The Best British Fantasy 2013 Read online

  From the post-apocalyptic American West to the rural terror in New Zealand, this major anthology has evil spirits, bin-Laden style assassinations, steampunk, sexual dysfunction, a twisted version of Peter Pan, the folklore of standing stones, mermaids, alien tour guides, zombies, gruesome beasts, voice-controlled police states, environmental disasters and off world penal colonies. Unmissable.

  Featuring (among others) Simon Bestwick, Joseph D’Lacey, Cate Gardner, Carole Johnstone, Tyler Keevil, Kim Lakin-Smith, Alison Littlewood, Cheryl Moore, Mark Morris, Adam Neville, Lavie Tidhar, Sam Stone, Steph Swainston, E.J. Swift, Lisa Tuttle, Simon Unsworth, Jon Wallace.

  The Best British Fantasy 2013

  Steve Haynes is an editor whose subtle approach to his chosen profession has earned him the epithets “Hacker Haynes” and “The Butcher of Bodmin”. He was born in Walsall in 1964. He read for a BA in English and Film Studies at the University of Wolverhampton, and was an English teacher at Secondary level for 25 years. He is a prolific and lifelong devourer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, science writing, contemporary philosophy and graphic novels.

  The Best British Fantasy 2013

  Edited by

  STEVE HAYNES

  CROMER

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

  All rights reserved

  Selection and introduction © Steve Haynes, 2013

  Individual contributions © the contributors

  The right of Steve Haynes to be identified as the editor of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2013

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978 1 84471 957 0 electronic (ePub)

  ISBN 978 1 84471 958 7 electronic (Kindle)

  STEVE HAYNES

  Introduction

  British Fantasy is not what you think it is. Leaving aside the multiple classifications of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror, and their many sub-genres, what you see on the bookshelves of major bookstores will not be reflected in this book.

  You will not find questing heroes in quasi-medieval realms here. Nor will you find children playing with magic wands, or adults riding dragons beneath the setting of twin suns. There are no burning spaceships launching submarine torpedoes or zombie hordes chewing their way through the local population. There are certainly no teenage vampires, or werewolves, responsibly refusing to mix bodily fluids and just saying no.

  The creation of a novel is more of a collective act than many readers realise and sometimes what is commissioned, and ultimately published, can be influenced by how well an idea can be sold on a supermarket shelf. Writers of short fantasy stories, on the other hand, have a freedom encouraged by magazine editors and readers who are willing to take a chance on something very different.

  Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror have the short form deeply woven into their DNA. Just about every classic ‘novel’ of the 19th and 20th Century began as a short story concept, collection or a magazine serial. (Yes, I know there are exceptions to this, but even the epics of people like Tolkien were first shared in episodes among a small group of people and then fed into the construction of something much bigger.) So persistent is the short form as the basic building block of these genres that there is still an active culture and market for short stories. There are still enthusiastic readers who look forward to the next delivery of a magazine promising tales from writers they have not heard of and about subjects they are unfamiliar with.

  I am going to refer to Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror under the single banner of fantasy. I know this will anger many who closely guard the perceived boundaries of these genres, but I believe these divisions are illusory – that writers and readers flow across and around them, that they are marketing labels, and in short stories the walls are there to be broken down. This, in turn, gives me a freedom to gather a wide range of stories and writers under one banner (the work published or written in the latter part of 2011 and across 2012), and the contents of this collection reflect this eclectic approach.

  In these pages you will find apocalyptic hangovers from unwise foreign adventures, political dystopias and a fear of the ‘other’ that leads to moral corruption. The most openly fantasy genre stories are rooted in a streetwise urban sensibility. You will find metamorphosis, psychosexual ghost stories in a very modern world, a little steampunk, folklore, phobias rising up from beneath the surface veneer of life and monsters walking amongst us. There are stories here that question that most horrible of modern phrases, ‘the greater good,’ and writers who take us beyond the boundaries of civilization. (I should warn you that there are some stories with children in and, in the tradition of our most ancient faerie tales, they are not pleasant endings.)

  British fantasy writers are experimental and brave; they delve into disturbing subjects and mix one genre seamlessly with the next. Indeed, it could be said that British fantasy reflects the times we live in. I was surprised myself just how dark British fantasy is willing to go in the short form.

  This collection has been gathered over a period of twelve months, from many different sources and the stories were originally written for a variety of purposes. They are purposely grouped into areas where two or more stories may complement each other. I have also tried to take the reader on a journey across the different realms that reflect the various streams of British fantasy.

  These stories are written by people who are honing their craft and flexing their writing muscles. You will find writers who are familiar, who have been published in novel form, and you will find new names that will surprise you with their consummate skill.

  Finally, I should point out that, in my experience, fantasy writers are light-hearted and friendly individuals; often they are enthusiastic fans who fell in love with their genres as children (just like you and me) and find immense satisfaction in reading, and watching, popular fantasy. But, like us all, they have their dark spaces, and their writing reflects the world around them as much as that within.

  So, dear reader, if you’re prepared to take on something different, if you’re ready to look behind the curtain, if you feel brave enough, then enter the many worlds of British Fantasy. It’s not what you think it is.

  JON WALLACE

  Lips and Teeth

  Camp 15, Yodok, 16 December Juche Year 100

  The rain stops by morning, and a little sun breaks through the clouds, thank the Dear Leader. I get out of bed. I scratch at the lice. Then I pick up Jin-Song and step outside.

  The yard is a small square of yellow and white mud, ten paces wide and twelve paces long. It’s surrounded by a rotting dried mud wall, topped with rusty wire. In one place the wall has crumbled, leaving an opening. If I want, I can look out at the fields, all the way along the deep, narrow valley and up the mountains.

  Sometimes there is a farmer with deep brown skin wading in the nearby paddy, carrying a tool that is not unlike Jin-Song. Sometimes I peer over at him and watch him work. I�
�m afraid of being caught, but Jin-Song is convinced that nobody watches me anymore.

  In the corner of the yard is a pile of large rocks that it is my duty to break into smaller rocks. I start on the largest, most stubborn looking one, the one I didn’t have the energy for yesterday. I lift Jin-Song over my head. He mutters:

  ‘Here we go again.’

  I lower him, drained by his tone. As pickaxes go his blade is blunt, but his words are sharp. He thinks our incarceration is unjustified, our labour pointless. He also gets mad and spews treason about the Dear Leader, which I guess is why he’s in here with me.

  He’s always telling me to escape, but I can’t do it. It frustrates him, and he sometimes gives me the silent treatment. One time he didn’t say a word to me for a year.

  When he’s not silent he talks my ear off about being special. He tries to make me think I deserve better than this. I tell him – if that were the case I wouldn’t be here.

  ‘You used to have balls,’ he says.

  ‘Let’s just get on with the work.’

  ‘This isn’t work. This is punishment. You do know that this is a prison, right? You do know that?’

  ‘I’m not a prisoner. I am being re-educated.’

  Ha. He doesn’t have an answer to that. It feels good to outwit him. He thinks he is so much smarter than me.

  We start smashing the rocks, having talked enough for one morning. I only manage four swings before I am crumpled on my haunches, gasping for air. How old am I, anyway?

  ‘You’re 31,’ says Jin-Song.

  ‘No, no, that can’t be right. I must be older.’

  ‘Physically, yes. That’s what a diet of gruel, rat and earthworm will do for you.’

  I pant and stare at the rocks.

  There is a seashell lying in the rubble. I pick it up and turn it over in my blackened fingers. I have not seen a shell like this in . . . how long have I been here?

  I know the date precisely, but I can’t remember when I was born, or how I came to be here, or how long I have been here. I know the days pass but I do not count them, ever. What would that achieve? Time here passes in ages. This is the age of acceptance. There was also an age of despair, and one of hope, or maybe anger, before that. I don’t remember clearly. It’s like that school textbook I once had – I can see the cover but can’t recall the pages inside.

  The shell is from an age that passed in days and even hours. An age where I sat on the beach and watched my father fishing.

  ‘Nice shell,’ says Jin-Song. ‘I wonder how it got here?’

  ‘It must be a gift from the Dear Leader.’

  ‘Oh, for heavens sake. . .’

  ‘You can’t deny it. Only he could have provided it!’

  I hold it in the palm of my hand. Briefly I’m seized by the urge to crush it to dust, but I hold back. If the Dear Leader meant me to have it I should not reject it. I drop it into my pocket and lift Jin-Song over my head, ready to get back to work.

  ‘Here we go again,’ he says.

  Camp 15, Yodok, 17 December Juche Year 100

  I cannot tell exactly what is happening because my yard is sealed off from the rest of the camp. Something about me is infectious and I am locked away, out of sight.

  My cell has no windows. I never speak to the guards. I do not attend political education classes. Food is passed under my rotting, black, wooden door.

  Still, I can hear a commotion nearby. I hear chanting, wailing and screaming.

  I try to ignore it. I lie on my bunk and shiver, scratching at the lice, and turn the shell over in my fingers. It is perfectly intact, from fat end to curling point. I remember that it was rare to find them in such perfect shape on the beach.

  I look into the shell and suddenly I remember the courtyard at university, the dead staring at me. I see the courtroom. I remember being unable to speak. I recall sitting in the back of the truck, driving up into the brown mountains, and soldiers laughing at me. I remember the blue room, and the pain of bamboo shoots pushed under my fingernails.

  What is it that I did?

  ‘I’m sick of telling you,’ says Jin-Song. ‘You’ll just forget again.’

  There is a noise. I sit up on my bunk and regard the door. Someone is knocking.

  ‘Prisoner 11-17. Prisoner, are you in there?’

  I fall off the bed I am so startled. I get up of my knees, dropping the shell into my pocket, and stagger to the door.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I reply. ‘Yes, Sir, I am here, thank-you, Sir.’

  Jin-Song fumes at my groveling tone, but I must thank the guard. I haven’t spoken to a person in so long. I want to embrace him. I want to tell him my name. Who am I anyway? My name is. . .my name is. . .

  ‘Prisoner 11-17. You will join the other prisoners in the main recreation yard for our day of national mourning.’

  ‘Mourning?’

  There is a rusty shriek. The door is opened. A young Major stares at me. Two privates stand behind him.

  ‘You will shave, prisoner. You will shave and dress.’

  ‘Yes, I will shave and dress. Thank-you, Sir.’

  The guards push me out of the cell, behind the Major, out into the courtyard and . . .

  People! Hundreds, maybe thousands of other prisoners. They are lined up in neat rows, all on their knees, all wailing in horror. The noise is incredible. An old man chews on his hat, biting off pieces and spitting them out. Women shriek and pull their hair. I want to call out to them but I do not know what to say. What has happened?

  I am led through the crowd, into another hut. I flinch when they push me into a chair, thinking of the blue room, but then a Corporal with a moustache begins to shave me. He is weeping too and his hands tremble. He starts with scissors, then moves on to electric trimmers. I sit and stare into the small mirror. I watch my face appear from behind the beard. I remember this face and I smile.

  The Corporal stops his work. He slaps me hard across the face.

  ‘You might be simple, but you do not smile today. Do you hear me?’

  He pulls my hair, wrenching my head back, tears pouring down his cheeks.

  ‘Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He gathers himself, wipes away his tears, and finishes his work.

  I am led back out into the wailing yard. Thousands of bald, half-starved figures kneel and genuflect in the yellow and white mud, boxed in by the black dormitory huts. A poster of the Dear Leader hangs from a watchtower, smiling at their grief. The soldiers drop me to my knees at the edge of the crowd.

  ‘Prisoner 11-17. You will mourn. You will return to your cell in three hours.’

  ‘Please Sir,’ I ask. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘The Dear Leader has ascended to the heavens.’ He marches away. The two young guards take their place in the mourners, then begin crying and wailing themselves. Only the Major doesn’t cry. He watches me, frowning.

  I am not sure how best to mourn, so I watch my neighbour, an old man with hairy ears. He is banging his head onto a rock. I copy him, crashing my head as hard as I can onto a jagged white stone. Still no tears come.

  I realise now, listening to this noise, that it is true. The Dear Leader is dead. Yet I feel nothing but the lice crawling over me. I hold my eyes open until they sting. A few precious, merciful tears roll down my cheeks.

  In a few hours the guards toss me back into my cell.

  Jin-Song is propped against my cot. I drop next to him and bring the shell out of my pocket. It is still in one piece.

  A terrible sadness overwhelms me and I begin to sob uncontrollably. Grief like I have never known shakes and twists me. I get to my feet, go to the rotting black door and thump on it as hard as I can.

  ‘Let me out! Let me out! I’m ready to mourn now!’

  Nobody comes. I sit on the bed. I howl and sn
iff and scratch at the lice, until eventually I am quiet again.

  ‘Do you feel better?’ asks Jin-Song.

  ‘Yes, thank-you.’

  ‘Did you notice something?’ he asks me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They didn’t gag you. You are supposed to be gagged at all times, you know. I wonder if they’ve forgotten?’

  Camp 15, Yodok, 18 December Juche Year 100

  Whatever Jin-Song thinks they’ve forgotten, they’ve remembered. The two guards are back, wearing earmuffs. They look ridiculous, and they seem to know it. They throw me onto my back, and push a rag into my mouth.

  I am dragged out into the main yard again, staggering barefoot through the mud. The prisoners are all there again, wailing and beating themselves. If only they had seen me last night. I expect to join them, but instead I am dragged past them, through the rows of stinking black huts, through a gate that leads to the guards’ quarters.

  Inside there are two neat concrete accommodation blocks with tile roofs. A small hut sits between them. I am pulled up the steps and shown inside.

  The Major sits behind a desk, his wide brimmed hat resting on the table before him. He nods to the two guards. They drop me in a chair, salute, and leave. It is wonderfully warm in here. The Major has a heater which sweeps the room, warming my frozen nose. Thank the Dear Leader. Do I still say that? I suppose so. I wish someone would tell me who to thank now.

  The Major doesn’t look up from his file. He picks up a cup of tea, slurps it noisily and gasps.

  ‘We have a snake among us.’

  He looks up and smiles.

  ‘Do you remember how you came to be here, 11-17?’

  I shake my head. Jin-Song says people died because of something I did. I was trying to lead people somewhere, trying to change something. . . but what? The Major slurps his tea again and nods.