside down, he muttered to himself ‘How the Devil did she get into that posture?’

‘I only wanted to look at them,’ Clive whined.

‘Oh, nonsense, you’re no reader. I expect you were stealing them so that you could sell them on the – what do you call it? The Intr-anet?’ The Doctor looked down at Clive with his toothy smile. ‘I’m afraid you wouldn’t have had a great deal of success. You see, all these,’ he waved a long-fingered hand over the pile on the table, ‘are Fictional Books. Not works of fiction, you understand, but imaginary books, created as part of the texts of real books. If you were to remove them from L-space, they would evaporate, - pouf! - like soap-bubbles. That is why I so enjoy my visits here; the opportunity to see dear Donald’s fine collection. That, and the excellent Lapsang Souchong.’

Fucking hell, he really is mad.

Hesselius turned away to browse through the jumbled pile.

‘And here we have my little offering; A Treatise on the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, by Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant brain but, alas, no social skills.’ He swept the four books aside, and turned to the cowering Clive. ‘All these are reasonably harmless, but then there are the more specialized volumes...’ He slipped on the white cotton gloves. ‘Better safe than sorry!’

The light in the shop had grown dim.

‘I don’t suppose you speak Latin? If you did, you might dip into this.’ He caressed a book with a crumbling leather binding. ‘The Necronomicon; Olaus Wormius’ translation of the Mad Arab’s seminal work. Or perchance Doctor John Dee’s English version would make easier reading, though the woodcuts can be quite alarming.’

‘Look, OK, I was going to nick them, but you’ve got them back now, you don’t need to tell anyone-’ babbled Clive.

Hesselius wasn’t paying attention. He had picked up a book with a luridly-coloured cartoon cover. It looked rather like an old-fashioned children’s annual, thought Clive. Then he saw the cartoons close up, and felt faint.

‘And here we have The Bumper Fun Grimoire! A most amusing tome; unless, of course, one is careless enough to read one of the formulæ aloud. Then, oh dearie me; the same rabbit from the same top-hat, over and over again, for all eternity...’

Clive slid out of the corner, along the wall. His hand touched metal. He looked down. The bolt-cutter! It must have rolled onto the floor when the rucksack was emptied. He glanced up at Hesselius, who had turned away, absorbed in yet another book, with an unlettered cover of black watered silk. Slowly he rose to his feet, the bolt-cutter gripped in his right hand.

‘My old friend Ludvig Prinn’s masterwork,’ the old man was murmuring. ‘What happy memories it inspires...’

Clive crept towards him. One good whack should do it. Then offski, and on the first coach to London, before the shop was even opened. Find a dealer, flog the books, easy. One good whack. He raised his arm.

‘Oh, no; I don’t think so!’

Hesselius was standing behind him. He grabbed Clive’s right wrist in his gloved hand and gave it a sharp twist. Clive yelped and dropped the bolt-cutter. He screeched as his arm was yanked into an agonizing half-nelson, and he was propelled towards the book-laden table.

‘I did so hope to avoid violence,’ said Hesselius’s soft voice in his ear. ‘But if you were intending to brain a helpless old man-’ he tightened his hold, and Clive whimpered in pain, ‘well, I think self-defence allowable. Pray be seated.’

He thrust his prisoner down on to one of the chairs in front of the large table. The black silken book lay open on its surface. Pinning Clive in the chair with one hand, Hesselius used the other to flick through the leaves. They were pure black, covered with a fiery scarlet script. Clive sobbed as the letters writhed and wriggled on the pages before him.

Can’t look away. Can’t look away.

‘The greatest book of demonic invocations ever written: De Vermis Mysteriis.’ Doctor Hesselius said reverently. ‘Englished, The Mysteries of the Worm. Now then, young man,’ his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Read it.’

Donald crumpled the courteous note of explanation and apology which he’d found waiting for him when he’d opened the shop. He chucked it, with bad-tempered accuracy, into the wastepaper basket. Damn. Now he had no-one to help him serve the drinks to the Sharksparks that evening. He glared at the pile of worms on the seat of the chair in front of him. They writhed slowly, languid and sated, then as he watched, crumbled into a small pile of ash. Oh, great.

He stomped off to the kitchen, and began to look under the sink for the dustpan-and-brush.

Cathryn Haynes read English at St Hilda's College, Oxford, back in the mists of time. She is interested in ghost stories, folklore and mythology, which she uses as inspiration for her fiction. She lives alone with two cats and about two thousand books. 

Below The Line

by Jane Buffham

The most important thing to bear in mind about a successful suicide attempt is that you don’t want to overplay your hand, and actually end up dead. To be or not to be is not the question when you don’t intend to kill yourself. Who really wants to die when push comes to shove, however crappy life can be? It’s against our natural instincts. Those who survive hurling themselves off the Humber Bridge report feeling massive regret during the fall. No one ever says they’re not relieved when they wake up after all.

What matters here, Jacqui, is what this looks like.

The anonymous followers who click the ‘Like’ button under every single blog entry, I get them, I do. Signalling compassion has never been easier or cheaper, and when you’re the mother of a dead daughter they click and double click to show their humanity. Don’t take the piss though, Jacqui, their loyalties are fragile.

There’s a delicate gentility to pills, I see that, but the danger of miscalculation makes them risky. Too few, too half-hearted, and it won’t likely be forgiven. There might be a chorus of there-there to your face, but even you won’t fail to notice when people avoid you in Waitrose, or stop answering invitations to your bi-monthly supper club evenings, or won’t make eye contact down at the Conservative Association.

And if that feverish mob who clickety-click their admiration on your bloody website should ever pivot their digital pitchforks against you, then God help you.

What this needs to look like is a woman driven to the brink only to be saved at the last moment by something approaching divine intervention. That will rally support. They will be outraged on your behalf, ready for your call to arms.

But if they think you’re manipulating them with a grisly self-serving soap opera, then fuck compassion, you callous, attention-seeking cow. They’ll string you up from your own blogposts. There’s nothing more brutal than an army in mutiny against its general.

But then again. Too many pills, and there’s no coming back. Believe me, you don’t want to make your final appearance in this life covered in urine and vomit while people around you scream and yell, and tear your clothes off. With your tits hanging out as the neighbours look on. While my dad stands there crying, for Christ’s sake.

There’s nothing more mortifying than being both the corpse and the suspected killer in your own police procedural. The rozzers crawling through the debris of your life looking for clues as to why. Looking through your diary, your emails, your internet search history. The finger-tip search of your knicker drawer to find where the corruption leaked in.

They peer into the vagina and anus searching for clues as to who you’ve been fucking– and when and how – before removing your organs one by one. They report on the undigested pieces of your last supper they fished out of the stomach, and scour the liver and kidneys for tell-tale signs of drink and drugs. They weigh the heart as if that will tell them what was in it to cause you to stop it from beating.

If you’re unlucky, someone will publish all the gory findings on a Reddit thread to service the curiosity and speculation of strangers who debate in circular logic as to whether it was suicide or a murder covered up by incompetent police.

The beginning of the end of us came when a family from London moved into our patch of suburban utopia. Him, an academic and an occasional contributor to the New Statesman. She was something or other in the media, and her teenage son was the product of a previous relationship she’d had with a handsome Nigerian actor. You hated them on sight, naturally. The day they erected a Vote Labour sign on the front lawns of your leafy Tory universe, you saw a declaration of war. In fewer than 140 characters, you declared them mortal enemies. Not content with their SMUG Islington bubble, now swarms of the loony left PC brigade are INVADING here! Fifty-five angry-faced emoticons shared your outrage.

Ollie Roberts was in Year 11, two years below me, and still forced to wear the uniform of the lower school. At first, I never saw him or spoke to him since upper sixth girls, sophisticated with our cars and clothes and older boyfriends, were practically a different species. But then one rain-lashed morning early in the autumn term as I sat queued in a line of traffic, I saw him at a bus stop huddled in a shop doorway with an insubstantial coat, scrunching his handsome face against the storm. Something about water dripping from his long dark eyelashes into his baby-cow eyes was so adorable to me that without thought I leant over and opened the passenger door, shouting for him to get in while irascible drivers behind honked at the obstruction we caused.