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Scientific American, Vol.22, No. 1, January 1, 1870 by Various

V >> Various >> Scientific American, Vol.22, No. 1, January 1, 1870

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[Illustration]

"The block is made on the differential principle. The lifting chain is
passed over two sheaves, each of which is geared internally, the one
having one or more teeth in excess of the other. Revolving around these
internal teeth is a pinion, actuated by an eccentric, which is keyed on
to a shaft passing through the center of the block, with a bearing at
each end in the outside frame of the block. At one end of this shaft
is a wheel with an endless hand chain passing over it; this gives the
motion to the eccentric shaft. The teeth of the internal pinion are
broad enough to gear into the teeth of both the sheaves, but as there is
more teeth in one than in the other, they (the teeth) are not exactly
opposite each other, and therefore will not admit the teeth of the
revolving pinion without moving; but the tooth of the pinion, acting as
a wedge, and entering with great power, pushes the one tooth forward and
the other tooth back; and this continually occurring, a continual rotary
motion is given to the sheaves, in opposite directions, with a power
which is proportioned to the number of the teeth, the throw of
eccentric, and the leverage gained by the diameter of the hand wheel.
The lifting chain is passed over the one sheave, then down, and up over
the other, the two ends being attached to a powerful cross bar, to which
is connected the lifting hook. By this means the weight is distributed
over the two sheaves and the two parts of the chain, increasing the
safety and diminishing the friction of the block.

"The blocks are very simple in construction, and are not at all liable
to get out of order; the construction being such that the weight cannot
run down, though the men lifting let go the chain. They hang quite plumb
when in action, and the men are able to stand clear away from under the
load, as the hand-wheel chain can be worked at any angle."

* * * * *




Plants In Sleeping Rooms.


The following from the able pen of Dr. J.C. Draper, in the January
number of the _Galaxy_, will answer some inquiries lately received on
the subject, and is a brief, but clear exposition of the injurious
effects of plants in sleeping apartments:

"Though the air is dependent for the renewal of its oxygen on the action
of the green leaves of plants, it must not be forgotten that it is only
in the presence and under the stimulus of light that these organisms
decompose carbonic acid. All plants, irrespective of their kind or
nature, absorb oxygen and exhale carbonic acid in the dark. The quantity
of noxious gas thus eliminated is, however, exceedingly small when
compared with the oxygen thrown out during the day. When they are
flowering, plants exhale carbonic acid in considerable quantity, and at
the same time evolve heat. In this condition, therefore, they resemble
animals as regards their relation to the air; and a number of plants
placed in a room would, under these circumstances, tend to vitiate the
air.

"While the phanerogamia, or flowering plants, depend on the air almost
entirely for their supply of carbon, and are busy during the day in
restoring to it the oxygen that has been removed by animals, many of the
inferior cryptogamia, as the fungi and parasitic plants, obtain their
nourishment from material that has already been organized. They do not
absorb carbonic acid, but, on the contrary, they act like animals,
absorbing oxygen and exhaling carbonic acid at all times. It is,
therefore, evident that their presence in a room cannot be productive of
good results.

"Aside from the highly deleterious action that plants may exert on the
atmosphere of a sleeping room, by increasing the proportion of carbonic
acid during the night, there is another and more important objection to
be urged against their presence in such apartments. Like animals, they
exhale peculiar volatile organic principles, which in many instances
render the air unfit for the purposes of respiration. Even in the days
of Andronicus this fact was recognized, for he says, in speaking of
Arabia Felix, that 'by reason of myrrh, frankincense, and hot spices
there growing, the air was so obnoxious to their brains, that the
very inhabitants at some times cannot avoid its influence.' What the
influence on the brains of the inhabitants may have been does not at
present interest us: we have only quoted the statement to show that long
ago the emanations from plants were regarded as having an influence on
the condition of the air; and, in view of our present ignorance, it
would be wise to banish them from our sleeping apartments, at least
until we are better informed regarding their true properties."

* * * * *

PATENT OFFICE ILLUSTRATIONS.--We are indebted to Messrs. Jewett &
Chandler, of Buffalo, N.Y., for advance sheets of the illustrations
designed to accompany the Report of the Commissioner of Patents for the
year 1868. We have frequently had occasion to commend the skill and
fidelity of these illustrations. They are most admirably done, and the
value of our Patent Office Reports is much enhanced thereby. In fact
without these illustrations the reports would be of little value.

* * * * *




Improved Treadle Motion.


It is well known that the ordinary means employed to propel light
machinery by the foot are fatiguing in the extreme and although the best
of these is the rock shaft with foot pieces, employed almost universally
in modern sewing machines, this requires the operator to sit bolt
upright, a position very trying to the back, and one which has been
shown to be productive of weakness and even permanent disease.

The device shown in the engraving employs only the swinging motion of
the leg to generate the required power.

[Illustration: GOODES' IMPROVED TREADLE MOTION.]

A pendulum, A, is pivoted to the underside of the table and carries a
heavy disk, B. To the central pivot of B is attached a foot piece, C.
The bottom of B is slotted, and through the slot passes a stationary
rod, D, which holds the bottom of the disk from vibrating while it
causes the upper part to reciprocate with the swinging of A.

To the upper part of B is pivoted a pitman which actuates the crank as
shown.

In operation the foot is placed upon the foot piece, and a swinging
motion is imparted by it to the pendulum, which is ultimately converted
into rotary motion by the crank as described. The heavy disk, B, gives
steadiness to the motion, and acts in concert with the fly wheel on the
crank shaft for this purpose; but it is not essential that this part of
the device should be a disk; any equivalent may be substituted for the
same purpose.

Patented, through the Scientific American Patent Agency, Oct, 26, 1869,
by E. A. Goodes For further information address Philadelphia Patent and
Novelty Co., 717 Spring Garden street, Philadelphia, Pa.

* * * * *




Improved Method of Catching Curculios.


This is a novel and curious invention, made by Dr. Hull, of Alton, Ill.,
for the purpose of jarring off and catching the curculio from trees
infested by this destructive insect. It is a barrow, with arms and
braces covered with cloth, and having on one side a slot, which admits
the stem of the tree. The curculio catcher, or machine, is run against
the tree three or four times, with sufficient force to impart a jarring
motion to all its parts. The operator then backs far enough to bring the
machine to the center of the space between the rows, turns round, and in
like manner butts the tree in the opposite row. In this way a man may
operate on three hundred trees per hour.

A bag and a broom are carried by the operator by which the insects are
swept from the cloth and consigned to destruction.

[Illustration: CURCULIO CATCHER.]

* * * * *




Remains of a Megatherium in Ohio.


The Columbus _State Journal_, of Dec. 6, says "there is now on
exhibition at the rooms of the State Board of Agriculture, or
headquarters of the Geological Corps, a section of the femur or thigh
bone of an animal of the mastodon species, the fossilized remains of
which were recently discovered in Union county. These remains were found
in a drift formation about three feet below the surface, and are similar
to the remains of the Megatherium found in other parts of the State.
Arrangements were made by Mr. Klippart, of the Geological Corps, to
have the skeleton or the parts thereof removed with proper care. Before
excavations had proceeded far bad weather set in, and work has been
abandoned. The section of the femur, upper part, with socket ball, is
about twenty inches in length, or about half the length of the thigh
bone. This would make the aggregate length of the bones of the leg about
ten feet. The ball is twenty-two inches in circumference, and the bone
lower down, of course, much larger. From the part of the skeleton
secured, it is estimated that the hight of the animal was twelve and a
half feet, and the skeleton entire much larger than the specimen now in
the British Museum. As this particular species, or remains thereof, have
been found only in Ohio, this specimen has been named the _Megatharium
Ohioensis_. The animals lived, it is supposed, in the period immediately
preceding the human period, and were after the elephant type."

Exhuming operations will be resumed in the spring, and if the skeleton
is removed in good shape or a good state of preservation, it will be set
up in the Echo room at the Capitol, where the fossils collected by the
Geological Corps are now being arranged and stored.

* * * * *




Artificial Ivory.


A process for producing artificial ivory has been published in a German
journal. The inventor makes a solution of india-rubber in chloroform and
passes chlorine gas through it. After this, he heats the solution to
drive off any excess of chlorine, and also the solvent, whereupon he has
left behind a pasty mass with which it is only necessary to incorporate
sufficient precipitated carbonate of lime or sulphate of lead, or,
indeed, any other dense white powder, to obtain a material which may be
pressed into molds to form whatever articles may be desired. The details
of this process are obviously incomplete, and the success of it may be
doubted. Only good and well masticated rubber could be employed, and
even then a dilute solution must be made, and any earthy impurities
allowed to deposit. In the next place, we are doubtful of the bleaching
action of chlorine on rubber, and, moreover, chloroform is, under some
circumstances, decomposed by chlorine. Lastly, it is clear that, to
obtain a hard material at all resembling ivory, it would be necessary to
make a "hard cure," for which a considerable proportion of sulphur
would be required. The simple purification of india-rubber by means of
chloroform, would, however, furnish a mass of a very fair color.

* * * * *

An iron car made of cylindrical form is now used on the Bengal Railway,
for the carriage of cotton and other produce. It is much lighter and
safer than the ordinary car. We believe in iron cars.

* * * * *

ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND.--At the rate old subscribers are renewing, and new
ones coming in, there is a prospect that our ambition to increase the
circulation of this paper to one hundred thousand will be gratified.

* * * * *




AMERICAN AND ENGLISH RAILWAY PRACTICE CONTRASTED.


A paper on "American Locomotives and Rolling Stock," read before the
Institution of Civil Engineers, in England, with an abstract on the
discussion thereon, has been forwarded to us by the publishers, William
Clowes and Sons, Stamford street and Charing Cross, London.

We have seldom met with a pamphlet of greater interest and value. The
whole subject of American as contrasted with English railroad practice
is reviewed, and the differences which exist, with the necessities for
such differences ably discussed. Mr. Colburn shows these differences
to be external rather than fundamental, and traces many of the
peculiarities of American construction to the "initiative of English
engineers." The cause for the adoption and retention of these
peculiarities he attributes to "the necessities of a new country and the
comparative scarcity of capital," and thinks that but for these causes"
American railways and their rolling stock would have doubtless been
constructed, as in other countries, upon English models, and worked, in
most respects, upon English principles of management.

He reviews the origin and introduction of American features of railway
practice, and points out as the distinguishing feature of American
locomotives and rolling stock the bogie, or swiveling truck. "Keeping
in mind the distinguishing merits of the bogie, the other differences
between English and American locomotives are differences more of costume
and of toilet than of vital principles of construction."

The author attributes the origin of the greater subdivision of rolling
weight and consequent coupling of wheels on American roads to the
comparatively weak and imperfect permanent way, estimating the maximum
weight per wheel as being for many years four English tuns, while three
tuns he considers, as more than the average for each coupled wheel of
American locomotives.

To follow the author through the whole of his able paper, and the
discussion which it elicited, would occupy more of our space than we
can spare for the purpose. We will, however, give in the author's own
language, an account of an experiment conducted by him in 1855 on the
Erie Railroad.

"In the autumn of 1855, the author, at the request of Mr. (now
General) M'Callum, the manager of the Erie Railroad, took charge of an
experimental train, which he ran over the whole length of the line and
back, a total distance of nearly 900 miles. The same engine was employed
throughout the run, occupying in all nearly three weeks, making an
average for each week day of about 50 miles. The line is divided into
four divisions, varying considerably in respect of gradients, and the
utmost load the engine could draw was taken in both directions over each
division. The maximum inclinations were 1 in 88. The results of the
experiments were so voluminous, that it will be sufficient to detail
the particulars of what may be termed crucial tests of adhesion and
resistance to traction.

"The engine had four coupled wheels and a bogie, the total weight in
working trim being 291/2 tuns, of which 17-7/8 tuns rested on the coupled
wheels available for adhesion. The coupled wheels were 5 feet in
diameter; the outside cylinders were 17 inches in diameter, and the
stroke 24 inches. The safety valves were set to blow off at 130 lbs.,
and the steam, as observed by a Bourdon gage, was seldom allowed to
exceed that limit. No indicator diagrams were taken, nor was any measure
taken of the wood burnt, all that could be consumed by the engine, in
maintaining the requisite steam, being supplied. The tender, loaded,
weighed 181 tuns. The train drawn consisted of eight-wheel wagons fully
loaded with deals. The average weight of each wagon was 5 tuns 8 cwt. 3
qrs., and of each wagon with its load 15 tuns 5 cwt. 3 qrs. nearly. The
wagons had cast-iron chilled wheels, each 2 feet 6 inches in diameter,
with inside journals 3 7/8 inches in diameter, and 8 inches long. All
the wagons had been put in complete order, and the journals, fitted with
oil-tight boxes, were kept well oiled. The gage of the line was 6 feet.
The weather was most favorable, clear and dry, with the exception of a
single day of heavy rain.

"Upon about one hundred miles of the line, forming a portion of the
Susquehanna division, a train of one hundred wagons, weighing, with
engine and tender, 1,572 tuns was taken. The train was a few feet more
than half a mile in length.

"At one point it was stopped where the line commenced an ascent of 24
feet in four miles, averaging 1 in 880 up for the whole distance. There
were also long and easy curves upon this portion. The train was taken up
and purposely stopped on the second mile, to be sure of starting again
with no aid from momentum. The average speed was 5 miles an hour, and
neither was the pressure of steam increased nor sand used except in
starting from the stops purposely made. The engine, even were its full
boiler pressure of 130 lbs. maintained as effective pressure upon the
pistons throughout the whole length of their stroke, could not have
exerted a tractive force greater than (17 x 17 x 130 lbs. x 2 ft.)/ 5
ft = 15,028 lbs.; nor is it at all probable that the effective cylinder
pressure could have approached this limit by from 10 lbs. to 15 lbs. per
square inch. Supposing, however, for the sake of a reductio ad absurdum,
that the full boiler pressure had been maintained upon the pistons for
the whole length of their strokes, the adhesion of the coupled driving
wheels, not deducting the internal resistances of the engine, would have
been 15028/40050 3/8 of the weight upon them. In any case there was
a resistance of 4,011 lbs. due to gravity, and if even 120 lbs. mean
effective cylinder pressure be assumed, corresponding to a total
tractive force of 13,872 lbs., the quotient representing the rolling and
other resistances, exclusive of gravity, would be but 6.27 lbs. per tun
of the entire train; a resistance including all the internal resistances
of the engine, the resistance of the curves, easy although they were,
and the loss in accelerating and retarding the train in starting and
stopping. This estimate of resistance would correspond, at the observed
speed of 5 miles an hour (upwards of 3/4 of an hour having been consumed
on the 4 miles), to 185 indicated H.P., which, with the driving wheels,
making but 28 revolutions per minute, would be the utmost that an engine
with but 1,038 square feet of heating surface could be expected to
exert. This was the highest result observed during the three weeks'
trial, but one or two others are worthy of mention. On the Delaware
division of the same line, the train, of 1,572 tuns' weight, was run
over 5 consecutive miles of absolutely level line, at a mean rate of
9.23 miles an hour, and during the same day, over 5 other consecutive
miles of level at a mean rate of 9.7 miles per hour. On both levels
there were 141/2 chain curves of good length, and the speed, from 9 to 12
miles an hour, at which the train entered the respective levels, was not
quite regularly maintained throughout the half hour expended in running
over them. But if even 7 lbs. per tun of the total weight be taken as
the resistance at these speeds, the tractive force will be 11,004 lbs.,
which is more than one fourth the adhesion weight of 40,050 lbs. On
the next day, the same engine drew 30 wagons weighing 4661/2 tuns, or,
including engine and tender, 514 tuns nearly, up a gradient of 1 in
1171/2, three miles long, at a mean speed of 101/4 miles an hour. The
resistance due to gravity was 9,814 lbs., and supposing the other
resistance to traction to amount to no more than 7 lbs. per tun, the
total resistance would be 13,412 lbs., corresponding to a mean effective
cylinder pressure of 117 lbs. per square inch, and to a co-efficient of
adhesion of almost exactly one third.

"It is needless to repeat instances of much the same kind, as occurring
during the experiment referred to. The author is bound to say that they
were, no doubt, influenced by the favorable circumstances of weather,
and something is to be allowed also for the great length of train drawn,
very long trains having a less tractive resistance per tun on a level
than short ones, and something, possibly more than is commonly supposed,
may have been due to the use of oil-tight axle boxes, the saponaceous
compound known as 'railway grease' being nowhere in use on railways in
the States. It could not possibly be used, except in a congealed form,
in the severe American winters; and Messrs. Guebhard and Dieudonne's
experiments (_vide_ "De la resistance des trains et de la puissance des
machines." 8vo. Paris, 1868, p. 36) made in 1867, on the Eastern Railway
of France, showed a very considerable diminution in the resistance of
oil-boxed rolling stock as compared with that fitted with grease boxes.
But, weighed upon the other hand, are the facts, first, that the line
was of 6-feet gage, and, _pro tanto_, so much the worse for traction;
secondly, that the wheels were comparatively small, and the inside
journals of comparatively large diameter, the ratio of the former to the
latter being as 73/4 to 1, instead of 12 to 1 as on English lines. It is
difficult to believe that the length and steadiness of the double bogie
goods wagons, scarcely liable as they are to lateral vibrations, had not
something to do with the result, which is in some respects unique in the
history of railway traction. The result, although not absolutely showing
the real resistance to traction, nor the real adhesion of the engine,
presents this alternative; namely, that the resistance must have been
unusually small, or the adhesion unusually large."

In the discussion which followed some doubts were expressed as to the
accuracy of Mr. Colburn's conclusions, drawn from the experiments
described; but it was conceded by some who took part in the discussion
that some of the features of our practice might be advantageously copied
in England. For the most part, however, the opinion prevailed that the
features of our system, which are here regarded as almost indispensable,
could not be introduced into English practice with advantage.

* * * * *




BOILER COVERING.

BY C.M. O'HARA, C.E.


At the regular weekly meeting of the Polytechnic Association of the
American Institute, held on Thursday evening, the 25th ult., the subject
of boiler clothing was discussed at some length, but without any
decisive conclusion being arrived at respecting the most serviceable and
economical material for that purpose. It appeared from the testimony
adduced, that though there is a variety of substances in use, even those
which are practically acknowledged as being the most efficient are
far from coming up to the required standard of utility, and are
characterized by defects which are at once forced upon us by a little
close examination. Felt is an admirable non-conductor of heat, but owing
to its combustible nature it is quite unreliable when subject to the
heat of a high pressure of steam. A large fragment of this material
which had been taken off the boiler of a North River steamboat was
exhibited at the meeting, scorched and charred as if it had been exposed
to the direct action of fire. For these reasons felt covering is,
generally speaking, confined to boilers in which a comparatively low
pressure of steam is maintained. But even under the most favorable
circumstances of actual wear its durability is limited to a short
period.

Powdered charcoal possesses the elements of efficiency as a
non-conductor in an eminent degree; but its susceptibility of taking
fire militates strongly against its adoption as a boiler covering.

Besides the materials above mentioned, there are some which come under
the denomination of cements; but the use of such is somewhat at variance
with what a dull world would call "facts." Employing them as a clothing
for a vessel in which it is necessary to retain heat is certainly the
wrong way of doing a light thing, if the evidence of distinguished
experimenters be worth anything.

The researches of most well-informed physical philosophers go to prove
that the conducting properties of bodies are augmented by cohesion, and
that heat is conveyed profusely and energetically through all solid and
ponderable substances. Thus gold, silver, and others of the most solid
metals are the best conductors. Next to the pure metals in conducting
powers are rocks, flints, porcelain, earthenware, and the denser liquids
as the solutions of the acids and alkalies. As a further evidence to
prove that the passage of heat through all substances is increased
by cohesion, even some of those which are known to be among the best
conductors are deprived of this property by a division or disintegration
of their particles. Pure silica in the state of hard, rock crystal is
a better conductor than bismuth or lead; but if the rock crystal be
pulverized, the diffusion of heat through its powder is very slow and
feeble. Heat is conducted swiftly and copiously through transparent
rock salt, but pulverization converts the solid mass into a good
non-conductor. Caloric has for the same reason a stronger affinity for
pure metals than for their oxides.

Again, wood is known to be a better non-conductor when reduced to
shavings or sawdust than when in the solid state. It is probably on this
account that trees are protected by bark, which is not nearly so dense
and hard a body as the wood. Wool, silk, and cotton are much diminished
in conducting qualities when spun and woven, for the reason that their
fibers are brought closer together.

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

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

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

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

Buy The Dead by Charlie Higson at the Guardian bookshop

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Shining by Stephen King

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

3. The Drive-In by Joe R Lansdale

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

4. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

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

5. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

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

6. Pan Books Of Horror

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

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

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

8. The Silence Of The Lambs by Thomas Harris

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

9. Ghost stories by MR James

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

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

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


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Extract: The Whales by Evie Wyld

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Booker prize sees Peter Carey and Emma Donoghue head shortlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Stone lighter?' he asks quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Christssake' whispers Jimmy stepping back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'S'just a nip,' says Elaine.

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

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

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

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

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


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