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