Fearie Tales

by Alan Lee, Stephen Jones, Stephen Jones

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Horror

Synopsis

Neil Gaiman, Joanne Harris and other bestsellers re-imagine famous fairy tales in this wonderfully rich, scary anthology, illustrated by Oscar-winning Lord of the Rings artist Alan Lee Following in the grand tradition of the Brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, some of today''s finest writers have created their own brand-new fairy tales - but with a decidedly dark twist. Fearie Tales is a fantastical mix of spellbinding retellings of ''Cinderella'', ''Rapunzel'', ''Hansel and Gretel'' and ''Rumpelstiltskin'', among others, with unsettling tales inspired by other childhood classics, all interspersed with the sources of their inspiration: the timeless stories first collected by the Brothers Grimm. Edited by Stephen Jones, Britain''s best-known anthologist of dark tales, and illustrated by Oscar-winning artist Alan Lee, who also provided the magnificent cover, with stories by Neil Gaiman; Joanne Harris; Garth Nix; John Ajvide Lindqvist; Markus Heitz; Michael Marshall Smith; Angela Slatter; Robert Shearman; Christopher Fowler; Ramsey Campbell; Peter Crowther; Brian Hodge; Brian Lumley; Reggie Oliver and Tanith Lee But be warned: this stunning volume of frightening fables is definitely not suitable for children!

Release date: September 26, 2013

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 425

Sample

IN THE EARLY years of the 19th century, German brothers Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859) Grimm set out to collect folk stories from across Europe in an attempt to not only reflect a German cultural identity in such tales, but also to preserve stories that for centuries had been handed down through the generations in the oral tradition.

This had resulted in differing versions of these tales existing from region to region (especially in France), and the Brothers Grimm not only gathered these stories into a coherent manuscript for the first time – after listening to friends, family members and storytellers, and transcribing the tales they were told – but they also allowed fragments of the old religious beliefs to continue to survive through the telling of these stories.

In this respect, it is not too much of a stretch to consider Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm as amongst the first horror anthologists. That is because, despite subsequent editing and rewriting by diverse hands (including Wilhelm himself), many of the original stories contained scenes of gruesome retribution or implied sexuality that early reviewers deemed totally unsuitable for younger readers (who were not in fact the initial audience these tales were aimed at).

Later versions added religious and spiritual motifs to make the stories more uplifting to a middle-class readership, while the cruelty, sexual elements and anti-Semitism was toned down. In fact, the Brothers Grimm even added an introduction encouraging parents to make sure that their offspring were only exposed to age-appropriate stories.

Culturally at this time, the discipline of children was often based on fear, and many of these tales were supposed to be a ‘warning’ to youngsters not to misbehave, lest something terrible befall them (such as being thrown on a fire or eaten alive).

Between 1812 and 1864, Kinder- und Hausmärchen (Children’s and Household Tales or, as it was later known, Grimm’s Fairy Tales) went through seventeen printings and was revised many times, with the number of stories included in some larger editions growing from eighty-six to more than 200. The book was also widely pirated, and different folk tales were often added by other compilers.

Today, just over two centuries since Jacob and Wilhelm first published their seminal collection, fairy tales have probably never been so popular. Although Hollywood (especially Walt Disney Studios) has made liberal use of the Grimm Brothers’ work almost since the birth of movies themselves, in recent times we have been bombarded with ‘re-imaginings’ such as the werewolf-themed Red Riding Hood (2011), Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013) and Jack the Giant Slayer (2013), not to mention various versions of ‘Snow White’, along with such popular TV series as Once Upon a Time and Grimm (both 2011–).

Over the years, even the Brothers Grimm themselves have been given fictional film biographies (incorporating more than a touch of fantasy) with George Pal’s colourful The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm (1962) and Terry Gilliam’s somewhat darker The Brothers Grimm (2005).

So for this volume I invited a number of prominent authors to contribute their own spin on the classic fairy tales, whether inspired by the Grimms or folk stories from other cultures. The only condition I imposed was that, in the end, this was first and foremost a horror anthology, as a reflection of those early versions of the stories, before they became overly sanitised.

I am delighted to say that all the writers included in this volume rose to the challenge magnificently, and have produced their own – often unique – spin on some classic tales, while still remaining true to the source material.

Here are some genuinely scary and disturbing stories for the 21st century.

*

In 1884, George Bell and Sons of London published Grimm’s Household Tales, a new translation of the Brothers’ stories by British novelist Margaret Hunt (the mother of supernatural writer Violet Hunt). I have used some of these translations as the basis of those tales interspersed between the original material in this volume.

Not all the stories featured herein have their inspiration in the work of the Brothers Grimm, but I have attempted to include some of their older tales that have either thematic links or served as inspiration for the new fiction that follows them. And, as this is a horror anthology, I have also taken the liberty of book-ending those tales with a couple of unfamiliar short ghost stories originally collected by the German siblings.

And so finally, to echo the warning that Jacob and Wilhelm gave to their readership two hundred years ago: while the stories contained in this volume are based on fairy tales, folk tales and myths, they are perhaps not entirely suitable for children or younger readers.

That is, of course, unless you really want to scare them out of their tiny little minds … !

Stephen JonesLondon, EnglandApril 2013

DOREEN WAS AWAKE at once and trying to hear why. A dog barked on the far side of the tennis courts, and another yapped from the direction of the golf club, and then she heard noises from Anna’s old room. Benjamin was shifting in his cot, a sound both blurred and amplified by the baby monitor. As Doreen prepared to stumble to the next room the sound rustled into silence, and she let her head sink back onto the pillow. Before she closed her eyes she glimpsed midnight on the bedside clock. At the very least she was dozing when she heard a low voice. ‘You’re mine now, Benjamin,’ it said.

Though she felt as though the night had settled a suffocating weight on her, she managed to open her cumbersome lips. ‘He never will be. Stay away, Denny, or I’ll call the police.’

‘I’m not the boy’s father. His mother had her wish and now it’s time for mine.’

This had to be a dream – nobody could hear Doreen through the monitor – but she felt pierced by anguish. ‘What wish did Anna have?’

‘Her son till he was a year old.’

‘And his father abusing her for half of it. You think she’d have wished for that too?’

‘That’s what she wished away, and I’m the one that made it go. She knew there was a price.’

Doreen felt her eyes spill her grief. ‘She paid for her mistake all right.’

‘We aren’t talking about that.’ The voice had turned peevish. ‘Maybe she thought she could cheat me that way,’ it said. ‘Nobody swindles me, so don’t try it. It’s my time.’

Doreen couldn’t tell if she was struggling to understand or waken. ‘What time?’

‘You’ve almost had your year of him, so say goodbye while you can, Doreen.’

‘And what do they call you as long as you know my name?’

‘Nobody ever knows.’ She heard a snigger or the slither of a tongue across the plastic microphone. ‘I’ll see you on his birthday,’ the voice said. ‘I’m leaving you a sign.’

The dogs began to bark again, and more of them joined in. They were real, and they made her aware that the night was otherwise silent, which allowed her to lapse into sleep. A late April dawn coaxed her awake, and she lay pondering her dream. Was she afraid Benjamin’s father would come looking for him while her husband was at the manager’s conference? The court had kept Denny away from the child, and if necessary the police would. Perhaps she was uneasy because Benjamin had lost his mother on his only birthday. That ought to be another reason to make his imminent birthday special, and Doreen was thinking of ways when she heard him begin to stir.

His morning ruminations always sounded as if his language was taking time to wake up. ‘Bid honour revert efforts,’ she could almost have imagined he was mumbling, not to mention ‘Font of our reserved birth.’ Most of thirty years ago she’d enjoyed overhearing Anna’s infant monologues, but she tried not to be reminded too much. Now Benjamin was talking to Nosey and Stuffy, the bears that shared his cot. When he started clattering the wooden bars, either playing at percussion or demanding freedom, Doreen made for his room.

He was standing at the bars that faced the door, and she couldn’t help being reminded of Anna. His face was almost a miniature of his mother’s – blond hair, high forehead, bright blue eyes, small snub nose, full lips, determined chin. In Anna’s case the brow had left too much room for brooding, and she’d dyed her hair any number of colours, none of which had placated her partner; apparently few things did. Her eyes had grown dull as stones last year, and the few times Doreen saw her smile it looked more like a plea, even once she’d rid herself of Denny. At least she’d been sufficiently determined to take him to court, but had that left her more afraid of him? Doreen vowed she wouldn’t be. ‘Ready for adventures?’ she said to Benjamin.

‘Avengers.’

‘Come on, little parrot,’ Doreen said, only to falter. The microphone she always planted on top of the blue chest of drawers was lying on the floor. She’d thought the wire was well out of Benjamin’s reach, and was dismayed to think she hadn’t heard the fall. She felt insufficiently vigilant on his behalf, as if she might be growing too old for the task. As she returned the microphone to the shelf she said ‘You mustn’t do that, Benjamin.’

He stuck his lower lip out. ‘Didn’t, gran.’

‘Don’t tease, now. If you didn’t, who did?’

‘The man.’

‘Which man?’

‘Comes to see me.’

‘Who does, Benjamin? Not your—’ Nervousness had made her blurt that, and she couldn’t avoid adding ‘Not daddy. Not your father.’

‘Not daddy,’ the toddler said and laughed.

Doreen wondered if he was simply repeating her words. ‘Who then, Benjamin?’

His face grew puzzled before he said ‘Dark.’

‘You can’t see him, you mean. You know why, don’t you? He isn’t real. He’s just a dream.’

‘Just agree.’

‘Sometimes I don’t know when you’re teasing,’ Doreen said but didn’t really mean.

Surely he could have dislodged the microphone while he was waking up. He put his arms around her neck as she lifted him over the bars. He was warm as sleep, and eager to walk downstairs and run through all the rooms. Doreen caught him in the kitchen, where she helped him off with his sleeping suit. Once she’d praised his potty performance she gave him a hand with dressing while letting him believe he’d done it virtually by himself. She strapped him into the high chair and readied herself for the day, and then she watched him deal with cereal, spilling very little and hardly daubing his face. As she played the game of mopping him while he tried to squirm out of reach she said ‘What shall we do this morning?’

‘See the trains.’

He found plenty to chatter about on the half a mile of wide suburban road. ‘They’re jumping for the ball,’ he said by the tennis courts, and ‘There’s the little hill car’ beside the golf course. ‘Gone in to read,’ he said beside the deserted schoolyard, so that Doreen knew he was recalling what she’d told him he would do at school. ‘Robber jugs,’ he declared outside the antique shop, and she gathered he was thinking of the tale of Ali Baba she’d read him. He called the hairdresser’s customers space ladies because of their helmets, and outside the florist’s he said ‘Where the flowers go,’ which Doreen tried not to find funereal. As they reached the railway she took a firm grip on his small warm trusting hand. ‘Red bell,’ he said.

The bells were indeed jangling as the red lights flashed. The traffic halted as the barriers descended on both sides of the level crossing, and Benjamin’s fingers wriggled eagerly in Doreen’s clasp. When a train left the station she couldn’t resist asking ‘What does it look like?’

‘Lots of stamps.’

He was still remembering the ones he’d put on envelopes last Christmas – the strips the train windows reminded him of. At his age Anna had loved licking Christmas stamps. These days you peeled them off the backing, and Doreen wondered if the generation after his mightn’t even recall that, if every greeting would be sent by computer. Six trains passed, framed by three performances of the barriers, before he was ready to head home.

Doreen saw to lunch and dinner while he had his nap. After lunch they walked past the Conservative Club and the Masonic hall to the Toddling Tiddlers playgroup. ‘Here’s another of our talkers,’ Dee Maitland cried as he ran to compete with his friend Daisy at garrulousness. While Doreen wouldn’t risk entrusting him to a stranger – she’d taken early retirement so as to care for him – she asked Daisy’s mother Jonquil to look after him while Doreen made his birthday cake. ‘There’s nobody I’d rather have,’ Jonquil said, and Doreen was fleetingly reminded of her midnight dream.

She hadn’t realised Benjamin had left quite such a mess at home, where toys were scattered through all the downstairs rooms. He helped her clear some of them away before he set about redistributing them, and Doreen reflected that all too soon he would outgrow them. She would even miss his messiness, and after dinner she was in no hurry to finish cleaning his indignant face. She relented when Hubert rang. ‘How’s the man of the house?’ he said.

‘Being looked after by the woman just now.’

‘Sorry,’ Hubert said, sounding surprised if not defensive. ‘Something’s wrong?’

‘Just used to having you about.’

‘I will be on the day that matters most, won’t I? You’re all right otherwise, both of you.’

‘Pretty much as you left us.’ She could tell that was what he hoped if not felt entitled to hear. ‘You?’ she said.

‘Not especially looking forward to three more days of hearing how we can improve the public image of the banks. I’d rather just get on with actually improving them if we can,’ Hubert said loud enough to be heard by colleagues who were audible nearby. ‘Enough of my grumbles. Shall I say goodnight to the bedtime boy?’

‘He isn’t quite that yet,’ Doreen said as she switched on the loudspeaker. ‘Who’s this, Benjamin?’

‘The man.’ Once Hubert greeted him Benjamin said a good deal more enthusiastically ‘Grandad.’

‘How’s the youngest and the best? Only three more nights and you’ll be seeing me.’

‘Free nights.’

‘That’s more or less it, yes. Are you being good for granny? You look after her and see nothing bad happens to her while I’m at my conference.’

For an instant the toddler looked worried. ‘Nothing bad.’

‘Nothing’s going to,’ Doreen reassured him. ‘Better say goodnight to grandad now. I can hear he’s anxious to relax.’

‘Goodnight, grandad,’ Benjamin said so enthusiastically that both his grandparents laughed.

He helped tidy up his toys before bathtime. ‘Hot,’ he said gravely as Doreen tested the water, and then ‘Not.’ While she couldn’t call herself religious – even less than her parents, which was why her prayers for Anna had seemed so desperate, falling short of defining their goal – whenever Benjamin came out of the bath he looked and felt as she imagined someone newly baptised would. She towelled him and kissed him and vowed to keep him safe as long as she lived, however much that sounded like a fairy tale.

She helped him into his sleeping outfit and laid him down in the cot. She was turning the pages of Anna’s battered old book when the title of a story caught her eye. Of course, that had been Anna’s childhood favourite. No wonder Doreen had dreamed something of the kind, but she didn’t want to read that tale to Benjamin just now. ‘Once upon a time,’ she began instead, ‘there was a woodcutter and his wife who had children called Hansel and Gretel …’

She omitted the oven and the children’s threatened fate. The children were rescued just before Benjamin fell asleep. She turned out the light and took the monitor downstairs, keeping it on the kitchen table while she ate dinner. A day of Benjamin had tired her as usual, not that she would want it to be otherwise, and she was soon in bed.

She wakened to find the zeros of the bedside clock staring out of midnight. She was hoping her body hadn’t adopted a routine, having been roused at the same time last night, when she heard the voice. It was so muffled that it could have been inside her skull. ‘It’s you again, is it?’ she said or thought. ‘What do you want this time?’

‘What I always get.’

‘You didn’t in the story, did you? Not when they found out your name.’

‘That old thing? Don’t believe everything you read.’

‘Why, isn’t your name Rumpelstiltskin?’

‘That’s just the tale they told.’ With a snigger not unlike the rattling of small teeth the voice said ‘Some of it’s true. I know when I’m wanted.’

‘Then you ought to know you aren’t.’

‘Your girl did when she needed a witness.’

‘Don’t you talk about her,’ Doreen protested before managing to laugh.

*

‘Why am I getting worked up? You’re just a dream.’

‘Still think you’re dreaming, do you?’ The voice sounded grotesquely resentful. ‘You’ll see,’ it said, ‘there’ll be another sign,’ and left her alone.

As far as Doreen was concerned there hadn’t previously been one. She found she was trying to remember the witness who’d come forward on Anna’s behalf. He’d lived below the flat she’d shared with Denny, and he’d testified that Denny had abused both her and their child. Despite her efforts Doreen was unable to recall his name or even his appearance, except for an impression of somebody smaller than average, close to dwarfish.

The sun was up by the time Benjamin wakened her. She lay enjoying his soliloquy until she began to wonder why his words were even harder to make out than usual. He couldn’t very well be muttering ‘I drub hens for tot forever,’ nor yet ‘Her son for furtive debtor.’ He sounded oddly distant, that was it – so remote that she could imagine he was being carried away from her. She lurched out of bed and almost fell headlong in her dash to the next room.

The door swung inwards just a few inches before meeting an obstruction. At least Benjamin was in the cot, and gave Doreen a sleepy smile as she edged into the room. The plastic microphone was trapped against the door, yards from where she’d placed it on the shelf and at the limit of its wire. When she picked it up she found her hand was shaking. ‘Who put this here, Benjamin?’ she said as gently as she could.

‘The man,’ he said with a touch of defiance. ‘Man with all teeth.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Teeths.’ As if to demonstrate how plural they could be, the boy opened his mouth wide and dug his fingers into the corners to tug it wider still. ‘Lots,’ he said.

Doreen wanted to think he was boasting about his own. ‘What did I tell you the man was?’

‘Comes when I’m asleep.’

She was making for the cot when a thought halted her. ‘Can you climb out for me?’

Benjamin stood up but gave her a reproachful look. ‘Like you lifting.’

That needn’t mean he was incapable of clambering out, but when he held up his arms Doreen lifted him. She had to restrain herself from hugging him too fiercely; that wasn’t how to protect him. She stayed close to him as he stampeded through the rooms, and found she didn’t want to leave him alone at all. Once she’d secured him in the high chair she performed her morning necessities as fast as she could. ‘What would you like to do today?’ she said when she’d recovered her breath.

‘Change books.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ Doreen said, having realised what else she could do.

The library was in the opposite direction from the railway, past the nearest of the parks, which she had to promise Benjamin they would visit later. Doreen signed a petition against closing six libraries and watched him grab books from the table in the children’s section. Once he was installed in a miniature chair she hurried to a computer. She could have thought she was growing delusional as the anniversary of her loss came closer, but she found the details for the landlord of Anna’s last address.

At home she read three of Benjamin’s library books to him before he fell asleep. She succeeded in carrying him upstairs to the cot without rousing him, and took the monitor into her room. She listened to her heartbeats, having keyed the phone number, until a woman said ‘Wesley Properties.’

‘I’m trying to find out the name of a tenant of yours.’

‘We can’t give out that information, I’m afraid.’

‘I see you wouldn’t normally, but he was a witness in court for my daughter Anna Marshall. She lived in the same building. She died nearly a year ago.’

Doreen heard two more of her urgent heartbeats before the woman said ‘And you were asking for the gentleman’s name because …’

‘I can’t remember it and I need it to help me keep custody of my grandson.’

‘I’ll have to speak to somebody. Please hold on.’

Doreen’s pulse grew more strident for at least a minute before she was asked to continue holding, after which she heard murmurs that she had to reassure herself weren’t in the monitor. More than another minute was measured by her not entirely constant heartbeats, and then a new voice said ‘Mrs Marshall, is it? Tony Wesley. Sorry for your loss.’

‘I still have my grandson, Mr Wesley.’

‘So Jane was saying. I do remember your daughter and the sad circumstances. I’d like us to be of assistance.’

‘Please do.’

‘As I say, I wish we could be. I can only think we’ve suffered a small problem with the system. We’ve no record of the tenancy you were enquiring about.’

For several beats her heart was louder in her ears than his voice. ‘What do you mean, no record?’

‘The period of the letting shows up blank. It was only a few weeks while the lady who lived there had moved out and the lady who has the flat now took up residence.’

‘But he was there, wasn’t he? You know he was there.’

‘Of course he was.’ Wesley sounded defensive, however. ‘You’ll forgive us, but nobody here can remember his name,’ he said. ‘Not really anything about him.’

Doreen felt as if Wesley had robbed her of more than words – of certainty if not worse. She mumbled thanks she didn’t feel and held the empty mobile in her unsteady hand. Should she phone the court? Suppose there was no official record of the witness? The possibility deterred her more than she understood. Surely she oughtn’t to delay, or was her anxiousness just a symptom of age? She hadn’t made the call by the time Benjamin left her in no doubt he was awake.

After lunch they walked to the park. In the deserted playground a seesaw was twitching as though someone had sneaked away at their approach. Doreen thought she closed the gate securely, but more than once it proved to be unlatched after she turned her back. A notice said dogs weren’t allowed, and she had the distinct impression that one was somewhere nearby, perhaps lying on its belly and baring all its teeth. She pushed Benjamin on one swing after another and bounced him gently on the seesaw and dodged around the climbing frames to be ready if he fell. Far too often she had a sense that a toothy intruder had crawled into or otherwise invaded the playground and was waiting at her back.

When she took Benjamin home she could have fancied that a visitor was lying low somewhere in the house. Perhaps it had curled up in the oven to peer through the glass door, or was poised to poke its head out from behind a piece of furniture. She might be even more dismayed to find it sitting in a chair like an uninvited guest or, worst of all, in Benjamin’s high chair. Of course it was nowhere except inside her feverishly buzzing head, but she found herself urging Hubert to call, and almost dropped the phone as she hastened to answer it. ‘How was your day?’ she said as if this might return hers to normal.

‘Oh, professional enough.’

‘What have you had to put up with this time?’

‘Plenty of ideas that can be put to good use.’

It was plain to Doreen that he didn’t want his real thoughts to be overheard. She felt prevented from reaching him, all the more so when he said ‘And how was yours?’

‘Our day?’ She couldn’t admit to her fears or how they’d caused her to behave. ‘I’m sure you can imagine it,’ she said. ‘Library and park.’

‘So long as everything’s in order,’ Hubert said, and she heard how much he wanted that. ‘Shall I speak to the man himself?’ When she brought up the loudspeaker he said ‘Are you looking after granny for me?’

‘Yes, grandad,’ Benjamin said so earnestly that Doreen had to suppress a nervous laugh.

‘You make sure you carry on, then. Two more nights and I’ll take over.’

Once he’d gone Doreen said to Benjamin ‘Would you like to look after granny a little bit more?’

‘Yes,’ he said more solemnly than ever.

‘You can sleep in my room while grandad’s away, then. We’ll be company if anyone wakes up.’

Was she being too protective? Sometimes she felt she had been with Anna – felt she’d left Anna vulnerable, even helped to cause her death. Nevertheless Doreen dragged the cot into the main bedroom while Benjamin gave it an energetic push. After his bath she lowered him into the cot and sat on the bed to read him Cinderella’s tale divested of any ugliness, and then she went downstairs with the monitor.

She couldn’t read. She was too aware of the silence in the monitor and throughout the house. Before long she was nervously ready for bed, but she found herself switching on her laptop. Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t the only name to figure in versions of the old tale, and she repeated all the names until they were fixed in her head. She felt close to senile for carrying on like that, but would she really rather think she’d neglected some method of protecting Benjamin? When she was certain of recalling the names she tiptoed up to bed.

Benjamin murmured and grew still as she slipped under the quilt. Doreen suspected she would be unable to sleep, but she opened her eyes on the far side of a darkness that had lasted until midnight. As she read the time she heard the voice. ‘You’ve been trying to find my name out, have you? Try all you like.’

It was closer to her than the cot – perhaps as close as the inside of her head. When she blinked at the dimness, the cot was the only unfamiliar object she could see. ‘You’ll leave us alone if I name you, will you?’ she said so softly she could barely hear herself.

‘Try me.’

‘It wouldn’t be Whuppity Stoorie, would it?’

‘Not in your lifetime,’ the voice said in a mockingly Scottish falsetto.

‘Tom Tit Tot, then.’

‘Not on your tits and not on your tot.’

‘Ruidoquedito.’

‘Not even if you say it right.’ Having rejected the rest of the names as well, the voice said ‘Aren’t you going to ask them at the court?’

Doreen was instinctively suspicious. ‘Why would you want me to?’

‘Let them see there’s no name in their records and maybe they’ll have to reopen the hearing.’

That was why she’d felt she oughtn’t to call, Doreen realised now. ‘What difference would that make?’

‘Maybe they’d have to tell the father and give him another chance.’

‘Or,’ Doreen said in a rage that made her reckless, ‘you could tell him.’

‘No chance of that. Nobody else can hear me.’ As Benjamin shifted in his cot – perhaps Doreen’s outburst had roused him – the voice said ‘I’ll leave you a sign, though. Or do you think you’re doing it all?’

‘I don’t—’ Doreen began without knowing how to continue, only to realise she was talking to herself. Listening for an intruder in the room kept her apprehensively awake, but at some point exhaustion put out her vigilance until she heard Benjamin’s morning murmur. She had to waken fully to recall why it was closer than usual, though that didn’t help her to grasp what he was mumbling – hardly ‘Observe or differ on truth’ any more than ‘Run forever, tots, be hid’ and still less ‘Bred introvert, ooh, suffer.’ He started chatting to her once he met her eyes, but she couldn’t help glancing away in search of a sign. Perhaps it hadn’t been left in the room, if indeed the threat wasn’t just an elderly woman’s fearful dream.

She could see nothing wrong downstairs either. Benjamin was eager to walk to the trains again, though he was untypically mute on the way, so that she wondered if he didn’t find anything worthy of a comment. Wouldn’t he have remarked on a dwarfish shape that seemed to peer over a net in a tennis court before somehow hiding behind the mesh? Perhaps the tuft like greasy unkempt hair that poked above at least one mound on the golf course was too insignificant, but how about the childish shape that dodged out of sight around the school? Doreen wouldn’t have expected to glimpse an apparently unaccompanied child in more than one of the shops, but surely these impressions were symptoms of sleeplessness, like the face that glared out of the antique dealer’s window before sinking into a vase. ‘Robber jug,’ Benjamin said, having found words at last, and Doreen rather wished he hadn’t rediscovered those.

The red lights at the level crossing blazed in her eyes while the clangour of the bells jerked her nerves. Though the trains were almost empty, Benjamin kept repeating ‘He’s looking.’ Surely he meant the todd