Monster Maker

by Nicholas Fisk

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

When 14 year old Matt lands a job with his hero - world-famous monster maker, Chancey Balogh - he can't believe his luck! Chancey has made lifesize mechanical monsters for Hollywood blockbusters and his reputation for scaring the living daylights out of audiences is legendary. But as soon as he starts work, Matt is plagued by bad luck. First some local boys get wind of his new job and his new money and decide to launch a full-on bullying campaign and then one night they break into the studios, determined to sabotage years of skilled craftsmanship. In a terrifying ordeal, where Matt suffers severe hallucinations, he sees the monsters come to life. But when he recovers from his concussion he cannot tell whether this actually happened or not. And neither can we . . .

Release date: October 15, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

He stands, the Hero, at the peak of a mountain or in the black jaws of a cave or within the temple guarded by serpent-tongued, many-headed ancient gods. His sword is ready. The strong muscles of his right arm ripple and gleam.

She, the Heroine, is behind him. Her beauty and rich jewels are useless to her now. Her hand is clenched to her mouth to stifle her terror. Her eyes are fastened on the Hero. Only he can save her. Only he can bring them to safety, and triumph, and love everlasting –

And only when the Monster has been defeated. Only when the last great battle has been won.

Mists swirl round the defiant figure of the Hero. There is distant music, a thin, whining melody, gliding like a serpent over the menacing undertone of pulsing drumbeats. Then above this music, a roar and thunder that shakes the very rocks and makes the air tremble.

Its voice! The voice of the Monster! At any moment –

Suddenly It is there – even more dreadful than our worst imaginings! Impossibly vast and evil, hideously scaly and horny-headed, It lashes its spiked tail, glares hatred and death from burning eyes like great lamps. Above the mad music rise the Heroine’s screams. She knows her Hero, hopelessly valiant, must die.

The Hero raises his puny blade – a needle, a straw. Towering above him, the Monster lashes the air with shrunken yet deadly forearms from which curved claws spring like great sickles. From Its black nostrils, blasts of flame belch out. The Heroine screams again, a piteous shriek of despair.

Unnoticed by her – she has eyes only for her Hero – a thick, slimy tentacle is coiling down, very slowly, from the dark, dripping rocks above her. The tip of the tentacle touches her bare shoulder: she does not feel its cold and awful threat. Not until the suckered tentacle is actually around her neck does she scream her Hero’s name.

He hears and turns and leaps to save her, slashing madly at the coiling tentacle. He cuts – again! – again! – hacking through oozing flesh!

He has no time to see Its vast head behind him, stealthily moving forward like some ghastly living machine from hell, eyes blazing, hungry jaws opening, fangs dripping, fire running from writhing nostrils! Nothing can save him, nothing – unless he can snatch from the Heroine’s necklace the magic jewel that, when thrust in the hilt of his sword, gives it miraculous powers…

But the Heroine has fainted – her body is covering the necklace – and It, breathing hellfire, is about to strike the final, agonizing blow.…

And then it is all over, THE END half hides Hero and Heroine as they smile into each other’s eyes and embrace. The house lights of the cinema are on; soft-drink cartons explode underfoot; a cross usherette who wants to get home grumbles, ‘Hurry along please, this way out, this exit.…’

Matt rides home on his bike not seeing the road: seeing only the monsters.

Matt had seen Chancey Balogh often enough, but of course he had never spoken to him. A twelve-year-old boy does not start conversations with the man he most admires – particularly when that man is Chancey Balogh; a successful man, a private man, a man with plenty of things to occupy his amazing mind.

So Matt had observed Chancey Balogh only out of the shy corners of his eyes. He had noted the short brown beard with the white, electric-shock streaks from lower lip to chin; the stained jeans, with something tucked in every pocket; the safari jacket, also bulging at each pocket; the small-boned, battered hands; and the impression of inner power that came from the man as a whole – from his sure movements, his short, lean body, his careful grey eyes.

But now Matt was standing right beside his hero, at the counter of Banting’s Ironmongery. The man was using both arms to clutch his purchases – carriage bolts, a big coil of plastic tubing, bags containing sandpaper, plumbing fittings, brass hinges, screws, adhesives, dry batteries. Banting’s was a good shop for such things. You don’t expect to find a village store with such a big stock. One of the reasons why the shop was so well stocked was – Chancey Balogh. He spent pounds there each week. Sometimes hundreds of pounds in a month.

Matt blurted, ‘Please – would you let me see your workshop? I’d be no trouble then stopped, wishing his mouth had never opened.

Chancey Balogh did not even look at him. He just replied, ‘Sorry. We can’t let people in.’ He let fall a big roll of pound notes. The roll bounced fatly on the counter.

On the other side of the counter, Mrs Banting, the genius of the place who knew where everything was, sniffed and said, ‘Do you want me to clear your account? Get you up to date?’ She too ignored Matt. Chancey said, ‘Yes. Settle the lot. There’s a hundred pounds there.’ Mrs Banting sniffed again, took the money, and said, ‘You shouldn’t carry that much about, you really shouldn’t. You should pay by cheque.’

Matt, ignored, now wanted only to get away. But he couldn’t. He still had to pay for his purchases. He made himself concentrate on Mrs Banting’s stern little face as she slapped bills together and did lightning arithmetic on a bit of wrapping paper. ‘Here you are, then,’ she told Chancey Balogh. ‘Thirteen pounds for you, the rest for me. I’ve let you off the odd fifteen p, I hope you’re grateful.’

‘I’m grateful,’ Chancey Balogh said – and to Matt’s astonishment, turned and winked at him. Matt smiled back foolishly and said, ‘I’ll help you carry that stuff if you like – ’

Mrs Banting said, ‘Not till you’ve paid, young man,’ and reached out her ironmongery-stained grey monkey paw for money.

Matt said, ‘I didn’t mean not to – ’ and then gave up, fumbled for money and paid Mrs Banting. By then, Chancey Balogh had gone. Matt sighed, took his change, and prepared to leave too. But Mrs Banting called, ‘The paint thinners! That Mr Balogh’s left his thinners! He’ll forget his head next – ’ She thrust a bottle at Matt and said, ‘Run after him! Hurry, now!’

Matt ran. Across the road, Chancey Balogh was loading stuff into the back of a Peugeot station wagon. ‘You forgot the paint thinners,’ Matt said, noticing that the big car, almost new, was already battered. The back was full of piping, Dexion, photographic lamps, a massive camera tripod – and plastic kits: dozens, hundreds of kits, all different. Kits to make anything from spacemen to army tanks, air-force bombers to cute little dress-me dolls.

‘Buy them when I see them,’ Chancey said, taking the bottle of thinners. ‘Come in handy. You never know.’ Then he remembered to say ‘Thanks,’ for the thinners and added – still not looking at Matt – ‘If you want a lift anywhere – ’

Matt was about to say, ‘It’s all right, I’ve got my bike.’ He stopped himself just in time and said, ‘Yes please!’ He got in beside Chancey Balogh. He wanted to keep quiet, but somehow his voice spoke for him. He heard it say, ‘How big was that space station?’

‘What space station?’ Chancey was trying to edge out into the traffic.

‘In Utopia 98. The film.’

‘Oh, that. About eight feet across. But that was years ago.’

‘Only eight feet …!’ said Matt, remembering how it looked on the screen: vast, endlessly complicated, futuristic, fantastic, a man-made city twinkling its lights in the velvet blackness of infinite space.…

Chancey said, ‘Oh come on, come on,’ to a passing Chevette that wouldn’t pass. Matt said, ‘It looked about eight miles across on the screen.’

‘Glad you liked it,’ Chancey said. To the Chevette, now moving, he muttered, ‘Oh thank you, thank you very much.’ The big Peugeot whistled sedately from the curb and headed for the Studios, where Chancey’s workshops were, a mile or so away.

Matt thought, ‘You’ve only got a minute. Say something. Say something intelligent and interesting.’ But his voice said, rather childishly, ‘I only wanted to see the place. Just look around. I thought – I thought I, might even be helpful. I’ve got a bike, I could run errands. And I’m good with my hands.…’ To Matt’s relief, his own voice petered out.

Chancey said, ‘Yes. Well, I’m sure. But as I said – ’

‘I mean it,’ Matt said miserably. ‘I’m good with my hands.’ He fumbled in his pockets for the walnut radio – found it – and thrust it under Chancey’s nose. ‘I made this,’ he said.

Chancey, picking his way through a knot of traffic, glanced down for a split second and said, ‘Very nice. Very good. What is it?’

‘It’s a radio. In a walnut shell. A press-button radio.’ Matt pressed the buttons. Above the quiet sounds of the Peugeot, the tiny loudspeaker squeaked music and words. Chancey said nothing. But one eyebrow went up.

‘As I say, I’ve got a bike,’ Matt said. ‘And there’s two months summer holiday left, almost. I’d do anything you want.’

‘I’ve got assistants. But thanks all the same.’

‘If you’d just let me see round the workshops – see how you do things – ’

‘Ah, here we are,’ said Chancey Balogh.

‘The Studios’ was the local name for a straggle of buildings by the railway arches. Some of the buildings were shacks. You saw weatherstained, wood-shingled huts whose walls were patched with enamel signs for cattle cake and long forgotten tobaccos. Derelict cars clustered in one corner, almost hidden by blackberry bushes and saplings and falling fences. There were tall t. . .