Oh I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside - Christopher Fowler Christopher Fowler explains "'. . . Seaside' came about firstly because I was commissioned to write a story for the World Horror Convention souvenir book and, as the event was to take place in Brighton, it seemed logical to set a tale on the South coast of England."I had written a fantasy novel, Calabash, some years earlier, hinting at the dark madness of such seaside towns, which are the antithesis of their Mediterranean counterparts. I thought of the depressing Morrissey song "Every Day is Like Sunday", which captures the awfulness of English resorts."Coincidentally, Kim Newman and I were discussing the inherent creepiness of pantomime dames, and I decided it was time to give vent to my horror of these coastal pleasure domes. I wish I'd thought to include screaming gangs of hen-nighters as well. And I thought it was a nice touch to have everyone in the story telling the hero to 'fuck off' until he finally does." Featherweight - Robert Shearman"I don't like writing at home much," admits the author. "Home is a place for sleeping and eating and watching afternoon game shows on TV. There are too many distractions. So, years ago, I decided I'd only write first drafts in art galleries."And the best of them all is the National Gallery, in London, a pigeon's throw from Nelson's Column. I can walk around there with my notebook, thinking up stories - and if I get bored, there are lots of expensive pictures to look at. Perfect."A lot of those paintings, however, have angels in them. They're all over the place, wings raised, halos gleaming - perching on clouds, blowing trumpets, hovering around the Virgin Mary as if they're her strange naked childlike bodyguards. And I began to notice. That, whenever the writing is going well, the angels seemed happy, and would smile at me. And whenever the words weren't coming out right, when I felt sluggish, when I thought I'd rather take off and get myself a beer, they'd start to glare."I wrote this story in the National Gallery. Accompanied by a lot of glaring angels. Enjoy." Lesser Demons - Norman Partridge"I was surprised to receive an invitation for S.T. Joshi's Black Wings," reveals Partridge, "an anthology of Lovecraftian fiction. Although I knew S.T. admired my work, I've never quite seen myself as a Mythos writer."While I respect H.P. Lovecraft and his contribution to horror, I've never felt that his worldview (or maybe I should say universe view) meshed with mine."In the end, that's what made the story work . . . at least for me. I concentrated on my differences with Lovecraft, and approached the material from a place where Jim Thompson would be more comfortable than HPL. And I'm delighted that so many people have enjoyed the tale - it was a lot of fun to write."
Release date:
July 26, 2012
Publisher:
Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages:
160
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER WAS BORN in Greenwich, London. He is the award-winning author of thirty novels and ten short story collections, and creator of the “Bryant & May” series of mysteries.
His memoir Paperboy won the Green Carnation Award. He has written comedy and drama for the BBC, has a weekly column in the Independent on Sunday, is the Crime Reviewer for the Financial Times, and has written for such newspapers and magazines as The Times, Telegraph, Guardian, Daily Mail, Time Out, Black Static and many others.
His latest books are a homage to Hammer horror called Hell Train, The Memory of Blood, and a two-volume collection of twenty-five new stories entitled Red Gloves. Forthcoming are two further novels, Dream World and The Invisible Code.
As Fowler explains: “‘. . . Seaside’ came about firstly because I was commissioned to write a story for the World Horror Convention souvenir book and, as the event was to take place in Brighton, it seemed logical to set a tale on the South coast of England.
“I had written a fantasy novel, Calabash, some years earlier, hinting at the dark madness of such seaside towns, which are the antithesis of their Mediterranean counterparts. I thought of the depressing Morrissey song “Every Day is Like Sunday”, which captures the awfulness of English resorts.
“Coincidentally, Kim Newman and I were discussing the inherent creepiness of pantomime dames, and I decided it was time to give vent to my horror of these coastal pleasuredomes. I wish I’d thought to include screaming gangs of hen-nighters as well. And I thought it was a nice touch to have everyone in the story telling the hero to ‘fuck off’ until he finally does.”
TOBY PUSHED THE NAIL deep inside the piece of bread, placed it in his steel catapult and fired it high over the side of the pier. A seagull dropped from the steel-grey cloudscape, its yellow beak agape, and swallowed it.
“Choke, you fucker,” Toby yelled. He turned to Harry. “Got any more?”
“That was the last one,” said Harry. “We’re wasting our time. They can eat broken glass without dying. They’ve got special stomachs.”
“What about barbed wire?”
“Same. My dad’s got some rat poison in the shed. He saved it from when he was in the military. They’re not allowed to sell it in shops.”
“Nah.” Toby kicked at the railing until a chip of blue paint came off. “Do you think the pier would burn?”
“The one in Brighton burned.”
“Let’s get something to eat.” He cast a cheated look back at the gull, which had alighted on a post further along the pier. It gave a healthy shriek as he passed. He threw a pebble at it and missed.
The funfair was empty. A boy with a Metallica tattoo across his shoulders was mopping patches of rainwater from the steel plates on the bumper car floor. Everyone teased him because the tattooist had spelled the band’s name wrong, with two “T”s and one “L”.
“Oi Damon, you wanna be careful, you’ll electrocute yourself,” Toby called.
“Fuck off,” Damon shouted back. “It only works if you touch the ceiling.” He raised his metal broom handle and thrashed the mesh above his head, spraying sparks, forgetting he had bare feet. “Fuck!” He hopped back and swung the broom at them.
“What a moron.” Toby and Harry laughed together. Damon had ingested so many drugs during his clubbing years that he could barely remember his own name.
They passed Gypsy Rosalee the fortune teller, who was actually a secretary at Cole Bay Co-Operative Funerals, making a bit of money on the side by building sales pitches for lay-away burial plans into the predictions for her elderly clients.
Once Toby had paid to have his palm read, and she had told him he would go to the bad. “You’re not satisfied with your lot,” she had said, sitting back and folding her arms. “You think you’re too good for us. Lads like you always come unstuck.”
“You’re not a real fortune teller.”
“I know enough to recognise someone living under a curse when I see one.” She dug out his money and threw it back at him. “Go on, fuck off.”
Now he skirted the helter-skelter, where rain had removed so much lubrication from the slide’s runners that it was common to see someone getting off their mat halfway down and giving it a push. Ahead was the big dipper that had been closed ever since a pair of toddlers were catapulted into the sea when their carriage braking system failed. Apparently one of them was still in a coma.
He hated the pier even more than he hated the rest of the town.
Cole Bay, population 17,650, former fishing village, was like a hundred other British seaside resorts, a by-word for boredom, a destination that might have amused the Victorians, but was hopelessly outpaced by the expectations of modern day-trippers, who wanted something more than rip-off amusements, a few chip shops, some knackered beach donkeys and a floral clock. By day sour-faced couples huddled in shelters unwrapping sandwiches and opening thermos flasks. By night every teenager in town was out in the back streets, getting pissed and goading their friends into punch-ups. Where the land met the sea, all hopes and ambitions were drawn away by the tide.
Ahead, a bored girl was rolling garish pink spider-webs of candy floss around a stick. Her name was Michelle, and she had originally planned to work at the fair on Saturdays until she could get away to London, but now she seemed to be on the Pavilion Pier every day. As she blankly swirled the stick, strands of reeking spun sugar flicked onto her bare midriff.
“What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” she said, popping a pink bubble of gum at Toby.
“Why do you keep making that shit when you haven’t got any customers?” Toby stuck his finger in the tub and allowed sugar to cover it.
“It gets bunged up if I stop. We get flies in it and all sorts. The punters don’t notice. I’m not going out with you so don’t ask.”
“Wasn’t going to. You’re too old for me, and you’re getting fat. Anyway, I thought you were leaving Cole Bay and going to London.”
“Changed my mind, didn’t I. Went full-time. It’s easy work ’cause there’s no one here mid-week.”
“Boring, though.”
“Not as boring as being at school. Which is where you and your mouthy mate are supposed to be.”
“Double games period. We bunked off. We’re going to see a horror film.”
“The living dead thing? You don’t need to watch a mo. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
