(Not specifically by Sue Phillips, that's just the way it has come out on this page)An anthology of short horror stories. The book includes all winning entries of the Terror Scribes competition. Sue Phillips' story Images of Angels won first place and there were some notable runners up. See the review below.
The book contains contributions from Christopher Fowler, Simon Clark, Steve Harris, Teri A. Jacobs, Neal Asher, Stephen Gallagher, Tim Lebbon, Paul Finch, Scott Thomas, Joe Rattigan, Mark Samuels, Sarah Crabtree, Michael Cisco, Eddie M. Angerhuber, Steve Harris, Michael Pendragon, Simon Clark, John Paul Catton, Derek M. Fox, Stanley C. Sargent, Sue Phillips, Lisa Negus and Rob Rowntree.
"Well," she exclaimed, "I told you weeks ago that you should get it looked at. You shouldn't have that much pain all the time." Jack wondered how she knew about the pain; he hadn't mentioned it to her. "It's that job," she continued, "they get you lifting those heavy weights when you should be telling others to do it - you've been down there long enough to be foreman by now. You let them get the better of you every time; it isn't fair. You should stand up for yours..."
"That'll do, Mu." Jack cut in, "I don't need this now." This was the first time he had ever snapped at her and she was surprised into silence. She had always hated him calling her Mu, it made her feel diminished, small like the mathematical symbol, but Jack could never get his tongue around Muriel. He called her Mural for the first few weeks of their relationship. At least Mu was better than that and so she had let it go. She let this go too, even though the unintentional rhyme sounded faintly ridiculous, covering her discomfiture by clattering around the kitchen as she brewed a pot of tea; her cure for any difficult situation.
Later when Jack rose from his chair Muriel saw a shadowed thing rise with him. She dismissed it as a trick of the light. An appointment at the Oncology unit of the hospital arrived a few days later and Jack found himself making arrangements to take his first ever unscheduled day off work. Muriel was surprised when she saw the appointment card.
"What have they sent you that for; isn't oncology to do with cancer?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I'll ring the hospital, they must have got you confused with somebody else."
But there was no mistake.
Muriel accompanied her husband to the hospital, stood by him whilst the tests were performed and was there a week later when he sat in Doctor Jeffries' surgery and learned that a tumour on his spine was one of several, the largest of which was in his stomach. For the first time Muriel realised that although his paunch had grown, his limbs had become skinnier and his face looked positively haggard, a fact that she had until now ascribed to the constant back pain she knew he'd been suffering in silence.
"I have to be honest with you," the doctor had said, staring into a computer screen on which words were displayed, though at the wrong angle for Muriel to see clearly, "we could try chemotherapy, perhaps operate to remove the tumours, but things really have gone too far and it would involve a lot of suffering for little benefit. Why didn't you come to me sooner? We might have been able to do something."
The shadowed thing was there beside Jack as he asked, seeming to measure his words carefully: "How long have I got?"
"We don't like to think in those terms Mister Hapgood, er, Jack. May I call you Jack? It doesn't help anybody to give up hope. A lot of research is being done at the moment and a new treatment may be around the corner."
"How long? I need to know." Muriel had remained silent long enough. She leaned over the desk and glared angrily at the doctor, "This is just a money thing with you, isn't it. Well you're not going to penny pinch at my husband's expense. Put him down for all of it. Chemotherapy, operations. X-rays; everything. We're not leaving here until you sort it all out."
The doctor turned his attention away from the screen to look Muriel in the eye for the first time she could ever remember. "If your husband wishes to do down that route we can, but the prognosis is not good. It will reduce his quality of life and may even shorten the time left to him, and, as I said, there would be little point. Do you really want that on your conscience?"
Muriel shrank back in her seat and saw the shadowed thing grow a little darker. It was beginning to take form now.
"How long?" Jack repeated. "You can give me some idea."
"A month, perhaps a little longer. It is very difficult to say, there are so many variables." He opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of printed forms. Signing the top one, he tore it off and handed it to Jack. "Fill this in and end it off straight away, it will ensure you receive your entitlements. Send it to your employer, there's no need for you to go back to work after today." He typed something on the computer keyboard that sat a few inches from him. Muriel didn't hold with all this technology mixing with medicine. What business did doctors have using computers. There was a whirring of the printer and it spat out a neatly filled in prescription, which the doctor initialled and passed over. "These tablets are very strong. They should control the pain, but they are dangerous. Whatever you do, do not exceed the maximum dose."
Jack considered for a moment, then said: "I'd like to finish the week. It's only Tuesday and there's one or two little jobs I'd like to finish off."
"Jack!" exclaimed Muriel, "You can't be serious. It's that place that caused this. What do you want to go back for? Tell him, doctor. You need all your energy for fighting now."
Jack looked across at his wife and had the impression that he was seeing her for the first time. There was a kind of haze, almost a glow between them. It was probably a trick of the light, but it certainly made her look different. He smiled softly. "Just three days, Mu, that's all I want. How can I settle my mind to anything with jobs left undone?"
When Jack went in to work the following day, nothing seemed the same. He hadn't noticed before how grimy the factory actually was. The people, too, seemed grimy, their humanity dulled. He opened his toolbox to note that equipment "borrowed" by his colleagues in his absence the previous week had still not been returned.
Jack had wanted to come into work to have time to say goodbye to his friends. Instead he now realised that he had no friends here. Tears began to well in his eyes and he brushed them away, doggedly turning his attention to his work. But it wasn't fair. Here he was, as he'd been for over twenty years, doing his own work and having to do the work of others who managed to weasel their way out of doing anything that required either effort or intelligence. And they were the ones who got congratulated when things went well. When things went badly it was a different story and Jack had been carpeted numerous times for the mistakes of others. He'd let it ride because to defend himself would cause a scene and Jack hated arguments. To make things perfect the pain returned and doubled him over. A month. That was all the doctor had given him; one lousy month and he couldn't even think of anything to do but come into work as usual. He gazed at the National Geographic calendar on the wall beside him. Impossibly blue skies outlined a scattering of white-stuccoed houses clinging to the side of a mountain. A final holiday would have been nice, but after the funeral costs had been accounted for there wasn't enough money in the bank account for even a weekend away. He could not leave Mu impoverished by his death. More tears fell and left bitterness in their place. Jack hated. He hated everyone he had ever come into contact with - except Mu. She was the only thing in this vile world he would be sorry to leave.
A golden mist formed before his eyes and Jack grasped the safety guard on the machine to steady himself. A sound, sibilant, was beyond his hearing. It became clearer, repeating over and over, clearer and clearer: "What do you wish? What do you wish?"
"I wish I had some funds," he said to the machine, clonking the adjuster with his old hammer, the new one having gone missing, "and I wish I could get even with this lot. Let them get exactly what they deserve for a change." Machines crashed and thundered rhythmically around him and his words went unheard. The golden mist was evaporating now, but still tinged the edges of his vision....
Professional Reviews
Terror Tales vol. 1 ed. by John B. Ford & Paul Kane
The famous magazine returns in an attractive paperback format
by: Mario Guslandi
First published by The Alien Online website (thealienonline.net)
On: 25.09.2003
Welcome back, Terror Tales! The glorious horror magazine returns in paperback format, courtesy of Rainfall Books and thanks to the joint efforts of John B. Ford and Paul Kane. The first volume of this anthology series contains, in addition to horror fiction, non-fictional stuff such as book and film reviews, interviews etc.
First, I must warn the potential buyer that the author list reported on the back cover is potentially a little misleading. It mentions Stephen Gallagher, Tim Lebbon and Paul Finch, but although they do all contribute to the 'Dark Debate' section of the book, there’s no actual fiction from those writers. [We're reliably informed that both Gallagher and Finch do have fiction contributions in the next volume. - ed.]
The bulk of the fiction included in the present volume is constituted by the horror tales which won the first positions in the Supreme Terror Scribe contest launched in 2002 by the Terror Tales Online website. It’s not for me to dispute the popular vote, although I would have ranked the various stories differently, but I will mention them without specifying the actual position attained in the competition. With one exception, the top winner, deservedly, was 'Images of Angels' by Sue Phillips; a former winner of another Supreme Terror Scribe competition with her superb 'The Dark Mirror'. Phillips, whose fictional work is, unfortunately, still too scarce, depicts the final days of a man who has to suddenly face the terrible diagnosis of incurable cancer. A dreadful angel, ugly and beautiful at the same time, constantly staying at the man’s back , will represent the loving legacy he will leave to his affectionate wife. The emotional drama is described by Phillips with uncommon restraint and deep human sympathy, with never a moment of surrender to the temptations of sentimentalism. Just perfect.
In Michael Pendragon‘s 'Forests of the Night', a boy’s life, shaken by the mother’s death, turns into a nightmare leading to a tragic, horrific ending. The tale, extremely well written, fills the reader’s mind with anguish and pity. As for 'The Insect Assembly' by John Paul Catton, it is enough to say that if you already hate bugs you’d better skip this terrifying piece of fiction. But, on the other hand, even if you don’t mind insects you’ll end up with a feeling of revulsion the next time you’ll set your eyes upon one of them.
'Sound Bites?' by Derek M. Fox is an unusual example of 'technological' horror, where sound becomes a terrible tool of torture and destruction. In Stanley C. Sargent’s 'Dark Family Values', an abused little boy finally discovers the truth about his deceased parents, only to succumb to their unwholesome appetites. Very creepy!.
Sarah Crabtree, with her nice 'In the Flesh', relates family stories from a past long gone, when vaccinations were still a matter for scientific debate and for groundless fears by the layman. EM Angerhuber’s 'The Skull' will delight the readers fond of the 'dark menace' genre whereas 'The House of Solemn Children' by Michael Cisco is a bizarre, hazy tale where dreams and reality mix up in a ghostly patchwork. On the other hand Scott Thomas, with 'Under Mock Orange', adds new blood (no pun intended) to the traditional serial killer theme .
If you are still so naive to believe that children are innocent creatures you will change your mind after reading 'Seen But Not Heard' by Joe Rattigan, and if you insist that books are precious objects to handle with care you’ll be horrified by Mark Samuels’ 'Quayle the Bibliophile'.
So much for Supreme Terror Scribe winners. To complete the book the editors have added particularly gruesome story by Neal Asher about the hidden horrors of a peculiar factory ('Plastipak Ltd'), an excellent tale by Christopher Fowler ('Where They Went Wrong') about a couple of outcasts whose greatest fear is LIFE, and a semi-humorous piece by Simon Clark ('Me, my Bike and the Inevitable'). I’ll refrain from mentioning the remaining title to avoid embarrassing its author, but the meaning of sentences like "Because this house of filth sits on the street of pain and sleeping beasts will never rise and rage in hungers again." is anybody’s guess.
All in all Terror Tales # 1 is an enjoyable book, featuring many good stories by a bunch of fine writers. Having used up all the tales from the Terror contest, Ford and Kane now have the problem of find equally good material for the next issue. I’m sure they will prove once again to be not only two fine writers but also two highly capable editors.
Chris has been fostered at the Crowley boot camp since he turned seven. At sixteen, he is finally ready to run away because his foster father is an abusive person who works Chris and the other children to the point of exhaustion. All he has left of h
