The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  “Yes,” she said. “We nearly lost you.”

  “I was sent back,” he said. “I’m supposed to make some paintings for the Queen.” Too late, he realized that he sounded like a lunatic.

  Mrs. Brewster was used to this. “Well, let’s get you washed and you shall have some nice beef broth and then we’ll see about those paintings. I’m sure the Queen can wait until you’re steady on your feet again.”

  THE FITS CAME and went and his hands trembled so much that sometimes he could not hold a spoon. But his health did improve and on a good warm day he could sit on a bench in the sun on the grounds; he could sit in the common room and watch the other inmates watching him. He studied the habits of the staff. He adapted himself to Sunnyside’s routines. Some of the other patients were alcoholics like himself, and of these he made friends with two Irishmen and talked politics happily with them for hours. Time passed slowly at Sunnyside.

  Weeks went by before he attempted to draw. The nurse had laid out his watercolours, pencils, sketchbook and brushes neatly on the desk, as though he might perform surgery with them. He noticed that they had taken away the little knife he used to sharpen his pencils.

  He wrote his name and the date, 8 March 1889, on the first page. On the second page he made a drawing of the lady he had met on the beach. He sketched the huge tortoise behind her, roughed in the waves and the shore.

  “That’s not a very good likeness,” the lady said.

  He turned to find her sitting in the wing chair looking prim.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked. The door was kept locked.

  She smiled. “I have a knack.” She looked around. “It’s rather shabby, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not as grim as some places I’ve been.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s true.” She was silent for a long while. He waited politely, unsure what hospitality he should offer. At last she said, “Are you ready to take up your position at Court?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t understand. I’m not allowed to leave.”

  “Oh, pish, you needn’t worry. You’ll be back before teatime.” She stood up and handed him a small branch of fir. “Keep hold of that. And bring your painting things.” He gathered the paints and other supplies. The lady clasped his hand, and immediately the room vanished and they were walking very quickly down a long tiled corridor with a crowd of strangely dressed people.

  “Please!” he said, “Please could we walk more slowly?” He was dizzy and gasping for breath. “Where are we?”

  “Paddington Underground station.” The lady stopped by an unmarked door. “Here we are. Close your eyes.” He did. He felt the lady tug at his dressing gown and he opened his eyes to find them both standing in a meadow. The ground was damp under his slippers. He felt a fit coming on. “Oh, bother,” he heard the lady say as the storms overtook his brain.

  HE WOKE IN his bed, trying to remember his dreams. He felt blank. There was a stick in the bed with him. He held it up. A fir branch. Well, he had kept hold of it, at least.

  HE BEGAN DRAWING every day. He drew heraldry, elves, birds. He drew a giant squirrel holding a screaming baby. He drew people with absurd facial hair, Mrs. Brewster’s tea kettle, the maids at their work. He drew the lady being menaced by a massive pole cat.

  “I suppose you think that’s amusing,” said the lady.

  “Yes,” he said. “Do you?”

  “I don’t have much of a sense of humour,” she said. “You would do well to remember that.”

  He nodded.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, almost kindly.

  “Not well,” he said. The insects-under-the-skin feeling had been troubling him all morning.

  “Ah. Then perhaps we should leave our journey till another day.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble...” He faltered. “Could I make the paintings for the Queen here in my room? I should be glad to paint anything she likes.”

  “Oh, but she particularly wanted portraits made of all her children.”

  “How many does she have?”

  “Thousands.”

  “Dear me. That’s... prodigious. But I’m sure I will be dead before I can make so many portraits.”

  The lady smiled. “You needn’t worry. We can keep you alive for as long as you like. Nearly forever. We are quite long-lived ourselves, and it’s no great trick to loan you a little extra.”

  He thought of his death, which had been so near, so inviting. He wished he could ask the lady to hasten death toward him. But he thought that must be wrong. “Thank you,” he told her. “But I don’t wish for anything that isn’t mine.”

  “What do you wish for, then? For you must have a reward. The Queen would have it so.”

  He thought carefully. “Perhaps... something for my son Arthur? Good luck?”

  The lady nodded. “We will watch over him. But for yourself?”

  He hesitated. “Do you have any strong drink, at your Court?”

  The lady laughed. “We have wonderful spirits, much nicer than anything you have had.”

  He stood and held out his hand. “Lead me there, and let me have a drink, or two, and I’ll paint all Her Majesty’s children.”

  “Done,” said the lady. He gathered up his painting things and she gave him another fir branch. Then she compressed him until he was seven inches tall and she put him in her pocket. He felt marsupial, but it was much more comfortable than going along on foot. They rushed through Paddington and across the meadow. The lady opened a hole in the ground and they made their way through narrow caves. She stopped, took him out of her pocket and said, “Now you have to walk.” She made herself seven inches tall so they were again the same height. The caves opened into caverns. Light was always just ahead; he could not see the source.

  They came to a room which had a table laid for a feast. “Stop and rest,” said the lady. “And have your drink.” She poured a dark, syrupy liquid into a glass. He drank it and felt restored; he felt better than he had in many years. “One more?” She refilled his glass and he drank up. His brain seemed to heal. The fog lifted. He grinned at the lady and she smiled back. “Now, here we are,” she said, and she led him into the next room.

  The room was enormous. He could see the ceiling but not the walls. There were a great many things in the room, too many for him to make sense of at first. When he looked carefully, he could see piles of things. Each thing was spherical, illuminated, each one was in motion. He drew near to one pile and looked into a sphere. Some children were building a snowman. They were in a city. A large shiny vehicle passed by the children, moving under its own power, like a train. One of the children threw a snowball at it. In another sphere there was a war going on, something exploded and he turned away quickly. Lovers embraced in strange clean white bedrooms. Water gushed from pipes into bathtubs, no servants had to carry the water. Bodies were stacked naked in mass graves. Machines. Murder. Magic. He saw things he had no words for.

  He turned to the lady, who was standing in an empty space looking depressed. “How do you like it?” she asked him.

  “It’s overwhelming,” he said. “What is it?”

  “The Queen’s children. The future.”

  “This? I thought... I imagined that fairies were...”

  “Small and pretty with little gauzy wings?” The lady shook her head. “I’m sure we were, once upon a time. The Queen is nostalgic, and she likes to think of her children the way we used to be. She thought perhaps you would be able to see us that way. She hoped you might reimagine us.”

  “For that you need a genius. Or a lunatic. I’m only an artist and a drunkard.”

  The lady looked at him carefully. “At least you’re honest about it,” she said. She held out her hand. He took it and they began the long walk through the caves.

  BACK AT SUNNYSIDE he applied himself to his task. He filled the sketchbook with incorrect, out-of-date fairies. Fairies riding on the back of a pheasant, fairies flying th
rough the night sky. Fairies feasting, frolicking, courting and scheming. The lady came whenever he ran out of paper. She peeled each fairy off the page and tucked it into her pocket. “How many more?” he asked her. “Lots and lots,” she always said.

  One day she pocketed the last fairy. She leaned over Charles Doyle and took his pen in her hand. “Here is a drawing for you,” she said. In his own style, she drew a full-length portrait of him, standing in profile with one hand outstretched in greeting. Facing him, she drew his death. They shook hands.

  Charles Doyle smiled. He slumped forward; his death was a simple, quiet one. Under the drawing the lady wrote Well met. She laid down the pen and left the room.

  SHUFFLE

  WILL HILL

  There’s an element of sleight-of-hand in Will’s story, and not just in the content of the tale itself, but in its structure. As this is a story about cards, this is somewhat apt. But it is also a story about gambling and about what makes a gambler. In particular, it is a story about a gambler playing to lose, in order that he can be free.

  WATCH CAREFULLY. THAT’S what I always tell them.

  You know the game. Three cards, my hands, your money. The red backs of the cards moving in tight little circles, quicker than your eye can follow, no matter how fast you think you are. No way for you to win, we both know it. You pay your money and I show you what’s beyond you. What’s beyond anyone.

  No way to win. Unless I let you.

  Watch carefully.

  THE ARM AROUND my waist is warm and soft as it guides me up the stairs and out of Johnny’s basement. My head is pounding and there’s a blanket around me and I’m holding my clothes in my hands and I can’t stop crying. My hands and forearms and stomach are soaked with blood and the policeman looks at me like I’m an animal as the paramedic straps me down onto the stretcher.

  That night the thing inside me speaks for the first time.

  THE PIT BOSS in The Grosvenor casino doesn’t look like one.

  He’s a small, thin man with round silver-framed glasses perched on his nose. The eyes behind them are dark blue, almost black. He patrols his section of the floor slowly, stopping to chat to the regulars, to summon waitresses for the drunk tourists, his demeanour light and friendly and welcoming. But what he’s really doing is watching the tables, looking for the people winning too much, losing the small hands and winning the big ones, looking for silent movement of the lips, for tension and nervousness revealed by the untrustworthy bodies of men and women trying to cheat the house. He’s looking for people like me, people who aren’t playing the game straight. His gaze lands on me every few minutes, but I’m not worried.

  I’m exactly what he’s looking for, but there’s nothing he can do.

  I’m untouchable.

  “NICE INK,” SAYS a pretty mark in her late teens.

  I follow her gaze down to my forearm, and let out a short laugh. I consider correcting her, but decide against it. Instead I say thanks.

  She nods, but her eyes remain on my arm. I can see she’s counting, so I save her the time.

  “Forty-three,” I tell her, and she looks up. “All the spades, ten hearts, twelve diamonds and eight clubs. Forty-three.”

  “Nine missing,” she says.

  I tell her I know.

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” ASKS the policeman. He’s pale and he keeps twisting his hands in his lap.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t remember anything.”

  He doesn’t believe me. It’s written all over his face. But there’s no way he can prove me wrong. No one who came up out of the cellar is talking. Erin and Adam are catatonic, Chris is on life support somewhere in the hospital, and Johnny and Alice are dead.

  My word is gospel.

  NEVER TOUCH YOUR chips unless you’re making a bet.

  Halving and re-stacking, arranging into equal smaller piles, lifting a stack and letting it clatter through your fingers back onto the felt; all signs of nerves. Nerves aren’t your worst enemy, but they’re close. They make you do stupid things, they narrow your attention down to the cards and the dealer, reminding you that there is money at stake. You should never think about money when you’re gambling. The game is a game, nothing more, to be won or lost. The money is secondary.

  I watch the dealer’s hands. He slides cards from the shoe with well-practiced smoothness, with studied nonchalance. He is presenting indifference, relaxation, projecting openness and welcome, while he makes calculations in his head, while he reads the players at his table, assessing intoxication and mood and fatigue.

  He plays his role well. A worthy opponent.

  I GET BACK to my flat some time around midnight. There’s a bed and a desk and a chair that I never use. The wardrobe has my clothes in it, but they barely fill half the rail. It’s functional. I sleep here, and that’s all. There should really be a photo on the bedside table, so that I could stare at it every night as I fall asleep and remind myself why I do what I do. But there isn’t.

  THE DEALER FLIPS the ten of spades over in front of me, lays out the nine of hearts and the eight of diamonds to the other players at the table: a platinum blonde woman wrapped in dead animals and drunk on endless refills of champagne, and a frightened-looking man in a cheap suit and dirty shoes. Desperation rises from him in a cloud so thick it’s almost visible. The stack of chips in front of him is tiny, and he fingers them endlessly, as though trying to convince himself that they’re real, that they are all he has left, that somehow it has come down to this. The woman has six tall stacks in front of her, and pays no attention to them whatsoever. The money isn’t hers, and she doesn’t care if she loses it. As a result, she’s winning. The man is losing, his stacks disappearing slowly, inexorably. He wears the expression of a drowning animal.

  I SET MY stall up outside Liverpool Street station just before the rush hour starts. It’s simple, a folding table and a small printed sign:

  Three-Card-Monte

  Find the Queen

  £10 to play, WIN PAYS £50

  As always, within about ten minutes there’s a good crowd gathered. The world is a smaller place than ever before, with information available on everything at the press of a touchpad. So few secrets left. The crowd are looking for the scam, looking for the strings behind the puppets. None of them think they can actually win, but for the sake of a tenner, I know full well that eventually someone will try, just to see if they can work out how I do it. Their eyes scan the crowd, trying to identify my plants, watching my hands, trying to discern a Mexican drop or a bottom deal as I move the cards round and round and round.

  THE TEN OF clubs is flipped over in front of me. The blonde woman gets the king of hearts, the man the four of spades. He groans. He knows what’s coming, we all do, it’s inevitable. The dealer turns over his card. Seven of hearts.

  I split my tens, moving a second stack of chips onto the table. All of a sudden, I’ve got twelve thousand pounds riding on this hand. I feel a flutter of excitement and push it away. It’s not nerves, not exactly – I don’t care about losing the money I have, but I care about losing the pot I should be about to win. I care about losing the hand, of having good play punished, more than I care about the chips. The woman purrs appreciatively, either at the money the chips represent or the courage of my play, I don’t know which. She leans forward, two bags of liquid silicon threatening to spill from the narrow straps of the dress that are supposed to be holding them in place. She wants me to notice, wants me to look, wants me to approve of her, but I keep my eyes on the cards. The dealer slides a card from the shoe and flips it onto my first ten.

  Jack of diamonds. Twenty.

  He flips another.

  Ace of clubs.

  Blackjack.

  I SEE THE two men in the shiny black suits long before they think I do. But that’s OK. I want them to see.

  THE FIRST TO pluck up their courage is a man in his twenties in a sleek grey suit. He steps forward, places an expensive brown leather satchel between his feet,
and takes a ten pound note out of his wallet. He places it on my table, and I nod without a word. I flip the cards over and show them to him; the queen of hearts, the four of spades, the nine of clubs. I flip them back face down, and begin to move them. Within three rotations of the cards I know there is no way he still knows which one is the queen. In a straight game, his odds of winning would now be one in three, pure luck with the odds in my favour. In a bent game, a usual three-card-monte game, his chances would now be essentially zero. If he somehow managed to identify the queen, there would still be no way I’d let him see it; I would double flip one of the black cards, or one of my plants would shout that they saw the police. Either way, the very worst case scenario would be my returning his tenner and announcing that the game was void.

  JOHNNY BLOWS THE candle out. At least, I think he does. Erin giggles as the cellar is plunged into darkness, but it’s not a giggle that sounds full of fun. It sounds nervous, it flutters as it emerges from her mouth.

  It’s the last thing I remember hearing before the screaming started.

  THE DEALER PAYS the blackjack out immediately, pushing chips across the table. Nine thousand pounds, fifteen with my chips. Six thousand still in play on twenty.

  The woman waves her hand. The man taps the felt so softly his fingers make no sound. The dealer flips over the queen of spades that we all knew was coming, and the man lets out a strangled sigh that sounds close to a sob before gathering up the last few of his chips and leaving the table.