'Elementary: The Continuing Life of Sherlock Holmes' - An essay

It is certainly odd to think what the history of crime investigation would have been like if, on that fateful day in 1881, Doctor John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department, had not bumped into his old colleague Stamford, and had not subsequently been introduced to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only unofficial consulting detective. Indeed, if these events had not happened, where would detective fiction be now, without even the humble magnifying glass ever having been used as an investigative tool? Where would forensic science be, had the ‘Sherlock Holmes Test’ of searching for otherwise-invisible blood particles not been developed? Where would we be now if the terrible war which had almost occurred during the events chronicled by Watson under the title ‘The Adventure of the Second Stain’ had not been avoided? Where, oh where, would the world itself be if these events had never happened?

Well, the shocking truth is, these things never happened. Sherlock Holmes is a fictional creation which burst from the depths of the mind of a struggling 27-year-old doctor in a story entitled A Study in Scarlet, first published in Beeton’s Christmas Annual during the November of 1887. The original story made very little impact, but a second novel, The Sign of Four, was published in the February 1890 edition of Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, with two further novels and fifty-six short stories appearing in The Strand Magazine between 1891 and 1927 (with an infamous hiatus between 1893 and 1901). With this in mind, it seems incredible that this character appears to have transgressed the boundaries set by his creator to become a figure almost with a life of his own. Despite him so obviously being fictional, there is still a part within all of us interested in Holmes which believes him to be real. Statements such as ‘I wish I could have met him’ and ‘he was the greatest detective of all time’ float out of the mouths of people fully aware of his fictional nature, and yet we still half-believe what we are saying: that Sherlock Holmes was a real, living, breathing man, who kept his tobacco in a Persian slipper and occasionally made use of cocaine to stimulate his great mind during lengthy periods of idleness.

So what is it about the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that seems so real? It isn’t as though the stories explored exclusively-realistic themes – how, for example, could Holmes have been employed by the King of Bohemia in ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ when there was no such position at the time (the Kingdom of Bohemia was at the time of writing owned by the House of Habsburg and had no monarchy)? The continuity, also, is particularly unbelievable - Watson, after claiming to have been shot in the shoulder in A Study in Scarlet, changes his story to the injury being in his leg from The Sign of Four onwards; after claiming never to have heard of Moriarty before ‘The Final Problem’, he readily identifies him in the prequel The Valley of Fear; similarly, in ‘The Final Problem’, Moriarty’s brother’s first name is said to be James, and yet this is identified as Moriarty’s name in every story thereafter; it is impossible for Watson to still be living with Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles, set in 1889, as he got married to Mary Morstan at the end of The Sign of Four, set in 1887, and she did not die until sometime between ‘The Final Problem’ (set in 1891) and ‘The Adventure of the Empty House’ (set in 1894) – the list of discontinuities and errors in Doyle’s work could go on and on. But the fact is that is simply does not matter – a reader could spend forever trying to explain away the problems in the ongoing narrative, but it would not make any difference to a fantastic body of works. And so, the question remains, just what is so special about Holmes that he is still being read, adapted, talked about and watched today, in 2012, one hundred and twenty five years after his initial appearance in print?

The answer is simple: Sherlock Holmes is such a brilliant creation. What’s not to like about a man with such incredibly powerful deductive powers that he could tell you everything about yourself within a few moments of seeing you for the first time? The man would be incredibly annoying to meet, after all (certainly spending a day with him would be more of a chore than a holiday with Louis Spence), but his brilliance would still be undeniable. People want him to be real – he is such a fantastic portrayal of the potential intellectual powers of a human being that, were he to have existed, nothing could be more amazing.

Despite the fact that Holmes has frequently been identified as the worst kind of depressive he could be (constantly requiring mental stimulation or risking falling into a deep, dark melancholy which can only be survived through occasional cocaine abuse), is frequently horrendously rude to the few friends he has (he tells Watson in ‘The Adventure of the Dying Detective’ that he is ‘only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications’ and gives frequent backhanded compliments to Inspector Lestrade) and is unable to see anything beyond what is relevant to his own ego ('His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know nothing' - A Study in Scarlet), everyone has a soft spot for the character. He certainly isn’t all bad – he does show genuine compassion on numerous occasions; he spares several criminals across his career if he sees their crimes to be the result of understandably grave experiences or situations; he even treats a group of street urchins (The Baker Street Irregulars), neglected and looked down upon by society and downright hated by landlady Mrs Hudson, as equals, incredibly useful in solving several of his cases. If he is arrogant and self-proud about it (‘The air of London is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I am not aware that I have ever used my powers on the wrong side’ – ‘The Final Problem’) then he certainly has earned the right.

And yet, Conan Doyle hated Holmes, or so it has been reported. In the preface to the final short story collection, The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (published in 1927 and made up of the stories to have appeared in The Strand between 1921 and 1927) Doyle stressed his belief that ‘he may perhaps have stood a little in the way of [his] more serious literary work.’ But then again, perhaps for Doyle to judge Holmes as anything other than ‘serious literary work’ is a little harsh: after all, today there is both a blockbuster movie series and a hugely successful modern-day reimagining of the series being fed to the public almost simultaneously, and who has ever heard of Doyle’s other works, such as The Tragedy of the Korosko or The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard, or of his historical works, such as Micah Clarke? Furthermore, I am quite certain very few people know The Lost World was a novel by Doyle before it became the basis for Michael Crichton’s 1995 novel of the same name (which in turn was adapted into the second movie in the Jurassic Park series).

Conan Doyle’s feelings towards Holmes could not have been so strong so as to reject him entirely, after all. In 1927 – the same year as the Casebook was released – Conan Doyle drew up a list of his own twelve favourite Holmes short stories, reproduced faithfully here:

1.       The Adventure of the Speckled Band (The Adventures)

2.       The Adventure of the Red-Headed League (The Adventures)

3.       The Adventure of the Dancing Men (The Return)

4.       The Final Problem (The Memoirs)

5.       A Scandal in Bohemia (The Adventures)

6.       The Adventure of the Empty House (The Return)

7.       The Five Orange Pips (The Memoirs)

8.       The Adventure of the Second Stain (The Return)

9.       The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot (His Last Bow)

10.   The Adventure of the Priory School (The Return)

11.   The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual (The Memoirs)

12.   The Adventure of the Reigate Squires (The Memoirs)

I have to say, in many ways I whole-heartedly disagree with this hierarchy. Conan Doyle was the hardest critic of the stories, which may explain why, to my mind, he has outright neglected to include some of the best stories he ever wrote in this list, and also why he has elevated some of the duller narratives to such a high status. It is also clear that he has completely ignored the Casebook, despite the fact that some of these stories are unique in every way. Personally, I have never been particularly enamoured with ‘The Priory School’, and the plot of ‘The Reigate Squires’, despite my having read the stories several times, has almost entirely failed to be retained within my memory. Therefore, it seems right that I should be permitted to suggest my own list of twelve, which would come as follows:

1.       The Adventure of the Dancing Men (The Return)

2.       The Adventure of the Second Stain (The Return)

3.       The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans (His Last Bow)

4.       The Final Problem (The Memoirs)

5.       The Adventure of the Dying Detective (His Last Bow)

6.       The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton (The Return)

7.       The Problem of Thor Bridge (The Casebook)

8.       A Scandal in Bohemia (The Adventures)

9.       The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter (The Memoirs)

10.   The Adventure of the Speckled Band (The Adventures)

11.   The Adventure of the Five Orange Pips (The Memoirs)

12.   The Adventure of the Six Napoleons (The Return)

Speaking from a fan perspective, it is clear that my preferences come from entertainment value rather than whether the stories themselves are of any real literary ‘worth’. You will notice how I have managed to squeeze in one particularly outstanding story from the Casebook and how the Return certainly comes out on top with four contributions, whereas Doyle tied the Memoirs and Return together with four apiece. As a considerably darker, racier collection, I still maintain that the Return is superior, but who am I to judge Conan Doyle’s own preference. The fact that I took the time to compile my own list shows the fondness I clearly hold for this writer and his greatest creation.

The fact is that, yes, regarding the immense number of continuity errors, the character and his world are incredibly unbelievable; and yet, oddly, it is this fact which, conversely, makes it all so believable: we want him to exist – we want such an amazing human being to be possible, because we ourselves want to believe it is possible to raise a human being to such great intellectual heights. Conan Doyle was a flawed writer – he altered his continuity to suit his newer stories; he allowed himself to live in the shadow of a fictional individual he created; he became unable to rid himself of him. But he never truly wanted to do so, in my belief. Look at the evidence – at the end of ‘The Final Problem’, he makes it as clear as he possibly can that there was no body to be found, and if there is no body, he could always resurrect Holmes, should he so desire. Similarly, despite his assertion that The Return was to be the final Holmes collection before the character retired, he could not help but write another collection of reminiscences from earlier in his career – the first ending with a defiant farewell, ‘His Last Bow’, subtitled as ‘An Epilogue to Sherlock Holmes’. And yet he still could not eliminate him – although clearly tired of Holmes by the time the stories in the Casebook were published, he still showed no sign of giving up – during this period, Doyle’s experimental side is at its best: here, we see him doing things he had never done before: Holmes narrates two stories, there is a story in the third person, and the themes explored include vampirism and child killers (both in the sense of a killer of children and a killer being a child himself).

It is certain that Conan Doyle could not have hated his most famed creation as much as he implied, therefore, and for a writer to continue with the same character throughout such an extended period of time is undeniably something impressive. Whether you find the stories exciting or tedious (God forbid), whether you are jealous that the stories are difficult to work out a solution to yourself, or whether you feel that Conan Doyle ‘sold-out’ by bringing him back from the dead, the talent and continuing popularity of the man and his work is undeniable. Even today, re-runs of the fantastic 1980s TV series starring Jeremy Brett are shown frequently on ITV, a new novel (The House of Silk) has been written and released by Anthony Horowitz, and a blockbuster movie series starring Robert Downey Jnr and Jude Law is being produced simultaneously with a high-budget modern retelling starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. And even this shiny new updated version has not entirely forgotten its roots: aside from episode titles such as ‘A Study in Pink’ (2010), ‘A Scandal in Belgravia’ (2012) and ‘The Reichenbach Fall’ (2012), we are provided within the episodes with plot references to the original stories (look out especially for ‘The Bruce-Partington Plans’ and ‘The Five Orange Pips’ in the 2010 episode ‘The Great Game’), as well as jokes tailor-made for the Holmes aficionado (in ‘A Scandal in Belgravia’ we are treated to blog titles such as ‘The Speckled Blonde’ and ‘The Geek Interpreter’). The life of Sherlock Holmes is most definitely not dead. Where the world’s obsession with the character will go from here, however, waits to be seen.

2012

'New Year's Morning' - A short story

The explosion resounded throughout the quiet and still knoll upon which Roger and Avery sat. The night was dark and silent, and the loud bang made the two friends start and prick up their ears, sniffing the air anxiously. Then, without warning, another resonance made them both spin round in astonishment. What could it be? Toffs? They were always after them – them and their godforsaken hounds. Why couldn’t they just spend one evening in peace? They had done nobody any harm, after all. Their only desire was to survive.

Luckily, try as they might, there was no suggestion of any sound resembling a bugle or the barking of dogs. And yet, the explosions were still raging, deep down in the town which lay in a deep valley near to where they sat.

Roger put his paw upon Avery back, and gazed up at the stars. ‘Look at that, old friend,’ he whispered.

Avery followed his companion’s eyes skywards. Incredible. The very air itself was ablaze with a whole host of varying colours, each one a different shade to those around it. Small streams of fire rose into the air from the village and then exploded in the heavens above, causing an enormous burst of colour to rain over the land. The wind blew through Avery’s fur. He smiled to himself. It was rather entertaining. Nothing to harm them. Nothing to startle them. Just colour. Beautiful, diverse colour.

‘Humans’, Avery chuckled to himself. Apart from the few whom had shown themselves to be his predators, they were really a rather harmless bunch of creatures. Anything which took pleasure in such an absurd ritual as setting fire to object loaded with gunpowder and firing them up into the sky couldn’t really be all bad. And what about when he had seen them all crowd around a fire in early November? Any sane beast would run in the opposite direction, not edge closer to danger! Insanity! And yet, there was something rather endearing about it all. Avery knew that another year was over and, whatever problems they had faced during the last twelve months, there was a strong sense of confidence that all obstacles would magically remove themselves for 2012. Of course, things would remain pretty much the same as they had been in the moments preceding the chime of midnight. But, for just a few moments, everything was pure optimism. Roger and Avery looked at each other and smiled. They continued watching the fireworks for several minutes more until, at last, the tumult died down and peace reigned supreme once more. Then, with joys of exultation, the people in the village walked slowly away, back into their homes, and closed their doors on 2011.

And then the beasties came out. Three hares hopped over to where they sat. They felt no fear. It was late. Avery and Roger had eaten recently, and were not hungry. They let the little hares sit with them in the chill of the cold January morning, and felt at peace. Until the morning, when one of them would certainly hear his final bugle flourish, or one of the hares would end up in a stew, everything was perfect.

Time almost seemed to stand still. All felt exactly as it had been before. But perhaps, Avery thought, they had moved one year closer to their ever-approaching sanctuary. One day, somebody would care about the hares and the foxes.

Some day, Avery felt certain, they would be free.

2012
http://splendidfred.com/2012/01/04/new-years-morning-by-will-green/

'The Nightmare of Skuldugg' - A short story

This is the story I submitted for my final short story assignment in year 2. I considered extending and improving it for use on the blog, but I think it is probably best to leave it as it is, with all its flaws and inadequacies.

Our car was drifting at a terrifically high speed along the bitter and frozen road. The sky hung dark and sinister above our heads, and the only light provided to us was from the multitude of tiny stars which adorned the black canopy. No moon was visible and, as such, our vision was frightfully impaired.

I had informed Burnaby earlier that such erratic driving under these conditions was perilous, especially since, as travellers, we were towing behind us a large caravan, but he had shrugged off my comments, and I had swallowed my misgivings, gripping the edge of my seat fretfully, my knuckles turning white with the strain.

It was as we were passing through a seemingly-deserted village that went by the name of Skuldugg that we first began to feel particularly wary. I mentioned my unease to Burnaby, but he misunderstood, and believed me to be referencing his driving technique once again.

‘No,’ I informed him, ‘it isn’t that. There’s something else; something in the air. I don’t like it.’

Burnaby bit his lip and killed his speed dramatically. ‘Yes,’ he confessed, ‘I feel it too. There’s something very wrong about this place.’

Of course, the onlooker would have said the problem was that there was nothing right about Skuldugg: there were no houses to be seen for miles around, and not a soul walked the streets. It was almost as though the entire town had been utterly razed. It was as barren as the sparsest desert.

Without any hint of warning, we noticed several snowflakes begin to fall upon our windscreen. Burnaby tutted indignantly; he had never, even as a child, been particularly enamoured with the snow. Especially now, as he was entering the latter portion of his fifties, he felt unable to comprehend how anybody could relish the presence of such a substance was far beyond his comprehension, as he was so fond of informing anyone and everyone who would listen.

Something in the back of my mind told me we should stop the car, and I said so to my friend. He was not happy about it, but I informed him I was sure this was just the start of what was to be a horrendous blizzard, and that, while we were towing the caravan, we would at least have somewhere warm to camp out. Reluctantly, Burnaby agreed, and halted the vehicle immediately.

‘There’s one upside to this village being deserted,’ he told me, good-humouredly, ‘and that is I don’t have to go searching for parking.’ He chuckled at his own joke, and I smiled politely. We then got out, and were amazed that the ground beneath our feet was already covered in a white blanket. We simply couldn’t believe our eyes. It had only been snowing for a few seconds: of that we were certain. We looked up into the sky, and were astounded to see the snow falling to Earth in droves, pummelling the ground with such a tremendous speed that the impact upon one’s skin was almost akin to that of a hailstone.

‘Bloody hell!’ Burnaby’s voice, normally so loud, was reduced to little more than a whisper by the roar of the wind tearing through the atmosphere around us. I tried to look at him, to catch his eye, but I couldn’t even make out his form through the swirling flood of snow and ice.

‘Let’s get inside the caravan!’ I called. ‘We’ll be safer indoors!’

I could just about make out a nod from my ally, and we hurried around to the back of our automobile. When we saw the space where the caravan was – or, rather, should have been – I felt my blood run cold, and could swear my heart skipped several beats. We could see the distinctive tracks of the contraption’s large, solid wheels, could see the indent in the ground where its large frame had prevented the snow from settling directly beneath it, but the caravan had vanished.

We both looked around us frantically, trying in vain to see where the assailant responsible for the theft of our most prized possession had scarpered off to, but it was hopeless. Man could barely see further than the ends of his nose in such incapacitating weather conditions.

Burnaby, in his fury, ran up to our vehicle and kicked the wheel aggressively, filling the air with as many expletives as he could conjure up. I, on the other hand, began looking around for some sort of shelter.

It was as I was surveying my surroundings that I noticed another bizarre occurrence. We appeared to have parked in front of a large, crumbling building, but I was sure it had not been there when we arrived. No, there was no way it could have been there before; we had both looked directly at the spot where the building was situated, and seen nothing.

I pointed this phenomenon out to Burnaby, but, ignoring the peculiarity of the situation, he immediately suggested we go inside. I, however, was uncertain: there was definitely something unnatural about the place. But my bones were numb with cold and, in my desperation, I would probably have taken shelter in an opium den.

Once inside, my mind boggled, my eyes opening wide with the surprise of what confronted me.

Instead of what I had expected to be contained within the old, decrepit building, I saw before me the interior of a huge, grandiose hotel. Golden railings adorned the multitudinous staircases which rose up through all of the floors, and the walls were panelled with rich, brown timber. Behind an expensive-looking desk sat a young man, wearing a dark black suit. His skin was very pale, and his eyes were a very unnatural shade of violet! I had never seen a living person with violet eyes before! His face reminded me of something I had seen before – perhaps something I saw so frequently it was unnoticeable to me, for I could not for the life of me remember what it was. His fingers were long and spidery, and he sat with his hands clasped together. He was looking at us keenly, pleasantly. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt myself already trusting him; despite the strange goings-on of the evening, there was something about him which demanded friendship.

 ‘Excuse me,’ Burnaby said, politely, ‘but we were driving in the area and –‘

‘Welcome,’ announced the young man excitedly, interrupting my companion mid-sentence, ‘to the Golden Bat Hotel. My name is Severin. How may I be of assistance?’ He spoke very effeminately, smiling all the while. There was something very unnatural about his persona, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Burnaby, I deciphered by a surreptitious glance to my right, apparently felt the same.

                ‘We were driving in the area and our caravan was stolen.’ Burnaby paused, unnerved. The man was staring at him, it was true, but I could have sworn he was looking through him, as though into thin air. ‘We were hoping you could aid us in acquiring shelter?’

He left the question hanging, eagerly awaiting the receptionist’s response.

‘Certainly,’ he eventually announced, ‘we have a room exactly matching that description.’

Burnaby and I looked at one another. Was this man ignoring us? Or was he sticking to some absurd script he had been forced to swallow during training? Either way, his responses seemed to be almost pre-ordained, more robotic than human. Yes, his pallid complexion had reminded me of a shop window dummy!

But I was sure we were over-reacting.

Well, I say ‘sure’: that is what we kept telling ourselves.

‘Erm, thank you.’ It was all I could think to say.

‘Certainly,’ the boy recommenced, as though I had not spoken, and handed us a set of old, rusty keys. They seemed to me to be more akin to the keys one would use for a pair of rather large, iron gates, like those you’d expect to see in a graveyard.

I thanked him once more, and we began to ascend the stairs.

Looking back, we noticed Severin standing, just as before, conversing with the space we had previously been occupying.

And it was as I looked back, that I noticed a large key protruding from the man’s back.

I drew Burnaby’s attention to it, and I could see in his eyes that it unnerved him just as much as it had me. But he continued with his tough-guy façade, and we continued our ascent.

Eventually, we reached our quarters. The door, in contrast to its surroundings, was carved from the blackest ebony, with an ivory handle. Upon it, ‘XIII’ had been crudely scratched into the wood, seemingly with the nails of someone sporting a pair of rather deadly claws.

Burnaby and I exchanged another glance, and cautiously proceeded to unfasten the door.

Within, the room was sparsely furnished. There was a double bed (upon seeing this, Burnaby became visibly uncomfortable, endeavouring to look at anything but it), a radio and an antique gramophone. Lying on the floor next to this were three vinyl records. But I was very disappointed – and, more so, confused – when I realised that the record player had no needle. On top of this, the room had no windows, instead being solely lit by a large, heavily-tarnished chandelier and, upon closer inspection, I noticed that several of the prisms were either cracked or shattered.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and Burnaby opened to find another doll standing in front of him. ‘Hello,’ he said jovially. ‘I hope you are having a pleasant stay. Please, follow me to the dining hall, as the evening meal is due to be served. There is no need to dress.’ It then marched away. Deciding there was really too much of interest in this strange building to lock ourselves away in such an inadequate sleeping chamber, we elected to follow.

As we caught up with the doll, we noticed it walked very rigidly, never bending its knees; it appeared to waddle along the corridor, and we watched with baited breath as it attempted to traverse the staircase. It took a very long time, but eventually it reached the bottom, and continued upon its way.

We were shown into a magnificent dining hall, every corner of the room adorned with cobwebs. The formerly-white ceiling was heavily stained with water damage. The room was gloomily lit, and it was with an increasing sense of surprise that we noticed there was only one, small, two-person table situated up against the far wall.

‘Are there not very many customers at this time of year?’ Burnaby asked, echoing my own astonishment. The doll we were following elected to ignore us – or, more likely, was unable to hear us. He waddled stiffly over to the table, and indicated that we were to sit. We did so and, upon telling us that the waiter would be over shortly to take our order, disappeared out of the door, closing it and, to our astonishment, apparently locking it behind him.

We sat there in silence, each of us thinking the same thing – that we wanted nothing more than to leave.

It was Burnaby who ultimately attempted to break the silence.

‘How the hell are we expected to order food if these dummies can’t even hear us?’ I found it rather endearing that, in the face of all this absurdity and creepiness, Burnaby’s main concern still lay with satisfying his stomach.

We sat in silence, time passing at a snail’s pace. I was rather irritated to find that, upon checking my watch, it had apparently stopped. There was no sign of a timepiece anywhere in the room.

We were overwhelmed when, finally, the doors swung open. Another dummy was standing in the doorway, grinning manically at us. He held two bowls. ‘I apologise profusely for the delay, Sir,’ he said, earnestly. Then, turning to Burnaby, continued: ‘I do hope you were not too distressed, Sir?’

‘Yes, I bloody well was!’ my friend shouted.

‘Excellent, Sir,’ the mannequin replied. ‘I am so pleased to hear that.’

Burnaby looked at me, exasperatedly, and then, with a cry of utter despair, smacked his head upon the tabletop. He then straightened himself again, rubbing his temple frantically. The mannequin observed him, watching his every move; I began to wonder if we hadn’t somewhat underestimated the intelligence of our esteemed hosts.

The mannequin, with stiff, disjointed motions, placed the bowls in front of us. We both looked into them with distaste – they were filled with viscous, clear liquid, with heat visibly rising from the surface. The odour was a terrible, acrid smell. Burnaby grimaced. I raised my eyebrows curiously.

And the waiter simply stood there, watching us, waiting for us to begin to eat.

Me and Burnaby looked at each other anxiously. In the end, after attempting to rise several times, and each time being pushed back down into our seat by the incredibly strong arms of our tormentor, Burnaby nodded at me, dipped his spoon into the bowl, and rose a small amount of the liquid to his lips. He paused, and then he took the plunge.

Immediately upon swallowing, Burnaby began to choke. He gripped his throat with his hands and squeezed, as though desperately attempting to force some kind of corrosive liquid out of his oesophagus. His face began to pale, and his features seemed to me to be visibly dripping off his face. His cheeks bulged, tears began to stream down from his eyes, and his lips began to turn upwards at the corners, clearly against his will; the image I beheld was one of pain and ecstasy – that terrible expression of polite curiosity which I had seem fixed upon the faces of every one of these dummies was more appalling to my senses than anything else which I had seen upon that day.

I rose to my feet to make my escape, my nerves finally having left me. As I flew out of the doorway, I saw Burnaby rise to his feet in a rigid and inhuman manner, and to my horror, I noticed that where once there had been nothing, he now had one of those dreadful keys protruding from his back. His face as he looked at me was blank, expressionless, and I knew that there was nothing I could do for him now. I pushed my way out of the hotel, sending any doll which dared to stand in my way flying in all directions.

Finally, clutching desperately at my breast, I found myself outside in the icy cold of the night. I looked around me, but could see no sign of a hotel or, for that matter, any building of any description behind me. I ran up to our car and, forgetting forever our lost caravan and the horrors of that awful day, I drove away as fast as the engine would take me, leaving behind forever the nightmare of the ghost town of Skuldugg.

2011

'The Pie' - A short story

A homage to Donald Barthelme, notably 'The Balloon'.

It was as I awoke one morning to the sound of birds twittering outside of my frosty window pane that I noticed a huge amount of steam rising up into the sky from an unknown source. Looking out of my window, I was confronted with one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. Lying there, in the middle of the road, was an enormous steak and kidney pie. From whence it came, nobody seemed to know, but hundreds of people had come from the world over just to witness the spectacle. Never before had something so strange and at the same time so exciting happened to the inhabitants of this small Silhillian town. At first, the mayor declared it to be a gift from God – never again, he announced, would there be need for citizens to work for their food, as the very size of the pie was sure to provide us with food for the next handful of years at least, such was its incredible magnitude. This angered the vegetarian population, but the mayor told them that if they didn’t like it they should keep their own council. Its filling seeped out of a small hole in the lower region of its crust, and warm gravy with chunks of meat as large as full-sized cattle ran out into the street. The more overweight members of the population took to wallowing in the stream, using it as a source of moisture in place of the usual, rather bland water we had drunk before the Genesis of the Pie, as it was now affectionately referred to. Its thick crust was immediately seized by the fat cats of the town, and the top of the pie was immediately transformed into a pay-for-entry park for the under 5s. The park was an immediate success until, one day, a child decided it would be a good idea to eat a portion of the pie, the terrible consequence of which being the collapse of the lid, and the child thus fell into the gravy and tragically drowned – being of the vegetarian persuasion, the child elected not to attempt to eat his way out. Following this, the citizens spent several days in mourning, and the pie turned from a symbol of miracle into a symbol of tragedy. It was immediately cordoned off, and the Health and Safety department covered every inch of its pastry with yellow signs warning against climbing on or over the pie. This worked well, until one day a man tripped over one of the signs. Health and safety went into a frenzy – warning signs placed there for the safety of the citizens had instead turned out to be hazardous to the safety of the citizens. Panic ensued. Government held meetings, and the Future of the Solihull Pie was discussed continuously by politicians across the country. Eventually, certain that the pie was m0re dangerous to people than beneficial, the Prime Minister elected to demolish it with a well-timed missile strike. The rockets plummeted into it in the early hours of June 19^th, piercing its crust and spewing out gravy and meat in all directions across the town. People from all over the world turned up to witness the terrible event – many wore black clothes as a sign of mourning, whereas others took of their hats as a sign of respect. The pie caved in upon itself, and as soon as it had appeared, it was no more. The politicians were pleased with the outcome, but the citizens were in uproar. But nothing could be done about it. Time cannot be rewritten. The deed had been done. Health and Safety were satisfied, government were just pleased that it was no longer in their hands, but the townsfolk would never forget the joy and fame which had been brought them by the arrival of the Great Solihull Pie.

2011

'Life in the Kitchen' - An imitation/parody

I submitted what follows for my first assignment for my short story module. It is, for those requiring clarification, a parody of the work of Franz Kafka, particularly 'The Bridge'.

I was stationary and cold. I was an oven. I sat in the corner of a kitchen. My knees drawn up to my chin, and my arms clutched around them, I was huddled up close to the wall in the only available alcove. My coat was dark in comparison with all the other white-coated appliances with whom I shared a room. Nearby the Washing Machine brawled away. Nobody ever used him more than once a week; when they did, he became so excited that he had to shout so as to let everybody else know of it. I was used daily, however. Every day I just had to wait until the Master decided he was hungry. Then I knew I would have to make myself hot for him.

                It was towards mealtime one day – was it lunch, was it dinner? I cannot tell – the Clock was always positioned just out of my line of sight. Many a time had I asked him to roll just slightly to his left so that I may be able to see the time. He has never obliged. Anyway, I digress. It was towards mealtime one day – probably the evening meal, for that is when I am most used – when the Master decided to cook a Pizza for his consumption. He knelt in front of me and looked at me. Then he smiled. It was a fat, greedy smile. He reached out and fiddled with my knobs. His touch was cold. He twisted and turned them quite deliberately. I didn’t like it, but I let him do it to me. I so wanted to please him.

Eventually he settled on the desired temperature. I felt the warmth stirring within me. It began far down in the lowest regions of my body and slowly spread throughout. I waited. I saw the Master pacing steadily up and down the kitchen, licking his lips greedily as his mind mused upon the prospect of the Pizza. I watched him all the while. I just had to wait. He began parting my knees, opening up my legs and looking inside me. Each time he grunted impatiently. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, that by constantly opening the door he was continually letting the heat out. But I just couldn’t find the words. He closed my legs again. He looked very cross with me. I had so wanted to please. He resumed his frustrated pacing.

But, thankfully, it didn’t take long for me to heat up this time. As soon as I knew I was hot enough, I tried to catch his attention. I closed my eye, extinguishing the little pinpoint of red which it gave off. But he didn’t see! I just kept getting hotter and hotter! The warmth kept on building up inside me! I began to panic!

He continued pacing for several minutes more before he finally saw that I was ready. Then I saw him turn his attention to the Freezer. His mouth opened wide, and he exhaled the foul breath of early morning upon the face of the Master. The Master shivered. The Freezer had always had a rather icy personality. He stuck his tongue out insolently; the Master reached out and endeavoured to pull out the Pizza, which he had balanced on the end of it. But the Freezer clung onto it; the Master had to tug and tug before he could retrieve it.

With the Pizza in his hands, the Master walked up to me again. But as he reached forward to part my legs once more, I realized I couldn’t keep my eye closed any longer. Tears were building up behind my eyelid. I simply had to relieve myself! I opened my eye, and the red light began beaming once more.

The Master let out an infuriated scream and hit me with his fists. I felt absolutely terrible. I had only wanted to please.

I had always had trouble maintaining a constant temperature. I ran on electricity. I had always dreamed of being an infinitely more efficient oven of the gas variety, like my father. But we electric ovens have never stayed at the right temperature. I mean, we stay around it, but if we drop just slightly below what the Master desires, we have to let him know. It has always been a little tradition of ours. But other people don’t understand. Most feel we are far too pedantic regarding out duty. Luckily, as he looked at me with rising anger, I finally managed to close my eye again.

He smiled, warmly. Then he picked up the Pizza and parted my legs once more. Looking within, hungrily, he reached in and placed the Pizza on the middle shelf. He closed my legs. He left me huddled up, deep within the alcove.

*

I was cold and stiff. I had been sitting in the freezer for all eternity. Tick tock goes the clock. It may have been a year that I have sat in here, freezing my pepperoni off, and all for want of a view of the Clock. I mean any clock. Not the Clock. I couldn’t stand the man. There he was, everyday, sitting pride of place on the kitchen counter. I couldn’t help thinking, had I been in the Fridge, I would have fulfilled my life’s purpose and been gone long before my use-by date. Instead, here I continued to sit, amongst a sea of icicles and frost, alone, with only the Peas for company, in a white, frosty wasteland.

              Suddenly, and without warning, a burst of white light engulfed me, and a draft of glorious warm air hit me in the olives. A figure, silhouetted against the sky, beckoned to me.

‘Is this the end?’ I asked myself.

The figure reached out and held me gently. ‘Come my dear – it’s time,’ the man said.

I felt certain that this was the end. Here was my maker, my destiny; it appeared I was about to ascend into Pizza Heaven. And then I saw his steely countenance. I heard the legs of the furnace being wrenched open. The man grinned, and began to slide me, menacingly, into the warm belly of the beast.

‘No!’ I tried to scream. ‘Do not cook from frozen! Defrost first! Defrost, man!’

But I went unheard, and slowly I began to roast away in that chamber of death, burning in an atmosphere filled with the scent of slowly melting mozzarella.

*

I was small and spherical. I was a Pea. Sitting huddled up with our oversized jacket draped about me, snuggled up with all of my brothers and sisters, my job didn’t seem as bad as most tended to assume it would be. The cold wasn’t too unbearable, either. I didn’t have much chance to move, it was true. My days passed in little more than a haze, secluded, continually shrouded in unrelenting darkness, but at least I had company. The voices of a hundred or more of my brethren filled my ears. The conversation wasn’t bad either. What did we think of the Chips at the back? Who was the Old Bean who had recently moved in upstairs? Mindless chit chat, but at least we enjoyed ourselves. Huddled up into little balls, with our knees against our chins and our arms tucked in tightly against our bodies, it was really all the enjoyment we had. But it wasn’t as dull as you may have expected.

And, of course, we got to know the other people whom we shared living quarters with. The Beer wasn’t too bad. He had just moved in a few minutes ago. They said he would move again very shortly, that his residence herein was just a way of rapidly cooling him. But he generally was liked by all. The Pizza, too, had been popular, but sadly he was no longer with us. He had gone out just a few moments before, in fact, but none of us expected him to return. His life’s purpose was about to be fulfilled. It was a saddening thought, but we were all content in the knowledge that he was going where nature had intended. That, conversely, was a soothing thought.

Suddenly, the Stranger whose presence oversaw us opened the mouth of the Freezer once more, and grabbed hold of the coat which most of the peas had wrapped themselves up in. The Stranger searched with his large, pudgy finger for the large tear he had made in the coat’s fabric, and opened it up wider with his hands. With the Freezer’s mouth still open, gawping at the spectacle, we saw the Stranger throw the contents of the coat into the steaming geyser which rested upon the head of the Oven. We could hear the screams as their skin hit the boiling water. We felt so helpless; we strongly felt the guilt of the survivor. It could have been us tossed into that terrible pool, after all, had we not fallen out of the coat as he grabbed it. If only we had not been so lazy and still: if only we could have been bothered to cling on, to make the effort to climb back inside the warmth of its many folds.

*

After a while – a few minutes, or an hour perhaps – the Master parted my legs once again and peered hungrily inside. He pulled the pizza out from within, and caressed it with his fingers. Then his amicable face turned to one of fury as he realised his dinner was still undercooked. He looked at me with sheer contempt. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t Pizza’s fault either! He should have listened to the instructions the Pizza had yelled at him, or at least perused the available information. He had his preparation guidelines tattooed on his backside, after all. You couldn’t miss them! But he wouldn’t listen to any of us. He hurled the Pizza out through the open window in a fit of rage, and then stormed out of the room. I looked up at the Counter. A piece of Stem Ginger stood on his head, leaning back in a bowl luxuriously. He lay there, laughing at our misfortune. It wasn’t that which upset me though. After all, he was an ugly, knobbly brute. Taunts from him couldn’t hurt me. It was that the Master left me there for so long, feeling unbearably ashamed that I hadn’t pleased him. I simply couldn’t stand not knowing how long he was going to leave me there. I had to see the time. I yelled at the Clock, shouting at him to turn and face me. The seclusion was unbearable. I began clanging my legs open and close several times. I was making more of a racket than the Washing Machine ever had in his entire distinguished career. I turned all of my knobs up as far as they would go. I felt the heat rising within me with the increase of my frustration and my rage. Fires lit upon my brow. The Peas shook violently. Several bailed, their screams ringing out as they plummeted down to the cold, tiled floor below. My light blinked rapidly. The heat was unbearable. The wrath within me was all-consuming. And then, as I reached the peak of my frustration, I heard a bang. I felt my entire body shudder with the force. My light went out. I could not see. I parted my legs, and a large plume of smoke billowed out into the still air of the kitchen.

The Stem Ginger’s taunts played upon my ears no more. I could not hear the shrieks of the Peas. All was silence.

Silence, and darkness.

2011

'The Hospital' - A parody

Over the summer I began work on my first novel, Resistance, which is currently in the writing stage. At the same time, I took time to focus on the writing of short stories by taking a second year module dedicated to the form. It was also during this time that the writing group known as the Fosbraey Five was formed. I feel it would be prudent now to post the best of my efforts during the course of this module, starting with yet another parody, this time inspired by the Ernest Hemingway short story 'Indian Camp'. It seemed to be very popular among the other members of the Five.

At the back of a hospital another ambulance was parked. The two Indian takeaway delivery boys stood waiting.

                ‘Sorry’, said Doctor Dad. ‘You won’t be needed. I have been to M&S.’

                The two delivery boys bowed their heads in sadness and walked away.

                Doctor Dad and, for some strange reason, his son, Nick, got into the back of the ambulance and the delivery boys shoved it off and one of them got in for a ride home. The engine had broken, but Doctor Dad felt he would look silly turning up on foot, so intended to allow the ambulance to roll down the street and jump out at the last moment. Doctor Dad’s Uncle George had also decided to come along, and sat in the passenger seat. The other delivery boy shoved the ambulance off and got in to turn the steering wheel when necessary.

                The two ambulances started off in the dark. Nick heard the brakes of the other ambulance quite a way ahead of them in the mist.

                ‘Cor, blimey, that’s a loud pair of brakes for me to hear them this far off, isn’t it, Dad?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘Okay.’

                Nick lay back with Doctor Dad’s arm around him. Dad looked over at the delivery boys in case they thought him a bit fruity, but they were too busy touching each other in quick choppy strokes. Dad felt more at ease.

                It was cold on the road. The Indian who was turning the steering wheel was working very hard, but clearly not hard enough since the other ambulance moved further ahead in the mist all the time. Lazy, that’s what it was. He had not pushed hard enough.

             ‘Where are we going, Dad?’ Nick asked.

             ‘Over to the Indian takeaway. There’s an Indian lady very sick. Either that or giving birth.’

             ‘Oh,’ said Nick.

‘Can’t you say more than that?’

‘Like what?’ said Nick.

‘Show some interest in my job if you want to come along.’

‘Oh, okay,’ said Nick.

‘Nick!’

‘Cool,’ said Nick.

‘Yes.’

‘When will we be home, Dad? Nick asked.

‘When another beautiful Indian baby has been introduced to the world.’

‘Will we miss Doctor Who?’ asked Nick.

‘Yes.’

‘I already hate this woman,’ said Nick.

‘Me too. That’s why I’m going to give her a Caesarean with a dirty knife.’

‘Ha,’ said Nick.

‘Lol,’ said Dad.

On the other end of the road they found the other ambulance overturned. Uncle George was smoking cannabis in the dark. It’s just a thing he likes to do.

Rather than drive up to the takeaway, they chose to walk up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with something Dad hoped was dew but which he had a sneaking suspicion was something far more sinister, following a young man who had somehow found a lantern and decided to light it. Then they went into the woods and followed a trail of something I will not specify that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills and then went underground to a secret takeaway area, and we passed a chip shop and then a fish shop and then a fish and chip shop and then a Chinese and then for some reason walked into a public convenience where the woman had chosen to have her baby.

On the floor of the lavatory there lay a young woman who had been trying to have her baby for two days and had, it turned out, been relocated here when they refused to pay any more seating tax for remaining in the premises. For some reason it turns out you have to pay extra to have you baby in the takeaway, but if you take it away, as the name implies you should, it costs less. I don’t know. Capitalism gone mad.

She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father – that’s Nick’s father, not the Indians’ father: sorry for being unclear – and Uncle George into the lavatory. The room smelled very, very, very bad.

‘This place clearly hasn’t been cleaned for a while. And this is what we pay taxes for?’ asked Nick.

‘It’s not the government’s fault, Nick,’ said the Doctor. ‘Mr. Clegg is having a particularly hard time working with the coalition government due to their being more Conservative MPs than Liberals, meaning Mr. Clegg has had to turn his back on all his policies and spend six days of the week at home watching Bargain Hunt.’

‘Oh,’ said Nick.

‘I know,’ said the Doctor.

‘Sad,’ said Nick.

‘Very,’ said the Doctor.

On the top of the cistern lay the woman’s husband. He had stubbed his tow on the sofa three days before, and now was virtually incapacitated.

‘This lady is going to have a beautiful baby, Nick.’

‘I know. I’m not stupid. I think most people would be able to tell that,’ said Nick.

‘You don’t know,’ said his father.

‘I do. Her eggs have become fertilised by the male sperm and have developed over a period of nine months into a foetus. Now contractions have started, meaning the baby is soon to be born.’

Doctor Dad chose to ignore his son. If he wanted to come along, he would at least pretend to be learning something.

‘You don’t know,’ said his father.

‘Yes I do. We learned it at school in biology.’

His father looked at him. ‘Listen to me. You don’t know.’

Nick sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you?’ asked his father. Well then, listen to me. What she’s going through it called labour. Her eggs have become fertilised by the male sperm and have developed over a period of nine months into a foetus. Now contractions have started, meaning the baby wants to be born and she wants it to be born.'

‘I don’t want it to be born!’ screamed the lady.

‘Quiet you,’ said the Doctor in a kindly way.

‘I see,’ said Nick.

‘Did you honestly not know that? I would have thought everyone knew that. You’re a very stupid boy aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Nick.

‘I see,’ said the Doctor.

‘Oh, Daddy –‘

‘I told you before,’ the Doctor said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Never call me Daddy around the guys.'

‘Sorry. But can’t you give her something to stop her screaming?’

‘No. I left my anaesthetic in the ambulance. I’ll look like a right tit if I go back and pick it up now, because then people would know I had forgotten it, and they would laugh at me. By the way, Nick – do you like spaghetti?’

‘Yes,’ said Nick.

‘Then hold on to this bowl of afterbirth for me, will you?’ Nick turned his face away, and the Doctor whispered ‘don’t tell social services.’

And then the baby was born. The Doctor screamed out in horror. The child was an ugly brute. It was knobblier than a piece of stem ginger. But the work was done.

‘That’s one for the medical journal, George,’ he said. ‘Doing a Caesarian with a spoon because you forgot you knife and sewing up with nine foot strawberry laces.’

‘And now, for lunch.’

He pulled back the lid on his lunchbox. His hand came away wet. He mounted on the edge of the toilet with a lamp in one hand and looked in. The sandwich was mashed to pieces, and was clearly well past its sell by date. The filling had separated from egg to mayo. The filling had flowed down into a pool at the bottom of the lunchbox.

‘I’m terribly sorry you had to see that, Nickie; it was an awful mess’.

‘Do M&S always make such horrible sandwiches?’ Nick asked.

‘No, that was very, very exceptional.’

‘Why was it out of date, Daddy?’

‘I don’t know, Nick. They didn’t check the label before putting it on the shelf, I suppose.’

‘Do many men forget to check the use by dates before buying things when shopping, Daddy?’

‘Not very many, Nick.’

‘Do many women?’

‘Hardly ever.’

‘Don’t they ever?’

‘Oh, yes. They do sometimes. But they blame it on the men anyway and if you don’t agree then you will never hear the end of it for days.’

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did Uncle George go?’

‘I think he went home to catch Doctor Who.’

‘Without us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jammy bastard,’ said Nick.

2011