Blood and Grit 21

by Clark, Simon

  … see what I mean?

  The brick wall in the story is real. It stands in a park near where I live. The wall was once part of property owned by the aristocratic Washington family. There are rumours that they share mutual ancestors with the first president of the United States, George Washington. In the village church, the family’s Tudor graves can be found. Those box-shaped tombs bear the Washington coat of arms, which, coincidentally (or should that be mysteriously?), feature a stars and stripes design.

  The wall that inspired ‘Revelling in Brick’ is over two hundred years old. It has seen more than 70,000 sunsets. If those bricks had eyes, what would they have witnessed down through the years? As a fiction writer it’s my mission to imagine exactly that. So I sat down and spun a tale of a man taking a walk to the wall and encountering a mysterious figure that seems to have a compelling hold over him.

  The old wall that helped provide some of the inspiration for ‘Revelling in Brick’.

  A nice detail that adds an air of mystery to one of the centuries’ old bricks. Is that the tip of an iron arrow head embedded in that mellow, orange brick? Or is it the tip of a tool broken off by an impatient brick maker, trying to lever the clay out of the mould?

  Sex, Savagery and Blood, Blood, Blood

  Subtle it isn’t. The title of the story that brings to a close this very-much-for-adults-only collection is extravagantly vivid. Deliberately so. Blood and Grit was engineered to be hard-hitting and confrontational. The stories were written early in my career. What they lacked in polite grammar I hoped they made up for in raw energy that would carry the reader to worlds of wonder, horror and blood-drenched excitement; perhaps with some eerie side-excursions on the way.

  I wrote ‘Sex, Savagery and Blood, Blood, Blood’ on my first computer – a quaint-looking Amstrad 9512, which had even quainter software. The files and the dictionary had to be loaded afresh from strange little disks every time I used the machine. Anyway, I switched on the computer for the first time: the word processor program trembled into life.

  The technology amazed me so much that I was gazing adoringly at the black and white screen, rather than thinking about what I was going to type. I just wanted to type anything. Right at that moment, all I wanted to see were words appearing onscreen (before buying the Amstrad I wrote everything in longhand then typed up afterwards). I tapped out the first thing that came into my head: It was Friday night in Lupi’s brothel. It was the hottest one this side of the Poison Delta.

  After that, I played around with the keyboard; then I tried looking through the air vents in the back of the monitor to see what kind of computer wizardry was taking place down there. The hot air blew up into my eyes, making them water so much that I couldn’t see anything for a while.

  Eventually my eyes returned to normal. I re-read the paragraph I’d tapped out at random. I liked the promise of those lines. What’s more, I realized this had the makings of a story. Maybe there was some magic in that quirky Amstrad 9512. In my imagination, I can picture lightning striking the computer factory one night and strange, numinous powers flowing into the circuit boards as they waited for assembly into my 9512.

  In any event, I started typing words into my brand new computer, as I enjoyed the smell of brand new plastic warmed by those exotic electrical components. Three hours later ‘Sex, Savagery and Blood, Blood, Blood’ was complete. And so was my first book.

  * * *

  A few months later Chris and Amanda, his girlfriend and business partner, delivered a box full of bright yellow books to my house. Blood and Grit had arrived. I was the happiest man alive.

  We set about promoting the book. Chris and Amanda had the arduous task of winning orders and precious sales.

  Chris persuaded a local radio station to interview us. A collection of Yorkshire horror stories by a Yorkshire author had begun to attract media attention.

  This is where the adventures started. On the day of the interview I got lost in the suburbs of Sheffield, the time remorselessly ticking down to the moment I was supposed to be talking live on air.

  After a frantic drive through a maze of back streets, I spotted the sign: BBC Radio Sheffield. With a screech of tyres I skidded the car through the gates into a parking spot, leapt out, and rushed toward the building’s entrance – only to find that a very prominent union leader was being interviewed by a TV crew. And that union leader stood magisterially in the narrow doorway, completely blocking it.

  Ninety seconds to zero hour. Chris would be sitting there in the studio wondering where the hell his author was. The show’s host, the erudite Rony Robinson, would be wondering where the hell his second guest was lollygagging. Eighty seconds to zero hour.

  Here goes. With a muttered, ‘Excuse me,’ I shoved past the surprised union leader. I also heard a frustrated TV director cry, ‘Cut! We’ll go again.’

  Panting like fury I announced my arrival to the receptionist. She calmly ushered me into the studio where a relieved Chris nodded a hello (or was it a: thank God, you’re here!). The DJ was just telling his audience that he’d soon be chatting to the publisher of an intriguing work of horror fiction and its author.

  The interview went well. Chris spoke articulately and entertainingly about how the book happened. By this time, my heart had stopped racing. I answered questions, told an anecdote or two. I’d already inserted slips of paper into the book’s pages so I could read a carefully chosen excerpt that wouldn’t be too gruesome for a morning audience.

  Rony Robinson smiled at me and told his listeners, ‘Now Simon Clark will read from Blood and Grit.’

  I smiled back, picked up the book. All the slips of paper immediately fluttered gracefully from the pages. I sat there in stark terror. What on earth could I read that wouldn’t immediately result in us being taken off air? I was in such a state of panic that I couldn’t do something as straightforward as finding an inoffensive passage to read.

  Rony Robinson rolled his eyes; I took this to mean Get on with it! Then in calm, polished tones he murmured, ‘And now … Simon Clark … will read from … Blood and Grit.’ I picked a page at random, and began to read. The gods were kind. The passage wasn’t too gruesome for the show, there were no blindingly strong swear words. Everything was going to be okay.

  We’d pulled off a wonderful piece of promotion. The book sold out (well, not instantly; within a few months, anyway). Today, collectors pay a lot of money for copies. If truth be told, that slim volume cast its magic spell for me. It took my writing career to a new level, and helped me sell my first novel, Nailed by the Heart, which in turn established me as a horror novelist. So, here I am, still writing fiction, and still loving every moment of it.

  Now, twenty-one years later, Blood and Grit is back. Or, more accurately, Blood and Grit 21 is here. The original stories are present, along with Andy Darlington’s magnificent introduction. This time round we have extra features, too. A new introduction by Andy. A new story, ‘21 Skinner Lane’. And there’s a vintage tale, too. ‘… Beside the Seaside, Beside the Sea …’ (see the origins of the story’s title) first appeared in Chris’s magazine, Back Brain Recluse in 1985. A writer by the name of Steve Sneyd suggested I send it to Karl Wagner in the USA, who edited The Year’s Best Horror. Karl bought the story and it appeared in The Year’s Best Horror XIV. This was my first professional sale. It seems fitting to include the story here in Blood and Grit 21. Both were made possible by Chris Reed’s BBR, and both were so significant in launching my professional career.

  I’d like to raise a glass to Andy Darlington for the introductions. To Dallas Goffin for the artwork in the original edition (for reasons beyond our control we haven’t be able reproduce his illustrations here). And most wholeheartedly to Chris Reed and Amanda Thompson.

  Incidentally, what adds a beautiful symmetry here is that over twenty years ago Chris invited me to be the author of the first book he published. Now fast-forward to the present day: I’m the author of a fistful of novels and short story collection
s; Chris and Amanda run their own editorial and book design company. A few months ago, I met up with them for coffee. Chris laid a pristine copy of Blood and Grit on the table and he said these words: ‘Simon. We’ve decided to produce our first eBook. And we’d like yours to be the first one we publish …’

  That afternoon, as we made plans for the new edition of Blood and Grit, there was a happy sense of satisfaction. The story had come full circle. That first book of ours was being given a new lease of life. We are delighted to send Blood and Grit 21 out into the world to entertain, and maybe even to chill that vital red-stuff of a brand new audience. Perhaps it will revisit old friends on the way, as well.

  Finally, in closing, I’d like to say ‘Cheers’ to you, the readers of my work. Without you, there’d be no Simon Clark books – and the words on the screen in front of you would never have existed.

  Cheers again, and thank you.

  Simon Clark

  Yorkshire

  September 2011

  … Beside the Seaside, Beside the Sea …

  Note on Yorkshire dialect: ‘The’ is usually silent in speech. In print, it is usually represented as ‘t’ but this is unsatisfactory. The rhythm and many words of Yorkshire dialect come from the invading Vikings who settled in Northern England over a thousand years ago.

  * * *

  Three-fifths of the Earth’s surface is covered by ocean. From sand beach shallows to icy depths, where a layer of salt water seven miles thick covers submerged mountain ranges, valleys and the rusting hulks of sea-choked ships. The sea: the salt-water womb of life. Yet an alien world of kelp jungles, silver-sided fish, stony-shelled molluscs and boiling, steam-winded whales.

  Temperatures vary from a blood-warm surface in equatorial regions to the ice-thick waters of the Arctic and Antarctic. The two trade streams of water. Invisible rivers of warm penetrate the cold. And icy fingers push deeply into the body of warmer sears. Along these currents drift the careless aquatic passengers of the oceans. Jellyfish, weed, kelp, seed-pods, the flotsam, the jetsam – the living and the dead.

  In sweep the currents, with their bobbing freeriders. Eventually, they reach the coast to deliver their cargoes in a curling foam of surf.

  The coastal town hung over the beach, almost lapping the water’s edge. The town presented a façade of brightly coloured lights, pulsing their lotus-eater’s message into the evening. Crowds drifted along the promenade, occasionally caught in the eddies of happy bingo halls, or drawn by the lure of an arcade, packed with whistling, banging, singing video games.

  Pub doors rattled open. Yawning wide like thirsty mouths to admit a flood of bodies through dry throats. Filling empty glass and disco-glittered bellies. The first song of the evening belched through the freshly beer-stained air and out into the dusk.

  Where the land meets the sea – in the scummy, wet divide of ocean and dry sand – the tide unloads its deep-sea cargo and retreats from the resort’s pleasure machine, sliding back in a rattle of pebbles. And by the sea-bitten wood breakwater, the pallbearer of the ocean collects and abandons its dead. Wet strands of brown, leathery kelp, cracked shells, starfish, an oil-matted cormorant, the propeller-shredded remains of a dolphin, the severed head of a conger eel, and the scattered fragments of ten million corpses.

  ‘I can’t,’ said the girl, gazing out to where a darkening sky was fusing with a darkening sea. She sighed. ‘Not all night.’

  The boy wrapped his arm about her waist. ‘Why not? You’re not back at school till next Monday.’

  Her voice was soft. ‘I know … but you know?’

  He pulled her close. ‘There’s only me in the caravan till Thursday. Come on,’ he cajoled. ‘And we’ll go to the Cavern Disco by the harbour tonight.’

  The girl stretched: a decision made. ‘I’d like to.’ And she began to walk toward the lifeboat slipway.

  He became excited as he realized she’d accept his offer. ‘My dad left half a bottle of whisky in the caravan. We’ll ’ave that. He won’t mind … want a cig?’

  As they faded into uncertain silhouettes against the brightly coloured lights of the town, something stirred at the water’s edge. It quivered … it trembled like a stranded fish, gulping the briny air. Wide, blank eyes blinked, watered, and then watched. The cars and buses stopped and started along the sea front. Some motorbikes crackled by; a splash of silver light on the sea.

  Although unseen, it sensed the great presence of the castle ruins perched on the solid mass of rock which dominated the town.

  With waves washing her feet, she rose and wavered as if unsure of her balance. Then the girl, her feet wetly patting the sand, walked up the beach toward the town. The promenade was busy – people sniffing out inviting pubs, clubs and theatres. The machines still sang their electric songs, but the candyfloss stalls, sweetshops and children’s amusements had closed for the night. Fish and chip papers scurried across the road, occasionally folding about her ankles. She paused by the red shell of a wartime mine, now meekly collecting pennies for good causes.

  Baring his teeth, the man with the camera and scrabbling fur ball of a monkey approached her – ‘Hello, luv. Lovely evening’ and gently threw the monkey at her. Just the way he would to encourage people to pose for a photograph with the monkey – and pay him for the privilege.

  Screaming, the animal kicked, bouncing back onto the man’s arm. Tiny black fingers clutched at the lapel of his jacket, then his tie.

  ‘Petro! Petro! Go back to the nice girl. Petro …’

  The monkey squeaked.

  The man said to the girl: ‘Have your picture taken with Petro, luv. Now move that hair away … we can’t see your face. Petro, go to the nice lady.’

  The monkey clung to him, crying. Camera in one hand, he prised the limpet capuchin from him with the other. ‘It’s okay, luv. Petro wouldn’t harm a – bloody hell! The sod bit me!’

  The monkey scrambled up onto his shoulder, and the man sucked his bloody finger, hissing threats all the time. When he looked up, the girl had gone. Three giggling women, pink-flushed with martini, were crossing the road.

  ‘Hello, my darlings,’ he sang. ‘Lovely evening.’ He threw the monkey at them. This time Petro obligingly cuddled himself into the arms of the redhead.

  The town’s visitor that had scared Petro moved on. By shellfish stalls, selling cold, bite-size morsels of salted gristle and muscle. By hamburger stands expelling hot breaths of onion and frying odours. By more arcades. And as the money bells rang, coloured lights flashed in pecuniary gratitude.

  The night wind began to blow cold. Flying in from dark distances of the sea. Sizzling the surf; driving the tattered paper flotsam along the street. Some fastened jackets and coats. Most fell back before the chilling breeze to seek refuge in the cafés and bars.

  A handful – beer-full and numb – defied the cold, ruffling, bone-chilling wind and pointed out to sea where a ship was sinking. Or, perhaps, it was only the lights of the houses on the far side of the bay. Or randy boys pointed at girls as skirts lifted in the goose-fleshing updraft of air.

  A wolf whistle. ‘Want a cig, luv?’

  Another voice. ‘’Ave a drink of me ale.’

  ‘Don’t! He’s peed in it!’

  One of the drunks laughed. ‘He’s shy. He really means, will you hop into bed with him?’

  A clearer voice cut through the soused babble: ‘Shut up, Mick! Leave t’poor lass alone. It’s alright, luv. Take no notice of ’em. They’re all half cut.’

  Outside the pub, she paused. A door opened. Someone hurried out. Dragging some of the odours and the warmth of the saloon bar with them. Inside: black cross-beams segregated the walls that were as yellow as an old man’s teeth. The ceiling was adorned with polished copper kettles and pans. A beer-coloured, cigarette-burn patterned carpet lay fraying into gradual ruin. The hazy atmosphere of the bar vibrated to the throb of the jukebox in the next room. She slipped through the bar, her eyes absorbing the rows of bottles holding amber promises. A tap j
etted foaming lager, and the barman’s gold-ringed fingers clicked against the glass. She sat at a vacant table. Two dozen voices, like waves, washed over her. Submerging her beneath the bubble and hiss of words:

  ‘Another pint of mild, Jack?’

  A woman’s voice soared into laughter. ‘You dirty beggar, Harry! He’ll get ’imself shot.’

  Voices fused and dissolved. ‘I think it’s a bit of sunburn. It is! We ’ad a good two hours in the park this afternoon. I wonder if a bit of cream – you know – Nivea’ll bring out the colour. You should’ve seen our Janet last year, when she got back from France. Her legs were burnt shocking by the sun; just ’ere beneath her knees, covered with blisters. Like balloons filled with water.’

  A match flared in the smoke-soaked air. Wet lips suckled the stem of the pipe. ‘Did I tell you,’ began the man, ‘about that bloke? He lives in the same town as us? Well, one day, when he was at work, the local vet phoned him, yer see, and told him to go to the vet’s surgery straight away. And on no account go home first. So, this bloke, wondering what’s up, goes to the vet’s and sees that the vet’s got his dog – a bloody great Alsatian. “What yer doin’ with me dog?” he asks. Vet tells him a neighbour saw the dog choking in the garden, so that’s how the dog got took to the vet. And the vet got some tweezers, and then he pulled out of the dog’s throat three fingers – human fingers. They were stuck, choking this big fierce dog. So this bloke, who owns the dog, phones the police and he tells them to go to his house. Anyway, when they get to the house, they find the back door’s been forced open. They searched all the rooms and they found a man in the bedroom wardrobe. It was a burglar. He’d broken in; he’d not known there was a dog till it went for him. Only way he could get away from it and stop himself from getting torn to pieces was to hide in the wardrobe. But the dog got hold of his hand first, and had three of his fingers. And it was them three fingers, stuck in the dog’s throat, which were causing it to choke.’