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The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, Volume 8 by Richard F. Burton

R >> Richard F. Burton >> The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, Volume 8




"Deep in mine eye-balls ever dwells the phantom-form of thee * My
heart when throbbing or at rest holds fast thy memory:
And love of thee doth never cease to course within my breast, *
As course the juices in the fruits which deck the branchy
tree:
And every day I see thee not my bosom straightened is * And even
censurers excuse the woes in me they see:
O thou whose love hath gotten hold the foremost in the heart * Of
me whose fondness is excelled by mine insanity:
Fear the Compassionate in my case and some compassion show! *
Love of thee makes me taste of death in bitterest pungency."

--And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased saying her
permitted say.

When it was the Seven Hundred and Ninety-seventh Night,

She continued, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that
Hasan's mother bewept through the watches of the night and the
whiles of the day her separation from her son and his wife and
children. On this wise it fared with her; but as regards Hasan,
when he came to the Princesses, they conjured him to tarry with
them three months, after which long sojourn they gave him five
loads of gold and the like of silver and one load of victual and
accompanied him on his homeward way till he conjured them to
return, whereupon they farewelled him with an embrace; but the
youngest came up to him, to bid him adieu and clasping his neck
wept till she fainted. Then she recited these two couplets,

"When shall the severance-fire be quenched by union, love, with
you? * When shall I win my wish of you and days that were
renew?
The parting-day affrighted me and wrought me dire dismay * And
doubleth woe, O master mine, by the sad word 'Adieu.'"

Anon came forward the second Princess and embraced him and
recited these two couplets,

"Farewelling thee indeed is like to bidding life farewell * And
like the loss of Zephyr[FN#96] 'tis to lose thee far our
sight:
Thine absence is a flaming fire which burneth up my heart * And
in thy presence I enjoy the Gardens of Delight."[FN#97]

Presently came forward the third and embraced him and recited
these two couplets,

"We left not taking leave of thee (when bound to other goal) *
From aught of ill intention or from weariness and dole:
Thou art my soul, my very soul, the only soul of me: * And how
shall I farewell myself and say, 'Adieu my Soul?'"[FN#98]

After her came forward the fourth and embraced him and recited
these two couplets,

"Nought garred me weep save where and when of severance spake he,
* Persisting in his cruel will with sore persistency:
Look at this pearl-like ornament I've hung upon mine ear: * 'Tis
of the tears of me compact, this choicest jewelry!"

In her turn came forward the fifth and embraced him and recited
these two couplets,

"Ah, fare thee not; for I've no force thy faring to endure, * Nor
e'en to say the word farewell before my friend is sped:
Nor any patience to support the days of severance, * Nor any
tears on ruined house and wasted home to shed."

Next came the sixth and embraced him and recited these two
couplets,

"I cried, as the camels went off with them, * And Love pained my
vitals with sorest pain:
Had I a King who would lend me rule * I'd seize every ship that
dares sail the Main."

Lastly came forward the seventh and embraced him and recited
these couplets,

"When thou seest parting, be patient still, * Nor let foreign
parts deal thy soul affright:
But abide, expecting a swift return, * For all hearts hold
parting in sore despight."

And eke these two couplets,

"Indeed I'm heartbroken to see thee start, * Nor can I farewell
thee ere thou depart;
Allah wotteth I left not to say adieu * Save for fear that saying
would melt your heart."

Hasan also wept for parting from them, till he swooned, and
repeated these couplets,

"Indeed, ran my tears on the severance-day * Like pearls I
threaded in necklace-way
The cameleer drove his camels with song * But I lost heart,
patience and strength and stay:
I bade them farewell and retired in grief * From tryst-place and
camp where my dearlings lay:
I turned me unknowing the way nor joyed * My soul, but in hopes
to return some day.
Oh listen, my friend, to the words of love * God forbid thy heart
forget all I say!
O my soul when thou partest wi' them, part too * With all joys of
life nor for living pray!"

Then he farewelled them and fared on diligently night and day,
till he came to Baghdad, the House of Peace and Sanctuary of the
Abbaside Caliphs, unknowing what had passed during his wayfare.
At once entering his house he went in to his mother to salute
her, but found her worn of body and wasted of bones, for excess
of mourning and watching, weeping and wailing, till she was grown
thin as a toothpick and could not answer him a word. So he
dismissed the dromedaries then asked her of his wife and children
and she wept till she fainted, and he seeing her in this state
searched the house for them, but found no trace of them. Then he
went to the store-closet and finding it open and the chest broken
and the feather-dress missing, knew forthright that his wife had
possessed herself thereof and flown away with her children. Then
he returned to his mother and, finding her recovered from her
fit, questioned her of his spouse and babes, whereupon she wept
and said, "O my son, may Allah amply requite thee their loss!
These are their three tombs."[FN#99] When Hasan heard these words
of his mother, he shrieked a loud shriek and fell down in a
fainting-fit in which he lay from the first of the day till
noon-tide; whereupon anguish was added to his mother's anguish
and she despaired of his life. However, after a-while, he came
to himself and wept and buffeted his face and rent his raiment
and went about the house clean distraught, reciting these two
couplets,[FN#100]

"Folk have made moan of passion before me, of past years, * And
live and dead for absence have suffered pains and fears;
But that within my bosom I harbour, with mine eyes * I've never
seen the like of nor heard with mine ears."

Then finishing his verses he bared his brand and coming up to his
mother, said to her, "Except thou tell me the truth of the case,
I will strike off thy head and kill myself." She replied, "O my
son, do not such deed: put up thy sword and sit down, till I tell
thee what hath passed." So he sheathed his scymitar and sat by
her side, whilst she recounted to him all that had happened in
his absence from first to last, adding, "O my son, but that I saw
her weep in her longing for the bath and feared that she would go
and complain to thee on thy return, and thou wouldst be wroth
with me. I had never carried her thither; and were it not that
the Lady Zubaydah was wroth with me and took the key from me by
force, I had never brought out the feather-dress, though I died
for it. But thou knowest, O my son, that no hand may measure
length with that of the Caliphate. When they brought her the
dress, she took it and turned it over, fancying that somewhat
might be lost thereof, but she found it uninjured; wherefore she
rejoiced and making her children fast to her waist, donned the
feather-vest, after the Lady Zubaydah had pulled off to her all
that was upon herself and clad her therein, in honour of her and
because of her beauty. No sooner had she donned the dress than
she shook and becoming a bird, promenaded about the palace,
whilst all who were present gazed at her and marvelled at her
beauty and loveliness. Then she flew up to the palace roof and
perching thereon, looked at me and said: 'Whenas thy son cometh
to thee and the nights of separation upon him longsome shall be
and he craveth reunion and meeting to see and whenas the breezes
of love and longing shake him dolefully let him leave his native
land and journey to the Islands of Wak and seek me.' This, then,
is her story and what befel in thine absence."--And Shahrazad
perceived the dawn of day and ceased to say her permitted say.

When it was the Seven Hundred and Ninety-eighth Night,

She pursued, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that as soon
as Hasan's mother had made an end of her story, he gave a great
cry and fell down in a fainting fit which continued till the end
of day, when he revived and fell to buffeting his face and
writhing on the floor like a scotched snake. His mother sat
weeping by his head until midnight, when he came to himself and
wept sore and recited these couplets',[FN#101]

"Pause ye and see his sorry state since when ye fain withdrew; *
Haply, when wrought your cruelty, you'll have the grace to
rue:
For an ye look on him, you'll doubt of him by sickness-stress *
As though, by Allah, he were one before ye never knew.
He dies for nothing save for love of you, and he would be *
Numbered amid the dead did not he moan and groan for you.
And deem not pangs of severance sit all lightly on his soul; *
'Tis heavy load on lover-wight; 'twere lighter an ye slew."

Then having ended his verse he rose and went round about the
house, weeping and wailing, groaning and bemoaning himself, five
days, during which he tasted nor meat nor drink. His mother came
to him and conjured him, till he broke his fast, and besought him
to leave weeping; but he hearkened not to her and continued to
shed tears and lament, whilst she strove to comfort him and he
heeded her not. Then he recited these couplets,[FN#102]

"Beareth for love a burden sore this soul of me, * Could break a
mortal's back however strong that be;
I am distraught to see my case and languor grows * Making my day
and night indifferent in degree:
I own to having dreaded Death before this day: * This day I hold
my death mine only remedy."

And Hasan ceased not to do thus till daybreak, when his eyes
closed and he saw in a dream his wife grief-full and repentant
for that which she had done. So he started up from sleep crying
out and reciting these two couplets,

"Their image bides with me, ne'er quits me, ne'er shall fly; *
But holds within my heart most honourable stead;
But for reunion-hope, I'd see me die forthright, * And but for
phantom-form of thee my sleep had fled."

And as morning morrowed he redoubled his lamentations. He abode
weeping-eyed and heavy-hearted, wakeful by night and eating
little, for a whole month, at the end of which he bethought him
to repair to his sisters and take counsel with them in the matter
of his wife, so haply they might help him to regain her.
Accordingly he summoned the dromedaries and loading fifty of them
with rarities of Al-Irak, committed the house to his mother's
care and deposited all his goods in safe keeping, except some few
he left at home. Then he mounted one of the beasts and set out
on his journey single handed, intent upon obtaining aidance from
the Princesses, and he stayed not till he reached the Palace of
the Mountain of Clouds, when he went in to the damsels and gave
them the presents in which they rejoiced. Then they wished him
joy of his safety and said to him, "O our brother, what can ail
thee to come again so soon, seeing thou wast with us but two
months since?" Whereupon he wept and improvised these couplets,

"My soul for loss of lover sped I sight; * Nor life enjoying
neither life's delight:
My case is one whose cure is all unknown; * Can any cure the sick
but doctor wight?
O who hast reft my sleep-joys, leaving me * To ask the breeze
that blew from that fair site,--
Blew from my lover's land (the land that owns * Those charms so
sore a grief in soul excite),
'O breeze, that visitest her land, perhaps * Breathing her scent,
thou mayst revive my sprite!'"

And when he ended his verse he gave a great cry and fell down in
a fainting-fit. The Princesses sat round him, weeping over him,
till he recovered and repeated these two couplets,

"Haply and happily may Fortune bend her rein * Bringing my love,
for Time's a freke of jealous strain;[FN#103]
Fortune may prosper me, supply mine every want, * And bring a
blessing where before were ban and bane."

Then he wept till he fainted again, and presently coming to
himself recited the two following couplets,

"My wish, mine illness, mine unease! by Allah, own * Art thou
content? then I in love contented wone!
Dost thou forsake me thus sans crime or sin * Meet me in ruth, I
pray, and be our parting gone."

Then he wept till he swooned away once more and when he revived
he repeated these couplets,

"Sleep fled me, by my side wake ever shows * And hoard of
tear-drops from these eyne aye flows;
For love they weep with beads cornelian-like * And growth of
distance greater dolence grows:
Lit up my longing, O my love, in me * Flames burning 'neath my
ribs with fiery throes!
Remembering thee a tear I never shed * But in it thunder roars
and leven glows."

Then he wept till he fainted away a fourth time, and presently
recovering, recited these couplets,

"Ah! for lowe of love and longing suffer ye as suffer we? * Say,
as pine we and as yearn we for you are pining ye?
Allah do the death of Love, what a bitter draught is his! * Would
I wot of Love what plans and what projects nurseth he!
Your faces radiant-fair though afar from me they shine, * Are
mirrored in our eyes whatsoever the distance be;
My heart must ever dwell on the memories of your tribe; * And the
turtle-dove reneweth all as oft as moaneth she:
Ho thou dove, who passest night-tide in calling on thy fere, *
Thou doublest my repine, bringing grief for company;
And leavest thou mine eyelids with weeping unfulfilled * For the
dearlings who departed, whom we never more may see:
I melt for the thought of you at every time and hour, * And I
long for you when Night showeth cheek of blackest blee."

Now when his sister heard these words and saw his condition and
how he lay fainting on the floor, she screamed and beat her face
and the other Princesses hearing her scream came out and learning
his misfortune and the transport of love and longing and the
passion and distraction that possessed him they questioned him of
his case. He wept and told them what had befallen in his absence
and how his wife had taken flight with her children, wherefore
they grieved for him and asked him what she said at leave-taking.
Answered he, "O my sisters, she said to my mother, 'Tell thy son,
whenas he cometh to thee and the nights of sever- ance upon him
longsome shall be and he craveth reunion and meeting to see, and
whenas the winds of love and longing shake him dolefully, let him
fare in the Islands of Wak to me." When they heard his words they
signed one to other with their eyes and shook their heads, and
each looked at her sister, whilst Hasan looked at them all. Then
they bowed their heads groundwards and bethought themselves
awhile; after which they raised their heads and said, "There is
no Majesty and there is no Might save in Allah, the Glorious, the
Great!"; presently adding, "Put forth thy hand to heaven and when
thou reach thither, then shalt thou win to thy wife.--And
Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased saying her
permitted say.

When it was the Seven Hundred and Ninety-ninth Night,

She resumed, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that when the
Princesses said to Hasan, "Put forth thy hand to Heaven and when
thou reach thither, then shalt thou win to wife and children,"
thereat the tears ran down his cheeks like rain and wet his
clothes, and he recited these couplets,

"Pink cheeks and eyes enpupil'd black have dealt me sore
despight; * And whenas wake overpowered sleep my patience
fled in fright:
The fair and sleek-limbed maidens hard of heart withal laid waste
* My very bones till not a breath is left for man to sight:
Houris, who fare with gait of grace as roes o'er sandy-mound: *
Did Allah's saints behold their charms they'd doat thereon
forthright;
Faring as fares the garden breeze that bloweth in the dawn. * For
love of them a sore unrest and troubles rack my sprite:
I hung my hopes upon a maid, a loveling fair of them, * For whom
my heart still burns with lowe in Laz -hell they light;--
A dearling soft of sides and haught and graceful in her gait, *
Her grace is white as morning, but her hair is black as
night:
She stirreth me! But ah, how many heroes have her cheeks *
Upstirred for love, and eke her eyes that mingle black and
white."

Then he wept, whilst the Princesses wept for his weeping, and
they were moved to compassion and jealousy for him. So they fell
to comforting him and exhorting him to patience and offering up
prayers for his reunion with his wife; whilst his sister said to
him, "O my brother, be of good cheer and keep thine eyes cool and
clear and be patient; so shalt thou win thy will; for whoso hath
patience and waiteth, that he seeketh attaineth. Patience
holdeth the keys of relief and indeed the poet saith,

'Let destiny with slackened rein its course appointed fare! And
lie thou down to sleep by night, with heart devoid of care;
For 'twixt the closing of an eye and th' opening thereof, God
hath it in His power to change a case from foul to
fair."[FN#104]

So hearten thy heart and brace up thy resolve, for the son of ten
years dieth not in the ninth.[FN#105] Weeping and grief and
mourning gender sickness and disease; wherefore do thou abide
with us till thou be rested, and I will devise some device for
thy winning to thy wife and children, Inshallah--so it please
Allah the Most High!" And he wept sore and recited these verses,

"An I be healed of disease in frame, * I'm unhealed of illness in
heart and sprite:
There is no healing disease of love, * Save lover and loved one
to re-unite."

Then he sat down beside her and she proceeded to talk with him
and comfort him and question him of the cause and the manner of
his wife's departure. So he told her and she said, "By Allah, O
my brother, I was minded to bid thee burn the feather-dress, but
Satan made me forget it." She ceased not to converse with him
and caress him and company with him other ten days, whilst sleep
visited him not and he delighted not in food; and when the case
was longsome upon him and unrest waxed in him, he versified with
these couplets,

"A beloved familiar o'erreigns my heart * And Allah's ruling
reigns evermore:
She hath all the Arab's united charms * This gazelle who feeds on
my bosom's core.
Though my skill and patience for love of her fail, * I weep
whilst I wot that 'tis vain to deplore.
The dearling hath twice seven years, as though * She were moon of
five nights and of five plus four."[FN#106]

When the youngest Princess saw him thus distracted for love and
longing for passion and the fever-heat of desire, she went in to
her sisterhood weeping-eyed and woeful-hearted, and shedding
copious tears threw herself upon them, kissed their feet and
besought them to devise some device for bringing Hasan to the
Islands of Wak and effecting his reunion with his wife and wees.
She ceased not to conjure them to further her brother in the
accomplishment of his desire and to weep before them, till she
made them weep and they said to her, "Hearten thy heart: we will
do our best endeavour to bring about his reunion with his family,
Inshallah!" And he abode with them a whole year, during which his
eyes never could retain their tears. Now the sisterhood had an
uncle, brother-german to their sire and his name was Abd
al-Kadd£s, or Slave of the Most Holy; and he loved the eldest
with exceeding love and was wont to visit her once a year and do
all she desired. They had told him of Hasan's adventure with the
Magian and how he had been able to slay him; whereat he rejoiced
and gave the eldest Princess a pouch[FN#107] which contained
certain perfumes, saying, "O daughter of my brother, an thou be
in concern for aught, or if aught irk thee, or thou stand in any
need, cast of these perfumes upon fire naming my name and I will
be with thee forthright and will do thy desire." This speech was
spoken on the first of Moharram[FN#108]; and the eldest Princess
said to one of the sisterhood, "Lo, the year is wholly past and
my uncle is not come. Rise, bring me the fire-sticks and the box
of perfumes." So the damsel arose rejoicing and, fetching what
she sought, laid it before her sister, who opened the box and
taking thence a little of the perfume, cast it into the fire
naming her unde's name; nor was it burnt out ere appeared a
dust-cloud at the farther end of the Wady; and presently lifting,
it discovered a Shaykh riding on an elephant, which moved at a
swift and easy pace, and trumpeted under the rider. As soon as
he came within sight of the Princesses, he began making signs to
them with his hands and feet; nor was it long ere he reached the
castle and, alighting from the elephant, came in to them,
whereupon they embraced him and kissed his hands and saluted him
with the salam. Then he sat down, whilst the girls talked with
him and questioned him of his absence. Quoth he, "I was sitting
but now with my wife, your aunt, when I smelt the perfumes and
hastened to you on this elephant. What wouldst thou, O daughter
of my brother?" Quoth she, "O uncle, indeed we longed for thee,
as the year is past and 'tis not thy wont to be absent from us
more than a twelvemonth." Answered he, "I was busy, but I
purposed to come to you to-morrow." Wherefore they thanked him
and blessed him and sat talking with him.--And Shahrazad
perceived the dawn of day and ceased to say her permitted say.

When it was the Eight Hundredth Night,

She said, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that when the
girls sat down to chat with their uncle the eldest said to him "O
my uncle, we told thee the tale of Hasan of Bassorah, whom Bahram
the Magian brought and how he slew the wizard and how, after
enduring all manner of hardships and horrors, he made prize of
the Supreme King's daughter and took her to wife and journeyed
with her to his native land?" Replied he, "Yes, and what befel
him after that?" Quoth the Princess, "She played him false after
he was blest with two sons by her; for she took them in his
absence and fled with them to her own country, saying to his
mother: 'Whenas thy son returneth to thee and asketh for me and
upon him the nights of severance longsome shall be and he craveth
reunion and meeting to see and whenas the breezes of love and
longing shake him dolefully, let him come in the Islands of Wak
to me.'" When Abd al-Kaddus heard this, he shook his head and bit
his forefinger; then, bowing his brow groundwards he began to
make marks on the earth with his finger-tips;[FN#109] after which
he again shook his head and looked right and left and shook his
head a third time, whilst Hasan watched him from a place where he
was hidden from him. Then said the Princesses to their uncle,
"Return us some answer, for our hearts are rent in sunder." But
he shook his head at them, saying, "O my daughters, verily hath
this man wearied himself in vain and cast himself into grievous
predicament and sore peril; for he may not gain access to the
Islands of Wak." With this the Princesses called Hasan, who came
forth and, advancing to Shaykh Abd al-Kaddus, kissed his hand and
saluted him. The old man rejoiced in him and seated him by his
side; whereupon quoth the damsels, "O uncle, acquaint our brother
Hasan with that thou hast told us." So he said to Hasan, "O my
son, put away from thee this peine forte et dure; for thou canst
never gain access to the Islands of Wak, though the Flying Jinn
and the Wandering Stars were with thee; for that betwixt thee and
these islands are seven Wadys and seven seas and seven mighty
mountains. How then canst thou come at this stead and who shall
bring thee thither? Wherefore, Allah upon thee, O my son, do
thou reckon thy spouse and sons as dead and turn back forthright
and weary not thy sprite! Indeed, I give thee good counsel, an
thou wilt but accept it." Hearing these words from the Shaykh,
Hasan wept till he fainted, and the Princesses sat round him,
weeping for his weeping, whilst the youngest sister rent her
raiment and buffeted her face, till she swooned away. When
Shaykh Abd al-Kaddus saw them in this transport of grief and
trouble and mourning, he was moved to ruth for them and cried,
"Be ye silent!" Then said he to Hasan, "O my son, hearten thy
heart and rejoice in the winning of thy wish, an it be the will
of Allah the Most High;" presently adding, "Rise, O my son, take
courage and follow me." So Hasan arose forthright and after he
had taken leave of the Princesses followed him, rejoicing in the
fulfilment of his wish. Then the Shaykh called the elephant and
mounting, took Hasan up behind him and fared on three days with
their nights, like the blinding leven, till he came to a vast
blue mountain, whose stones were all of azure hue and amiddlemost
of which was a cavern, with a door of Chinese iron. Here he took
Hasan's hand and let him down and alighting dismissed the
elephant. Then he went up to the door and knocked, whereupon it
opened and there came out to him a black slave, hairless, as he
were an Ifrit, with brand in right hand and targe of steel in
left. When he saw Abd al-Kaddus, he threw sword and buckler from
his grip and coming up to the Shaykh kissed his hand. Thereupon
the old man took Hasan by the hand and entered with him, whilst
the slave shut the door behind them; when Hasan found himself in
a vast cavern and a spacious, through which ran an arched
corridor and they ceased not faring on therein a mile or so, till
it abutted upon a great open space and thence they made for an
angle of the mountain wherein were two huge doors cast of solid
brass. The old man opened one of them and said to Hasan, "Sit at
the door, whilst I go within and come back to thee in haste, and
beware lest thou open it and enter." Then he fared inside and,
shutting the door after him, was absent during a full sidereal
hour, after which he returned, leading a black stallion, thin of
flank and short of nose, which was ready bridled and saddled,
with velvet housings; and when it ran it flew, and when it flew,
the very dust in vain would pursue; and brought it to Hasan,
saying, "Mount!" So he mounted and Abd al-Kaddus opened the
second door, beyond which appeared a vast desert. Then the twain
passed through the door into that desert and the old man said to
him, "O my son, take this scroll and wend thou whither this steed
will carry thee. When thou seest him stop at the door of a
cavern like this, alight and throw the reins over the saddle-bow
and let him go. He will enter the cavern, which do thou not
enter with him, but tarry at the door five days, without being
weary of waiting. On the sixth day there will come forth to thee
a black Shaykh, clad all in sable, with a long white beard,
flowing down to his navel. As soon as thou seest him, kiss his
hands and seize his skirt and lay it on thy head and weep before
him, till he take pity on thee and he will ask thee what thou
wouldst have. When he saith to thee, 'What is thy want?' give
him this scroll which he will take without speaking and go in and
leave thee. Wait at the door other five days, without wearying,
and on the sixth day expect him; and if he come out to thee
himself, know that thy wish will be won, but, if one of his pages
come forth to thee, know that he who cometh forth to thee,
purposeth to kill thee; and--the Peace![FN#110] For know, O my
son, that whoso self imperilleth doeth himself to death;"--And
Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased saying her
permitted say.

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 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.

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.

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