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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




"In her cheek-corners nine calamities * Wone, and when shown,
each one Jehannam is:
Hideous the face and favour foulest foul * As cheek of hog; yea,
'tis a cesspool phiz."

And indeed she was like a pied snake or a scald she-wolf. Now
when the old woman looked at Hasan, she marvelled and said, "How
came this one to these lands and in which of the ships was he and
how arrived he hither in safety?" And she fell to questioning
him of his case and admiring at his arrival, whereupon he fell at
her feet and rubbed his face on them and wept till he fainted;
and, when he recovered himself, he recited these couplets,

"When will Time grant we meet, when shall we be * Again united
after severance stark?
And I shall win my choicest wish and view? * Blame end and Love
abide without remark?
Were Nile to flow as freely as my tears, * 'Twould leave no
region but with water-mark:
'Twould overthrow Hijaz and Egypt-land * 'Twould deluge Syria and
'twould drown Ir k.
This, O my love, is caused by thy disdain, * Be kind and promise
meeting fair and fain!"

Then he took the crone's skirt and laid it on his head and fell
to weeping and craving her protection. When she saw his ardency
and transport and anguish and distress, her heart softened to him
and she promised him her safeguard, saying, "Have no fear
whatsoever." Then she questioned him of his case and he told her
the manner of his coming thither and all that had befallen him
from beginning to end, whereat she marvelled and said, "This that
hath betide thee, methinks, never betided any save thyself and
except thou hadst been vouchsafed the especial protection of
Allah, thou hadst not been saved: but now, O my son, take comfort
and be of good courage; thou hast nothing more to fear, for
indeed thou hast won thy wish and attained thy desire, if it
please the Most High!" Thereat Hasan rejoiced with joy exceeding
and she sent to summon the captains of the army to her presence,
and it was the last day of the month. So they presented
themselves and the old woman said to them, "Go out and proclaim
to all the troops that they come forth to-morrow at daybreak and
let none tarry behind, for whoso tarryeth shall be slain." They
replied, "We hear and we obey," and going forth, made
proclamation to all the host anent a review next morning, even as
she bade them, after which they returned and told her of this;
whereby Hasan knew that she was the Commander-in-chief of the
army and the Viceregent in authority over them; and her name was
Shawahi the Fascinator, entituled Umm al-Daw hi, or Mother of
Calamities.[FN#124] She ceased not to bid and forbid and Hasan
doffed not off his arms from his body that day. Now when the
morning broke, all the troops fared forth from their places, but
the old woman came not out with them, and as soon as they were
sped and the stead was clear of them, she said to Hasan, "Draw
near unto me, O my son[FN#125]." So he drew near unto her and
stood between her hands. Quoth she, "Why and wherefore hast thou
adventured thyself so boldly as to enter this land, and how came
thy soul to consent to its own undoing? Tell me the truth and
the whole truth and fear aught of ill come of it, for thou hast
my plighted word and I am moved to compassion for thy case and
pity thee and have taken thee under my protection. So, if thou
tell me the truth, I will help thee to win thy wish, though it
involve the undoing of souls and the destruction of bodies; and
since thou hast come to seek me, no hurt shall betide thee from
me, nor will I suffer any to have at thee with harm of all who be
in the Islands of Wak." So he told her his tale from first to
last, acquainting her with the matter of his wife and of the
birds; how he had captured her as his prize from amongst the ten
and married her and abode with her, till she had borne him two
sons, and how she had taken her children and flown away with
them, whenas she knew the way to the feather-dress. Brief, he
concealed from her no whit of his case, from the beginning to
that day. But when Shawahi heard his relation, she shook her
head and said to him, "Glory be to God who hath brought thee
hither in safety and made thee hap upon me! For, hadst thou
happened on any but myself, thou hadst lost thy life without
winning thy wish; but the truth of thine intent and thy fond
affection and the excess of thy love-longing for thy wife and
yearning for thy children, these it was that have brought thee to
the attainment of thine aim. Didst thou not love her and love
her to distraction, thou hadst not thus imperilled thyself, and
Alhamdolillah--Praised be Allah--for thy safety! Wherefore it
behoveth us to do thy desire and conduce to thy quest, so thou
mayst presently attain that thou seekest, if it be the will of
Almighty Allah. But know, O my son, that thy wife is not here,
but in the seventh of the Islands of Wak and between us and it is
seven months' journey, night and day. From here we go to an
island called the Land of Birds, wherein, for the loud crying of
the birds and the flapping of their wings, one cannot hear other
speak."--And Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased to
say her permitted say.

When it was the Eight Hundred and Sixth Night,

She pursued, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that the old
woman said to Hasan, "Indeed thy wife is in the Seventh
Island,[FN#126] the greatest amongst the Islands of Wak and
betwixt us and it is a seven-months' journey. From here we fare
for the Land of Birds, whereon for the force of their flying and
the flapping of their wings, we cannot hear one other speak.
Over that country we journey night and day, eleven days, after
which we come forth of it to another called the Land of Ferals
where, for stress of roaring of lions and howling of wolves and
laughing of hyaenas and the crying of other beasts of prey we
shall hear naught, and therein we travel twenty days' journey.
Then we issue therefrom and come to a third country, called the
Land of the J nn, where, for stress of the crying of the Jinn and
the flaming of fires and the flight of sparks and smoke from
their mouths and the noise of their groaning and their arrogance
in blocking up the road before us, our ears will be deafened and
our eyes blinded, so that we shall neither hear nor see, nor dare
any look behind him, or he perisheth: but there horseman boweth
head on saddle-bow and raiseth it not for three days. After
this, we abut upon a mighty mountain and a running river
contiguous with the Isles of Wak, which are seven in number and
the extent whereof is a whole year's journey for a well-girt
horseman. And thou must know, O my son, that these troops are
all virgin girls, and that the ruler over us is a woman of the
Archipelago of Wak. On the bank of the river aforesaid is another
mountain, called Mount Wak, and it is thus named by reason of a
tree which beareth fruits like heads of the Sons of Adam.[FN#127]
When the sun riseth on them, the heads cry out all, saying in
their cries:-- 'Wak! Wak! Glory be to the Creating King,
Al-Khall k!' And when we hear their crying, we know that the sun
is risen. In like manner, at sundown, the heads set up the same
cry, 'Wak! Wak! Glory to Al-Khallak!' and so we know that the
sun hath set. No man may abide with us or reach to us or tread
our earth: and betwixt us and the abiding-place of the Queen who
ruleth over us is a month's journey from this shore, all the
lieges whereof are under her hand, as are also the tribes of the
Jinn, Marids and Satans, while of the warlocks none kenneth the
number save He who created them. Wherefore, an thou be afraid, I
will send with thee one who will convey thee to the coast and
there bring one who will embark thee on board a ship that bear
thee to thine own land. But an thou be content to tarry with us,
I will not forbid thee and thou shalt be with me in mine
eye,[FN#128] till thou win thy wish, Inshallah!" Quoth he, "O my
lady, I will never quit thee till I foregather with my wife or
lose my life!"; and quoth she, "This is a light matter; be of
good heart, for soon shalt thou come to thy desire, Allah
willing; and there is no help but that I let the Queen know of
thee, that she may help thee to attain thine aim." Hasan blessed
her and kissed her head and hands, thanking her for her good deed
and exceeding kindness and firm will. Then he set out with her,
pondering the issue of his case and the horrors of his
strangerhood; wherefore he fell a-weeping and a-wailing and
recited these couplets,

"A Zephyr bloweth from the lover's site; * And thou canst view me
in the saddest plight:
The Night of Union is as brilliant morn; * And black the
Severance-day as blackest night:
Farewelling friend is sorrow sorest sore * Parting from lover's
merest undelight.
I will not blame her harshness save to her, * And 'mid mankind
nor friend nor fere I sight:
How can I be consoled for loss of you? * Base censor's blame
shall not console my sprite!
O thou in charms unique, unique's my love; * O peerless thou, my
heart hath peerless might!
Who maketh semblance that be loveth you * And dreadeth blame is
most blame-worthy wight."

Then the old woman bade beat the kettle-drums for departure and
the army set out. Hasan fared with her, drowned in the sea of
solicitude and reciting verses like those above, whilst she
strave to comfort him and exhorted him to patience; but he awoke
not from his tristesse and heeded not her exhortations. They
journeyed thus till they came to the boundaries of the Land of
Birds[FN#129] and when they entered it, it seemed to Hasan as if
the world were turned topsy-turvy for the exceeding clamour. His
head ached and his mind was dazed, his eyes were blinded and his
ears deafened, and he feared with exceeding fear and made certain
of deaths saying to himself, "If this be the Land of Birds, how
will be the Land of Beasts?" But, when the crone hight Shawahi
saw him in this plight, she laughed at him, saying, "O my son, if
this be thy case in the first island, how will it fare with thee,
when thou comest to the others?" So he prayed to Allah and
humbled himself before the Lord, beseeching Him to assist him
against that wherewith He had afflicted him and bring him to his
wishes; and they ceased not going till they passed out of the
Land of Birds and, traversing the Land of Beasts, came to the
Land of the Jann which when Hasan saw, he was sore affrighted and
repented him of having entered it with them. But he sought aid
of Allah the Most High and fared on with them, till they were
quit of the Land of the Jann and came to the river and set down
their loads at the foot of a vast mountain and a lofty, and
pitched their tents by the stream-bank. Then they rested and ate
and drank and slept in security, for they were come to their own
country. On the morrow the old woman set Hasan a couch of
alabaster, inlaid with pearls and jewels and nuggets of red gold,
by the river-side, and he sat down thereon, having first bound
his face with a chin-kerchief, that discovered naught of him but
his eyes. Then she bade proclaim among the troops that they
should all assemble before her tent and put off their clothes and
go down into the stream and wash; and this she did that she might
parade before him all the girls, so haply his wife should be
amongst them and he know her. So the whole army mustered before
her and putting off their clothes, went down into the stream, and
Hasan seated on his couch watched them washing their white skins
and frolicking and making merry, whilst they took no heed of his
inspecting them, deeming him to be of the daughters of the Kings.
When he beheld them stripped of their clothes, his chord
stiffened for that looking at them mother-naked he saw what was
between their thighs, and that of all kinds, soft and rounded,
plump and cushioned; large-lipped, perfect, redundant and
ample,[FN#130] and their faces were as moons and their hair as
night upon day, for that they were of the daughters of the Kings.
When they were clean, they came up out of the water, stark naked,
as the moon on the night of fullness and the old woman questioned
Hasan of them, company by company, if his wife were among them;
but, as often as she asked him of a troop, he made answer, "She
is not among these, O my lady."--And Shahrazad perceived the dawn
of day and ceased saying her permitted say.

When it was the Eight Hundred and Seventh Night,

She resumed, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that the old
woman questioned Hasan of the girls, company after company, if
haply his wife were among them; but as often as she asked him of
a troop, he made answer, "She is not among these, O my lady!"
Last of all, there came up a damsel, attended by ten slave-girls
and thirty waiting-women, all of them high-bosomed maidens. They
put off their clothes and went down into the river, where the
damsel fell to riding the high horse over her women, throwing
them down and ducking them. On this wise she continued for a
full hour, after which all came up out of the water and sat down;
and they brought her napkins[FN#131] of gold-purfled silk, with
which she dried herself. Then they brought her clothes and
jewels and ornaments of the handiwork of the Jinn, and she donned
them and rose and walked with graceful pace among the troops, she
and her maidens. When Hasan saw her, his heart was ready to fly
from his breast and he said, "Verily this girl is the likest of
all folk to the bird I saw in the basin atop of the palace of my
sisters the Princesses, and she lorded it over her lieges even as
doth this one." The old woman asked, "O Hasan, is this thy
wife?"; and he answered, "No, by thy life, O my lady; this is not
my wife, nor ever in my life have I set eyes on her; neither
among all the girls I have seen in these islands is there the
like of my wife nor her match for symmetry and grace and beauty
and loveliness!" Then said Shawaki, "Describe her to me and
acquaint me with all her attributes, that I may have her in my
mind; for I know every girl in the Islands of Wak, being
commander of the army of maids and governor over them; wherefore,
an thou describe her to me, I shall know her and will contrive
for thee to take her." Quoth he, "My wife hath the fairest face
and a form all grace; smooth is she of cheeks and high of breasts
with eyes of liquid light, calves and thighs plump to sight,
teeth snowy white, with dulcet speech dight; in speech soft and
bland as she were a willow-wand; her gifts are a moral and lips
are red as coral; her eyes wear natural Kohl-dye and her lower
labia[FN#132] in softness lie. On her right cheek is a mole and
on her waist, under her navel, is a sign; her face shines as the
rondure of the moon in sheen, her waist is slight, her hips a
heavy weight, and the water of her mouth the sick doth heal, as
it were Kausar or Salsabil."[FN#133] Said the old woman, "Give me
an increased account of her, Allah increase thee of passion for
her!" Quoth he, "My wife hath a face the fairest fair and oval
cheeks the rarest rare; neck long and spare and eyes that Kohl
wear; her side face shows the Anemones of Nu'uman, her mouth is
like a seal of cornelian and flashing teeth that lure and stand
one in stead of cup and ewer. She is cast in the mould of
pleasantness and between her thighs is the throne of the
Caliphate, there is no such sanctuary among the Holy Places; as
saith in its praise the poet,

"The name of what drave me distraught * Hath letters renowned
among men:
A four into five multiplied * And a multiplied six into
ten.[FN#134]"

Then Hasan wept and chanted the following Maww l,[FN#135]

"O heart, an lover false thee, shun the parting bane * Nor to
forgetfulness thy thoughts constrain:
Be patient; thou shalt bury all thy foes; * Allah ne'er falseth
man of patience fain."

And this also,

"An wouldst be life,long safe, vaunt not delight; * Never
despair, nor wone o'erjoyed in sprite!
Forbear, rejoice not, mourn not o'er thy plight * And in ill day
'Have not we oped?'--recite."[FN#136]

Thereupon the old woman bowed her head groundwards awhile, then,
raising it, said, "Laud be to the Lord, the Mighty of Award!
Indeed I am afflicted with thee, O Hasan! Would Heaven I had
never known thee! This woman, whom thou describest to me as thy
wife, I know by description and I know her to be none other than
the eldest daughter of the Supreme King, she who ruleth over all
the Islands of Wak. So open both eyes and consider thy case; and
if thou be asleep, awake; for, if this woman be indeed thy wife,
it is impossible for thee ever to obtain her, and though thou
come to her, yet couldst thou not avail to her possession, since
between thee and her the distance is as that between earth and
Heaven. Wherefore, O my son, return presently and cast not
thyself into destruction nor cast me with thee; for meseemeth
thou hast no lot in her; so return whence thou camest lest our
lives be lost." And she feared for herself and for him. When
Hasan heard her words, he wept till he fainted and she left not
sprinkling water on his face, till he came to himself, when he
continued to weep, so that he drenched his dress with tears, for
the much cark and care and chagrin which betided him by reason of
her words. And indeed he despaired of life and said to the old
woman, "O my lady, and how shall I go back, after having come
hither? Verily, I thought not thou wouldst forsake me nor fail
of the winning of my wish, especially as thou art the
Commander-in-chief of the army of the girls." Answered Shawahl,
"O my son, I doubted not but thy wife was a maid of the maids,
and had I known she was the King's daughter, I had not suffered
thee to come hither nor had I shown the troops to thee, for all
the love I bear thee. But now, O my son, thou hast seen all the
girls naked; so tell me which of them pleaseth thee and I will
give her to thee, in lieu of thy wife, and do thou put it that
thy wife and children are dead and take her and return to thine
own country in safety, ere thou fall into the King's hand and I
have no means of delivering thee. So, Allah upon thee, O my son,
hearken unto me. Choose thyself one of these damsels, in the
stead of yonder woman, and return presently to thy country in
safety and cause me not quaff the cup of thine anguish! For, by
Allah, thou hast cast thyself into affliction sore and peril
galore, wherefrom none may avail to deliver thee evermore!" But
Hasan hung down his head and wept with long weeping and recited
these couplets,

"'Blame not!' said I to all who blamŠd me; * 'Mine eye-lids
naught but tears were made to dree:'
The tears that brim these orbs have overflowed * My checks, for
lovers and love's cruelty.
Leave me to love though waste this form of me! * For I of Love
adore the insanity:
And, Oh my dearling, passion grows on me * For you--and you, why
grudge me clemency?
You wronged me after swearing troth and plight, * Falsed my
companionship and turned to flee:
And cup of humbling for your rigours sore * Ye made me drain what
day departed ye:
Then melt, O heart, with longing for their sight * And, O mine
eyes, with crowns of tears be dight."

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

When it was the Eight Hundred and Eighth Night,

She said, It hath reached me, O auspicious King, that when the
old woman said to Hasan, "By Allah, O my son, hearken to my
words! Choose thee one of these girls in lieu of thy wife and
presently return to thy country in safety," he hung down his head
and recited the couplets quoted above. Then he wept till he
swooned away and Shawahl sprinkled water on his face till he
revived, when she addressed him, "O my lord, I have no shift
left; because if I carry thee to the city thy life is lost and
mine also: for, when the Queen cometh to know of this, she will
blame me for admitting thee into her lands and islands, whereto
none of Adam's sons hath access, and will slay me for bringing
thee with me and for suffering mortal to look upon the virgins
seen by thee in the sea, whom ne'er touched male, neither
approached mate." And Hasan sware that he had never looked on
them with evil of eye. She resumed, "O my son, hearken to me and
return to thy country and I will give thee wealth and treasures
and things of price, such as shall suffice thee for all the women
in the world. Moreover, I will give thee a girl of the best of
them, so lend an ear to my words and return presently and imperil
not thyself; indeed I counsel thee with good counsel." But he
wept and rubbed both cheeks against her feet, saying, "O my lady
and mistress and coolth of mine eyes, how can I turn back now
that I have made my way hither, without the sight of those I
desire, and now that I have come near the beloved's site, hoping
for meeting forthright, so haply there may be a portion in
reunion to my plight?" And he improvised these couplets,

"O Kings of beauty, grace to prisoner ta'en * Of eyelids fit to
rule the Chosro‰s' reign:
Ye pass the wafts of musk in perfumed breath; * Your cheeks the
charms of blooming rose disdain.
The softest Zephyr breathes where pitch ye camp * And thence
far-scattered sweetness fills the plain:
Censor of me, leave blame and stint advice! * Thou bringest
wearying words and wisdom vain:
Why heat my passion with this flame and up- * braid me when
naught thou knowest of its bane?
Captured me eyes with passion maladifs, * And overthrew me with
Love's might and main:
I scatter tears the while I scatter verse; * You are my theme for
rhyme and prosy strain.
Melted my vitals glow of rosy cheeks * And in the Laz -lowe my
heart is lain:
Tell me, an I leave to discourse of you, * What speech my breast
shall broaden?
Tell me deign! Life-long I loved the lovelings fair, but ah, * To
grant my wish eke Allah must be fain!"

Hearing his verses the old woman was moved to ruth for him and
Allah planted the seed of affection for him in her heart; so
coming up to him she consoled him, saying, "Be of good cheer and
keep thine eyes cool and clear and put away trouble from thy
thought, for, by Allah, I will venture my life with thee, till
thou attain thine aim or death undo me!" With this, Hasan's heart
was comforted and his bosom broadened and he sat talking with the
old woman till the end of the day, when all the girls dispersed,
some entering their town-mansions and others nighting in the
tents. Then the old woman carried him into the city and lodged
him in a place apart, lest any should come to know of him and
tell the Queen of him and she should slay him and slay her who
had brought him thither. Moreover, she served him herself and
strave to put him in fear of the awful majesty of the Supreme
King, his wife's father; whilst he wept before her and said, "O
my fady, I choose death for myself and loathe this worldly life,
if I foregather not with my wife and children: I have set my
existence on the venture and will either attain my aim or die."
So the old woman fell to pondering the means of bringing him and
his wife together and casting about how to do in the case of this
unhappy one, who had thrown himself into destruction and would
not be diverted from his purpose by fear or aught else; for,
indeed he reeked not of his life and the sayer of bywords saith,
"Lover in nowise hearkeneth he to the speech of the man who is
fancy-free." Now the name of the Queen of the island wherein they
were was N£r al-Hud…,[FN#137] eldest daughter of the Supreme
King, and she had six virgin sisters, abiding with their father,
whose capital and court were in the chief city of that region and
who had made her ruler over all the lands and islands of Wak. So
when the ancient dame saw Hasan on fire with yearning after his
wife and children, she rose up and repaired to the palace and
going in to Queen Nur al-Huda kissed ground before her; for she
had a claim on her favour because she had reared the King's
daughters one and all and had authority over each and every of
them and was high in honour and consideration with them and with
the King. Nur al-Huda rose to her as she entered and embracing
her, seated her by her side and asked her of her journey. She
answered, "By Allah, O my lady 'twas a blessed journey and I
have brought thee a gift which I will presently present to thee,"
adding, "O my daughter, O Queen of the age and the time, I have a
favour to crave of thee and I fain would discover it to thee,
that thou mayst help me to accomplish it, and but for my
confidence that thou wilt not gainsay me therein, I would not
expose it to thee." Asked the Queen, "And what is thy need?
Expound it to me, and I will accomplish it to thee, for I and my
kingdom and troops are all at thy commandment and disposition."
Therewithal the old woman quivered as quivereth the reed on a day
when the storm-wind is abroad and saying in herself, "O[FN#138]
Protector, protect me from the Queen's mischief!"[FN#139] fell
down before her and acquainted her with Hasan's case, saying, "O
my lady, a man, who had hidden himself under my wooden settle on
the seashore, sought my protection; so I took him under my
safeguard and carried him with me among the army of girls armed
and accoutred so that none might know him, and brought him into
the city; and indeed I have striven to affright him with thy
fierceness, giving him to know of thy power and prowess; but, as
often as I threatened him, he weepeth and reciteth verses and
sayeth, 'Needs must I have my wife and children or die, and I
will not return to my country without them.' And indeed he hath
adventured himself and come to the Islands of Wak, and never in
all my days saw I mortal heartier of heart than he or doughtier
of derring-do, save that love hath mastered him to the utmost of
mastery."--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