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The Created Legend by Feodor Sologub

F >> Feodor Sologub >> The Created Legend

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The calumnies of Ostrov and of his friends in the Black Hundred
disturbed Doulebov. To avoid unpleasantness Doulebov decided to take
advantage of the first opportunity to close Trirodov's school.

The Headmaster of the National Schools, Actual State Councillor,
Grigory Vladimirovitch Doulebov, had his eye on a higher position in
the educational department. That was why he tried to gain favour by
showing a meticulous attentiveness to his duties. His perseverance was
astonishing. He never gave an impression of haste. His reception of
subordinates and petitioners, announced on a placard on his door to
take place on Thursdays between one and three, actually began at
eleven in the morning, and continued until late in the evening.
Doulebov spoke with each visitor slowly and showed his interest in the
slightest detail.

But Doulebov, of course, knew very well that however great was his
attentiveness to his duties, that in itself would not take him very
far. It was indispensable to cultivate the proper personages. Doulebov
had no influential aunts and grandmothers, and he had to make efforts
on his own behalf. And in the whole course of his twenty-five years'
service, beginning as a gymnasia instructor, Doulebov uninterruptedly
and skilfully concerned himself with establishing improved relations
with all who were higher in rank than he or equal with him. He even
made an effort to keep on good terms with the younger set--that was
for an emergency; for--who can tell?--the younger sometimes go ahead
of the old, and, being young, they might do one an injury--or a good
service--when the opportunity offered.

Never to commit an untactful action--in that consisted the chief
precept of Doubelov's life. He knew very well that this or that action
was not good in itself, and that the chief thing was "how they would
look upon it"--they, that is, the authorities. The authorities were
favourably inclined towards Doulebov. He had already been almost
promised an assistantship to the head of the Educational District.

Doulebov adopted an attitude towards his subordinates consistent with
this personal attitude. To those who acted respectfully towards him
and his wife he gave his patronage and made efforts to improve their
position. He defended them in unpleasant situations, though very
cautiously, in order not to hurt his own position. He was not very
fond of those who were disrespectful and independent, and he hindered
them all he could.

Recognizing a rising luminary in the newly appointed Vice-Governor,
who lately had been a Councillor in the District Government, Doulebov
tried to come into agreeable relations with him also. But he conducted
himself towards him very cautiously, so that he might not be suspected
of too intimate relations with this evil, morose, badly trained man
and his vulgar wife.

Doulebov had pleasant manners, a youngish face, and a slender voice
which resembled the squeal of a young pig. He was light and agile in
his movements. No one had ever seen him drunk, and as a visitor he
either did not drink at all or limited himself to a glass of Madeira.
He was always accompanied by his wife. It was said that she managed
all his affairs, and that Doulebov obeyed her implicitly in
everything.

The wife of the Headmaster, Zinaida Grigorievna, was a plump,
energetic, and shrewish woman. Her short hair was beginning to get
grey. She was very jealous of her influence and maintained it with
great energy.

At Doulebov's invitation the Vice-Governor visited the town school. In
inviting the Vice-Governor Doulebov had especially in view the idea of
taking him to the Trirodov school. In the event of the school being
closed, he wanted to say that it was done at the instigation of the
governmental authorities. But Doulebov did not wish to invite the
Vice-Governor direct to Trirodov's school, so as to give no one any
reason for saying that he did it on purpose. That was why he persuaded
the Vice-Governor to come to the examination at the town school on the
eve of the day appointed for the examinations at the Trirodov school.

The town school was situated in one of the dirty side streets. Its
exterior was highly unattractive. The dirty, dilapidated wooden
structure seemed as if it were built for a tavern rather than for a
school. This did not prevent Doulebov from saying to the inspector of
the school:

"The new Vice-Governor will visit you to-day. I invited him to you
because you have such a fine school."

Inspector Poterin, fawning before Doulebov and his wife, said in a
flustered way:

"Our building is anything but showy."

Doulebov smiled amiably and replied encouragingly:

"The building is not the important thing. The school itself is good.
The instruction is to be valued and not the walls."

The Vice-Governor arrived rather late, at eleven, together with
Zherbenev, who was an honorary overseer of the school.

There was a very tense feeling in the school. The instructors and the
students alike trembled before the authorities. Stupid and vulgar
scenes with the Headmaster in the town school were common with
Doulebov and did not embarrass him. As for Doulebov and his wife, they
were fully alive to their importance. They had received only two or
three days before definite news of the appointment of Doulebov as
assistant to the head of the Educational Department.

Inspector Shabalov arrived at the school very early that day. He
occupied himself with attentions to Zinaida Grigorievna Doulebova, to
whom he showed various services with an unexpected and rather vulgar
amiableness.

The instructor-inspector, Mikhail Prokopievitch Poterin, conducted
himself like a lackey. It was even evident at times that he trembled
before the Doulebovs. What reason had he to be afraid? He was a great
patriot--a member of the Black Hundred. He accepted bribes, beat his
pupils, drank considerably--and he always got off easily.

Zinaida Grigorievna Doulebova examined the graduating classes in
French and English. These studies were optional. Inspector Poterin's
wife gave instruction in French. She had not yet fully mastered the
Berlitz method, and looked at the Doulebovs cringingly. But at heart
she was bitter--at her poverty, abjectness, and dependence.

Poterin knew no languages; but he was also present here, and hissed
malignantly at those who answered awkwardly or did not answer at all:

"Blockhead! Numskull!"

Doulebova sat motionless and made no sign that she heard this zealous
hissing and these coarse words. She would give freedom to her tongue
later, at luncheon.

A luncheon had been prepared for the visitors and the instructors. It
cost Poterin's wife much trouble and anxiety. The table was set in the
large room, where on ordinary days the small boys made lively and
wrangled in recess-time. They were excluded on this day, and raised a
racket outside.

Doulebova sat at the head of the table, between the Vice-Governor and
Zherbenev; Doulebov sat next to the Vice-Governor. A pie was brought
in; then tea. Zinaida Grigorievna abused the instructors' wives and
the instructresses. She loved gossip--indeed, who does not? The
instructors' wives gossiped to her.

During the luncheon the small boys, having resumed their places in the
neighbouring class, sang:

_What songs, what songs,
Our Russia does sing.
Do what you like--though you burst,
Frenchman, you'll never sing like that_.


And other songs in the same spirit.

Doulebov wiped his face with his right hand--like a cat licking its
paw--and piped out:

"I hear that the Marquis Teliatnikov is to pay us a visit soon."

"We are not within his jurisdiction," said Poterin.

But his whole face became distorted with apprehension.

"All the same," said Doulebov in his thin voice, "he possesses great
powers. He can do what he likes."

The Vice-Governor looked gloomily at Poterin and said morosely:

"He's going to pull you all up."

Poterin grew deathly pale and broke out into perspiration. The
conversation about the Marquis Teliatnikov continued, and the local
revolutionary ferment was mentioned in the course of it.

Revolutionary proclamations had appeared in all the woods of the
neighbourhood. Large pieces of bark were cut off the trees and
proclamations pasted on. It was impossible to remove these bills,
which were overrun by a thin, transparent coating of resin. The
zealous preservers of order had either to chop out or to scrape off
the obnoxious places with a knife.

"I think," said Doulebova, "that it must be an idea of our chemist,
Mr. Trirodov."

"Of course." She was confirmed in her suggestion by the cringing,
dry-looking instructress of German.

Zinaida Grigorievna turned towards Poterina in order to show favour to
her hostess by her conversation, and asked her with an amused smile:

"How do you like our celebrated Decadent?"

The instructress tried to understand. An expression of fear showed on
her flat, dull face. She asked timidly:

"Whom do you mean, Zinaida Grigorievna?"

"Whom else could I mean but Mr. Trirodov," replied Doulebova
malignantly.

The malice was all on Trirodov's account, but nevertheless Poterina
trembled with fear.

"Ah, yes, Trirodov; how then, how then...." she repeated in a worried,
flustered way, and was at a loss what to say.

Doulebova said bitingly:

"Well, I don't think he laughs very often. He ought to be to your
taste."

"To my taste!" exclaimed Poterina with a flushed face. "What are you
saying, Zinaida Grigorievna! As the old saying goes: 'The Tsar's
servant has been bent into a harness arch!'"

"Yes, he always looks askance at you and talks to no one," said the
wife of the instructor Krolikov; "but he is a very kind man."

Doulebova turned her malignant glance upon her. Krolikova grew pale
with fear, and guessed that she had not said the right thing. She
corrected herself:

"He is a kind man in his words."

Doulebova smiled at her benevolently.

"Do you know what I think?" said Zherbenev, addressing himself to
Doulebova. "I have seen many men in my time, I may say without
boasting; and in my opinion, it is a very bad sign that he looks
askance at you."

"Of course!" agreed Poterina. "That is the honest truth!"

"Let a man look me straight in my face," went on Zherbenev. "But the
quiet ones...."

Zherbenev did not finish his sentence. Doulebova said:

"Frankly, I don't like your poet. I can't understand him. There is
something strange about him--something disagreeable."

"He's altogether suspicious," said Zherbenev with the look of a person
who knew a great deal.

It was asserted that Trirodov and others were collecting money for an
armed revolt. At this they looked significantly at Voronok. Voronok
retorted, but he was not heard. There was an outburst of malignant
remarks against Trirodov. It was said that there was a secret
underground printing establishment in Trirodov's house, and that not
only the instructresses worked there but also Trirodov's young wards.
The women exclaimed in horror:

"They are mere tots!"

"What do you think of your tots now?"

"There are no children nowadays."

"I've just heard," said Voronok, "that a nine-year-old boy is kept in
confinement by the police."

"The young rebel!" said the Vice-Governor savagely.

"Yes, and I've also heard," said Poterin, "that a thirteen-year-old
boy has been arrested. Such a little beggar, and already in revolt."

The Vice-Governor said morosely:

"He's going with his grandfather to Siberia."

"Why?" asked Voronok with a flushed face.

"He laughed," growled the Vice-Governor morosely.

Doulebov turned to Poterin and asked in a loud voice:

"And I hope you have no rebels in your school."

"No, thank God, I have nothing of that kind," replied Poterin. "But,
to tell the truth, the children are very loose nowadays."

Doulebov, with a patronizing amiableness, said again to him:

"You have a good school. Everything is in exemplary order."

Poterin grew radiant and boasted:

"Yes, I know how to pull them up. I treat them sternly."

"A salutary sternness," said Doulebov.

Encouraged by these words, the instructor-inspector asked:

"Do you think one might also beat them?"

Doulebov avoided a direct answer. He wiped his face with his
hand--like a cat using its paw--and changed the subject.

They began touching recollections about the good old times. They began
to relate how, where, and whom they birched.

"They birch even now," said Shabalov with a quiet joy.




CHAPTER XXXI


After luncheon they went into the assembly room. Some of them began to
smoke. Instructor Mouralov's wife took advantage of an opportune
moment to speak to Doulebova. She cautiously stole up to her when she
saw her standing aside and told her that Poterin took bribes. Separate
phrases and words were distinguished from the rest of the
conversation.

"Have you noticed, Zinaida Grigorievna?"

"What's that?"

"Our inspector is parading in gloves."

"Yes?"

"Gloves! Yellow ones!"

"What of that?"

"Out of bribes."

Zinaida Grigorievna was overjoyed, and grew animated. For a long time
the whispers of the malicious women were audible, and between their
whispers their hissing, snake-like laughter.

Then the women, together with Shabalov and Voronok, went off to finish
the examination. Doulebov and the Vice-Governor went in to look at the
library. Poterin accompanied them. Everything was in order. The thick
volumes of Katkov[32] quietly slumbered; the dust had been wiped from
them on the eve of the Vice-Governor's visit.

[Footnote 32: Mikhail Katkov (1820-1887), a celebrated reactionary and
Slavophil.]

Poterin made use of an opportunity to make insinuations against the
instructors. He reported that Voronok did not go to church, and that
he collected schoolboys at his own house in order to read something or
other to them.

"I shall have to have a talk with him," said Doulebov. "Ask him into
your study and I will talk to him. In the meantime, show Ardalyon
Borisovitch the laboratory."

Doulebov and Voronok spoke for a long time in Poterin's study.

"I don't question your convictions," said the Headmaster, "but I must
make it clear to you that it is impossible to introduce politics into
schools. Children cannot discuss such questions; it does them harm."

"Agents' reports are not always to be believed," said Voronok
restrainedly.

Doulebov flushed slightly and said in an annoyed manner.

"We don't maintain agents, but we have many acquaintances. We have
lived here a long time. It is impossible not to hear what is told us."

The honorary overseer, Zherbenev, invited all who attended the
examination to his house to dinner. Only Voronok refused the
invitation. But Zherbenev invited others to the dinner--the general's
widow, Glafira Pavlovna, and Kerbakh among them. It was a long and
lavish dinner. The guests drank much during and after the meal. Every
one got tipsy. Doulebov alone remained sober. The liqueurs only made
him look slightly ruddier--he was very fond of them.

The members of the Black Hundred took advantage of the occasion to say
something malicious about Trirodov to Doulebov and the Vice-Governor.
The Trirodov school began to be discussed rather vulgarly.

"He's taken up photography; quite keen on it."

"He calls in children, makes them take everything off, and photographs
them."

"Yes, and he's got naked children running about in the woods."

"Children? The instructresses too!"

"They may not be exactly naked, but they are always running about
barefoot."

"Just like peasant women," said Zherbenev.

"Yes," said the Vice-Governor. "It is very immoral for women to go
about barefoot. It must be stopped."

"They are poor people," said some one.

"It is pornography!" said the Vice-Governor savagely.

And every one suddenly believed him. The Vice-Governor said morosely:

"He's lodged a complaint against us for whipping his instructress. But
he is lying; he's whipped her himself. We have no need of whipping
girls--but he does it because he's a corrupt man."

Some one made the observation that Trirodov was friends with dangerous
sects, at which Kerbakh remarked:

"He now has horses and carriages, but I know a man who knew him when
he had only his shirt. It is rather suspicious as to where he got his
money."

Glafira Pavlovna looked at Shabalov and whispered to Doulebov:

"I know he is a patriot, but he has terrible manners."

Doulebov said:

"I know he is very stupid and undeveloped, but zealous. If directed
properly he can be very useful."

* * * * *

Next morning the Headmaster of the National Schools, accompanied by
the Vice-Governor and Shabalov, started in their carriages from the
Headmaster's offices and drove off to Trirodov's school in the
Prosianiya Meadows. They had not yet fully recovered from the previous
day's carouse. They carried on their indecent, half-tipsy
conversations in the midst of nature's loveliness. They looked like a
lot of picnickers.

Zinaida Grigorievna and Kerbakh, who were in one carriage, were
engaged in a malicious conversation. They tore their acquaintances to
shreds. She began with Poterin's gloves. Then she related about the
suicide of another inspector's mistress; she drowned herself because
she was about to have a child. Then she told about a third inspector
who got drunk in a bath-house and got into a tussle there with the
mayor of the town.

Shabalov was riding in a trap with Zherbenev.

"It would be good to have a tasty snack," he said.

"We are sure to get something there," replied Zherbenev confidently.

The visitors were all confident that they were being awaited. Zinaida
Grigorievna said:

"The most interesting part of it will be hidden of course."

"Yes, but we'll investigate."

It was a fresh, early morning. The road went through the wood. They
had now driven for a long time. It seemed as if the same meadows and
woods, copses, streams, and bridges repeated themselves again and
again. They began to ask the drivers:

"Are you sure you're going the right way?"

"Perhaps you've lost your way."

"I think it's in that direction."

The two towers of Trirodov's house soon became visible. They appeared
to the right, and yet it was impossible to find the way to them. For a
long time they blundered. The roads spread and branched out at this
point. At last the driver of the first carriage stopped his horses,
and behind it the other carriages came to a standstill.

"I'll have to ask some one," said the driver. "There's some sort of a
boy coming this way."

A ten-year-old, barefoot boy could be seen coming down the road from
the wood. Shabalov shouted savagely at him:

"Stop!"

The boy glanced at the carriages and calmly walked on. Shabalov cried
more furiously this time:

"Stop, you young brat! Off with your cap! Don't you see that gentlemen
are coming--why don't you bow to them?"

The boy paused. He looked in astonishment at the variety of carriages
and did not take his cap off. Doulebova decided:

"He's simply an idiot!"

"Well, we shall make him talk," said Kerbakh.

He left his carriage and, going up to the boy, asked him:

"Do you know where Trirodov's school is?"

The boy silently pointed to one of the roads with his hand. Then he
ran off quickly, and disappeared somewhere among the bushes.

At last the road went along a fence. Everything all around seemed
deserted and quiet. Evidently no one awaited the visitors or had
arranged to meet them.

Finally they reached the gates of the enclosure. They looked around.
It was very quiet. No one was visible anywhere. Shabalov jumped out of
his trap and began to look for the bell. Madame Doulebova said in
great irritation:

"What do you think of that?"

They tried to open the small gate by themselves but were unable.
Shabalov cried out:

"Open the gate! You devils, demons, sinners!"

Madame Doulebova tried to soothe Shabalov, who justified himself:

"Forgive me, Zinaida Grigorievna. It is most annoying. If I had come
myself I shouldn't have minded waiting, though even then it would have
been discourteous--being, after all, an official. And here the higher
authorities have announced their coming, and these people pay
absolutely no attention to it."

At last the small gate opened, suddenly and noiselessly. A boy,
sunburnt and barefoot, in a white shirt and short white breeches,
stood on the threshold. The angry Doulebov said in his thin, shrill
voice:

"Is this Trirodov's school?"

"Yes," said the boy.

The visitors entered and found themselves in a small glade. Three
barefoot girls slowly came to meet them. These were instructresses.
Nadezhda Vestchezerova looked with her large dark eyes at Madame
Doulebova, who whispered to the Vice-Governor:

"Have a look at her. This girl had a scandal in her life, but he's
taken her on."

Doulebova knew every one in town, and she knew especially well those
who have had an unpleasant experience of some sort.

Presently Trirodov appeared in a white summer suit. He looked with an
ironic smile at the gaily dressed party of visitors.

The visitors were met with courtesy; but the Headmaster was displeased
because no honour was shown them and no special preparations were
evident. The instructresses were dressed as simply as always. Doulebov
was especially displeased because both the instructresses and their
pupils walked about barefoot. The naοvetι of the children irritated
the visitors. The children looked at the party indifferently. Some of
them nodded a greeting, others did not.

"Take off your cap!" shouted Shabalov.

The boy pulled his cap off and reached it out to Shabalov with the
remark:

"Here!"

Shabalov growled savagely:

"Idiot!"

Then he turned away. The boy looked at him in astonishment.

Doulebov, and even more his wife, were terribly annoyed because they
had not put on more clothes for their visitors, not even shoes. The
Vice-Governor looked dully and savagely. Everything displeased him at
once. Doulebov asked with a frown:

"Surely they are not always like that?"

"Always, Vladimir Grigorievitch," replied Trirodov. "They have got
used to it."

"But it is indecent!" said Madame Doulebova.

"It is the one thing that is decent," retorted Trirodov.




CHAPTER XXXII


The windows of the house in the small glade were wide open. The
twitter of birds was audible and the fresh, delicious aroma of flowers
entered in. It was here the children gathered, and the miserable farce
of the examination began. Doulebov stood up before an ikon on one side
of the room, assumed a stately air, and exclaimed:

"Children, rise to prayer."

The children rose. Doulebov thrust a finger forward towards a
dark-eyed boy's breast and shouted:

"Read, boy!"

The thin, shrill outcry and the movement of the finger towards the
child's breast were so unexpected by the boy that he trembled and gave
a choking sound. Some one behind him laughed, another gave an amused
chuckle. Doulebova exchanged glances with Kerbakh and shrugged her
shoulders; her face expressed horror.

The boy quickly recovered himself and read the prayer.

"Sit down, children," ordered Doulebov.

The children resumed their places, while the elders seated themselves
at a table in the order of their rank--the Vice-Governor and Doulebov
in the middle, with the others to their right and left. Doulebova
looked round with an anxious, angry expression. At last she said in a
bass voice, extraordinarily coarse for a woman:

"Shut the windows. The birds are making a noise, and the wind too; it
is impossible to do anything."

Trirodov looked at her in astonishment. He said quietly to Nadezhda:

"Close the windows. Our guests can't stand fresh air."

The windows were shut. The children looked with melancholy tedium at
the depressing window-panes.

Writing exercises were given. A little tale was read aloud from a
reader brought by Shabalov. Doulebov asked the class to compose it in
their own words.

The boys and girls were about to pick up their pens, but Doulebov
stopped them and delivered a long and tedious dissertation on how to
write the given composition. Then he said:

"Now you can write it."

The children wrote. It was quiet. The writers handed in their papers
to their instructresses. Doulebov and Shabalov looked them over there
and then. They tried to find mistakes, but there were few. Then
dictation was given.

Doulebova looked morosely the whole while and blinked often. Trirodov
tried to enter into conversation with her, but the angry dame answered
so haughtily that it was with great difficulty he refrained from
smiling, and finally he left the malicious woman to herself.

After the written exercises Trirodov asked the uninvited guests to
luncheon.

"It was such a long journey here," said Doulebov as if he were
explaining why he did not refuse the invitation to eat.

The children scattered a short way into the wood, while the elders
went into a neighbouring house, where the luncheon was ready. The
conversation during luncheon was constrained and captious. The
Doulebovs tried all sorts of pinpricks and coarse insinuations; their
companions followed suit. Every one tried to outdo the other in saying
caustic, spiteful things.

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Call off the hounds: the Not the Booker prize vote stands

From Jim Thompson to Daphne du Maurier, the author and comedian singles out stories that live up to their genre and genuinely do give readers sleepless nights

As well as making becoming a household name for his work as a writer and actor in comedy shows such as The Fast Show, Charlie Higson has had a parallel and these days just as stellar career as a writer. After winning acclaim for early, blackly comic crime novels including his debut King of the Ants (1992) and Getting Rid of Mister Kitchen (1996), he moved on to writing for children in 2005 with the Young Bond series. These books have now sold more than 1m copies in the UK alone, and have been translated into 24 different languages.

The Enemy, published last year, marked a new departure for Higson into horror writing for teenagers, with a tale of teenagers defending themselves against a zombified adult world. The first in a series, it was this week shortlisted for the Booktrust teenage prize, with volume two, The Dead, due out next week.

Buy The Dead by Charlie Higson at the Guardian bookshop

"What constitutes a horror book? A black and red cover? A primary objective to scare the shit out of the reader? A plug from Stephen King on the back? Most of the books on my list would probably be categorised in other genres first, but then – is Alien a sci-fi film or a horror film, or both? Is Wuthering Heights a ghost story? Is Jane Eyre the mother of all psycho-in-the-attic stories? And Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca is in many ways a haunted house story. I might well have put it in here if I'd ever actually read it.

"You can have a lot of fun mixing genres up. Personally I'm not the world's biggest fan of pure horror novels – ghosts and demons and man-eating slugs leave me slightly unmoved. With no belief in the supernatural, supernatural stories usually have little effect on me. Of the big horror names only Stephen King, with his concentration on character, really works for me. I've enjoyed other horror writers but wouldn't put them in any top 10 lists. HP Lovecraft, for instance, is fun but his books aren't exactly scary. I'm not going to lose any sleep over the possibility of Cthulhu and the ancient gods crossing over into our domain.

"And there are other glaring omissions from my list. Why no Dracula or Frankenstein or Edgar Allan Poe I hear you cry. It's sacrilege to leave them out of a horror list, I know. But Poe only really wrote a couple of scary horror stories (The Tell Tale Heart is brilliant) and I find Dracula and Frankenstein rather heavy going and 19th century. Of course they're where it all began as far as the undead are concerned and must be read, I'm just not sure that they still have the power to frighten us. And, let's face it, that's what a horror book should do.

"I've always been interested in the mechanics of frightening people. I like the idea of disturbing my readers, giving them sleepless nights and stamping images in their imaginations that will stay there for a very long time. That way they will always remember your book, and after all, us novelists are like Dracula, all we want is immortality. The first two of my adult novels (King Of The Ants and Happy Now) could easily be categorised as horror books and my new series for younger readers, The Enemy, is most definitely horror as it concerns kids vs adult zombies, but it is also an action adventure series, which seems to be my default mode. I'm always open to suggestions, though, so if anyone wants to champion some pure horror books that I absolutely must read, then fire away. I'm all severed ears."

1. The Watcher by Charles Maclean (out of print but Amazon and Abebooks have copies)

An extraordinary book, unlike anything else I've ever read, which had a big effect on me when I first read it. The narrator, Martin Gregory, starts out by telling us that he was perfectly normal and happy and that there was no reason for the terrible thing he has done … The sense of impending horror is enormous, and the book, like the narrator, soon spirals into madness. We have to try and work out what is really going on as we see everything through Gregory's distorted perspective. One thing we can be sure of, though, is that everyone around him is in very great danger.

2. The Shining by Stephen King

You can't have a horror list without having Stephen King in there somewhere. It's the law. But the thing is, when he was at his peak his books were brilliant (he hasn't quite been able to sustain it – you can't help but start repeating yourself if you write as many books as he has). Engrossing, tragic and, yes, frightening, which you can't always say about horror books. He's a great writer and for me the greatest horror writer. If you've only seen the film of The Shining then read the book – it's better (first half of the film amazing, second a bit silly).

3. The Drive-In by Joe R Lansdale

The Drive In, by Texan titan Joe R Lansdale is a great, knowingly trashy nod to the 50s and 60s craze for teen drive-in schlock sci-fi/horror flicks. A bunch of kids at an all-night horror showing at their local drive-in get mysteriously trapped there by some malign force and begin to behave like ants under a glass. Surviving on junk food and fizzy drinks they go crazy and set up a savage and weird alterative society full of great characters like the Popcorn King. Book Two spins off into yet wilder shores.

4. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

A hugely influential horror book, written in 1957. The last human survivor in a Californian suburb ventures forth every day with a supply of stakes to try and wipe out the vampires that have taken over. Matheson was great at mixing horror and science fiction, and rooting the fantastical in everyday reality. This book is a brilliant study in loneliness and obsession, and when the story twists towards the end Matheson very cleverly makes us question all that has gone before.

5. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

There has been a lot of fuss recently about the film of this book. But the book – which is every bit as extreme and upsetting as the film – has been around since as long ago as 1952. Amazing how you can get away with so much more in books without people really noticing. "Oh, it's a book, it must be good for you." Well, this book is certainly not good for you. I remember reading it and thinking – should I be reading this, should anyone read this? It is a horrific trip inside the mind of a cold-blooded psychopathic sadist, who is nevertheless good company and at times unnervingly funny. Not in a flip, post-Tarantino way; this is very disturbing and upsetting stuff. There is never any question as to where Thompson stands – the narrator is a monster. We watch his destructive relations unfold and discover the reasons for his condition from the reading equivalent of "behind the sofa". Unlike a lot of modern writers who go into this area in a sort of gleefully voyeuristic adolescent way that is entirely fake (stand up Brett Easton Ellis). Jim Thompson lived the life. He understood these people and fought many demons of his own. He is my favourite author by a long chalk, and this is an extraordinary book, but it's also certainly one of the most extreme (and extremely upsetting) things I've ever read.

6. Pan Books Of Horror

If any horror collections can be described as seminal it is these. When I was a teenager they were everywhere. Passed around from hand to hand, they had a forbidden, naughty allure, like video nasties. With their classy but trashy covers the stories they contained were gory, nasty, sometimes sexy, often badly written, sometimes brilliant. The collections were a mix of old classics and more modern material, increasingly the latter as the supply of classics ran dry. You'd find Stephen King alongside Algernon Blackwood and some blood-soaked fillers from writers you'd never heard of before and never hear would again. A superfan is currently working with Pan to get the series relaunched, starting with a facsimile reprint of volume one later in the year. Look out for it. And check out his website.

7. Uncle Montague's Tales Of Terror by Chris Priestley

This one's for the kids. Written in an accessible, cod Victorian style it has a neat framing device. Edgar goes to stay with his uncle in the woods who proceeds to tell him a series of terrifying stories – all the while hinting at some dark secrets of his own. Rest assured, the stories, which all feature a child in some way, are genuinely scary and unsettling and really do get under your skin. They certainly frightened my 10-year-old when I read them to him.

8. The Silence Of The Lambs by Thomas Harris

Is this crime or horror? It certainly has a classic horror set up – basically it's Beauty And The Beast. A naΓ―ve and innocent, yet ultimately resilient, young girl enters the monster's lair and he falls in love with her. Then together they sort put each other's problems. The secondary villain – Buffalo Bill - is certainly a monster from a horror story, making clothes out if his victims' skin and keeping his latest victim in a pit. The film played like a horror film, and Anthony Hopkins certainly seemed to think he was in one. The book, as usual, is even better than the film. It's weird and engrossing and seductive and scary with some nice gothic touches. A great, great read.

9. Ghost stories by MR James

Apologies to Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley and Edgar Allen Poe, but of the old classics I've gone for James. And not really for the original stories but just so I can bang on about Jonathan Miller's extraordinary BBC film of "Whistle And I'll Come To You". MR James was the king of the unsettling ghost story where not very much happens and it's all about atmosphere and dread. Miller's film still has the power to be very, very disturbing. Give yourself a treat and buy it. There are other James BBC adaptations you should look out for as well (A Warning to the Curious is another favourite), they used to show them at Christmas in the good old days, and all still work.

10. Don't Look Now/The Birds by Daphne du Maurier

All right, I'll admit it, I'm cheating a bit here. I don't think these 2 stories actually appear together in a Du Maurier collection except on audiobook. And like MR James, my interest in du Maurier is primarily in the films made of her stories (nearly all of her output was filmed – she was the Stephen King of her day). I couldn't leave her out because to have come up with the story for not one but two all-time classic horror films is a feat to be applauded. And as Don't Look Now is my favourite horror film I had to get a mention of it in here somewhere. The original stories are still good reads and its fascinating to see how two great directors teased complete films out of them.


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Extract: The Whales by Evie Wyld

"I am an enemy of Waterstone's being destroyed. I am not in any way an enemy of Waterstone's being properly led by people who know what they're doing"

Tim Waterstone is explaining to me why he has a problem with the word entrepreneur, a distaste that I've seen ascribed to him on several occasions but find difficult to understand. How else might you describe a man who conjured, out of a redundancy package of a few thousand pounds, a retail operation that changed the face of British bookselling, and with it the nation's high streets? A man who went on to sell the company to the firm that had made him redundant, and then bought it back; and who, after apparently parting ways with his bookshops for good, made four separate attempts to gain control of them once again? This strikes me as almost a dictionary definition of an entrepreneur. So what's the beef?

His quibble, it turns out, has its basis in good manners. "I can't bear the self-congratulatory thing of applying it to oneself, really," he says: softly spoken and courteous, he appears, in tone and bearing, far more like a gentleman publisher than a cut-throat boardroom monster. Indeed, our semantic discussion has been prompted by his description of the bankers whom he met during a deal he was working on a few years ago and who make up a major strand in his new novel, In for a Penny, In for a Pound, an everyday tale of high finance, newspaper dynasties and the world of books. They were, he says, "so awful" that he started jotting down their conversations during meetings, and soon began to form an idea for a fictional parody of them. He was particularly struck by what seemed to him "like this endless drive towards the accumulation of personal wealth", a motivation at odds, he is at pains to point out, with his own impulses.

"You know, as an entrepreneur, and I hate calling myself an entrepreneur" – here our digression begins – "you don't do it for the money at all, really you don't; you're doing it because you get caught up in an idea and you want that idea to work." The ultimate achievement, according to Waterstone, is to see your vision realised, often against the odds: almost all entrepreneurs, he thinks, are fighting against received wisdom.

He was certainly bucking the trend when he started Waterstone's in 1982; he describes a grim landscape, in which the demise of the book was regularly predicted and which presented book-lovers with a choice between WH Smith, the smaller Blackwells and an array of independents, "some of whom were good, some of whom were terrible; one can romanticise the independents". By far the biggest market share lay with Smiths, the company that Waterstone had spent the previous eight years working for; when he first left university, he had gone to India to work in his father's tea business ("I was 22 going on 18, I was incredibly immature"), before "thoroughly enjoying" a long stint as a marketing man for Allied Breweries. Then, having married young and with a growing family to support, he joined Smiths, who were offering to triple his salary. It was a time he now says he loathed: "I don't want to spend my time knocking Smiths, but in those days family preference ran through, and it was a sort of caricature of corporate life, and I realised I can't stand corporate life, I really can't stand it. The fault was mine . . . I don't like other people's opinions much, I like having my own things, and then they fired me which was a huge relief, and I knew I wanted to start Waterstone's."

His first inspiration was the kind of bookselling he had witnessed in New York, exemplified by the "really terrific" Doubleday stores that stayed open until 11 o'clock at night and dispatched books around the city on delivery bicycles. By contrast, Putney-resident Waterstone had to trudge to the Smiths on his local high street or trek into central London to Hatchards, which, he says, "closed at 12 o'clock on Saturdays; Dillons didn't seem to open at all". And yet he was convinced that there was a market: he knew that all he wanted to do was read, and felt sure that there must be a couple of million like-minded souls in the country. "I was filled with this thought: why couldn't the best of the independents, Hatchards or whoever, be done nationally? Why can't they be like New York stores, better than New York stores, why can't they stay open late at night, why can't they have people working there who really love and know books? And why can't the stock be fabulous?"

So, with his Β£6,000 redundancy package and additional venture capital, Waterstone advertised in the London Evening Standard for staff – "salary moderate" – and opened up his first store in London's Old Brompton Road. And he was right, there was an appetite for books: soon, branches of Waterstone's, with their sleek black bookshelves, knowledgeable booksellers and unashamedly upmarket range of books, were opening everywhere, aided by their creator's "gift of the gab" with the money men, not to mention the occasional celebrity customer. Waterstone recalls Laurence Olivier visiting his Kensington High Street branch: "He said, are you looking for money? I said yes, so he put in 20,000 quid or something."

Waterstone's arrived at just the right time. It was, he reminds me, a rich time for literary fiction, with writers such as Salman Rushdie, Ian McEwan, John Banville and Martin Amis rising to prominence; Waterstone capitalised on the excitement surrounding this explosion of new writing by making sure that his shops were a natural place for launch parties and readings. "We were," he says, "plainly unfussed about being as culturally aware as we wanted to be." They also made it their business to maximise exposure for writers they believed in, in one instance creating the chain's "Book of the Month" when Waterstone and others in the company fell in love with Nicholas Mosley's Hopeful Monsters in 1990. And there was confidence in the publishing industry, which meant that enough of the big players – Waterstone cites Peter Mayer as an example, then head of the all-powerful Penguin – were prepared to support the enterprise with favourable credit and discount terms. All of which added up, after a while and despite "some fantastically dangerous moments", to a profitable business. "But," maintains Waterstone now, "the real thrill was winning, it wasn't the money; we did make money and it's very nice to have done so, but the real thrill was the dream."

But even the best dreams must come to an end. Waterstone's had expanded rapidly ("We got so arrogant"), often going against the advice of local demographics and sticking to their policy of having an unprecedentedly wide stock offering. It all took a lot of capital and, in 1993, having already sold a share of the business to them, Waterstone sold out to WH Smith for Β£47m. It can be no coincidence that, in the following years, he wrote three novels – Lilley and Chase, An Imperfect Marriage and A Passage of Lives. Clearly, however, writing books was no simple replacement for selling them, because in 1998 Waterstone joined forces with HMV to buy back the chain for Β£300m, in the process creating the HMV Media Group, of which he became chairman. Three years later, he was on his way again, and set out to embark on one of the publishing world's most intriguing soap operas – his attempts to buy out HMV altogether. Why?

"I became increasingly frustrated – frankly pissed off – with the way it was being run. I was chairman of HMV and was watching my own baby being absolutely murdered. And it was so stupid because the book market was just growing and growing, and people coming in from Tesco or Asda or Boots seemed to think their job was to get Waterstone's away from books, and move it towards multimedia or something. It was very hard for the people who worked in the stores, who I'd known for years – great, terrific people, wonderful people."

You realise, chatting to Waterstone, that at least part of his success lies in his genial manner: good situations become superlative – "great, terrific, wonderful", while the challenging moments are "tricky". The exception comes when he touches on his declining relationship with HMV: during the period when he tried to buy back the company – especially his fourth, final and "very serious" attempt in 2006, which took place at around the same time as HMV's purchase of the Ottakars chain – he describes himself as "apoplectic" at how the chain was being managed. But when that deal collapsed, with both sides proclaiming themselves hamstrung by the other's impossible demands, he knew it was time to call it quits.

The twists and turns of the battle between Waterstone and Waterstone's must surely, though, have come in handy when he was writing In for a Penny, In for a Pound, the first draft of which ran to an eye-watering 240,000 words. It doesn't shy away from bloodlust in the boardroom – the in-fighting in a family-run newspaper business is cynically manipulated by a private bank hell-bent on extracting maximum commission. In a subsidiary story, a thoroughly decent chap struggles to keep his small publishing firm afloat; the two worlds collide when agony aunt Anna Lavey, the company's star author and a columnist for one of the Macaulay newspapers, finds herself at the centre of a tabloid scandal. Elsewhere, there are high-flying barristers sleeping with senior leftwing politicians, Australian media tycoons running amok and ardent fans who metamorphose into havoc-wreaking stalkers. In short, with its fast-paced plot and to-the-point dialogue (sample: "You're a shit, Nicky. A total shit"), it is designed to grab the attention quickly.

I say to Waterstone "When I first picked it up . . . " and he completes my sentence with the question "you thought it was Jeffrey Archer?" I did, a little: it is bright red, with black-and-gold lettering, and its title is not a million miles away from that of Archer's debut novel, Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less. Rather than being published by one of the vast commercial houses, Waterstone's novel was picked up by the independent publisher Atlantic, perhaps best known for its Man Booker victory with Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger. It was Atlantic's chief executive and chairman, Toby Mundy, who spotted the book's potential for Corvus, the Atlantic list that publishes crime and thrillers. Waterstone was attracted by Mundy's enthusiasm, though he confesses when he first saw the cover "I nearly passed out. I decorously tried to keep enthusiasm on my face. But I've rather come round to it now."

Mundy was no doubt aware that media and publishing industry observers would lock on to the book's roman Γ  clef aspect: the Barclay brothers, Rupert Murdoch and Anna Raeburn have all been mentioned thus far. All that Waterstone will say is that Anna Lavey is most certainly not based on the late Beryl Bainbridge. But there was a detail that really bothered me. Surely, I ask, when he sends Anna to a bookshop event and has 500 eager readers queue up to meet her, isn't this stretching credulity a little far? After all, if that were most writers' and publishers' experience, they'd be riding around in golden sedan chairs. But he assures me that, no, when Dirk Bogarde signed books in his Kensington store, they sold more than 1,000 copies. If this is a little Pollyannaish – a global film star is not, of course, literary novelist X or poet Y – it is rather charmingly so.

In the latest throw of the dice, Waterstone has found himself largely reconciled with the chain he gave his name to. He is far too polite to inject a hint of "I told you so" into his conversation, saying only how delighted he is that some of Waterstone's most senior staff ring him up these days to talk over the whys and wherefores of the book trade. And, following the departure of managing director Gerry Johnson in January after a poor Christmas, it does seem that the chain is attempting to return to its roots, restoring buying power to staff in individual shops, lessening its reliance on aggressive marketing campaigns and emphasising its focus on quality. So, is the hatchet well and truly buried? "I am an enemy of Waterstone's being destroyed," he says. "I am not in any way an enemy of Waterstone's being properly led by people who know what they're doing." And will he ever try to buy it again? He says not, but stops short of ruling it out entirely with the words: "I'm certainly not going aggressively at them again, under any circumstances."

But even if the chain of shops can realign itself with its core market, it will still have to face the challenges of what Waterstone might call a "tricky" business environment: most obviously, the past few years have seen exceptionally stiff competition from both non-traditional retailers such as supermarkets, with their limited range but rock-bottom prices, and from online bookshops such as Amazon, which in a sense played Waterstone at his own game by having a stock offering of undreamt-of depth. And now there is the ebook – Waterstone has played about on an ereader, he says, but can't see it dominating leisure-time reading.

Perhaps most importantly for the man whose childhood experience of reading was to go into the independent bookshop in Crowborough in East Sussex – his family was not bookish and there wasn't "a bean" to spend on books – and sit on the floor, day after day, poring over their titles, does he still think that people want to buy books? This, it turns out, is not a tricky question to answer at all. "I just couldn't be more optimistic about it."

Waterstone will celebrate the publication of his novel with a party at one of the branch's shops, along with what he calls "the Waterstone diaspora", including former staff, many of whom have gone on to open their own shops or work in publishing. This, presumably, would have been unthinkable a few years ago, and must feel a bit odd. "It's quite strange to be connected to Waterstone's in that way," he concedes, "but they are being so generous over this." And then he will return to his other activities – looking after the youngest two of his eight children, serving as chancellor of Edinburgh Napier University, dodging invitations to sit on other companies' boards – and pondering his next novel. In the unlikely event that he hits a patch of writer's block, he can look for advice to his wife, TV producer Rosie Alison, whose first novel The Very Thought of You was shortlisted for this year's Orange prize. "I'm rather cross with Rosie, stealing my thunder," he jokes. But I'm not sure Waterstone really does cross – I suspect he goes straight from affable to apoplectic, and that, it seems clear, is reserved for rather exceptional circumstances.


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Booker prize sees Peter Carey and Emma Donoghue head shortlist

Evie Wyld, whose debut novel After the Fire, a Still Small Voice won the 2009 John Llewellyn Rhys prize, has written a short story, The Whales, exclusively for Booktrust, where she is currently writer-in-residence. Here we join Jimmy, Elaine, Terry and Yvonne, deep in the bush after five days of walking. The conclusion will appear on the Booktrust website tomorrow

There are four of them footslogging single file along the trail. They sweat and wave their sticks at the flies, spitting the salt off their lips and feeling the rub of their backpacks, hot on their shoulders. A storm bird knows about them from miles off and lets out a wop-wop-wop, getting higher and louder as it goes. Jimmy watches Elaine look up at the gum-treed sky. He follows her gaze. No, he thinks. The bird is wrong; overhead is blue without a wash of cloud.

The crack of dry bark, the whistle of whip birds and sometimes a thundering in the undergrowth – a wombat, a pademelon – it all makes Jimmy feel younger. He can feel the muscles in his thighs working, can feel them thank him for not being stood at the assembly line six hours a day.

Five days of walking and now they are deep in the bush. In another day, they'll turn east, head for the sea, where if they make good time, they'll see the humpbacks heading south towards the Antarctic, their new calves in tow. There'll be a party that night, between the four of them. Terry the young bow-legged one from further down the line with a touch of the idiot about him, Yvonne his frizz-plaited, heavy cousin who runs accounts and her friend Elaine who is nothing to do with the factory and who returns his glances, smiling. Not a bad lot really, especially the girls.

Three days down the coast and they'll arrive home about ready for that soft bed and the meal without char-grit from the campfire, or the dog food pong of tinned meat. It's been good so far. He thinks of what was waiting for him if he hadn't gone bush this week – all those monkey-wrenches wanting to be set. It's been time to move on for a while, he sees that now. Only he'll wait and see what comes of Elaine and the damp hair that ringlets at the back of her neck.

Later in the day he spots a bower bird's chapel. Even this far in, the bird has found a blue toothbrush and bits of turquoise plastic to frame its humpy. He takes a photo, so that the side of Elaine's brown leg slides up the view finder.

'They only collect blue stuff', he says, mainly to Elaine. He feels the roots of his fingers strain as he reigns himself in, his stiff hands reminding him not to overdo it. Steady on.

Chances are, Elaine already knows more than him about bower birds – she told him she's walked the bush for six years, since she left varsity, this last two with Yvonne for company and he only knows from camping out when money gets bad. But he wants to show something to her. Elaine squats next to him and traces an arc with one finger in the dirt, looking at the toothbrush. She is smiling with her eyebrows pulled in.

'It's to impress the female – then she'll come down and he'll do a sexy dance.' As he explains, he wiggles his tail a little in a sexy dance and Elaine smiles wider.

Terry who has been leaning over them to get a look, gyrates around his walking stick. What his mating dance lacks in accuracy it makes up for in energy and the other three look on in silence while he makes the noise of a boombox with his lips pressed together. Jimmy's fingers stretch out towards the ground in embarrassment as he keeps his bad eye – the eye that he thinks of as his secret eye – on Elaine.

'You're a disgustin' specimen, Terry', says the stone-buttocked Yvonne. Terry quickens his hips and points, wiggling himself towards her.

Yvonne stands stiff and still like a wary buffalo. 'Never been the brightest crayon in the box', she says and they all push past him, smiles held down. Jimmy looks back to see him finish in a bunny squat and a flick of his head.

'Yeah!' says Terry loudly, arms raised and both thumbs up to the tops of the trees like they are his audience.

'Yeah' and he finds a cigarette in his back pocket, lights it and considers its glowing end before following on.

There'd been a night of heavy breathing when Elaine and Jimmy faced each other in their swags. They hadn't touched but they'd looked hard in the dark, seeing the glints of each other's tongues, teeth and eyes. There is a luxury in not touching, Jimmy thinks, in not just going with your gut; they don't have all the time in the world but they have this time, which won't end for another few days.

He looks forward to it, imagines the beach in an old film kind of a way. The last night when they will open the wine they've lugged all this way – they'll cool the bottles in a rock pool for a couple of hours, while they see what the beach has for them. He's a beach person at heart, it's where his childhood is at and he can't wait to show off about it. Terry's brought along his spearfishing gear and says he reckons on a good spot up at the point. Jimmy imagines striding into camp, a jewfish slung over one shoulder, a clutch of softly ticking crays hung from their whiskers in his other fist. When the moon's up and the salty wine is drunk, their fingers warm and sticky with sand and cray brains, he'll rub his foot over hers. He'll put his wrists either side of her jaw, so as not to touch her with his prawny fingers and he'll plant a long warm kiss on her mouth, one that shows them both that this is the start of things. He could think about staying on at the factory, him who hasn't stayed in one spot for more than six months at a time since he was 16. Or else, Elaine could come with him, go feral together up the coast. He gets the feeling there's not much holding her to the city anymore. He looks down at himself and he speaks softly to his hands You're orright you bung-eyed bastard. You're an okay sort after all.

Elaine breaks off from the group to take a pee in the scrub. She squats behind a paperbark and laughs. She's been hip deep in croc water, has woken up feeling a huntsman, as big as both of her hands put together, tangling with her feet in her swag. But the idea that the group might hear the sound of her pissing makes it so that she can't go. Eventually, she manages and makes a wet stain on the gum leaves. She pulls her shorts back up and a twig cracks not far up ahead. Shadows rise and fall as something heavy moves away. She catches up with the others at a jog.

Jimmy, that trunk of a man with his duff eye and his bear hands and her pal Yvonne are arguing about a fish. The argument is snapper versus flathead, but in what capacity Elaine is not sure. Terry is unusually quiet for a conversation involving food and he walks a little way from Jimmy and Yvonne.

'Stone lighter?' he asks quietly.

'It was a pee', she says, but her face flushes anyway.

'Right', says Terry and he smiles a weird smile. Elaine accidentally catches his eye.

By five o'clock they reach a small billabong. They strip down to their underwear and jump in like kids, laughing, drowning each other with splashing. Terry tries to duck the girls under, Jimmy dives for yabbies and opens his eyes in the bourbon-coloured water. The white legs of the other three bicycle in the open water. When he comes up for air, he can see that Yvonne is pleased with her breasts and bobs them gently up and down making small waves to the bank.

Jimmy looks a long time at Elaine and she looks back. There is a water level smile between them. He is aware of the ripples that come from his heartbeat and he sees how Elaine's canines creep over her bottom lip. Her hair is dark now, but in the light you can see into it. Where the sun hasn't caught her, her skin is like the damp underside of a leaf.

Elaine thinks she's some wonderful creature. The water holds her in on all sides, she feels good in her skin. The billabong is black from the tea trees that line the bank and when she flicks her legs to the surface she's a pale fish. She pauses before she puts her head under – a brief worry about spluttering and snotting in front of Jimmy, but then she thinks of the beach and the sea to come and she duck dives.

The dark water lifts her hair up and spreads it out, it pushes around her cheeks and taps on her eyelids as she reaches out for the leafy mud of the billabong floor, but even though she goes deep, her hands touch nothing. She kicks up for air and sends a flume of mist from her mouth. She smiles widely at Jimmy who floats on his back like an otter, hands clasped over his chest, dreaming of something.

Frogs and magpies are loud and someone finds a leech and then another and another and there's shrill laughing.

Terry shouts, 'It's eatin' the fuckin' kidneys out of me!' then, 'You girls want me to check under your bras?'

Even though everyone has had a leech before and every person has treated that leech with salt or the tip of a cigarette, quietly, without fear, they all pretend this is the first time they've been bitten and they wallow in the hysteria, enjoying it like gobble-mouthed kids.

Out of the water, damp shirts wrapped around them like towels, Jimmy burns a fat one off Elaine's shoulder. She looks at him sideways and curls a bit of paper bark around her finger.

'Ta', she says, as Jimmy passes her the cigarette which they share puffs from. He looks at her with his good eye. It creases in the corner.

The four of them set up camp a little way from the water hole, away from the leeches. Terry makes a small tepee out of kindling and rings stones around it to stop the fire spreading. Once it's lit they hang over a billy and drink tea while they watch the bats turning circles in the creeping darkness. Yvonne stirs up a thick damper and they bake it in a pan over the fire, to be eaten with a warmed tin of bean stew and rice pudding for afters. The birds are mostly quiet and the cicadas and frogs rev themselves up, as everyone slaps on Rid against the mosquitoes.

'Reckon we'll beat those whales, the way we're moving', Terry says cleaning his bowl with a licked finger.

'Fuckin' A.' Yvonne brings out a flask of bourbon to swill down the pudding with. She takes a long unflinching pull of it before passing it round and beginning a murder story.

'There's this girl went missing not far from Tully – all the kids hitchhike out there…' The dark gets deeper and everyone settles in, enjoying the creep of it. Elaine thinks that there's nothing you can't fix by putting your cheek to the land and feeling it settle. She studies the landscape of Jimmy's face. He is unashamedly enthralled by Yvonne's story. His funny eye looks directly at Elaine but doesn't see her. The lines on his forehead have dirt ground in. He's older than Elaine and she wonders what it is he's been doing all the time he's been alive.

In the silence, after Yvonne's concluding remark 'They only ever found her thumb', Terry farts, a loud one and everyone groans.

'Well, that's put that to bed', he says and they all unroll their swags around the fire and climb in for the night. Jimmy feels the hot weight of Elaine's foot on his and his fingers twitch on their own. Elaine sees Terry's wet eyes, tangerine from the fire and spreads her toes out. She stays awake for as long as possible, making up script after script of how it will go with Jimmy once they reach the sea. She replays the swim at waterhole until she's unsure if she's made parts of it up. She finally falls asleep with her heartbeat high in her chest.

Jimmy wakes long before dawn with a pressure like a stone on his bladder. He swears quietly and rolls out of his swag to ease the ache against a tree. In the undergrowth to his right, something scrabbles. He catches a strong scent and sees a wet snout or eye in the dark. A rumble in the brush and it's gone. Probably a pig or a dingo, but he's glad to get back to the group, where the coals in the fire are still orange. He checks each sleeper. Terry is spread at a diagonal, mouth open, not snoring but making noise. Yvonne sleeps on her front clutching the loose material of her swag, not letting it get away. Elaine is on her side and a brown arm has slithered free. Her hair makes a perfect ring around her ear. As he watches she produces a little noise, a tiny pop from her lips as they're opened with breath. Sleep speaking, thinks Jimmy as he burrows back into his swag, careful not to jog her feet with his, but careful also that they are touching.

The morning is hot and blue from the outset. After tea and a tidy up, they set off, aiming to reach the sea before sunset. Jimmy looks forward to a swim in the bubbling salt, a proper clean down with no bloodsuckers. Terry starts to talk about food almost immediately,

'Lamb chops.' He says confidently to Yvonne. 'That's gotta be the best type of food; lamb chops with the whole grill piece; onions, mushrooms, boiled spuds – no tomatoes though, I'm so over tomatoes.' Yvonne rolls her eyes at him.

'Couldn't give a rat's ring, Terry,' but she hands him a date and a piece of chocolate. Elaine enjoys her feeling of emptiness. Her spit tastes of eucalyptus, she feels new, like the air and blood in her has been filtered out and changed for something better.

After midday, there's a yell from Terry up ahead.

'Get a look at this!' The other three catch up to find him crouching in a small clearing surrounded by stay-a-while and they peer over his shoulder. There's a dead butcher bird on the ground and following the line of Terry's finger into one of the thorny bushes, they see its larder. A small mouse impaled through the neck, stiff and dry, missing parts of its hind quarters, a large Christmas beetle, upside down with the thorn square through the middle and last, still twitching, its legs up and angry, barely impaled through its leaking abdomen, a mouse spider.

'Christssake' whispers Jimmy stepping back.

'How the poor bastard got it up here, I can't figure,' Terry says, pushing the bird with his foot to reveal the green ants starting on its wing. The mouse spider's fangs, black and thick and shiny are up and ready to strike. It waves its legs in the air. Terry picks up a twig to poke it with, but Yvonne knocks it out of his hand.

'Don't be a bum, Terry. I'm not carrying yer fat dead lump out of here if you get bitten. You can count on that.' Jimmy takes a photograph, in which Terry insists on including his own hand, so as get the scale of the thing.

They start to walk on, but Elaine stays behind a beat or two looking at the spider; its fangs reaching for her, legs pointing.

'The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' Yvonne shrieks in a chicken voice as thunder mumbles in the distance. Elaine looks again at the sky, but it's still clear. The thunder is a long way off, but you can smell it in the air, which is heavy and hot. The tips of the trees sway in the sky, but there's no breeze down on the bush floor.

A goanna clings to a Moreton Bay fig above them but nobody sees it.

Jimmy touches the side of Elaine's hand with his little finger and as he does, the leaves to the side of her snaffle and a striped snake comes streaking out of the ground, hitting her on the boot. She barks loudly and kicks trying to get her foot away. The snake's fangs are deeply embedded in the leather of her boot and she shakes her leg hard while around her the others dip and weave and try to help and point their sticks. Jimmy thinks he has control of the situation when he holds Elaine's arm and beats at the snake with his walking stick, accidentally cracking her on the shin. The snake is dislodged, but instead of bolting back into the undergrowth, it turns again and bites Elaine, once, twice, three times and a fourth; calf, back of the knee, thigh, deeply, deeply again on her inner thigh. It's snap-quick and Jimmy doesn't have time to understand and still has Elaine by the arm so she doesn't get away. Finally, Terry gets it – a blow to the eye – and it's stunned. He stomps on the head, but it still twitches, so he beats it with his stick, smashing, till it changes colour, loses its stripes. It is still, but the bush crackles and carries on.

Elaine is tight-lipped and white. Yvonne cries softly into her cupped hands, the small beeps of a bird. Terry shoes leaves over the corpse of the snake and Jimmy still holds Elaine's arm, his grip hard from not knowing what to do, from doing the wrong thing. There is blood, Elaine thinks how it looks like she's got her period and then thinks she'd love a piece of liquorice from her backpack. She starts to turn around, to take her pack off, but her legs have lost their hardness and she is sliding back into Jimmy who is stiff and still.

'Jesus H Christ,' whispers Terry. He looks at the snake and away, prodding it rhythmically with his stick. 'Jimmy,' he says. 'Jesus, Jimmy.'

'S'just a nip,' says Elaine.

As she slides to the ground with the help of Jimmy who has become flesh again, Elaine thinks about the liquorice and then about how it was a tiger. A big dose of tiger and she's starting to feel it now, it feels like it bit her in the artery of her groin. The big one. The one where all the blood lives.

Yvonne straightens herself. She helps Elaine's pack off her back and slides it behind her back to prop her up. She pulls out her poncho and arranges it over Elaine's wounded leg, to keep it out of sight and then snaps the men into action.

'Hot water - get a fire on. Get the first aid.' She looks at the two men who are twisting their fingers. 'C'mon s'only a fuckin' snake bite, let's get it sorted and get on with it.' She's right and Jimmy says so. He says, 'Only a snake bite.' Smiling at Elaine, but what they all think, Jimmy, Terry, Yvonne and Elaine is but it's tiger. And we are deep in. Deep.

β€’ To read the conclusion of the story, visit the Booktrust website from Tuesday 7 September.

β€’ Evie Wyld works in the independent Review Bookshop in Peckham. She is taking part in a live-streamed book club Q&A from the shop at 7.30pm on Thursday 9 September. To find out how to submit questions for the event, visit the Booktrust website


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