Best British Horror 2014 Page 38

  For a wedding present the families had bought them a house in Chelsea. It was small, but perfectly situated, and they could always upgrade when they had children. As an extra present, Mr Davison had bought his daughter a doll – a bit of a monstrosity, really, about the size of a fat infant, with blonde curly hair and red lips as thick as a darkie’s, and wearing its own imitation wedding dress. Karen seemed pleased with it. Julian thought little about it at the time.

  They honeymooned in Venice for two weeks, in a comfortable hotel near the Rialto.

  Karen didn’t show much interest in Venice. No, that wasn’t true; she said she was fascinated by Venice. But she preferred to read about it in her guide book. Outside there was noise, and people, and stink; she could better experience the city indoors. Julian offered to stay with her, but she told him he was free to do as he liked. So in the daytime he’d leave her, and he’d go and visit St Mark’s Square, climb the basilica, take a gondola ride. In the evening he’d return, and over dinner he’d try to tell her all about it. She’d frown, and say there was no need to explain, she’d already read it all in her Baedeker. Then they would eat in silence.

  On the first night he’d been tired from travel. On the second, from sightseeing. On the third night Karen told her husband that there were certain manly duties he was expected to perform. Her father was wanting a grandson; for her part, she wanted lots of daughters. Julian said he would do his very best, and drank half a bottle of claret to give him courage. She stripped off, and he found her body interesting, and even attractive, but not in the least arousing. He stripped off too.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘But you have hardly any hair! I’ve got more hair than you!’ And it was true, there was a faint buzz of fur over her skin, and over his next to nothing – just the odd clump where Nature had started work, rethought the matter, given up. Karen laughed, but it was not unkind. She ran her fingers over his body. ‘It’s so smooth, how did you get it so smooth?’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ she then said, and hurried to the bathroom. She was excited. Julian had never seen his wife excited. She returned with a razor. ‘Let’s make you perfect,’ she said.

  She soaped him down, and shaved his body bald. She only cut him twice, and that wasn’t her fault, that was because he’d moved. She left him only the hairs on his head. And even there, she plucked the eyebrows, and trimmed his fine wavy hair into a neat bob.

  ‘There,’ she said, and and looked over her handiwork proudly, and ran her hands all over him, and this time there was nothing that got in their way.

  And at that he tried to kiss her, and she laughed again, and pushed him away.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Your duties can wait until we’re in England. We’re on holiday.’

  So he started going out at night as well, with her blessing. He saw how romantic Venice could be by moonlight. He didn’t know Italian well, and so could barely understand what the ragazzi said to him, but it didn’t matter, they were very accommodating. And by the time he returned to his wife’s side she was always asleep.

  The house in Chelsea had been done up for them, ready for their return. He asked her whether she’d like him to carry her over the threshold. She looked surprised at that, and said he could try. She lay back in his arms, and he was expecting her to be quite heavy, but it went all right really, and he got her through the doorway without doing anything to disgrace himself.

  As far as he’d been aware, Karen had never been to the house before. But she knew exactly where to go, walking straight to the study, and to the wooden desk inside, and to the third drawer down. ‘I have a present for you,’ she said, and from the drawer she took a gun.

  ‘It was my brother’s,’ she said.

  ‘Oh. Really?’

  ‘It may not have been his. But it’s what they gave us anyway.’

  She handed it to Julian. Julian weighed it in his hands. Like his wife, it was lighter than he’d expected.

  ‘You’re the man of the house now,’ Karen said.

  There was no nanny to fetch them dinner. Julian said he didn’t mind cooking. He fixed them some eggs. He liked eggs.

  After they’d eaten, and Julian had rinsed the plates and left them to dry, Karen said that they should inspect the bedroom. And Julian agreed. They’d inspected the rest of the house; that room, quite deliberately, both had left as yet unexplored.

  The first impression that Julian got as he pushed open the door was pink, that everything was pink; the bedroom was unapologetically feminine, that blazed out from the soft pink carpet and the wallpaper of pink rose on pink background, And there was a perfume to it too, the perfume of Karen herself, and he still didn’t much care for it.

  That was before he saw the bed.

  He was startled, and gasped, and then laughed at himself for gasping. The bed was covered with dolls. There were at least a dozen of them, all pale plastic skin and curls and lips that were ruby red, and some were wearing pretty little hats, and some carrying pretty little nosegays, all of them in pretty dresses. In the centre of them, in pride of place, was the doll Karen’s father had given as a wedding present – resplendent in her wedding dress, still fat, her facial features smoothed away beneath that fat, sitting amongst the others like a queen. And all of them were smiling. And all of them were looking at him, expectantly, as if they’d been waiting to see who it was they’d heard climb the stairs, as if they’d been waiting for him all this time.

  Julian said, ‘Well! Well. Well, we won’t be able to get much sleep with that lot crowding about us!’ He chuckled. ‘I mean, I won’t know which is which! Which one is just a doll, and which one my pretty wife!’ He chuckled. ‘Well.’

  Karen said, ‘Gifts from my father. I’ve had some since I was a little girl. Some of them have been hanging about for years.’

  Julian nodded.

  Karen said, ‘But I’m yours now.’

  Julian nodded again. He wondered whether he should put his arms around her. He didn’t quite like to, not with all the dolls staring.

  ‘I love you,’ said Karen. ‘Or rather, I’m trying. I need you to know, I’m trying very hard.’ And for a moment Julian thought she was going to cry, but then he saw her blink back the tears, her face was hard again. ‘But I can’t love you fully, not whilst I’m loving them. You have to get rid of them for me.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Julian. ‘I mean. If you’re sure that’s what you want.’

  Karen nodded grimly. ‘It’s time. And long overdue.’

  She put on her woollen coat then, she said it would be cold out there in the dark. And she bundled up the dolls too, each and every one of them, and began putting them into Julian’s arms. ‘There’s too many,’ he said, ‘I’ll drop them,’ but Karen didn’t stop, and soon there were arms and legs poking into his chest, he felt the hair of his wife’s daughters scratching under his chin. Karen carried just one doll herself, her new doll. She also carried the gun.

  It had been a warm summer’s evening, not quite yet dark. When they stepped outside it was pitch, only the moonlight providing some small relief, and that grudging. The wind bit. And Chelsea, the city bustle, the pavements, the pedestrians, the traffic – Chelsea had gone, and all that was left was the house. Just the house, and the woods ahead of them.

  Julian wanted to run then, but there was nowhere to run to. He tried to drop the dolls. But the dolls refused to let go, they clung on to him, he could feel their little plastic fingers tightening around his coat, his shirt buttons, his skin, his own skin.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Karen.

  The branches stuck out at weird angles, impossible angles, Julian couldn’t see any way to climb through them. But Karen knew where to tread and where to duck, and she didn’t hesitate, she moved at speed – and Julian followed her every step, he struggled to catch up, he lost sight of her once or twice and thought he was lost for good, but the dolls, the dolls showed him t
he way.

  The clearing was a perfect circle, and the moon shone down upon it like a spotlight on a stage.

  ‘Put them down,’ said Karen.

  He did so.

  She arranged the dolls on the browning grass, set them in one long neat line. Julian tried to help, he put the new doll in her wedding dress beside them, and Karen rescued her. ‘It’s not her time yet,’ she said. ‘But she needs to see what will one day happen to her.’

  ‘And what is going to happen?’

  Her reply came as if the daughters themselves had asked. Her voice rang loud, with a confidence Julian had never heard from her before. ‘Chloe. Barbara. Mary-Sue. Mary-Jo. Suki. Delilah. Wendy. Prue. Annabelle. Mary-Ann. Natasha. Jill. You have been sentenced to death.’

  ‘But why?’ said Julian. He wanted to grab her, shake her by the shoulders. He wanted to. She was his wife, that’s what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t even touch her. He couldn’t even go near. ‘Why? What have they done?’

  ‘Love,’ said Karen. She turned to him. ‘Oh, yes, they know what they’ve done.’

  She saluted them. ‘And you,’ she said to Julian, ‘you must salute them too. No. Not like that. That’s not a salute. Hand steady. Like me. Yes. Yes.’

  She gave him the gun. The dolls all had their backs to him, at least he didn’t have to see their faces.

  He thought of his father. He thought of his brothers. Then, he didn’t think of anything.

  He fired into the crowd. He’d never fired a gun before, but it was easy, there was nothing to it. He ran out of bullets, so Karen reloaded the gun. He fired into the crowd again. He thought there might be screams. There were no screams. He thought there might be blood. . . . And the brown of the grass seemed fresher and wetter and seemed to pool out lazily towards him.

  And Karen reloaded his gun. And he fired into the crowd, just once more, please, God, just one last time. Let them be still. Let them stop twitching. The twitching stopped.

  ‘It’s over,’ said Karen.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He tried to hand her back the gun, but she wouldn’t take it – it’s yours now, you’re the man of the house – ‘Yes,’ he said again.

  He began to cry. He didn’t make a sound.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Karen. ‘If you cry, the deaths won’t be clean.’

  And he tried to stop, but now the tears found a voice, he bawled like a little girl.

  She said, ‘I will not have you dishonour them.’

  She left him then. She picked up her one surviving doll, and went, and left him all alone in the woods. He didn’t try to follow her. He stared at the bodies in the clearing, wondered if he should clear them up, make things tidier. He didn’t. He clutched the gun, waited it for to cool, and eventually it did. And when he thought to turn about he didn’t know where to go, he didn’t know he’d be able to find his way back. But the branches parted for him easily, as if ushering him fast on his way, as if they didn’t want him either.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  He hadn’t taken a key. He’d had to ring his own doorbell. When his wife answered, he felt an absurd urge to explain who he was. He’d stopped crying, but his face was still red and puffy. He held out his gun to her, and she hesitated, then at last took it from him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘You did your best,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry too. But next time it’ll be different.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Next time.’

  ‘Won’t you come in?’ she said politely, and he thanked her, and did.

  She took him upstairs. The doll was sitting on the bed, watching. She moved it to the dressing table. She stripped her husband. She ran her fingers over his soft smooth body, she’d kept it neat and shaved.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said one more time; and then, as if it were the same thing, ‘I love you.’

  And she said nothing to that, but smiled kindly. And she took him then, and before he knew what he was about he was inside her, and he knew he ought to feel something, and he knew he ought to be doing something to help – he tried to gyrate a little, ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I’ll do it,’ – and so he let her be, he let her do all the work, and he looked up at her face and searched for any sign of passion there, or tenderness, but it was so hard – and he turned to the side, and there was the fat doll, and it was smiling, and its eyes were twinkling, and there, there, on that greasy plastic face, there was all the tenderness he could ask for.

  Eventually she rolled off. He thought he should hug her. He put his arms around her, felt how strong she was. He felt like crying again. He supposed that would be a bad idea.

  ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I am very patient. I have learned to love you.’

  She fetched a hairbrush. She played at his hair. ‘My sweetheart,’ she said, ‘my angel cake.’ She turned him over, spanked his bottom hard with the brush until the cheeks were red as rouge. ‘My big baby doll.’

  And this time he did cry, it was as if she’d given him permission. And it felt so good.

  He looked across at the doll, still smiling at him, and he hated her, and he wanted to hurt her, he wanted to take his gun and shove the barrel right inside her mouth and blast a hole through the back of her head. He wanted to take his gun and bludgeon with it, blow after blow, and he knew how good that would feel, the skull smashing, the wetness. And this time he wouldn’t cry. He would be a real man.

  ‘I love you,’ she said again. ‘With all my heart.’

  She pulled back from him, and looked him in the face, sizing him up, as she had that first time they’d met. She gave him a salute.

  He giggled at that, he tried to raise his own arm to salute back, but it wouldn’t do it, he was so very silly.

  There was a blur of something brown at the foot of the bed; something just out of the corner of his eye, and the blur seemed to still, and the brown looked like a jacket maybe, trousers, a uniform. He tried to cry out – in fear? at least in surprise? – but there was no air left in him. There was the smell of mud, so much mud. Who’d known mud could smell? And a voice to the blur, a voice in spite of all. ‘Is it time?’

  He didn’t see his wife’s reaction, nor hear her reply. His head jerked, and he was looking at the doll again, and she was the queen doll, the best doll, so pretty in her wedding dress. She was his queen. And he thought she was smiling even wider, and that she was pleased he was offering her such sweet tribute.

  Remembering Joel Lane (1963–2013)

  Joel Lane. Author, editor, stalwart of a maligned genre which he passionately defended. His work was held in the highest of regard by his peers and his lasting influence will be felt by anyone with a keen interest in the weird or supernatural tale.

  What follows is a tribute from his friend Simon Bestwick and a reprinting of a story that appeared in his 2013 World Fantasy award-winning collection Where Furnaces Burn. I give you Joel at his finest.

  JOHNNY MAINS

  Joel Lane and ‘Without a Mind’

  SIMON BESTWICK

  2013 was a horrible, cruel year for the arts in general: actors, musicians and writers all seemed to fall in their droves. And yet Joel Lane’s death, so close to the year’s end, seemed the cruellest of all. So, why did his passing stand out from all the rest, so much so that a story of his, first published in 2012, is being included here as a tribute?

  There are plenty of good horror writers and a few great ones, but only a few you could legitimately call ‘genius.’ Even fewer of them are living; there’s one less now. Joel wrote two novels and four collections of award-winning poetry, but short fiction was where he excelled most of all; he was, in my view, among the finest short story writers Britain has produced. His work abounds with unsettling imagery, as horror – or ‘weird fiction’, as he preferred to call it – should, but there was always much, much more to any his tales than that.

 
There was depth and there was insight, both of individual characters and of the society they lived in, sly humour – he could never resist a pun, and could craft the cleverest knob jokes in creation – and there was, above all, a stunning use of language. Pared-down but intensely poetic, his writing often says more in two thousand words than lesser writers could manage in a full-length novel. And it’s full of wonders – dark ones, of course.

  On top of that, he was a discerning and incisive critic of horror fiction, and of literature and cinema in general – ‘the conscience of horror’, as Mark Samuels once called him – and he patiently guided and mentored many other writers, me among them. Every death leaves a hole in the lives of others, but Joel’s passing left one of the biggest I’ve known – in the lives of those who loved him, and in the genre itself.

  He was a genuinely great writer, a good and honourable man and a dear friend, and I loved him; if I still feel I haven’t grieved properly for him, perhaps it’s because on some level I still refuse to accept his death. Living in cities a couple of hundred miles apart, we communicated mostly by email and phone; I still get the urge to ring him, unable to believe he won’t answer and tell me it was all a mistake. But he won’t.

  ‘Without A Mind’ is one of Joel’s ‘weird detective stories’, told by a nameless Birmingham police officer whose cases always take a outré turn. For Joel, as for Robert Aickman, the supernatural wasn’t an outside force that crashed in on everyday life, but a part of life itself. It embodies the intangible, but very human forces that shape our lives, inside us and out. In these stories, his anonymous investigator conjures and confronts these demons face to face, in beautiful, wry and understated prose that only makes them more poignant and more chilling.