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The Magnificent Lovers by Moliere (Poquelin)

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THE MAGNIFICENT LOVERS (LES AMANTS MAGNIFIQUES)

BY

MOLIÈRE


TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE.

_WITH SHORT INTRODUCTIONS AND EXPLANATORY NOTES_.

BY

CHARLES HERON WALL




The subject of this play was given by Louis XIV. It was acted before
him at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, on February 4, 1670, but was never
represented in Paris, and was only printed after Molière's death. It
is one of the weakest plays of Molière, upon whom unfortunately now
rested the whole responsibility of the court entertainments. His
attack upon astrology is the most interesting part.

Molière acted the part of Clitidas.



PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR.


The King, who will have nothing but what is magnificent in all he
undertakes, wished to give his court an entertainment which should
comprise all that the stage can furnish. To facilitate the execution
of so vast an idea, and to link together so many different things, his
Majesty chose for the subject two rival princes, who, in the lovely
vale of Tempe, where the Pythian Games were to be celebrated, vie with
each other in fêting a young princess and her mother with all
imaginable gallantries.



PERSONS REPRESENTED.


IPHICRATES & TIMOCLES, _princes in love with_ ERIPHYLE.

SOSTRATUS, _a general, also in love with_ ERIPHYLE.

ANAXARCHUS, _an astrologer_.

CLEON, _his son_.

CHOROEBUS, _in the suit of_ ARISTIONE.

CLITIDAS, _a court jester, one of the attendants of_ ERIPHYLE.

ARISTIONE, _a princess, mother to_ ERIPHYLE.

ERIPHYLE, _a princess, daughter to_ ARISTIONE.

CLEONICE, _confidante to_ ERIPHYLE.

_A sham_ VENUS, _acting in concert with_ ANAXARCHUS.



THE MAGNIFICENT LOVERS.



FIRST INTERLUDE.

_The scene opens with the pleasant sound of a great many
instruments, and represents a vast sea, bordered on each side by four
large rocks. On the summit of each is a river god, leaning on the
insignia usual to those deities. At the foot of these rocks are twelve
Tritons on each side, and in the middle of the sea four Cupids on
dolphins; behind them the god AEOLUS floating on a small cloud above
the waves. AEOLUS commands the winds to withdraw; and whilst four
Cupids, twelve Tritons, and eight river gods answer him, the sea
becomes calm, and an island rises from the waves. Eight fishermen come
out of the sea with mother-of-pearl and branches of coral in their
hands, and after a charming dance seat themselves each on a rock above
one of the river gods. The music announces the advent of NEPTUNE, and
while this god is dancing with his suite, the fishermen, Tritons, and
river gods accompany his steps with various movements and the
clattering of the pearl shells. The spectacle is a magnificent
compliment paid by one of the princes to the princesses during their
maritime excursion._

AEOLUS.
Ye winds that cloud the fairest skies,
Retire within your darkest caves,
And leave the realm of waves
To Zephyr, Love, and sighs.

A TRITON.
What lovely eyes these moist abodes have pierced?
Ye mighty Tritons, come; ye Nereids, hide.

ALL THE TRITONS.
Then rise we all these deities fair to meet;
With softest strains and homage let us greet
Their beauty rare.

A CUPID.
How dazzling are these ladies' charms!

ANOTHER CUPID.
What heart but seeing them must yield?

ANOTHER CUPID.
The fairest of th' Immortals--arms
So keen hath none to wield.

CHORUS.
Then rise we all these deities fair to meet;
With softest strains and homage let us greet
Their beauty rare.

A TRITON.
What would this noble train that meets our view?
'Tis Neptune! He and all his mighty crew!
He comes to honour, with his presence fair,
These lovely scenes, and charm the silent air.

CHORUS.
Then strike again,
And raise your strain,
And let your homes around
With joyous songs resound!

NEPTUNE.
I rank among the gods of greatest might;
'Tis Jove himself hath placed me on this height!
Alone, as king, I sway the azure wave;
In all this world there's none my power to brave.

There are no lands on earth my might that know
But trembling dread that o'er their meads I flow;
No states, o'er which the boisterous waves I tread
In one short moment's space I cannot spread.

There's nought the raging billows' force can stay,
No triple dike, but e'en it easily
My waves can crush,
When rolls along their mass with wildest rush.

And yet these billows fierce I force to yield,
Beneath the wisdom of the power I wield;
And everywhere I let the sailors bold
Where'er they list their trading courses hold.

Yet rocks sometimes are found within my states,
Where ships do perish, so doomed by fates;
Yet 'gainst my power none murmurs aye,
For Virtue knows no wreck where'er I sway.

A SEA GOD.
Within this realm are many treasures bright;
All mortals crowd its pleasant shores to view.
And would you climb of fame the dazzling height,
Then seek nought else, but Neptune's countenance sue.

SECOND SEA GOD.
Then trust the god of this vast billowy realm,
And shielded from all storms, you'll guide the helm;
The waves would fain inconstant often be,
But ever constant Neptune you will see.

THIRD SEA GOD.
Launch then with dauntless zeal, and plough the deep;
Thus shall you Neptune's kindly favour reap.



ACT I.

SCENE I.--SOSTRATUS, CLITIDAS.


CLI. (_aside_). He is buried in thought.

SOS. (_believing himself alone_). No, Sostratus, I do not see
where you can look for help, and your troubles are of a kind to leave
you no hope.

CLI. (_aside_). He is talking to himself.

SOS. (_believing himself alone_). Alas!

CLI. These sighs must mean something, and my surmise will prove
correct.

SOS. (_believing himself alone_). Upon what fancies can you build
any hope? And what else can you expect but the protracted length of a
miserable existence, and sorrow to end only with life itself.

CLI. (_aside_). His head is more perplexed than mine.

SOS. (_believing himself alone_). My heart! my heart! to what
have you brought me?

CLI. Your servant, my Lord Sostratus!

SOS. Where are you going, Clitidas?

CLI. Rather tell me what you are doing here? And what secret
melancholy, what gloomy sorrow, can keep you in these woods when all
are gone in crowds to the magnificent festival which the Prince
Iphicrates has just given upon the sea to the princesses. There they
are treated to wonderful music and dancing, and even the rocks and the
waves deck themselves with divinities to do homage to their beauty.

SOS. I can fancy all this magnificence, and as there are generally so
many people to cause confusion at these festivals, I did not care to
increase the number of unwelcome guests.

CLI. You know that your presence never spoils anything, and that you
are never in the way wherever you go. Your face is welcome everywhere,
and is not one of those ill-favoured countenances which are never well
received by sovereigns. You are equally in favour with both
princesses, and the mother and the daughter show plainly enough the
regard they have for you; so that you need not fear to be accounted
troublesome. In short, it was not this fear that kept you away.

SOS. I acknowledge that I have no inclination for such things.

CLI. Oh indeed! Yet, although we may not care to see things, we like
to go where we find everybody else; and whatever you may say, people
do not, during a festival, stop all alone among the trees to dream
moodily as you do, unless they have something to disturb their minds.

SOS. Why? What do you think could disturb my mind?

CLI. Well, I can't say; but there is a strong scent of love about
here, and I am sure it does not come from me, and it must come from
you.

SOS. How absurd you are, Clitidas!

CLI. Not so absurd as you would make out. You are in love; I have a
delicate nose, and I smelt it directly.

SOS. What can possibly make you think so?

CLI. What? I daresay you would be very much surprised if I were to
tell you besides with whom you are in love.

SOS. I?

CLI. Yes; I wager that I will guess presently whom you love. I have
some secrets, as well as our astrologer with whom the Princess
Aristione is so infatuated; and if his science makes him read in the
stars the fate of men, I have the science of reading in the eyes of
people the names of those they love. Hold up your head a little, and
open your eyes wide. _E_, by itself, _E; r, i, ri, Eri; p, h,
y, phy, Eriphy; l, e, le, Eriphyle_. You are in love with the
Princess Eriphyle.

SOS. Ah! Clitidas, I cannot conceal my trouble from you, and you crush
me with this blow.

CLI. You see how clever I am!

SOS. Alas! if anything has revealed to you the secret of my heart, I
beseech you to tell it to no one; and, above all things, to keep it
secret from the fair princess whose name you have just mentioned.

CLI. But, to speak seriously, if for awhile I have read in your
actions the love you wish to keep secret, do you think that the
Princess Eriphyle has been blind enough not to see it? Believe me,
ladies are always very quick to discover the love they inspire, and
the language of the eyes and of sighs is understood by those to whom
it is addressed sooner than by anybody else.

SOS. Leave her, Clitidas, leave her to read, if she can, in my sighs
and looks the love with which her beauty has inspired me; but let us
be careful not to let her find it out in any other way.

CLI. And what is it you dread? Is it possible that this same
Sostratus, who feared neither Brennus nor all the Gauls, and whose arm
has been so gloriously successful in ridding us of that swarm of
barbarians which ravaged Greece; is it possible, I say, that a man so
dauntless in war should be so fearful as to tremble at the very
mention of his being in love?

SOS. Ah! Clitidas, I do not tremble without a cause; and all the Gauls
in the world would seem to me less to be feared than those two
beautiful eyes full of charms.

CLI. I am not of the same opinion, and I know, as far as I am
concerned, that one single Gaul, sword in hand, would frighten me much
more than fifty of the most beautiful eyes in the world put together.
But, tell me, what do you intend to do?

SOS. To die without telling my love.

CLI. A fine prospect! Nonsense, you are joking; you know that a
little boldness always succeeds with lovers; it is only the bashful
and timid who are losers; and were I to fall in love with a goddess, I
would tell her of my passion at once.

SOS. Alas! too many things condemn my love to an eternal silence.

CLI. But what?

SOS. The lowness of my birth, by which it pleased heaven to humble the
ambition of my love; the princess's rank, which puts between her and
my desires such an impassable barrier. The rivalry of two princes who
can back the offer of their heart by the highest titles; two princes
who offer the most magnificent entertainments by turn to her whose
heart they strive to win, and between whom it is expected every moment
that she will make a choice. Besides all this, Clitidas, there is the
inviolable respect to which she subjugates the violence of my love.

CLI. Respect is not always as welcome as love; and if I am not greatly
mistaken, the young princess knows of your affection, and is not
insensible to it.

SOS. Ah! pray do not, out of pity, flatter the heart of a miserable
lover.

CLI. I do not say it without good reasons. She is a long time
postponing the choice of a husband, and I must try and discover a
little more about all this. You know that I enjoy a kind of favour
with her, that I have free access to her, and that, by dint of trying
all kinds of ways, I have gained the privilege of saying a word now
and then, and of speaking at random on any subject. Sometimes I do not
succeed as I should like, but at others I succeed very well. Leave it
to me, then; I am your friend, I love men of merit, and I will choose
my time to speak to the princess of....

SOS. Oh! for heaven's sake, however much you may pity my misfortune,
Clitidas, he careful not to tell her anything of my love. I had
rather die than to be accused by her of the least temerity, and this
deep respect in which her divine charms....

CLI. Hush! they are all Coming.



SCENE II.--ARISTIONE, IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, SOSTRATUS
ANAXARCHUS, CLEON, CLITIDAS.

ARI. (_to_ IPHICRATES). Prince, I cannot say too much, there is
no spectacle in the world which can vie in magnificence with this one
you have just given us. This entertainment had wonderful attractions,
which will make it surpass all that can ever be seen. We have
witnessed something so noble, so grand and glorious that heaven itself
could do no more; and I feel sure there is nothing in the world that
could be compared to it.

TIM. This is a display that cannot he expected in all entertainments,
and I greatly fear, Madam, for the simplicity of the little festival
which I am preparing to give you in the wood of Diana.

ARI. I feel sure that we shall see nothing there but what is
delightful; and we must acknowledge that the country ought to appear
very beautiful to us, and that we have no time left for dulness in
this charming place, which all poets have celebrated under the name of
Tempe. For, not to mention the pleasures of hunting, which we can
enjoy at any hour, and the solemnity of the Pythian Games which are
about to be celebrated, you both take care to supply us with pleasures
that would charm away the sorrows of the most melancholy. How is it,
Sostratus, that we did not meet you in our walks?

SOS. A slight indisposition, Madam, prevented me from going there.

IPH. Sostratus is one of those men who think it unbecoming to be
curious like others, and who esteem it better to affect not to go
where everybody is anxious to be.

SOS. My Lord, affectation has little share in anything I do, and,
without paying you a compliment, there were things to be seen in this
festival which would have attracted me if some other motive had not
hindered me.

ARI. And has Clitidas seen it all?

CLI. Yes, Madam, but from the shore.

ARI. And why from the shore?

CLI. Well, Madam, I feared one of those accidents which generally
happen in such large crowds. Last night I dreamt of dead fish and
broken eggs, and I have learnt from Anaxarchus that broken eggs and
dead fish forebode ill luck.

ANA. I observe one thing, that Clitidas would have nothing to say if
he did not speak of me.

CLI. It is because there are so many things that can be said of you
that one can never say too much.

ANA. You might choose some other subject of conversation,
particularly since I have asked you to do so.

CLI. How can I? Do you not say that destiny is stronger than
everything? And if it is written in the stars that I shall speak of
you, how can I resist my fate?

ANA. With all the respect due to you, Madam, allow me to say that
there is one thing in your court which it is sad to find there. It is
that everybody takes the liberty of talking, and that the most
honourable man is exposed to the scoffing of the first buffoon he
meets.

CLI. I thank you for the honour you do me.

ARI. (_to_ ANAXARCHUS). Why be put out by what he says?

CLI. With all due respect to you, Madam, there is one thing which
amazes me in astrology; it is that people who know the secrets of the
gods, and who have such knowledge as to place themselves above all
other men, should have need of paying court and of asking for
anything.

ANA. This is a paltry joke, and you should earn your money by giving
your mistress wittier and better ones.

CLI. Upon my word, I give what I have. You speak most comfortably
about it; the trade of a buffoon is not like that of an astrologer. To
tell lies well and to joke well are things altogether different, and
it is far easier to deceive people than to make them laugh.

ARI. Ha! what is the meaning of that?

CLI. (_speaking to himself_). Peace, fool that you are! Do you
not know that astrology is an affair of state, and that you must not
play upon that string? I have often told you that you are getting a
great deal too bold, and that you take certain liberties which will
bring trouble upon you. You will see that some day you will be kicked
out like a knave. Hold your peace if you be wise.

ARI. Where is my daughter?

TIM. She is gone away, Madam. I offered her my arm, which she refused
to accept.

ARI. Princes, since in your love for Eriphyle you have consented to
submit to the laws I had imposed upon you, since it has been possible
for me to obtain that you should be rivals without being enemies, and
that, with a full submission to my daughter's feelings, you are
waiting for her choice, speak to me openly and tell me what progress
you each think you have made on her heart.

TIM. Madam, I do not mean to flatter myself; but I have done all that
I possibly could to touch the heart of the Princess Eriphyle. I have
neglected none of the tender means that a lover should adopt. I have
offered her the humble homage of my great love, I have been assiduous
near her, I have attended on her daily. I have had my love sung by the
most touching voices, and expressed in verse by the most skilful pens.
I have complained in passionate terms of my sufferings. My eyes, as
well as my words, have told her of my despair and my love. I have laid
my love at her feet; I have even had recourse to tears, but all in
vain, and I have failed to see that in her soul she was in any way
touched by my love.

ARI. And you, Prince?

IPH. For my part, Madam, knowing her indifference and the little value
she sets upon the homage that is paid to her, I did not mean to waste
either sighs or tears upon her. I know that she is entirely submissive
to your wishes, and that it is from you alone that she will accept a
husband; therefore it is to you alone that I can address my wishes for
her hand, to you rather than to her that I offer my homage and my
attentions. Would to heaven, Madam, that you could bring yourself to
take her place, enjoy the conquests which you make for her, and
receive for yourself the affections which you refer to her!

ARI. Prince, the compliment comes from a cunning lover. You have heard
that the mothers must be flattered in order to obtain the daughters
from them; but here however, this will be useless, for I have
determined to, leave my daughter entirely free in her choice, and in
no way to thwart her inclination.

IPH. However free you leave her in her choice, what I tell you is no
flattery, Madam. I court the Princess Eriphyle only because she is
your daughter, and I think her charming in that which she inherits
from you; and it is you whom I adore in her.

ARI. That is very pretty.

IPH. Yes, Madam, all the earth beholds in you charms and
attractions....

ARI. Ah! Prince, pray, let us leave those charms and attractions; you
know that these are words I banish from the compliments that are paid
to me. I can endure to be praised for my sincerity, to be called a
good princess, for it is true that I have a kind word for everybody,
love for my friends and esteem for merit and virtue; yes, I can enjoy
all that; but as for your charms and attractions, I had rather have
nothing to do with them, and whatever truth there may be in them, one
should make a scruple of wishing to be praised when one is mother to a
daughter like mine.

IPH. Ah! Madam. It is you only who will remind everyone that you are a
mother; everybody's feelings are against it, and it depends entirely
on yourself to pass for the sister of the Princess Eriphyle.

ARI. Believe me, Prince, I have no relish for all this idle nonsense,
so welcome to too many women, I wish to be a mother, because I am one,
and it would be in vain to wish to be otherwise. This title has
nothing that wounds me, since I received it by my own consent. It is a
weakness in our sex, from which, thank heaven! I am free, and I do not
trouble myself about those grand discussions concerning ages about
which there is so much folly. Let us resume what we were saying. Is it
possible that until now you have been unable to discover my daughter's
feelings?

IPH. They are a secret to me.

TIM. And to me an impenetrable mystery.

ARI. She may be prevented by modesty from explaining herself either to
you or to me. Let us make use of another to try and discover what she
feels. Sostratus, take this message upon yourself for me, and oblige
these princes by skilfully trying to discover towards which of the two
my daughter's feeling are inclined.

SOS. Madam, you have a great many people in your court who are better
qualified than I for such a delicate mission, and I feel little fit to
do what you ask of me.

ARI. Your merit, Sostratus, is not confined to the business of war
only. You have brain, tact, and skill, and my daughter greatly esteems
you.

SOS. Another better than I, Madam....

ARI. No, no, in vain you excuse yourself.

SOS. Since it is your wish, Madam, I must obey; but I assure you that
there is not one person in the whole of your court who would be less
qualified for such a commission than myself.

ARI. You are too modest, and you will always acquit yourself well in
whatever is entrusted to you. Sound my daughter gently on her
feelings, and remind her that she must be early at the wood of Diana.



SCENE III.--IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, SOSTRATUS, CLITIDAS.

IPH. (_to_ SOSTRATUS). I assure you that I rejoice to see you
held in such esteem by the princess.

TIM. (_to_ SOSTRATUS). I assure you that I am delighted that the
choice should have fallen on you.

IPH. You have it now in your power to serve your friends.

TIM. You will be able to do good service to those you esteem.

IPH. I do not commend my interests to you.

TIM. I do not ask you to speak for me.

SOS. My Lords, all this is useless. I should be wrong to exceed my
orders, and you will excuse me if I speak for neither.

IPH. I leave it to you to do as you please.

TIM. Do exactly as you think best.



SCENE IV.--IPHICRATES, TIMOCLES, CLITIDAS.

IPH. (_aside to_ CLITIDAS). Well, Clitidas, remember that he is
one of my friends. I hope he will still forward my interests with the
princess against those of my rival.

CLI. (_aside to_ IPHICRATES). You may trust me. There is a great
difference between you and him. He is a fine prince, indeed, to
dispute it with you.

IPH. (_aside to_ CLITIDAS). I will not forget such a service.



SCENE V.--TIMOCLES, CLITIDAS.

TIM. My rival pays his court to Clitidas; but Clitidas knows that he
has promised to help me in my love against him.

CLI. Certainly. How very absurd to think of carrying the day against
you. A fine gentleman, indeed, to be compared with you!

TIM. There is nothing I could not do for Clitidas.

CLI. (_alone_). Plenty of fine words on all sides! But here is
the princess; we will take our opportunity to speak to her.



SCENE VI.--ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE.

CLEON. It will be thought strange, Madam, that you should keep away
from everybody.

ERI. Ah! to persons like us, always surrounded by so many indifferent
people, how pleasant is solitude! How sweet to be left alone to
commune with one's thoughts when one has had to bear with so much
trifling conversation. Leave me alone to walk a few moments by myself.

CLEON. Would you not like for a moment to see what those wonderful
people, who are desirous of serving you, can do? It seems by their
steps and gestures they can express everything to the eye. They are
called pantomimists. I feared to pronounce that word before you, and
there are some in your court who would not forgive me for using it.

ERI. You seem to me to propose some strange entertainment; for you
never fail to introduce indifferently all that presents itself to you,
and you have a kind welcome for everything. Therefore to you alone do
we see all necessitous Muses have recourse. You are the great
patroness of all merit in distress, and all virtuous indigents knock
at your door.

CLEON. If you do not care to see them, Madam, you have only to say so.

ERI. No, no; let us see them. Bring them here.

CLEON. But, Madam, their dancing may be bad.

ERI. Bad or not, let us see it. It would only be putting off the thing
with you. It is just as well to have it over.

CLEON. To-day it will only be an ordinary dance, Madam. Another
time....

ERI. No more about it, Cleonice. Let them dance.



SECOND INTERLUDE.

_The confidante of the young_ PRINCESS _calls forth three
dancers under the name of pantomimists; that is, men who express all
sorts of things by their movements. The_ PRINCESS _sees them
dance, and receives them into her service._




ACT II.

SCENE I.--ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE.


ERI. This is admirable! I do not think any dancing could ever be
better; and I am glad to have them belonging to me.

CLEON. And I am very glad, Madam, for you to see that my taste is not
so bad as you thought.

ERI. Do not be so triumphant. You won't be long before giving me my
revenge. Leave me alone here.



SCENE II.--ERIPHYLE, CLEONICE, CLITIDAS.

CLEON. (_going to meet_ CLITIDAS). I warn you, Clitidas, that the
princess wishes to be alone.

CLI. Leave that to me. I understand court etiquette.



SCENE III.--ERIPHYLE, CLITIDAS.

CLI. (_singing_). La, la, la, la. (_Affecting surprise on
seeing_ ERIPHYLE.) Ah!

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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.

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"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 naïve 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 £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 £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 £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 à 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.

• To read the conclusion of the story, visit the Booktrust website from Tuesday 7 September.

• 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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