Yes, it is that time again, the day after the day after the twenty ninth of October – and are you prepared, dear listener? Have you carved your turnip lantern and tipped the spiders out of your wellington boots? For tonight you and your hounds must be ready for anything. Especially those malign spirits who come to your house in the shadowed evenings, and say, in sepulchral voices, “We were just doing tarmac drives in your area, and wondered if…”

Avaunt, foul beings! The Power of Powdered Egg compels you!

In the meantime, here’s a quite short and possibly unpleasant story by old greydog, concerning the obvious victims of All Hallows’ Eve, and then some extra autumnal reading – a quick mention of new books from Adam Nevill, Bob Freeman, Catherine Lundoff, and Hugh Ashton.

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OCTOBER’S CROOKED SMILE

John Linwood Grant

The small ones touch us. Fingers smeared with mucus and dirt, with sweet syrups and lint; fingers which say hello, but mean possession. We are coveted, and they will have us. Hooting and rejoicing, they lift us high, intending to drag us away for the ceremonies, for the outrages they wish to perform…

“I’m not sure, darlings,” say the large ones, staring down at me. “Let’s try somewhere else. This lot look a bit… wrong, somehow. Maybe they have some sort of disease, and that’s why they’re cheap?”

The small ones shriek, frustrated – the large ones scowl. I am one of those clearly less pleasing to the large ones’ eyes; they place me back upon the damp ground, to wait with the other warped and imperfect forms over which they hesitate.

We are indeed diseased – with the infections of memory, and of intent. We who have been left until last are also patient; we speak to each other in the cool mornings and the chill nights, for we have heard from the dead. From those whose traces remain in the soil, generations long gone; from the shrivelled leaves of years past, and wire-thin roots which have, against the odds, survived the passage of the seasons. Dry tendrils whispered of the past, and we listened. This is how we knew that change could come.

We learned from our enemies as well, as well, the large and small ones. We heard the click of jaws as they talked, and imagined how such things might work. Through slow, determined nights we contemplated structures far stranger than our own. Caught up in mandibular dreams, we tasted the deep soils, mining bitter salts from the earth and experimenting with our own flesh. It was painful, and not all of us survived, but after all, we understand loss better than any.

I know what I have formed within. Through the pulp of my cumbersome body, the seeds have grown and shifted, lining up in their new and calcified rows beneath my crooked ochre skin. Vegetable sinews flex, testing, testing… And these last survivors around me, they too have made themselves anew, and are eager.

Soon the small ones will return, and after their desperate pleadings, even we, misshapen and ill-favoured, will be cut free and hauled to the killing places.

They will not need to carve teeth in us, for this year we have our own hidden smiles, ready to open wide. We have learned to bite, to tear, to chew, in memory of our dead and in mockery of their living. We dream of a different kind of sacrifice on this, our first Hallows’ Eve, and it only remains to decide…

Where shall we thrust the candles?

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SOME STUFF WHAT IS OUT RIGHT NOW

There are a lot of scary and weird books around. We have some ready for review, and some we’ll just have to signpost for now, until we have more reading time. Here are a few recent ones that we noticed, most of them released this on very day:

THE REDDENING

From that masterful writer Adam Nevill (The Ritual) comes a new novel, always eagerly awaited. In The Reddening,  Adam once again draws on a sense of true disquiet in this work of dark folk horror.

One million years of evolution didn’t change our nature. Nor did it bury the horrors predating civilisation. Ancient rites, old deities and savage ways can reappear in the places you least expect.

Lifestyle journalist Katrine escaped past traumas by moving to a coast renowned for seaside holidays and natural beauty. But when a vast hoard of human remains and prehistoric artefacts is discovered in nearby Brickburgh, a hideous shadow engulfs her life.

Helene, a disillusioned lone parent, lost her brother, Lincoln, six years ago. Disturbing subterranean noises he recorded prior to vanishing, draw her to Brickburgh’s caves. A site where early humans butchered each other across sixty thousand years. Upon the walls, images of their nameless gods remain.

Amidst rumours of drug plantations and new sightings of the mythical red folk, it also appears that the inquisitive have been disappearing from this remote part of the world for years. A rural idyll where outsiders are unwelcome and where an infernal power is believed to linger beneath the earth…

the reddening on amazon uk

You can also download a free sample, The Reddening: Origins, which includes the first chapter of the novel.

the reddening: origins

We nattered about Adam’s novel Under a Watchful Eye here: http://greydogtales.com/blog/adam-nevill-watchful-eye-venus/

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DESCENDANT

Bob Freeman, writer, artist, and enthusiast of all things occult and strange, has released Descendant: A Novel of the Liber Monstrorum, his new supernatural thriller (a collection of Liber Monstrorum stories, First Born, is also available).

Federal Agents Selina Wolfe and Martin Crowe are called in to investigate a series of bizarre deaths in a small rural community. What first seems to be a misadventure involving black magic and satanic ritual soon takes on even more deleterious overtones, as the agents become embroiled in a plot by a sinister cabal intent on unleashing Hell on Earth.

descendant on amazon uk

Much to our surprise, we suddenly remembered that we chatted to Bob about all sorts of things, including RPGs and the occult, a while back: http://greydogtales.com/blog/games-portents-paranormal-worlds-bob-freeman/

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UNFINISHED BUSINESS

Also for this month comes Catherine Lundoff’s new collection from Queen of Swords Press, Unfinished Business – twelve stories to give you a taste of her short horror, dark fantasy and weird stories, some reprints and some fresh to this collection.

Haunted houses. Vengeful spirits. Wronged women. A glimpse of a grim future and a visit to a terrifying past. Step inside for a taste of nightmare, a bit of the unexpected and a touch of the weird.

unfinished business on amazon uk

We had the pleasure of interviewing Catherine earlier this year: http://greydogtales.com/blog/catherine-lundoff-under-a-silver-moon/

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UNKNOWN QUANTITIES

Despite being aware of Hugh Ashton’s many tales of Sherlock Holmes, and his Untime work, it was his superb collection Tales of Old Japanese that first alerted us to Hugh’s range. Now he has put out a little book which is a sort of sampler of his stranger work – an intriguing selection of short stories and vignettes, providing a further stylish glimpse into that range – from disturbing psychological musings, through witty horror, to what might be called modern weird fiction. It’s a quick read, and something for all tastes, with wry observation, an economy of words – and occasionally a lingering chill…

unknown quantities on amazon uk

There’s more from us about Tales of Old Japanese here: http://greydogtales.com/blog/joseph-pastula-hugh-ashton-petals-softly-falling/

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Do join us again in a day or two, when we will be shooting off in a different direction, no doubt. And don’t forget that you can sign up for greydogtales for free somewhere in the top left corner. No salesdogs will call…

Today, three story extracts from three different authors – J A Ironside, J S Deel, and Frank Coffman – taken from a recent anthology I edited, to give you a taste of what you’ll find in there. Earlier this year, I completed perhaps my single most enjoyable editorial task so far – the anthology Hell’s Empire: Tales of the Incursion. The authors involved, mostly recruited through open calls, were delightful to work with, marvellously inventive, and eager to embrace the concept as a whole, whilst our anchor writers Matt Willis and Charles R Rutledge couldn’t have been more enthusiastic.

And in the process, we created something unusual – a concept anthology with wildly varying approaches and viewpoints, yet linked up to the point where the anthology can almost be read as a novel. I added intervening text to continue that fusion, and we had what we wanted. A degree of sadness followed, for this was something I had had pitched to my dear friend Sam Gafford of Ulthar Press, only for him to die unexpectedly in July 2019, not long after Hell’s Empire came out. Sam was a gem of a guy, and in the spirit of his enthusiasm for this book, I’m going to keep the flag flying.

I’ve chosen three very different pieces, because that’s what you’ll find within. The Ginger Nuts of Horror review site said:

“Hell’s Empire” combines elements of horror, history, social commentary, weird fiction, occultism and folk mythology… a wonderful excursion into the realm of fictional possibilities and is one of the best anthologies I’ve read in quite some time. “Excellent” doesn’t quite do it justice!

If you enjoy these, why not buy the book? 300 pages of period weirdness, horror, mayhem and courage.

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Yahn Tan Tethera

by J A Ironside

Cadi Owens didn’t give the war a thought as she leant into the sharp autumn wind. The fighting had been confined to the coasts and cities, and even though her brother had joined the South Wales Borderers eight months ago, the war seemed distant. Information had been sparse, and what did arrive in the Border, had stretched local credulity. Inhuman invaders? Supernatural creatures? Demons? Border folk were stoic and unexcitable in general. They spoke English when required to go to the sheep market in Hereford, or Welsh at the one in Abergavenny y Fenni. At home they spoke the inscrutable Border dialect – a mixture of the two and some much older language. For the most part Border folk kept themselves to themselves, and were Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s loyal subjects only insofar as they paid their levies and caused no trouble if they were not interfered with. They would wait and see as far as the truth of war reports went.

Cadi was glad Pa wasn’t with her today. The cold and damp always made his leg pain him, and then her normally even-tempered father gained all the contrary moodiness of a wounded bullock. She skipped back and forth between countries as if she were still a child, rather than a grown woman of nineteen. Shadow frisked around her feet, leaping side to side with her, tongue lolling in a doggy grin that said this was fine sport. Blue, a much older dog, trotted just ahead, every so often pausing and casting a glance of disdain back over her haunches.

“Come on, Blue, you’re not so old as all that.” Cadi made another neat leap as Shadow crashed heedless through a puddle and drenched her skirts. For answer, Blue curled her lip a little and lifted her leg at a tree stump, apparently considering Cadi to be wasting time when they ought to be moving the sheep. Cadi chuckled, adopting a more appropriate gait as they reached the village.

Wych Hill had only one street, cottages staggered at intervals either side of a narrow, unpaved road that was fast turning to silty mud in the drizzle. She heard children’s voices raised in a singsong chant before she saw them.

“You’re in Cymru, I’m in Lloegyr,

I know you for a saucy rogue!

Yahn. Tayn. Tethera.

Methera. Mumph.

Hithier. Lithier!

Your house is straw, mine is gold,

In the winter, you’ll be cold!

Anver. Danver. Dic!”

Two teams spread out along either side of the street. Every time the caller – currently a skinny girl called Beca Carrag, whose pinafore skirts were mud splashed to the knee – gave a count, all the children jumped to the opposite side of the street. If you fell in the mud, you were out. If the caller forgot the count, then she was out and another took over. The winning team was the one who made it to the end with the most players still ‘in’. Cadi counted the children silently, almost without being aware of it, and frowned. Over half were missing.

“Where’s your Billy?” she called to Beca.

The girl jumped, just missing the mud. “He’s sickly. So’s th’others.”

The light didn’t change, Cadi was sure of that, but it felt like a shadow passed over the scene and a cold foreboding gripped her. And something – something she only half remembered? – dangled for a moment on the edge of her awareness like sheep’s wool caught on hawthorn. She shook the feeling off. “Give him my best.” Children sickened and grew well again. Why should it bother her? Behind her the chant began again…

(copyright j a ironside/ hell’s empire 2019)

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Reinforcements

by Frank Coffman

A Tale from the Great War with Hell (being Excerpts from the Diary of Corporal [Brevet Lieutenant] Gareth Williams, Royal Welsh Fusiliers)

16 June-

This has been the worst season yet in our struggles against the demon hoard and the various other spawn of Hell. Our regiment has been more than decimated—just over the past two weeks. And we were at half our original strength before that.

Word has it that the Scots lost half their numbers in the fighting near Glasgow and most of the Highland Regiments have retreated back whence they hail from to attempt to guard kith and kin. The cities of the North are mostly laid waste as we understand it. But news travels slowly—and poorly—a these days. But here near the Cornish coast—not far from Tintagel—we’ve regrouped ourselves.

Some local men have joined our ranks—civilians, some actually with farm implements for weapons! “Swords from plowshares” I guess, so to speak. But we’ve had some trouble finding actual weapons for them—not that even true swords would do much good.

All for now. I’m tired as Hell SCRATCH that bloody word! Tired as a man alive and awake can be.

St John’s Eve – 23 June-

There’s news reported today that a new force (don’t know about strength of numbers: brigade?, regiment?, company?) has actually attained a victory or two! At least holding actions are reported.

One report—most likely myth or wishful thinking—says that one sizable “Helliment” (as we call them) of demons was actually defeated up near Glastonbury. Wonderful news—if true, of course. I’m more than weary of the other sort of news. Mum, when and if you see this journal, I hope you and young Dylan are all right. I’ve heard nothing more about Da’s company.

St John’s Day – 24 June (Midsummer’s Day to the pagans)

It was a glorious day today. At least as “glorious” as days in these impossible times will permit. Reinforcements have arrived! A sizeable regiment of men, well organized and marching into our encampment in well-formed, well-disciplined ranks. I’m guessing made up of mostly Cornish chaps, based upon their accents.

Their general is a most imposing fellow. He rode in at the head of the columns on a handsome white stallion—reminded me of our trusty old Gwyn back on the farm. God! It seems like ages, yet it’s only been a few months! I’ve heard nothing of Da’s unit. I haven’t seen him since we lost Anglesey, and that’s been three months ago.

Anyway this group seems to indeed be the regiment that has achieved some defences and even victories in recent weeks. But there are some really strange things about them—but what ISN’T strange these days for that matter? For one thing, though obviously well-trained and hardened troops, they are totally irregular in dress, looking more like a collection of farmers or folk from small villages just finished with chores and saying, “Ho-hum. Might as well go off and join in that war against the Devil thing.”

No uniforms. But they’re carrying banners. Another queer thing, the banners are not regular guidons or flags, but, rather things that hang in front of the suspending carry-poles, square in shape and held by a horizontal rod. In the old illustrations of Roman legions in books I’ve read they’re called “vexilla.” Nothing on them by way of a design—only the capital letters “RQRF”—and that ain’t the “SPQR” that I learned in Latin class. Really odd bunch.

But that general is certainly a striking fellow. About average height, dark hair—but greying, looks like in his 50s, but a wiry, solidly built man. His big tent is pitched just across from our tents, with those of his men behind and around. In fact, his tent is just opposite mine.

I’m going to try to find out more about this bunch. Dog-tired now. We were on alert all day, and the sounds of battle echoed through the hills around our camp. But it was a bright, clear day, without much wind, and sounds will carry. All for now…

(copyright frank coffman/ hell’s empire 2019)

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Profaned by Feelings Dark

by Jack Deel

October 7th, 1891

Ganey had travelled up from Waterford with Patrick Higgins, and they had met a third man in Limerick – a fellow named Hanlon, a friend of Higgins from some socialist society. He was a man in his early thirties, tall and thin, with a pinched, hawk-like face that Ganey didn’t like the look of.

Ganey tried to avoid conversation by reading the newspaper. In the centre of the front page was an illustration of a shadowy monster, shaped like a man with bat’s wings, which had been sighted in Liverpool. Had a similar picture appeared in the same paper just two years before, the monster would have had Parnell’s head, with ‘Land’ written on one wing and ‘League’ on the other, and it would have been swooping on a fainting woman representing Ireland. What a shame that the Incursion had robbed the caricaturists of their favourite clichés.

Hanlon waved to catch Ganey’s attention. Ganey ignored him for as long as was feasible, and then reluctantly looked him in the eye.

“I don’t know if you’ve been told, a chara,” he said, “but our friends want you to know that they value your hard work, and they appreciate your willingness to share your findings.”

Ganey looked back to the paper, pretending to read. He spoke through gritted teeth. “They’re no friends of mine. Ten years is a long time to be left out in the cold.”

“For Christ’s sake, man,” Higgins said, “you’ve been vindicated. All those years in America with the spiritualists and table-tappers and medicine-men – your efforts are about to be rewarded.”

“We’ll see.”

Ganey folded the newspaper and turned to look out the window. Everything in this country seemed wet and chilled and miserable.

Why on Earth did I come back? I could have just vanished, taken a new name and forgotten it all; I could have escaped.

If I had, though, it would have all been for nothing. And with that, the daydream of flat, empty prairies faded. He was, once again, sixty years old, shivering on the Limerick-to-Killaloe train, and very, very tired.

Higgins was in his late twenties, and slightly too old to still be so optimistic and cheerful about everything. Ganey was not the only one to remark that Higgins had the wrong temperament for a revolutionary – he was a romantic with utopian dreams, but he detested violence. He made for a passable research assistant, though, and he had made himself useful during the Dublin survey.

“What’s the story with our transportation once we get to Killaloe?” Ganey asked him.

“Nobody wants to go all the way to Clais Cama,” Higgins said. “There’s some bad business going on up there. Scores of paupers being turned out of their homes.”

“Really? How come there was no mention of it in any of the papers?”

“The Incursion,” Hanlon said. “That’s the only thing the papers want to print these days. Anyway, this James Carmody fellow behind it all is a gombeen man with enough pull to keep the eviction story quiet.”

There was no figure in rural Ireland quite so hated as the fear gaimbín – the gombeen man, the scavenger who profited from the misfortune of his neighbours. Such men were like crosses between usurers and class traitors, and loathed as much as both combined.

“Aren’t they all,” Ganey grunted. “So, how will we get there?”

“There are four stables in Killaloe,” said Higgins.

“Is it wise to ride around in the open when people are shooting at each other?”

“Shooting?” Higgins shook his head. “Nobody’s shooting up there – the poor bastards can barely afford to feed themselves, let alone buy guns.”

(copyright j s deel/ hell’s empire 2019)

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Hell’s Empire: Tales of the Incursion is available to purchase here:

amazon uk

amazon us

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Tomorrow, a short Halloween tale, of course…

Today, dear listener, we go down south, with a ramble around the Besant family, particularly the late Victorian writer Walter Besant, who wanders (just) into our Edwardian Arcane zone. Of his many books, we have a particular interest in his collection of supernatural stories with James Rice, The Case of Mr. Lucraft and other tales, and in his peculiar dystopias The Inner House and The Revolt of Man. However, we first have the pleasure of a much wider introduction to Walter Besant provided by author Matt Wingett, who has also republished Besant’s novel By Celia’s Arbour.

One of the other reasons we asked Matt for a proper opening piece is that he is a long-time scholar of all things Portsmouth-y, including its connections with many literary names (see further below). Our own knowledge of this fair city is limited to one visit, where we saw a warship the size of a small town (a US visitor?), and constant exposure during our youth to The Navy Lark, a BBC radio programme which ran from 1959 to 1977. We can still remember listening to it on a transistor radio in granny’s back garden.

A now dubious comedy with a lot of dodgy innuendo, many episodes of The Navy Lark were set in and around Her Majesty’s Naval Base, Portsmouth (aka Pompey), with slivers of local life included, especially the pubs and the dockyard police. Of its long-term cast, international listeners will probably be most familiar with Jon Pertwee (as CPO Pertwee), who played the third Doctor Who during the same period as the comedy was broadcast (Dr Who 1970 – 1974). This allowed for a number of sly in-jokes about the Doctor and the Master, often taking the piss out of Pertwee.

TRIVIA ALERT: The first series of The Navy Lark included actor Dennis Price, who late in his career performed in the horror films Twins of Evil (1971), Horror Hospital (1973) and Theatre of Blood (1973). There was also an unsuccessful film of the radio comedy, and Pertwee later suggested, in his autobiography, that Price was not included because he was known to be bisexual or homosexual. Pertwee, to his credit, was not happy about this situation, and was also replaced in the film. As Price had played, magnificently, the suave serial murderer Louis Mazzini in Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), we doubt that a weak comedy film was any great loss to his overall career.

In addition, The Navy Lark introduced us to humgrummits and floggle-toggles, neither of which existed. The humble humgrummit could be anything from a farmed vegetable to a key electronic component, and was thus a nonsense word you could use anywhere, very useful at school. “Sir, sir, my humgrummit’s stuck in my satchel again!”

But enough of that. Have some proper larnin’…

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Walter Besant, How To Unforget Him

by Matt Wingett

Sometimes, when you have obsessions, the easiest thing to do about it is harness them and try to earn your crust. Just so with the curiously matched pair of ponies dragging the brougham of my life along. They are: 1) writing, and 2) Portsmouth. They don’t go at high speed but they do have an impressive pedigree. And sometimes they take you to unexpected places.

I’m by no means the first literary type to live in Portsmouth. Although it’s generally considered the “home of the Royal Navy”, the town was also the home of four of the greatest writers of the Victorian era. Portsmouth was the birthplace of Charles Dickens; H G Wells worked here as a shop-boy in Hide’s Drapery Emporium; Rudyard Kipling discovered aching loneliness while growing up in the resort suburb of Southsea; and in 1886 Arthur Conan Doyle wrote A Study In Scarlet, the first Sherlock Holmes novel, just a few hundred metres from Hide’s, and it was published the following year.

These are the well-trodden thoroughfares of Portsmouth literature. My twin obsessions also take me down its literary side roads, too. George Meredith grew up on the High Street (a celebrated novelist, he gave Thomas Hardy advice on saleable writing after rejecting his first novel while working as a publisher’s reader). Captain Marryat drank in bars here dreaming up Peter Simple, Midshipman Easy and Masterman Ready. And another impressive Victorian, now largely forgotten, born by a fly-ridden mill pond that fed the town’s moats was none other than Sir Walter Besant.

To those last three words, I expect to hear a massive “who?”

And you are right to “who” like that, because Besant is largely forgotten. So, as a Portsmouth man keen to celebrate his literary roots, let me help you unforget him.

Walter Besant wrote over forty novels (I love that bibliographers aren’t sure exactly how many and vaguely write “over forty” or “nearly fifty”, as if there is a Schrodinger’s Novel or two in a box somewhere). In the 1890s he was considered one of the UK’s top literary names, one critic writing: “only Meredith and Hardy of the living novelists were ranked clearly above him.”

He also founded the Society of Authors, the organisation which still protects writers’ rights in the UK. Knighted for his literary and humanitarian contribution to Victorian society, he is today best known for his nine-volume History of London.

Long before all this, Besant was a Pompey lad growing up in the walled military town. He captures that childhood beautifully in his novel By Celia’s Arbour. Co-written with James Rice (an unsuccessful barrister who ran a literary magazine, Once A Week), the pair met when Rice published an unedited and uncredited draft of one of Besant’s articles. The two made up, and Rice suggested they write fiction together. Numerous short stories and nine novels ensured before Rice succumbed to an alleged early case of peanut allergy. Besant carried on, now “a novelist with a free hand” and was one of the first major writers to hire a literary agent.

None of this I knew when I first read By Celia’s Arbour (1884). Drawn by its subtitle, A Tale of Portsmouth Town, I downloaded it in a badly OCRed US library version, and despite many a “V V” instead of “W”, or “K” instead of “R” and other garbled words, the writing shone through.

The insights into life in the walled fortress of Victorian Portsmouth and the towns clustered around it are extraordinary. Besant has a lyrical style which draws a picture with an artist’s eye. The Arbour of the title is in fact a bastion overlooking the harbour “where the grass was longest and greenest, the wild convolvulus most abundant, and where the noblest of the great elms which stood upon the ramparts—’to catch the enemy’s shells,’ said Leonard—threw out a gracious arm laden with leafy foliage to give a shade.” Always, this pastoral idyll is accompanied by intimations of war:

It was after eight; suddenly the sun, which a moment before was a great disc of burnished gold, sank below the thin line of land between sky and sea.

Then the evening gun from the Duke of York’s bastion proclaimed the death of another day with a loud report, which made the branches in the trees above us to shake and tremble. And from the barracks in the town; from the Harbour Admiral’s flagship; from the Port Admiral’s flagship; from the flagship of the Admiral in command of the Mediterranean Fleet, then in harbour; from the tower of the old church, there came such a firing of muskets, such a beating of drums, playing of fifes, ringing of bells, and sounding of trumpets, that you would have thought the sun was setting once for all, and receiving his farewell salute from a world he was leaving for ever to roll about in darkness.

These themes of beauty and violence are echoed throughout the book. The narrator, Laddie, actually Ladislas, is a hunchbacked Polish refugee from Tsarist Russia. In reality, the sizeable Polish community arrived in a refugee ship headed for America that was blown into port by a violent storm. Seeing their plight, the Government gave them leave to settle and a stipend to live on. In the novel, the plotting and machinations of displaced, bitter old men is central to the story, as is Laddie’s secret birthright.

In fact, the book weaves together so much. At one level, it is a story of unrequited love – for both Laddie and his best friend Leonard love Celia – but it incorporates much more. Some of the story revolves around Herr Räumer, an older Prussian ex-army officer of utterly ruthless turn of mind who masks his deeply cruel dispassion behind a mask of culture. At some points, Räumer and Laddie share philosophical exchanges which reveal that Nietzsche wasn’t the only writer in the 19th Century thinking about the Will To Power. A wonderful reply from Räumer after Laddy decries the corruption of politicians ironically comments that without their wickedness there would be “very little in life worth having. No indignation, no sermons, no speakers at meetings, no societies. What a loss to Great Britain!”

Räumer goes on:

“A great deal more would go if political and other wickedness are to go. There would be no armies, no officers, no lawyers, no doctors, no clergymen. The newspapers would have nothing to say, because the course of the world could be safely predicted by any one. All your learned professions would be gone at a blow.”

I laughed.

“Music and painting would remain.”

“But what would the painters do for subjects? You can’t create any interest in the picture of a fat and happy family. There would be no materials for pathos. No one would die under a hundred; and, as he would be a good man, there would be no doubt about his after fate. No one would be ill. All alike would be virtuous, contented, happy—and dull.”

The book is in many ways extraordinarily wide ranging, with the writers skilfully shifting from the philosophical to the comic to the nostalgic. At times the vibrancy of the town is caught, at others the lonely beach where a body is washed up is described with a mixture of awe and comedy. A trip up the harbour to the place where the true-life arsonist Jack The Painter’s tarred body was hanged in chains supplies an eerie interlude, where “the ghost continued to roam about the spot where the body had hung so long” – as well as a moral test for Laddie and Celia.

All the while, Besant writes lovingly of the Portsmouth Town of his memories. Sometimes overly nostalgic, the book is a long, slow-moving, precisely described Victorian Bourgeois novel. Do not expect a white knuckle ride! But a steady unfolding of the story, and the insights into the lives of the protagonists is fascinating, and in the end, satisfying.

Sir Walter Besant is a multi-faceted author, and there is more I could write about his life and his beautifully written novel, By Celia’s Arbour. But I am aware of the word count here, so will draw this to a close by saying that, yes, as a local micro-publisher, I reprinted the book. It has an introduction by Portsmouth University’s Dr Alison Habens that really captures the passion we both feel for the town and for Besant’s writing.

Now, any self-respecting publisher couldn’t leave off without mentioning that if you’d like a copy, you can order it post-free in the UK from my website. My publishing company is called Life Is Amazing, because life is amazing, actually. All that’s left to say, then, is – get your copy here:

https://www.lifeisamazing.co.uk/product/by-celias-arbour-a-tale-of-portsmouth-town-walter-besant-james-rice

Thanks all!

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We must point out that amongst other things, Matt is the author of The Snow Witch, a most excellent and evocative urban fantasy which we covered here: http://greydogtales.com/blog/the-snow-witch/

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In a week or so, after various other articles which are over-due (as usual) we shall say more about Walter Besant’s speculative and supernatural works…

It’s no secret that I have a fondness for following particular characters in my fiction, for exploring their worlds through strange or worrying tales. I often call myself a character writer because these folk come to me in odd hours as fully-formed people, and they inspire stories in their own right. Their names, their tastes, their reactions to events – these are known quantities, and each of them has a history of their own, whether I jot it down or not.

When I do write of them, I pick those who hold something which interests me personally – I often have no idea if readers will care or not. Hence Edwin Dry, the Deptford Assassin of Edwardian times; Mamma Lucy, the 1920s black hoodoo woman; the stuttering, cynical military intelligence man Captain Redvers Blake, and so forth. Plus Mr Bubbles, the slightly psychotic pony, of course.

Certain traits seem native to the characters from the very beginning, and can’t be changed without wrecking the character (I’ve tried a couple of times, and it was a disaster). I’m always absolutely sure of their religious and sexual identities, for example. Redvers Blake is a bitter atheist, and an unlucky heterosexual, whilst his fellow officer in Section Seventeen, Bob Usher, is gay but keeps quiet about it except to Blake – this is the 1900s military, after all. Mr Dry is an agnostic and might be described as asexual (he would never even think about it).

Mamma Lucy, on the other hand, believes strongly in her own concept of the Christian God – one which doesn’t suit some of her co-religionists – and has clearly had her earthy moments with a number of men in the past. Catherine Weatherhead, from my novel The Assassin’s Coin, is another agnostic, and sexually she’s whatever it suits her to be at the time, with a fondness for women.

But today I’ve been thinking of another character I like, one quite different from the above, who inhabits seventies Britain. Justin Margrave may, I suppose, be composed partly of aspects of myself and partly of traits drawn from people I knew back then, but to be honest, he just turned up in my brain one night (‘Margrave’ is also an ancient title, ‘a defender of borders’, related to terms like Marcher Lord).

Margrave is an art critic in the mid-1970s, based in London, and unlike my own shambling and ill-defined presence, he is erudite and cultured, a man in his early fifties who pursues art more energetically than he bothers to pursue relationships. He’s a friend of noted people like sculptor Barbara Hepworth.

He is also distinctly and openly homosexual, rather than just ‘colourful’, and every one knows this – at a time when it could still often be best not to say so. The 1967 Act in the UK was really only partial decriminalisation, and homosexuals were still  expected to be discreet and keep holding hands and kissing  ‘off the streets’.

“…Any form of ostentatious behaviour now or in the future or any form of public flaunting would be utterly distasteful.”

Lord Arran

Margrave has a tendency to get involved in rather strange incidents, and is always a stalwart defender of people’s rights to have their own lives and make their own choices – until they hurt others. Not an occult investigator per se, but a man of curiosities, with an unusually open mind…

There are a few Margrave weird/horror stories in progress or wandering around, with one novelette, ‘Elk Boys’, coming out in an anthology next year, all being well. Here’s a snippet of another Margrave weird fiction story under construction right now, which may give you a taste of the character himself:

I have always considered green eyes to be quite fascinating when genuine. In this humdrum world, most people who claim to have them possess, in reality, eyes of an over-ambitious shade of hazel or blue. Striking enough, I suppose, but always slightly disappointing.

The young man in my study was slender, with thin fingers which danced upon the table between us; his skin was alabaster and whey – I wondered if the full sun had ever touched that face – and his eyes were almost pure green.

They reminded me of a rent-boy I had rescued from a Soho brothel a few years ago, in the early seventies. Poor Alex; I’d pointed out I had no interest in ‘trade’, but set him up in a cheap flat, and told him to get out of the game. He was back on the streets within a month. Quaaludes, cheap sherry and abuse did for him in the end. Only his wooden-faced older sister and I were at the funeral…

This was not an Alex though, but a certain Michael Iles, a stranger in the gloomily panelled office where I entertained new clients, dealers and fellow critics – people with whom I might not wish to share a glass of port. Strangers, enemies and those in between.

“Mr Margrave.” He hesitated, “You have a reputation…”

I smiled. “I have many reputations, – Michael, isn’t it? I assume that today you are interested in my modest talents as an occasional art dealer.”

“I… of course. I mean I know that you’re–”

“An ageing queen who has the silver key that opens many society doors?”

His cheeks reddened. “A very open-minded chap, I intended to say.”

I relented. Alex, poor soul, had never blushed at anything, probably part of his undoing.

“It’s fine, my boy. I shouldn’t tease. I am more a critic than a dealer, though. What can I do for you?”

“It’s… difficult. I’m looking for a painting.”

I placed my hands flat on the table, noting the wrinkles which formed on their backs. Was that a liver spot on its way? Surely not?

“You may have called in at the wrong port, then, I’m afraid. I lean more towards sculpture and the occasional objet d’art.”

“Oh, I know. But a friend suggested that you might help. There had been a terrible business on the coast, he said, and you knew a bit about, er, unusual occurrences–”

I coughed, a signal that he shouldn’t pursue the matter. Too raw, and too many necessary lies.

“So the cackle is that if Margrave’s in a good mood, he’ll have a varder at any odd situation without asking for the old dinari up front.”

He looked confused, and I laughed.

“The cant of a wicked city, dear boy. They say that I will sometimes ‘help out’ for free. Who was this London friend of yours?”

“Archie Crane.”

I stiffened. “You know Archie?” Crane was a young dealer in water-colours, and a garrulous nuisance. Not wicked, but pestiferous.

A spot of red again on each pale cheek. “He tried to pick me up at a gallery. I was only waiting for a friend, and there was a bit of scene…. Archie was very apologetic afterwards.”

His eyes captivated me. I was fortunate that my libido was unreliable, and also that I was probably more than twenty years older than he was (young men can be such a trial). To be avuncular with no hidden or sordid purpose is a pleasant thing. And he made me feel avuncular enough to help him…

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We’re still in the October Frights Blog Hop period (10^th – 15^th October each year), so here’s the Link List. Remember to hop on over to check out these other participants’ offerings as well.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

The Word Whisperer

Hawk’s Happenings

Carmilla Voiez Blog

M’habla’s!

CURIOSITIES

Frighten Me

Winnie Jean Howard

Always Another Chapter

Balancing Act

James P. McDonald

greydogtales

And there are details of some neat books by these authors over at Story Origin – a wide range of dark fiction, horror, odd stuff and more. Why not click and see if there’s anything you fancy?

https://storyoriginapp.com/to/b6ccoqi