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The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. I., No. 3, January 1858 by Various

V >> Various >> The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. I., No. 3, January 1858

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Under these pledges and promises, what has been the performance? A
Convention, for which, inasmuch as it was illegally called by an
illegal body, a large proportion of the citizens of Kansas refused
to vote, frames a Constitution, in the interest and according to the
convictions of the slenderest minority of the people; it
incorporates in that Constitution a recognition of old Territorial
laws to the last degree offensive to the majority of the people; it
incorporates in it a clause establishing slavery in perpetuity; it
connects with it a Schedule perpetuating the existing slavery,
whatever it may be, against all future remedy which has not the
sanction of the slave-master; and then, by a miserable chicane, it
submits the Constitution to a vote of the people, but it submits it
under such terms, that the people, if they vote at all, must vote
_for_ it, whether they like it or not, while the only part in
which they can exercise any choice is the _clause_ which relates to
future slavery. The other parts, especially the Schedule, which
recognizes the existing slavery, and that almost irremediably, the
people are not allowed to pronounce upon. They are not allowed to
pronounce upon the thousand-and-one details of the State organization;
they are fobbed off with a transparent cheat of "heads I win,--tails
you lose";--and the whole game is denominated, Popular Sovereignty.

What is worse, the President of the United States argues that this
would be a fair settlement of the question, and that in the exercise
of such a choice, the glorious doctrine of Popular Sovereignty is
amply applied and vindicated. He admits that "the correct principle,"
as in the case of Minnesota, is to refer the Constitution "to the
approval and ratification of the people"; he admits that the only
mode in which the will of the people can be "authentically
ascertained is by a direct vote"; he admits that the "friends and
supporters of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, when struggling to sustain
its provisions before the great tribunal of the American people,"
"everywhere, throughout the Union, publicly pledged their faith and
honor" to submit the question of their domestic institutions
"to the decision of the _bonβ-fide_ people of Kansas, without any
qualification or restriction whatever"; but then,--and here is the
subterfuge,--"domestic institutions" means only the single
institution of slavery; and the Convention, in consenting to yield
_that_ (and this only in appearance) to the arbitrament of the
people, has fully satisfied all the demands of the principle of
Popular Sovereignty! Their other questions are all "political"; the
questions as to the organization of their executive, legislative,
and judicial departments, as to their elective franchise, their
distribution of districts, their banks, their rates and modes of
taxation, etc., etc., are not domestic questions, but political; and
provided the people are suffered to vote on the future (not the
existing) condition of slaves, faith has been sufficiently kept.
Popular Sovereignty means "pertaining to negroes,"--not the negroes
already in the Territory, but those who may be hereafter introduced;
for the monopoly of that branch of trade and merchandise, which is
already established, and the future growth and increase of it, must
not be interfered with, even by Popular Sovereignty, because that
would be "an act of gross injustice." In other words, Popular
Sovereignty is merely designed to cover the right of the people to
vote on a single question, specially presented by an illegal body,
under electoral arrangements made by its new officers,--which
officers not only receive, but count the votes, and make the returns,--
while all the rest is merely unimportant and trivial. It is just the
sort of sovereignty for which Louis Napoleon provided when he wished
to procure a popular sanction for the numberless atrocities of the
_coup-d'ιtat_ of the 2d December.

An old authority tells us that "it is hard to kick against the pricks";
and the President appears to have experienced the difficulty, in
kicking against the pricks of his conscience. He had committed
himself to a principle which he is now compelled by the policy of
his Southern masters to evade, and is painfully embarrassed as to
how he shall hide his tracks. He knows, as all the world knows, that
this jugglery in Kansas has been performed for no other purpose than
to secure a foothold for Slavery there, against the demonstrated
opinion of nine-tenths of the people; he knows, as all the world
knows, that if the Convention had had the least desire to arrive at
a fair expression of the popular will, on the question of Slavery or
any other question, it was easy to make a candid and honorable
submission of it to an election to be held honestly under the
recognized officers of the Territory; but he knows, also, that under
such circumstances the case would have been carried overwhelmingly
against the "domestic institution," and thus have rebuked, with all
the emphasis that an outraged community could give to the expression
of its will, the nefarious conduct which "the party" has pursued
from the beginning,--and this was a consummation not to be wished.
He therefore wriggles and shuffles, with an absurd and transparent
inconsistency, to defeat the popular will, and yet mouth it bravely
about "the great principle of Popular Sovereignty."

The President thinks that it is time that these troubles in Kansas
were at an end, and we cordially agree with him in the sentiment;
but he needs scarcely to be reminded that they never will be at an
end, until the wicked schemes, which have been so long persisted in,
to override the convictions and hopes and interests of a large
majority of the Kansas settlers, are utterly abandoned by those who
are in power.

Of the remaining and mostly routine topics of the Message we have no
occasion to speak; and we only regret that the deficiencies of the
most important parts are so glaring as to oblige us to treat them
with undisguised severity.

* * * * *




THE WEDDING VEIL.

Dear Anna, when I brought her veil,
Her white veil, on her wedding-night,
Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds,
And, laughing, turned me to the light.

"See, Bessie, see! you wear for once
The bridal veil, forsworn for years!"
She saw my face,--her laugh was hushed,
Her happy eyes were filled with tears.

With kindly haste and trembling hand
She drew away the gauzy mist;
"Forgive, dear heart!"--her sweet voice said;
Her loving lips my forehead kissed.

We passed from out the searching light;
The summer night was calm and fair:
I did not see her pitying eyes,
I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.

Her tender love unlocked my heart;
'Mid falling tears, at last I said,
"Forsworn indeed to me that veil,
Because I only love the dead!"

She stood one moment statue-still,
And, musing, spake in under-tone,
"The living love may colder grow;
The dead is safe with God alone!"




LITERARY NOTICES.

_The Spanish Conquest in America, and its Relation to the History
of Slavery and to the Government of Colonies_. By ARTHUR HELPS. Vols.
I. and II. London, 1855. Vol. III. London, 1857.

This work has a double claim to attention in America;--first, on
account of its great intrinsic merit as a narrative of the
beginnings of the European settlement of this continent; secondly,
as containing a thorough and exceedingly able account of the
planting of Slavery in America, and the origin of that system which
has been and is the great blight of the civilization of the New World.

Mr. Helps is endowed in large measure with the qualities of an
historian of the highest order. A clear and comprehensive vision, a
wide knowledge and careful study of human nature, free and generous
sympathies are united in him with a penetrative imagination which
vivifies the life of past times, with a reverence for truth which
excludes prejudice and prepossession, and with a profoundly
religious spirit. The tone of his thought is manly and vigorous, and
his style, with the beauty of which the readers of his essays have
long been familiar, is marked by quiet grace and unpretending
strength. There are many passages in these volumes of wise
reflection and of pleasant humor. In the drawing of character and in
the narration of events Mr. Helps is equally happy. The pages of his
book are full of lifelike portraits of the great soldiers and great
priests of the time, and of animated pictures of the scenes in which
they were engaged.

Mr. Helps has investigated his subject with zeal, industry, and
patience. He has sought out the original authorities, has brought to
light many important facts, has redeemed some great memories from
unjust oblivion, and has presented a new view of several of the
chief features of the history. In a graceful advertisement to the
third volume he says, "The reader will observe that there is
scarcely any allusion in this work to the kindred works of modern
writers on the same subject. This is not from any want of respect for
the able historians who have written upon the discovery or the
conquest of America. I felt, however, from the first, that my object
in investigating this portion of history was different from theirs;
and I wished to keep my mind clear from the influence which these
eminent persons might have exercised upon it."

A considerable space in these volumes is devoted to an investigation
of the character and condition of the native races of the continent
at the period of the Spanish Conquest. This subject is treated with
peculiar skill and learning, and with unusual power of sympathetic
analysis and appreciation of remote and obscure developments of
society. Another portion of the history, which his plan has led
Mr. Helps to treat at length and with exhaustive thoroughness, is
the early relations between the conquerors and the conquered,
embracing the method of settlement of the different countries, the
whole disastrous system of _ripartimientos_ and _encomiendas_, which,
in its full development, led to the destruction of the native
population of Hispaniola, and to the introduction of negroes into
this and the other West India islands to supply the demand for
laborers.

Another most interesting portion of his subject, and one which has
never till now been fairly exhibited, relates to the labors of the
Dominican and Franciscan monks, and their admirable and unwearied
efforts to counteract and to remedy some of the bitterest evils of
the conquest. Theirs were the first protests that were raised
against slavery in America, and their ranks afforded the first
martyrs in the cause of the Indian and the Negro. Las Casas has
found an eloquent and just biographer, and Mr. Helps has the
satisfaction of having securely placed his name among the few that
deserve the lasting honor and remembrance of the world. The
narrative of Las Casas's life is one of strong dramatic interest.
His life was a varied and remarkable one, even for those times of
striking contrasts and varieties in the fortunes of men; and in
Mr. Helps's pages one sees the man himself, with his simplicity and
elevation of purpose, his honesty of motive, his energy, his
impetuosity, his courage, and his faith.

The three volumes already published embrace the progress of Spanish
conquest from the first discoveries of Columbus to Pizarro's
incursion into Peru. It is sincerely to be hoped that Mr. Helps may
continue his work, at least to the period when the Spanish conquest
and colonization were met and limited by the conquest and the
colonization of the other European nations. Its importance, as a wise,
thoughtful, unpolemic investigation of the origin and the results of
Slavery, is hardly to be overestimated. The space allowed to a
critical notice does not permit us to render it full justice. We can
do little more than recommend it warmly to the readers of history
and to the students of the most difficult and the darkest social
problem of the age.



_Handbook of Railroad Construction, for the Use of American
Engineers. Containing the Necessary Rules, Tables, and Formulae for
the Location, Construction, Equipment, and Management of Railroads,
as built in the United States_. With 158 Illustrations. By GEORGE L.
VOSE, Civil Engineer. Boston: James Munroe & Co. 1857. 12 mo. pp. 480.

All who trust their persons to railroad cars, or their estates to
railroad stocks, will welcome every effort to enlighten that
irresponsible body of railroad builders and managers in whose wits
we put our faith.

The work which we here notice is intended for uneducated American
engineers, of whom there are unfortunately too many. The rapidity
with which our railroads have been built, and the experimental
character of this new branch of engineering, have obliged us to
resort to such native ability and mother wit as our people could
afford. The great body of our railroad engineers have had no training
but the experience they have blundered through; and even our
railroad financiers are men more distinguished for courage and
energy than for experimental skill. Mr. Vose's book will doubtless
be of great service in remedying these evils, by bringing within the
reach of every intelligent man a valuable and very carefully
prepared summary of such rules, formulas, and statistics as our
railroad experiences have furnished and proved.

Railroad engineering and management have united almost every branch
of mechanical and financial science, and have developed several new
and peculiar arts; so that the successful construction, equipment,
and management of a railroad require a rare combination of
accomplishments. Managers hitherto have been too little acquainted
with their business to settle many questions of economy, but they
are now beginning to look upon their enterprises with cooler
judgments.

The "Handbook" discusses several questions of economy, but seeks,
especially in its rules and formulas, to avoid those risks by which
economy has often been turned into the most ruinous extravagance. On
the question of fuel, our author advocates the use of coke as the
most economical and convenient, and every way preferable where it
can be readily obtained. He also urges, on economical grounds, a
more moderate rate of speed in railroad travel; thus showing that we
may save our forests, our lives, and a considerable expense all at
the same time.

The style is clear, and, for a work not professing to be a complete
treatise, but only a manual of useful facts, the arrangement is
admirable. The book is thoroughly practical, and touches upon such
matters, and for the most part upon such matters only, as are likely
to be of service to the practical man; yet it is quite elementary in
its character, and free from unnecessary technicalities.

The book has, however, one great fault. It is full of errata. No
carefully prepared table of corrections can make amends for such a
fault in a book in which typographical correctness is of the
greatest importance. To insert in their places with a pen more than
two hundred published corrections is a labor which no reader would
willingly undertake. We hope, therefore, that a new and correct
edition will soon be published.



_The Life of Handel_. By VICTOR SCHOELCHER. Reprinted from the
London Edition. New York: Mason, Brothers.

It is a remarkable fact, and one not very creditable to the musical
public of England, that the works of Mainwaring, Hawkins, Barney,
and Coxe should remain for almost an entire century after the death
of Handel our main sources of information concerning his career, and
that the first attempt to write a complete biography of that great
composer, correcting the errors, reconciling the contradictions, and
supplying the deficiencies of those authors, should be from the pen
of a French exile. And yet during all this time materials have been
accumulating, the fame of the composer has been extending, the demand
for such a work increasing, and the number of intelligent and
elegant English writers upon music growing greater.

M. Schoelcher's work, though perhaps the most valuable contribution
to musical historical literature which has for many years appeared
from the English press, leaves much to be desired. Excepting a
correction of the chronology of Handel's visit to Italy, very little,
if anything, of importance is added to what we already possessed in
regard to the early history of the composer. We look in vain for the
means of tracing the development of his genius. The impression left
upon the mind of the reader is, that his powers showed themselves
suddenly in full splendor, and that at a single bound he placed
himself at the head of the dramatic composers of his age. This was
not true of Hasse, Mozart, Gluck, Cherubini, Weber, in dramatic
composition; nor of Bach, Haydn, Beethoven, in other branches of the
musical art. However great a man's genius may be, he must live and
learn. To attain the highest excellence, long continued study is
necessary; and Handel, as we believe, was no exception to the
general law.

The list of works consulted by M. Schoelcher, prefixed to the
biography, shows that he has by no means exhausted the German
authorities which may be profitably used in writing upon the early
history of Handel: indeed, the author, though of German descent, is
unacquainted with the German language. We can learn from them the
state of dramatic music at that time in Berlin, Leipsic, Brunswick,
Hanover, Kφthen; we can form from them some correct idea of the
powers of Keiser, Steffani, Graupner, Schieferdecker, Telemann,
Grόnwald, and others, then in possession of the lyric stage; we can
thus estimate the influences which led Handel from the path that
Bach so successfully followed, into that which he pursued with equal
success; and though the amount of matter relating to him personally
be small, much that throws light upon his early life still remains
inaccessible to the English reader.

The biography of a great creative artist must in great measure
consist of a history of his works; and the great value of the
book before us arises from the searching examination to which
M. Schoelcher has subjected the several collections of Handel's
manuscripts which are preserved in England, one of which, in some
respects the most valuable, has fallen into his own possession. This
examination, for the first time made, together with the first careful
and thorough search for whatever might afford a ray of light in the
various periodicals of Handel's time, has enabled the author to
correct innumerable errors in previous writers, and trace step by
step the rapid succession of opera, anthem, serenata, and oratorio,
which filled the years of the composer's manhood. For the general
reader, perhaps, M. Schoelcher has been drawn too far into detail,
and some passages of his work might have been better reserved for
his "Catalogue of Handel's Works"; but these details are of the
highest value to the student of musical literature, and, indeed,
form for him the principal charm of the work. The importance of the
author's labors can be duly appreciated only by those who have had
occasion to study somewhat extensively the musical history of the
last century. For them the results of those labors as here presented
are invaluable.



_Sermons of the_ REV. C. H. SPURGEON, of London. Third Series.
New York: Sheldon, Blakeman & Co.

There can be no doubt of the merit of these sermons, considered as
examples of method and embodiments of character. Whatever elements
of Christianity may be left unexpressed in them, it is certain that
Mr. Spurgeon has succeeded in expressing himself. His discourses at
least give us Christianity as he understands, feels, and lives it.
They should be studied by all clergymen who desire to master the
secret of influencing masses of men. They will afford valuable hints
in respect to method, even when their spirit, tone, and teaching
present no proper model for imitation. Mr. Spurgeon, we suppose,
would be classed among Calvinists, but he is not merely that.
Without any force, depth, amplitude, or originality of thought, he
has considerable force and originality of nature. He detaches from
their relations certain doctrines of Calvinism which especially
interest him, and so emphasizes and intensifies them, so blends them
with his personal being and experience, that the impression he
stamps upon the mind is rather of Spurgeonism than Calvinism. He
gives vivid reality to his doctrines, because they are incorporated
with his nature,--and not merely with his spiritual, but with his
animal nature. He is thoroughly in earnest from the fact that he
preaches himself. His converts, therefore, are likely to mistake
being Spurgeonized for being Christianized; for the Christianity he
preaches is not so much vital Christianity as it is Christianity
passed through the vitalities of his own nature, and essentially
modified and lowered in the process. To understand, then, the kind
of influence he exerts, we have simply to inquire, What kind of man
is Mr. Spurgeon?

The answer to this question is given on every page of his sermons.
He has no reserves, but lets his character transpire in every
sentence. He is a bold, eager, earnest, devout, passionate,
well-intentioned man, with considerable experience in the sphere of
the religious emotions, full of sympathy with rough natures, full of
mother wit and practical sagacity, but, as a theologian, coarse,
ignorant, narrow-minded, and strikingly deficient in fine spiritual
perceptions. These qualities inhere in a nature of singular vigor,
intensity, and directness, that sends out words like bullets. Warmth
of feeling combined with narrowness of mind makes him a bigot; but
his bigotry is not the sour assertion of an opinion, but the racy
utterance of a nature. He believes in Spurgeonism so thoroughly and
so simply that toleration is out of the question, and doctrines
opposed to his own he refers, with instantaneous and ingenuous
dogmatism, to folly or wickedness. "I think," he says, in one of his
sermons, "I have none here so profoundly stupid as to be Puseyites.
I can scarcely believe that I have been the means of attracting one
person here so utterly devoid of one remnant of brain as to believe
the doctrine of baptismal regeneration." The doctrine, indeed, is so
nonsensical to him, that, after some caricatures of it, he asserts
that it would discredit Scripture with all sensible men, if it were
taught in Scripture. God himself could not make Mr. Spurgeon believe
it; and doubtless there are many High Churchmen who would retort,
that nothing short of a miracle could make them assent to some of
the dogmas of their assailant. Indeed, the incapacity of our
preacher to discern, or mentally to reproduce, a religious character
differing in creed from his own, makes him the most amusingly
intolerant of Popes, not because he is malignant, but because he is
Spurgeon. If he had learning or largeness of mind, he would probably
lose the greater portion of his power. He gets his hearers into a
corner, limits the range of their vision to the doctrine he is
expounding, refuses to listen to any excuses or palliations, and
then screams out to them, "Believe or be damned!" In his own mind he
is sure they will be damned, if they do not believe. So far as
regards his influence over those minds whose religious emotions are
strong, but whose religious principles are weak, every limitation of
his mind is an increase of his force.

This theological narrowness is unaccompanied with theological rancor.
A rough but genuine benevolence is at the heart of Mr. Spurgeon's
system. He wishes his opponents to be converted, not condemned. He
very properly feels, that, with his ideas of the Divine Government,
he would be the basest of criminals, if he spared himself, or spared
either entreaty or denunciation, in the great work of saving souls.
He throws himself with such passionate earnestness into his business,
that his sermons boil over with the excitement of his feelings.
Indeed, it is difficult to say whether our impressions of him,
derived from the written page, come to us more from the eye than the
ear. His very style foams, rages, prays, entreats, adjures, weeps,
screams, warns, and execrates. His words are words that everybody
understands,--bold, blunt, homely, quaint, level to his nature, all
alive with passion, and directed with the single purpose of carrying
the fortresses of sin by assault. The reader who contrives to
preserve his calmness amid this storm of words cannot but be vexed
that rhetoric so efficient should frequently be combined with notions
so narrow, with bigotry so besotted, with religious principles so
materialized; that the man who is loudly proclaimed as the greatest
living orator of the pulpit should have so little of that Christian
spirit which refines when it inflames, which exalts, enlarges, and
purifies the natures it moves. For Mr. Spurgeon is, after all,
little more than a theological stump-orator, a Protestant Dominican,
easy of comprehension because he leaves out the higher elements of
his themes, and not hesitating to vulgarize Christianity, if he may
thereby extend it among the vulgar. It has been attempted to justify
him by the examples of Luther and Bunyan, to neither of whom does
he bear more than the most superficial resemblance. He is, to be sure,
as natural as Luther, but then his nature happens to be a puny
nature as compared with that of the great Reformer; and, not to
insist on specific differences, it is certain that Luther, if alive,
would have the same objection to Mr. Spurgeon's bringing down the
doctrines of Christianity to the supposed mental condition of his
hearers, as he had to the Romanists of his day, who corrupted
religion in order that the public "might be more generally
accommodated." Bunyan's phraseology is homely, but Bunyan's
celestializing imagination kept his "familiar grasp of things divine"
from being an irreverent pawing of things divine. Mr. Spurgeon's
nature works on a low level of influence. Deficient in imagination,
and with a mind coarse and unspiritualized, though religiously
impressed, he animalizes his creed in attempting to give it
sensuous reality and impressiveness. If it be said that by this
process he feels his way into hearts which could not be affected by
more spiritual means, the answer is, that the multitude who listened
to the Sermon on the Mount were not of a more elevated cast of mind
than the multitude who listened to Mr. Spurgeon's sermon on
"Regeneration." But the truth is, that Mr. Spurgeon's preaching is
liked, not simply because it rouses sinners to repentance, but
because it gives sinners a certain enjoyment. It is racy, original,
exciting, and comes directly from the character of the preacher. It
is relished, as Mr. Spurgeon tells us in his Preface, by "princes of
every nation and nobles of every rank," as well as by humbler people.
But we doubt whether Christianity should be vulgarized to give jaded
nobles a new "sensation," or in order to be made a fit "gospel for
the poor."

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

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

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

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

Buy The Dead by Charlie Higson at the Guardian bookshop

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Shining by Stephen King

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

3. The Drive-In by Joe R Lansdale

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

4. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

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

5. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

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

6. Pan Books Of Horror

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

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

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

8. The Silence Of The Lambs by Thomas Harris

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

9. Ghost stories by MR James

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

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

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


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Extract: The Whales by Evie Wyld

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Booker prize sees Peter Carey and Emma Donoghue head shortlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Stone lighter?' he asks quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Christssake' whispers Jimmy stepping back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'S'just a nip,' says Elaine.

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

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

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

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

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


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