Horns by Joe Hill

I pegged Joe Hill as one to watch after reading his wonderful Heart Shaped Box. Now I've read his latest novel, Horns, and the peg ain't moving from the spot.

Horns defies categorisation - something I like in a book. Chances are you'll find it shelved under Horror, but it is by turns a mystery, a romance and a supernatural thriller.

It kicks off a little like a Twilight Zone episode, with Iggy Perrish discovering he's grown demon's horns overnight. The horns give him certain insights into other people's secret thoughts. The first part of the book presents a series of episodic encounters as Iggy meets - and discovers he can influence - various people he knows.

This first chunk of the novel is pure entertainment. The story is both comic and tragic. But then Hill delivers a real sucker punch as Iggy realises there are some secrets he'd rather not know.

It's from here that the novel starts revealing its onion-skin layers, as Iggy sets out to uncover the truth about the night his girlfriend Merrin was raped and murdered. Hill throws us a bunch of time-shifts, mixes Twilight Zone with a healthy dose of John Irving, and ups the ante with a truly terrifying psychopathic villain.

Throughout, Hill's real skill is in keeping our emotions firmly with Iggy, despite his gradual (is it real or not?) transformation into a full-blown demon. He even lets us into the psychopath's head and darn it if we don't get to understand him a little bit too.

Add in Hill's perceptive, confident prose and an explosive climax and you get a package that's really rather special. It's a week or so since I finished reading Horns, and it's still bubbling away in my head - always a sign of a class act. Despite the horns, Iggy Perrish is someone I'm not going to forget in a hurry.

Sympathy for the devil indeed.

Realms of Fantasy reborn - again

Hearty congratulations to Shawna McCarthy and Douglas Cohen and all the rest of the folks at Realms of Fantasy for the successful resurrection of their wonderful magazine. In case you didn't know, ROF went under early last year, only to be resurrected by Tir Na Nog Press. Sadly things didn't work out, and this year its death was announced for the second time. Now Damnation Books have raised it phoenix-like from the ashes. Talk about a rollercoaster.

I have a lot of affection for the magazine, not least because Shawna's published a whole bunch of my fantasy gumshoe stories. So Happy Thanksgiving, guys, and may you sell many copies in the future!

I blame Frank Darabont

I blame Frank Darabont and the walking dead.

It’s like this: I’ve become resistant to new TV shows. I think it’s partly because of the arc. Not Noah’s, nor that of the Covenant, but the one that means there’s no such thing as a series any more – everything’s a serial. I’m old enough to get nostalgic about all the old episodic cop shows and cowboy shows and yes, even SF or fantasy shows (not that there were so many around in the old days – all hail the wondrous infiltration of the genre into the mainstream, at least on the big and small screens). Back then, you got a story a week and if you missed one it didn’t matter, because there was no arc.

Now it’s different. Every series has a continuing story, complete with mid-season climax and end-of-season finale, which usually delivers the kind of twist or cliffhanger that leaves you climbing up the wall. Now don’t get me wrong. I love the epic storytelling that’s made possible by this format. The screen in my house is smaller than the one in the movie theatre, but the canvas is actually bigger. And spreading the budget means the writers have to focus on storytelling and character, which are the things that are really going to bring me back week after week.

The down side, of course, is when the writers lose focus. Or the show gets cancelled. I loved the first series of Lost. That bastard actually got my attention; it was the best thing I’d seen on the telly for years. Series two ... pretty good, but the finale left me literally screaming. Then it switched networks and I just couldn’t stay committed. I stuck with FlashForward, which began well, drooped in the middle and ended strong ... but then it was taken off the air. Sorry you invested, old chap, but you’ll never know how the story turns out. Thank you and good night.

I’m old-fashioned, you see. I like a story – however long it may be – to have a beginning, middle and end. And if the end is a cliffhanger, I want it to be because that was the writer’s intention, not because some network chief forgot where he keeps his testicles.

Also, the week after week thing can be a slog. I don’t know about you, but I’m a busy beaver. Sometimes it’s hard to find time to eat, let alone watch the boob tube. Committing to a regular time slot – 10pm Fridays, or 9pm Tuesdays or whatever – is a big ask. Yes, I can record the shows, but then they start stacking up. I have to make time to watch them. Suddenly I’m three episodes behind, and I can’t discuss the show with anyone for fear of spoilers. Oh the pressure!

The other solution is to resign yourself to being behind everyone else, wait for the DVD box set to come out (better still, to get cheap) and treat yourself to a concentrated blast. This worked a treat for me with Battlestar Galactica (which I only just finished watching this summer). By the way, I have to say Galactica is the single best thing to come out of US television for a very long time. Fabulous writing, awesome performances and at the end of it all a stunning and beautifully played-out conclusion. Beginning, middle and end, you see, with quality running through it like words through a stick of rock.

All of which brings me round to The Walking Dead. When I heard about the show, I waxed and waned. Did I really need another zombie story? But wait – the guy behind it is Frank Darabont. You know, The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, The Mist ... in short, all the really good Stephen King adaptations (although let’s not forget Rob Reiner here, who also understands what King is all about. Will Ron Howard be up to the task of bringing The Dark Tower to the screen? Screens plural, actually, since I hear it’s going to be hitting both the cinema and a TV set near you. God, I hope so!).

Anyway, last Friday I tuned in to the opening episode of The Walking Dead, which has finally reached UK network TV. I enjoyed the first ten minutes in a routine way. It was smooth, with a patient, lengthy dialogue scene between the two cops right near the start. Then we reached the scene where our hero wakes up from a coma after the Big Zombie Event and starts exploring Wrecked Small Town America and I thought haven’t I seen all this before?

Then it all just kicked in. Smart pacing. The first proper zombie scenes. Some graphic violence – very graphic, actually, but beautifully controlled, and a milion miles from Danny Boyle’s epileptic undead in 28 Days Later (which I love, by the way). A slightly dodgy fake beard. A neat subplot about the father and son ... and the mother. A cop on a horse. Unexpected action in Atlanta. And, yes, a twist in the tail. And, what struck me most of all, particularly in the scene where the father’s got his undead wife in the sights of his rifle, and the cop tracks down the pathetic legless zombie he saw in the park to put it out of its misery, unexpected beauty and lyricism. In short, I loved it.

Will I be tuning in again next week? You bet. Am I glad to hear the show’s earned a second season? I’d have to be crazy not to. Am I twitchy about committing myself to a story that may never actually end? Yep. But this time I’m prepared to go out on a limb. Damn you, Frank Darabont!

Trilogy done

Yes, at last it's finished. I've finished editing the third book of the fantasy trilogy I've been ghosting over the last eighteen months, so the whole mammoth project is now officially done and dusted, off my plate, over and out. I can't say any more about it for contractual reasons - I daresay you'll breathe a sigh of relief I've now stopped not talking about it in this blog.

Meanwhile, the second book in the series is due to be published in a couple of months. When I get my advance copies, you can be sure I won't talk about that either!

Don't trust the blurb

Funny how the blurb doesn't always match the book, isn't it. A couple of posts back I mentioned my recent novel Close Enemies, which is all about diplomatic action in the fictional African country of Rezengiland. Except it isn't. Well it is, but ...

Okay, when I wrote the book, the place really was called Rezengiland. But late on in the editing process it got changed to the Republic of Limpopo. Trouble is, by then the blurbs had all been written. So if you look it up on the web (yes, even on my own website) you'll find the old name stands. It's even on the back of the paperback edition, despite what's written inside. Publishing is all about dots, you see, and sometimes they don't all join up.

Something similiar happened with my earlier novel Stone and Sun. I had a character called Tom Steppe, but changed his changed at the eleventh hour to Tom Coyote. Unfortunately, all the advance blurbs had gone out to the book press and retailers, so for a while both names were flying around.

It just goes to show you can't trust anything you read in the media - or even necessarily on the back of a book. Your best bet is to buy the damn book and read it for yourself!

After the draft

I'm busy working through the second (and for me final) draft of the novel I'm ghosting. It's the third act of a trilogy, so by the end of the editing process ie the end of the month I'll be ready to move on.

What's next, I hear you cry?

Could be any one of a number of things, some of which I've already talked about on this blog. I have a couple of outlines under development, one of which I want to flesh out into sample chapters, although the historical setting means doing research - always a chore for me, although I enjoy the rewards. I'm also tinkering with an old, old idea I've had on the back burner for a very long time. If it ever comes to fruition, it'll be a mammoth project, my most ambitious yet. Up to now, I've only ever had shards of story, half-formed characters and a vivid series of mental images, all bobbing around like untethered balloons. Oh, and 22,000 words of manuscript for an aborted novel called Pilot that only my agent and I have ever read (we both agreed it wasn't going anywhere). Just lately though I've begun to see a shape for the thing, a structure on to which I may actually be able to attach some of those balloons. If the structure holds up, maybe I'll tell you about it ...

Close Enemies - new novel published

Yes, I've got a new novel out on the streets. It's called Close Enemies, and it's the sequel to my earlier crime thriller Runaway Minister. Like the first book, I wrote it in collaboration with Working Partners Two, under the pseudonym Nick Curtis.

There's a bit of a saga behind the publication of Close Enemies. It was originally due to be published by Black Star Crime, like its predecessor. Unfortunately, the Black Star Crime imprint folded after just a few editions, so that was that. Luckily for fans of Charlie Paddon and Alex Chappell, Dales Large Print have just picked up the next book in the series.

You can buy Close Enemies online - a quick search should turn it up - but be aware it's in large print, so it may take up a little more space on your bookshelf! For more information, and a synopsis, visit the page I've set up on my official website here.

Ash by Mary Gentle

I just finished re-reading Mary Gentle's Ash, having devoured it joyously when I first got the paperback in 2001. It's an alternative history of the 15th century, told through the eyes of warrior-mercenary Ash, who's kind of a cross between Joan of Arc and Ellen Ripley.

The period detail is compelling, but the novel's real hook is the interweaving of Ash's exploits with a set of present-day correspondence between the translator of Ash's chronicles and his publisher. As the translation progresses, he - and we as readers - gradually learn that Ash's world is not entirely like our own. Something is up with history.

No spoilers here. Suffice it to say this long novel swiftly evolves from historical adventure to mysterious fantasy. It's full of battles and armour and medieval siege strategy ... but there's also stone golems and a healthy dollop of quantum physics. Towards the end there's a battle scene that positively drips blood, yet is so charged with both emotion and narrative drive I could hardly breathe. And Ash herself - powerful, confident, geautiful, scarred, vulnerable, and ever mindful of "the picture she makes" when she strikes a heroic pose - is undoubtedly one of the great characters of modern fantasy literature.

Ark by Stephen Baxter

I first read Stephen Baxter when I picked up Voyage, his first 'alternative NASA' novel. It posits a history in which Kennedy shrugs off Oswald's bullet and the Space Shuttle gets rejected in favour of a manned Mars mission. Voyage tracks that mission in obsessive detail and, along with The Time Ships, remains one of my favourite Baxter books.

Now Ark may have to join them. Baxter's new novel chronicles the aftermath of a catastrophic flood and humanity's attempts to survive it by building a spacegoing ark. What's extraordinary about Baxter is his ability to make his epic ingredients (global annihilation, interstellar travel to a new world) utterly plausible. He doesn't fudge the physics (well, maybe a little) - somehow he makes you believe we could actually travel to the stars. Right now.

Most important of all, he keeps it human. Everything's presented from the point of view of his key characters (many of them typical Baxter Strong Women). No godlike authorial voice here, everything's down and frequently dirty.

In many respects, Ark is the culmination of everything Baxter's done to date. It has the epic scope of his early Xeelee novels, combined with the ultra-realism of the later ones. He skips along a narrative line spanning many decades with a light touch and an eye for critical detail and emotional pinch-points. And if the story was a little slow to start, I forgave him because, by the end, he'd pretty much taken my breath away.

The novel is done (2)

Having completed the first draft, I've now finished my initial polish and delivered the MS to the editors. So that really is the end of phase one. My own brief editing process (brief by necessity of a tight deadline, the curse - and blessing - of a ghost-writing project) shaved about 1,000 words off the MS. It's still a little flabby, but it's better to give your editor something to manhandle. We could well lose up to 5,000 more words in the final draft.

So now I wait while the editors do their stuff. Next month I'll get the MS back, peppered with corrections, suggested alterations and comments. I'll have five or six weeks to work through it and create the second draft. For me, that's where the process ends. The editors will continue to make minor revisions through to publication, but by that stage it should be 99% there. And my job is 100% done.

The hiatus gives me a chance to (a) catch my breath and (b) turn my attention to The Next Project, which is a set of historical novels I'm trying to get off the ground. You might think that's a big departure from fantasy fiction, but it's not. Writers use the same tools whatever the genre. The big challenge for me with this project is research, as I'm no historian. So next stop is a bunch of material on the early 17th century ... with caution.

Why caution? I know from experience that it's possible to do too much research. Or at least to let that research take over. You get so seduced by all this great stuff you've dug up - so interesting, so detailed! - you let it take over the story. It's like a movie director pointing his camera at the scenery and not the action. In all fiction, story rules.

Still, as they say, the devil's in the detail. So for me, for a while, it's back to school!

The novel is done (1)

Yes folks, I've reached the end. The epilogue is finished, which means the novel is finished, which means I now have precisely 200 pages of completed MS - around 84,000 words - with a beginning, middle and end.

Yay!

The reason I've added a (1) suffix to this post header is that I now have 12 days before my delivery deadline to rewrite and polish. Given the timescale I'm working too, that's pretty good. In a perfect world, of course, I'd put it aside for a month or two before getting into the editing. And spend a lot longer doing it. But that's the way of this ghost-writing lark.

So watch out for a post coming soon with a (2) suffix. That'll mean I've finished polishing and actually delivered. At that point, I'll be putting my feet up, at least until the edit comes back from my client. Then it'll be time to start whipping the second draft into shape ...

In the meantime, am I happy? As a clam!

Novel update

Just finished chapter 33. More action, the bad guy revealed, some strange magic and the death of a major character. Quite a tally for a Sunday evening. I've now got 79,000 words in the bank and only a couple of chapters (and just maybe an epilogue) to go before the first draft's complete.

Mystery Women and Black Star Crime

Mystery Women magazine has published a nice review by Radmila May of the entire launch selection from Black Star Crime, the short-lived crime imprint created by Harlequin last year. The six titles are:

A Narrow Escape by Faith Martin
Double Cross by Tracy Gilpin
Murder Plot by Lance Elliott
Lost and Found by Vivian Roberts
Runaway Minister by Nick Curtis
Tuscan Termination by Margaret Moore

Why am I telling you this? Partly because you can now get them all as ebooks for Amazon's Kindle. And partly because I am Nick Curtis. You can find out more about Runaway Minister, and how I came to ghost it under a pseudonym, on my website here.

Radmila calls Runaway Minister a "fast-paced, well-written thriller, with lively, sharp dialogue." To my delight (and genuine surprise), Radmila also picked it out as her favourite of the six books. I say download the lot and make your own mind up.

Battle scene

Just managed to squeeze in an hour's writing this morning, after staying up half the night drawing up design concepts for the day job. The writing was mostly editing, actually. Not something I encourage in first draft but with the deadline looming I figure it's worth breaking the rules.

The editing was partly to fix a classic problem, namely straying too far outside the 'tight third person' POV of the narrative. This is a single-viewpoint novel, which means everything is narrated from the main character's perspective. Now, when you're writing a big battle scene (and yes, this one's a lot bigger than the big one I wrote earlier) it's easy to slip out of that mode and get too authorial. The literary equivalent of sticking a wide angle lens on the camera, if you like.

So I've rewritten with a view to zooming in a bit, made sure everything's described from the point of view of our hero, not by an author with a god's-eye view.

At the same time, I killed off someone I wasn't expecting to kill off. It's a character who played a very minor role in the outline I was given to work from (this is a ghost-writing project remember). Throughout the MS I've elevated him to play more of a part in the story than originally intended, for various reasons. And suddenly, in the middle of the battle, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to ice him. Sorry, old chap, but you just had to go.

For the record, word count is now around 74,500. Anticipated chapter count still a little fluid - the battle took longer than expected, for instance. But the story's shaping well, so who needs stats?

Time to change hats again, put the MS down and take last night's drawings into work. Next chapter: the Big Confrontation (insert musical sting of your choice).

The end is nigh

Phew. Sorry I having been posting so much but I've been putting in too many hours in the day job and even more on the novel as I fight to keep it on schedule. This weekend's been great though.

I've hit 72,000 words and I've got just four, maybe five chapters to go. The narrative's rolling at a huge lick, all the plot threads are coming together and there are some big scenes written and even bigger ones looming. So after struggling through the middle chapters I feel like I've got the wind at my back at last.

Still, there's a lot to do. I've got enough time planned in at the end of the schedule for a light edit and polish. As long as I can keep my head down I'll achieve that. But it's going to be tight. Then, when it's all over, I'll find time to do other things, like shave and maybe eat.

60,000 plus 221B

I'm nudging 60,000 words on the manuscript and just had a ball writing a big battle scene. You can't beat a big battle scene. They're, well, big. And full of battling. This one was a doozie.

I must also mention what a treat last night's Sherlock was. Great script from Stephen Moffat, and bags of charm from and chemistry between Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Oh, and cute tie-in websites to boot, namely Sherlock's The Science of Deduction and Dr Watson's Blog. Sunday nights are suddenly awesome.

An emotional chapter

This evening's session brings me to around 52,000 words on the first draft of the fantasy novel I'm ghost-writing. That's chapter 22 complete, out of a probable total of 35. And the scheduled delivery date's looming.

When I'm ghosting, I live in constant fear of just being a hack, you know, going through the motions and not really living the story. I hope I avoid that most of the time. Tonight I think I managed it: I've just written a very emotional chapter in which there's an escape and a death, both of which are critical moments in the story. The best part is I barely looked at the outline I'm working from once during the whole thing, but still kept to the proscribed plot. And tonight, for a little while at least, the words came from that good and golden place where everything just seems to sing.

Back on track

Another 10,000 words of first draft puts me soundly back on schedule with the current novel. That's 18 chapters down and around 15 to go. Which puts me comfortably past the halfway mark - a very good place to be.

Is it any good? Always hard to tell at this point. The last few chapters felt a little mechanical - a bit of a slog. But I have to stick to my word count schedule on a ghost-writing job like this (actually, it's good discipline whatever the project). There'll be time to iron out any shortcomings at second draft stage. The mission here is to get the story down.

That said, the pace is good, and the storyline I'm working to is pretty gripping. I think I'd have to work quite hard to mess it up. But hey, that's always a possibility!

Ghostly puppeteer

Quick status report on the current novel-in-progress. I'm currently at a smidge over 33,000 words, which means I'm running a little behind schedule again.

The thing is, even though I'm working from a detailed outline (this is a ghost-writing project, so I'm putting the flesh on the bones of a plot created by others) I occasionally hit the occasional plotting problem. For example, this morning I happily started work on chapter thirteen. Two thousand words later I'd just about dealt with the action described in the first sentence.

This magical alchemy - converting a single sentence of outline into an entire chapter - is part of the endlessly rewarding and utterly frustrating business of writing to a tight synopsis. Just when you think the whole thing's mapped out, you realise your main character has no motivation for what he's about to do, the secondary character who popped up at the end of the last chapter really does need fleshing out if he's to be anything more than a cipher, and the spooky environment they both find themselves landed in deserves a little descriptive TLC.

That's why this kind of work is more rewarding than most people think. Ghost I may be, but I really am in control. If I don't do my job properly, the story I'm telling will have no more life than Pinocchio after his strings have been cut. So you could call me The Ghostly Puppeteer. Hmm. That's not a bad title for a story ...

Sci-Fi Airshow

What if all those cool spaceships from classic science fiction movies and TV were real? Furthermore, what if they held public airshows where you could see performing spectacular flypasts? Maybe even climb on board and take a tour of the cockpit?

If that idea puts a smile on your face, visit the fabulous Sci-Fi Airshow website. It's the brainchild of ILM legend Bill George, and that rarest of things: high concept executed to perfection with genuine love for the subject matter. And yes, it's geek heaven too!

The Case for Detecstasy

Just published - the Summer 2010 edition of Mystery Readers Journal. This special Paranormal Mysteries edition includes an essay by yours truly all about writing fantasy detective fiction. The essay's called The Case for Detecstasy and you can read it right now: just click here to visit the MRJ site and download the PDF.

Need more Who

Big grin on my face after The Big Bang, the season finale of Doctor Who. What a delight to have a Who episode where time travel's an intrinsic part of the story, not just a means of getting our heroes to the planet-of-the-week. Especially gratifying to see it relying on character and emotion rather than spectacle and effects (though we had our share of those).

All in all Steven Moffat's done a fabulous job in hs first series as showrunner, steering it away from Russell Davies's over-the-top campery (which was great in the early days but wore thin) and towards his 'fairy tale' ideal. There were a few shaky episodes, especially during those early moments of over-plotted rebooting, necessary though that process was. But the series displayed a growing maturity throughout. And some breathtaking standouts, especially the Vincent episode. And this finale of course. What's obvious is Moffat's deep love of and confidence in the material - that really does seem to inform everything he does. Clever writer. Smart writer. And Matt Smith is just a great doctor. Can't wait for the next series.

300-mile cyclist

I'm always ready to plug a mate's efforts for charity. So I urge you to follow Paul Ostryzniuk's progress on his amazing charity cycle ride from London to Paris. Paul set off from Blackheath this morning with a bunch of other crazy-fit types, and they're due in Paris at the end of the week.

Paul's tweeting all the way @nogamertagfree. And if you can spare a few coppers, why not help him support Alzheimer's Society by visiting his online sponsor page.

Go Paul!

One third of a draft

I've written the first third of a novel. It's a satisfying milestone, although nothing compared to the much-anticipated pleasure of reaching the halfway point, the rising excitement of watering the horse at that fabled three-quarters way station and, of course, the delirious bliss of cracking open the champagne after finally laying down those immortal words: THE END.

But I get ahead of myself. Ten chapters down. Twenty to go. The hill remains steep, and the path, Zen-like, remains the only reason for my existence.

On another note, I finally got round to watching Cloverfield last night. Despite its slow start - and a level of motion sickness I've only ever experienced in a theme park - I enjoyed it a whole heap. Clever concept, neatly played out, amazing 'you're really there' FX, lots of shocks and, surprisingly, some rather moving moments. And is that a weird-looking beastie or what?

21,000 words

That's the current state of play on the curent novel-in-progress. I need another chapter tomorrow and then I'm back on schedule after a slightly shaky week. That's the trouble with (a) a day job and (b) real life. They mess up your word count.

Huge f#!king nerd

I just completed my Dr Horrible experience by listening to the whole of Commentary! The Musical. According to Joss, Jed, Zack, Neil, Nathan, Felicia and all the rest of them, that makes me a huge f#!king nerd. I'm OK with that.

Smorgasbord

Much to enjoy this weekend, and many different flavours consumed. First, I read the magnificent How To Make Friends With Demons by the national treasure that is Graham Joyce. Joyce writes stories that defy categorisation. Just because they win fantasy awards doesn't necessarily make them fantasy. Nor are they necessarily magic realism. They're just Joyce. What I do know is that Demons is full of real and rounded characters, prose that's witty and rich and full of passion, and that I was sorry to put it down.

Next I experienced the unutterable joy of watching the current UK tour of Spamalot. Yes, the Monty Python musical was in Nottingham, and I was there. A complete hoot from beginning to end. The show manages to incorporate all your favourite bits from Holy Grail, while morphing the plot into something fresh and lively. A great lead performance from Marcus Brigstocke and a heap of witty songs including the hilarious This Is The Song That Goes Like This. Miss it and weep.

Finally, I watched Avatar on the telly. I was concerned going in that I'd miss the bigness and 3D-ness of the theatrical release ... and for the first ten minutes I did. After that I didn't. This is simply a beautiful movie. As well as the eye-candy - which is delicious even on the small screen - this time round I was struck by Cameron's script. He gets a lot of stick for his writing, but check out the aforementioned first ten minutes, in which he delivers exposition for the entire movie with fast and effortless ease and without you even realising he's doing it. Go Jim!

Ghostly progress

Just time for a quick progress report on the ghost-writing project. This morning I passed 15,000 words on this latest fantasy novel. The outline I'm working from is terrific - I hope I'm doing it justice.

These projects are a balancing act between maintaining first-draft speed but keeping the prose reasonably polished. The tight deadline means I'll only have a week or so to review and edit before submission. I will get to do a second draft, but keeping it shiny now will pay off in spades later.

And, even though I'm working to an outline, there's always room for a little riffing. Opportunities to invent new scenes. Fresh insights into the characters. Moments, I hope, of poetry. Perhaps most importantly on a plot-driven piece like this, really digging into the characters' motivation so everything the whole show runs smooth and natural, not like there's some old hack turning the plot wheels behind the scenes.

Ghostly start

I've broken ground on my latest ghost-writing project. Chapter one of the third fantasy novel in the series is in the bank. Well, first draft anyway. Always a thrill to get off the starting blocks, and a pleasure to immerse myself in a world I've enjoyed visiting twice already. Parallel to that, I've been working on outlines for a series of historical novels. And walking by the river, which was nice.

Robin Hood and Bosworth Field

Yesterday I spent the evening with Robin Hood, courtesy of Mr Scott and Mr Crowe. A largely enjoyable affair, with a refreshing amount of meat to the story. The script plays intelligently with both the folklore and the history, working hard to weave a prequel story for Robin in with a variety of threads including a returning Richard, ambitious John and rapacious King Philip of France. Not to mention the working-class Northern barons hungry to create a human rights charter.

Comparisons to Gladiator are inevitable, I guess, and Robin Hood falls a little short. It lacks heart, somehow, and Ridley makes a few clunky gear changes, missing golden opportunities to please the crowd with a decent bout of air-punching.

All that said, I loved the complex story and the pace at which it's told. Too-cool Crowe aside, the cast is great, especially William Hurt. He's not got a lot of screen time but makes every second count. Also Max von Sydow as the blind and aged William Locksley. A bigger heart would have scored this an eight or nine but as it is I'll give it a seven.

Best part of the evening was hearing how my good friend Pete Riley, who I saw the film with, was part of the team who discovered the real site of the Battle of Bosworth Field earlier this year. Now that's a real historical story!

Sun ... Ashes ... Robin

The sun's baking Nottingham today, I'm still tingling from last night's stunning final episode of Ashes to Ashes, and I'm looking forward to seeing the new Robin Hood movie next week.

Robin's at the front of my mind at the moment. I'm reading Angus Donald's superb Outlaw. I'm also pondering a couple of outlines of my own for novels about England's greatest folk hero.

The first of these I wrote a couple of years ago. It's a fantasy, playing fast and loose with the legend (archery fans will appreciate the aptness of that metaphor). As whole it doesn't really hang together, but I like the way it brings the mythology to the fore. Totally different to Mr Donald's take, which is all about rooting the legend in reality. It needs a lot of work if it's ever to see the light of day, but as a back-burner project it still has my interest.

The second outline's totally different - still pretty broad but more naturalistic. It's told from the point of view of one of the Sheriff's men (I've a particular angle on this but for now I'll keep that to myself). I'll let you know if it develops into anything worth blogging about seriously.

Suffice it to say I feel I have to write about Robin sooner or later. I'm not a native of Nottingham, but I've made camp here for enough years to feel some serious affinity for the legend. But it's a tricky business. Robin really does have a life of his own, you see, and if you write him wrong he soon lets you know about it. I've tried, and not yet succeeded, so I know what I'm talking about.

But if you do get it right, you get to play bows-and-arrows for a while with someone who is, arguably, the only true English hero. And that's too tempting for words.

An evening's Ironing

Saw Iron Man 2 last night. Great fun, especially the rapid-fire banter between Robert Downey Jr and his various co-stars. Sam Rockwell and Mickey Rourke great as always. Could have done with shifting the balance towards the end - less time on the drone army and more on the final confrontation with Whiplash. Best line (from RDJr, referring to Scarlett Johansson): "I want one."

Interesting from a VFX point of view too. Not because it looks fabulous - which it does - but because of the huge number of providers, all under the direction of supervisor Janek Sirrs. It seems to be a real trend in VFX: rather than placing a movie with a single large effects house like ILM (although ILM is credited on IM2), supervisors are spreading the load among the huge number of smaller boutique outfits that are popping up. Given the right kit and a fast internet connection, it's become possible for one guy in his basement to contribute finished VFX shots to the latest Hollywood blockbuster.

Dig the morphing cityscape ...

... in Alex Proyas's SF-noir-mystery movie Dark City. If you haven't seen this late-90s gem, make up for it now. Jennifer Connelly, Richard O'Brien, dancing architecture achieved with some early and beautifully executed CGI, a Matrix-y plot (Dark City predates The Matrix by a year) - what's not to like?

More Best Horror

You can't keep a good anthology down. David Marshall's posted a fine review of The Best Horror of the Year Volume 1 on his blog. Best of all (for me at least), he's got this to say about my story Girl in Pieces featured in the collection:

"Then comes my favourite. “Girl in Pieces” by Graham Edwards tramples over every genre boundary it can think of, then makes up another and tramples that down as well. It’s a mesmerising piece of writing in which a PI in a multidimensional physical world can do deals with deities for their magic while following through on a golem client wrongly accused of murder."

Mystery article and ghostly beginnings

A little while ago, Janet Rudolph asked me to write an article about my paranormal detective stories for the Mystery Readers Journal. I've finally got my act together and written it. Stay tuned and I'll let you know the instant it's published.

In the last week I've received the outline material for a new ghost-writing project. If you're a regular visitor here you'll know I've been waiting a little while for this to land. I'm delighted it's here at last - I'm clearing a path for it and should be ready to start writing in a couple of weeks. I can't tell you anything about the novel other than that it's part of a continuing fantasy series. It won't have my name on the cover, but they will be my words on the page. I'm due to deliver the first draft in August and I can honestly say I can't wait to get stuck in.

Finally, my proposal for a new series of fantasy novels is being read at the moment, can't say by whom. It's a project I'm really excited about, but which I have to put on pause while I don my ghost's hat. After a quiet start to the year, suddenly there's far too much to do!

Flatland - an unfinished manuscript

Well, here it is - the unfinished manuscript for Flatland, the story that wanted to be a novel. If you've been following this project's progress, you'll know what it's all about. If not, I suggest you browse back through the Flatland entries on this blog.

Parts of this are fourth draft but as a whole it's to be treated as a first draft. It's essentially unedited; I haven't even done a mechanical spell check, nor have I run it past any of my regular readers. I hope it's interesting for you to see the story in this raw form ... and I hope you don't get too frustrated when you reach the end only to find the damn thing's stopped in mid-flow!

Actually, strike that. I do hope you're frustrated. Because, if you are, the story, even in this rudimentary form, is working.

Enough waffle, on with the show ...

Flatland by Graham Edwards

I rolled off the couch and hit the floor. I lay there a while, groaning. My head was filled with cotton and my mouth tasted of the same bad dream I’d been having every night for the past two weeks. The dream about Laura walking into the river until the water covered her head.

I opened my eyes, groaned louder. The bad taste lingered. I spat it away. I crawled to the window, wiped it clean. Looked for something that made sense.

Instead I saw the whole city flattened.

Literally.

Usually, when I take in the view from my office, I see the rumpled tarmac of the same old street I’ve looked out on for the last ten years. I see the faded grey line that runs down the centre – I can’t remember the last time the municipals sent someone down here to paint it in white. I see the gutters piled high with rats-nest newspapers and broken bottles. I see the low-rise buildings slumped opposite, the line of struggling businesseses that share this forsaken corner of town with mine: Diana’s Deli; Nimblequick the Tailor; the Marscapone Motel. Every day the same.

Not this day.

I stood. The cotton in my head turned to cement as the hangover kicked in. I stared, not comprehending.

Outside, everything was gone. The familiar city skyline had been replaced by a distant horizon so sharp I thought my eyes would bleed. Between me and that horizon was an infinite plain, a horizontal surface stretching in all directions like the biggest sheet of paper you ever saw. The whole world had emptied. The whole world had turned flat.

I reeled back. It was too much to take in. I staggered to the coffee machine, drank three cups black without taking breath. The java cleaned out my head. Wiped out the aftertaste of the dream too. I went back to the window, but the city was still gone.

Except it wasn’t, not exactly.

If the world had become a gigantic sheet of paper, then someone had been scribbling on it. Stretching out from my office door was a scrawl of lines and patterns and scrambled Rorschach blots. And it was moving, all of it, every little scratch and puddle of colour boogying like oil in water or a laser through smoke. At first it looked like chaos. Then, slowly, it began to make sense.

Running left to right through the orgy of light and motion was a band of darkness. It was hard to see, like the edge of a galaxy’s hard to see when your eyes are full of stars. But once you see the wood, you don’t get distracted by the trees.

The dark band was the street. The knife-blade slashes running down the sides were the piles of newspapers. The hectic blots of colour shimmering through the slashes were the rats, hunting through the garbage. Beyond the street I could clearly make out the rectangular ground plans of the buildings opposite and, beyond those, more buildings still. Through it all moved bigger blots, more complex than the rat-shapes, some with flowing organic lines, others blocky and mechanical.

I pressed my hands against the window, gasped coffee-tinged vapour on to the glass. The city had been reduced to a moving map of itself. Three dimensions had become two. Yet, somehow, it was still functioning. The architecture was still in place. Living beings – people and rats and all things between – were going about their lives looking like medical scans of themselves. The whole city in cross-section.

I flopped back on the couch. For a second I wished I was back in the dream. I’m good with dimensions, but this was like nothing I’d seen before.

I asked myself: What force could have done this?

What I should have asked was: Why did it leave me alone?

I’d have worked my way round to that question eventually. But, just at that moment, a woman screamed.

***

The sound came from outside. Without thinking, I popped the locks and stepped through the door. The scream came again, from somewhere above my head. I looked up, saw a woman’s head poking from a window on the second floor. Her face was small and white inside a mane of crisp blonde hair. Her mouth was a dark oval. The screams were loud but somehow dull. Something in the air was soaking up the sound.

I stepped further into the street. Then I remembered there was no street.

I looked down.

My boots were planted on the moving map the city had become. The surface was hard and glassy, unyielding. On it, flattened forms swarmed and melted. I shifted my weight and started to slide; it was like standing on ice.

I’m crushing them! I imagined my weight bearing down on all that two-dimensional life. My legs tensed in panic.

A glutinous shape slithered up to my right heel, disappeared beneath it. A second later, it emerged unharmed on the other side. I crouched, looked closer. It was like someone had taken a rat and sliced it through. Inside its amoeba-like outline were cross-sections of its bones, its organs, all the squirting liquids and the vessels that contained them. But none of it stayed the same, from one second to the next. It was like the scan was being refreshed a thousand times a second, each time in a different place. Looking at it made me dizzy.

The dame was still screaming.

‘Hey, lady!’ I shouted. My voice, like hers, sank without echo into the air. Is it air? I wondered. Whatever I was breathing tasted strange, like flat lemonade. ‘Are you okay?’

She stopped screaming, seemed to notice me for the first time.

‘Thank the gods,’ she said. ‘I thought I was on my own.’

‘You and me both.’

She pointed at the horizon. ‘Do you see it? Tell me you do. Tell me I’m not going crazy.’

‘Either it’s real or we’re both crazy. And I don’t believe I’m crazy.’

The dame swept her hair back from her face. She was maybe familiar, certainly beautiful.

‘I’m scared,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do. Do you think ... maybe you could ...?’

‘Come up?’

‘Would you?’

I took another look across the flat glassy plaza. The sky was black. No stars, no sun. Yet there was cold light everywhere.

Everything about this was wrong. But underneath my unease was something worse. A black dread. A fear of something sneaking up on me from a direction I couldn’t see. Something that didn’t make a sound, and was too many shapes all at once.

Suddenly I didn’t want to be outside any more.

‘Stay there, lady,’ I said. ‘I’m on my way.’

***

My office occupies one ground-floor corner of a four-storey brownstone on the west side of String City. Filling the other corner is a lobby that serves as the residents’ entrance. Out back there’s an old laundry, abandoned now.

To get to the dame’s apartment, all I had to do was walk along the front of the building from my door to the lobby entrance. From there I could take the elevator, or climb the stairs. But I wasn’t staying outside a second longer than I had to.

I went back in my office, double-locked the door behind me. Grabbing my coat from the rack, I turned it inside-out twice until it was made from cashmere. I shrugged it on and went to the bookcase. I shoved the bookcase aside, revealing a trapdoor exactly the size and shape as a single floorboard. I lifted up the trapdoor and pressed it into the wall in front of me. I spun it ninety degrees and knocked on it three times. The trapdoor flipped open, leaving me standing in front of a horizontal slot. It looked a little like a giant letterbox. From it, an icy wind blew.

There was no way I could fit through that slot. So I picked myself up and folded myself in half, then in half again. I posted myself through the slot and vanished out of the world where I do business and into the perilous realm that exists on the other side of reality.

Into the space between the strings.

I didn’t stay there long. Interdimensional travel might save on shoe leather but it’s also a great way to get killed. If the boundary wolves don’t eat you, you’ll most likely get kicked in the head by an apocalypse mule. If you do manage to avoid the wildlife, chances are you’ll get sucked into the Drop, where the only thing you can do is fall. Forever.

So I kept it brief. I rode a brane-wave up and over a cosmic crease where the strings were all lined up like the strings on a harp. As I flew over it, the universe played arpeggios. Then a blackness rushed up and hit me. I thumped my fists against hard dark corners crowding in like the corners of a coffin. At the same time I was smothered in something that felt like satin. I went on thumping until something gave and I tumbled out of the darkness on to a soft Chinese rug. Standing before me, clutching a white silk robe around her neck, was the blonde woman from the window.

‘What are you doing in my underwear drawer?’ she said.

I peeled a triangle of something soft and filmy off my face and clambered to my feet. Something lacy wafted from my shoulders.

‘It beats using the stairs,’ I said.

***

She told me her name was Pheme Bacall and she worked for Lachesis Incorporated, in the big head office over on southside. The words poured out of her on a wave of nervous energy. Actually, more a tsunami.

‘Lachesis is quite the success story. After the three Fates closed up the family business, Lachesis went into quantity surveying. Now she’s one of the biggest employers in the String City. They handle all the city’s real estate. Of course, I’m just a secretary. But I’ve got ambitions.’

‘Fascinating story,’ I said. ‘But it’s not why you asked me up.’

She plucked her hand from her robe, used it to massage her forehead. The robe fell open, revealing more curves than a geometry class.

‘You’re the private investigator, aren’t you?’

‘It’s what I do.’ I kept my eyes on her face. Given those curves, it should have been difficult. But it wasn’t. Because she looked familiar enough to drive needles into my heart.

She looked just like Laura.

‘It’s strange,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been renting this apartment for six months and we’ve never met. I must walk past your door every day.’

‘Mostly I don’t use the door.’

‘I see you didn’t use mine. How did you get up here?’ A sudden eagerness lit up her face.

‘I’m good with dimensions.’

‘Yes.’ She gathered herself. ‘Doors are over-rated. I keep mine locked – you never know who might be out there.’

‘Very wise.’

‘Do you know what’s going on?’

‘No. But I’m curious to find out. Care to tell me what you saw?’

The cold light from the window drifted on her cheekbones like snow. On her throat, on the left side, was a tiny tattoo: two circles, concentric, one nested inside the other. ‘I didn’t see anything.

‘You screamed.’

She applied the robe to herself again. The clinging silk made what was underneath harder to ignore. ‘I was in bed asleep. A sound woke me – I don’t know what it was. A sort of a thud. I got out of bed and went to the window. I thought perhaps a bird had flown into the glass. Then I saw … well, what had happened outside. I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. It scared me. So I screamed.’

She took a step towards me. In her bare feet, she was exactly as tall as I was. Just like Laura. Her bottom lip was trembling. The robe came open again. She let it stay that way. She smelled of cinnamon.

And I knew that most of what she’d told me was a lie.

‘I’m so scared,’ she said. Her voice had turned husky. Her eyes had grown big. Her presence enveloped me. ‘Won’t you protect me?’

For a second, I had strangest feeling. It was like Pheme Bacall was everywhere, all at once. It was like I was running down a steep hill while warm water climbed over my head. I tried to breathe but couldn’t. If I had, it would probably have killed me.

It was like I was drowning.

Laura!

A wind whipped up, lifted the robe. Pheme stood wholly revealed beneath undulating silk wings. There was more of her than seemed possible.

Smoke and mirrors, I told myself, helplessly drenched in her.

‘Help me,’ she sang. ‘I love you.’

Someone banged on the door.

Pheme froze. The robe collapsed back over her body. She was just a woman again.

‘You should cover up,’ I said. I took one hem of the robe, folded it over the other. The silk was hot. She held herself rigid while I fumbled with the ties. Her chest fluttered. My hands shook the whole time.

When she was decent, I went to the door.

‘Who is it?’ I said.

A pause. Then a hoarse voice said, ‘Janitor. How many of you in there?’

‘Two,’ I said.

‘How’re you doin’?’

‘Okay, I guess.’

‘Care to open up?’

I raised an eyebrow at Pheme. She nodded. She was smouldering like a bonfire.

I tried to turn the key, but the door was already unlocked. I opened it to reveal a wizened old man. He was wearing blue biballs and brandishing a mop. And he had pointed ears.

‘I thought the Sidhe had moved out of town,’ I said. ‘What with the apocalypse due.’

‘Third generation.’ He waggled his ears proudly. ‘This city’s my home. Name’s Edwin. You’re the gumshoe from the ground floor.’

‘Seems everybody knows me.’
There was movement on the stairs behind him. A crowd descended: twenty or more anxious-looking folk. Half of them looked ordinary enough, but there was a big contingent of chimeras – folk with snakes for legs or wings on their elbows or heads shaped like fish. One looked like a giant cockroach. A couple were giants, so big they had to bend double to fit through the stairwell.

Typical String City residents, in other words.

‘Who are all your friends?’ I said

‘Residents’ committee.’ The faery rolled his eyes. Then he called through the door to Pheme. ‘Pardon me, miss, but th’fella here reckons your apartment’s th’only one big enough. Me, I ain’t so …’

A big man barged out of the crowd, muscled the little janitor aside. He moved fast, leaving fleeting impressions of himself: red velvet smoking jacket hanging off broad shoulders; a long fringe of brown hair flapping like the wing of a partridge; a jawline you could ski down. A silver pendant shaped like an acorn swung from his neck.

‘Pleased to meet you!’ he bellowed. He grabbed my hand, used it to pump my arm. ‘The name’s Mimas! Top floor! You’re that private detective fellow!’

He pushed past me, swept up to Pheme, bent so low his fringe stroked his knee. He took her hand and kissed it.

‘Forgive the liberty, miss,’ Mimas said.

A look like electricity scorched the air between them. Something nearly as hot seared my chest. If I hadn’t been so off-balance, I’d have recognised it as jealousy.

The folk started pouring off the stairs. They flowed past me and the janitor and into Pheme’s apartment. The place soon filled up. Conversation bubbled like an unwatched pot. Mimas ploughed a furrow through the crowd, shaking hands, larger than life. I felt suddenly small: these were my neighbours, but I didn’t recognise a single face.

I scanned the room for Pheme. She was nowhere to be seen. Then, on a wave of cinnamon, she was beside me. She’d topped the robe with a wrap of yellow fur. The fur clung just the same as the silk.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Not used to crowds.’

‘It’s all right. I’m here now.’ She moistened her lips, settled them on mine. My arms closed against the small of her back. Her hands roved. They felt just like Laura’s.

It felt wonderful. Also terrible. It felt false and true, both at the same time. The fur she was wearing splashed over me, dragging me under. The drowning sensation returned. If this was drowning, I never wanted to take another breath in my life.

‘I’m lost.’ She exhaled the words into my mouth. ‘Find me.’

Then something was dragging her off me. Something hunched and rattling, with clicking limbs and chattering mandibles. It was the giant cockroach.

‘No!’ I shouted, but she’d already slipped from my fingers.

The cockroach heaved her off the ground. She struggled in his clutches. I grabbed her arm but the cockroach whipped a gangling antenna across my cheek. I recoiled, let go. I drew back my fist, punched him square in the mandibles. Chips of chitin flew across the room and bedded themselves in the plaster. The cockroach reeled away. I followed, shoving him in the thorax, pressing the advantage.

The crowd parted as we danced across the apartment. Faces tracked us, curious. I threw another punch, but this time the bug was ready. Still clutching Pheme with three of its legs, he used a fourth to grab my fist. Pincers closed. They rummaged around, messing with my fingers. I yelled with pain and aimed a kick at the bug’s abdomen. He let go, ducking to the side and knocking over an ornate chair.

We circled each other. Blood dripped from my hand, from the cut on my cheek. The bug’s face spurted black ichor.

‘Let her go,’ I said.

The cockroach moved its damaged mandibles. A sound came out like a broken typewriter.

I feinted left, lunged right. The cockroach dodged. The crowd swayed to give us room. I bunched my legs, made ready to leap. That’s when the cockroach opened silver wings and started spinning like a gyroscope. He drilled a hole into the air and in a second was gone, taking Pheme with him. With a sigh, the air folded back into place. The crowd sighed too, as if the curtain had fallen on the final act of a tragic drama.

Except something told me this was only the overture.

Around me, the sighing became a rising growl. Faces turned on me. Most of them had bared their teeth. I backed up. Crowds make me nervous. Mobs have me looking for the exit.

‘Who the hell are you people?’ I said.

A man with the head of a lion roared. A tall woman with arms like scissors slashed at the ceiling. The blades of the scissors were etched with strange markings, like hieroglyphics. A low chanting began, in a language I didn’t understand.

Behind the mob, head and shoulders above all except the giants, Mimas prowled. There was an odd look on his face. Eagerness.

Second time I’ve seen that look today.

I retreated until my back hit the door. The mob came on. I brought up my fists, realised the left one was covered in blood.

And was holding something.

There was no time to see what it was. The lion-headed man was advancing, jaws wide, teeth like ivory boat-hooks.

It was time to leave the party.

I shrugged off my coat and tore out the lining. The lion-man was nearly on me. I spun the lining into a web of carbon monofibre and inflated it to fill the room. While the crowd howled its frustration, I threw myself into the coat’s inside pocket. I saw the lion-man claw at the web, saw the scissor-woman slashed at it with her blades. But the web held, and the coat folded up into nothing, taking me with it.

I rode my coat like a sled down the slopes of the strings, all the way back to my office. I hated leaving the lining behind. It would hold the mob in the apartment for a day or so, but separated from the rest of the coat it would soon lose strength.

Without its lining, the coat would be dead in a week.

***

I sat a while in the big leather chair behind my desk. My head was full of Pheme: the feel of her, the smell of her, the way she was Laura, even though she wasn’t. I pinched my fingers into my eyes, but she didn’t go away. That bothered me.

The other thing bothering me was the pain in both my cheek and my left hand.

I dragged open the desk drawer with my right hand, found a bottle of rye and a medical kit. I drank a shot straight from the bottle, dabbed the bandage to the cut on my face. The third time it came away clean.

My hand was still balled into a fist. The bug’s claw had taken a gouge from the pad of the thumb. The hand was bloody all over. It felt like it was on fire.

I doused it with rye, shouted as the fire flared to a furnace. Gradually the flames subsided. I used the bandage to mop away the liquor; most of the blood came with it. I dropped the sodden bandage in the trash. One by one, I began to peel back my fingers. Each one, I screamed.

Finally I got my hand open. It lay on my desk like a pale spider. The fingers were swollen but unbroken. The gash on my thumb was bleeding again. I taped it shut with fresh lint.

Nestled in the palm was a scrap of paper, folded twice.

I picked it up, smoothed it open. There was a message, scrawled in shaky black ink:

Take the other two if you want to see her alive.

I drank more rye. I stared at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. The one where the clients sit. After a minute, I walked round the desk, sat in it myself. Stared at the leather I’d just left empty.

Once, a long time ago, I had someone to go to. Her name was Laura. Now there’s just me. Me, and a thousand questions, and nobody to put them to.

Client and gumshoe, all in one.

I started with the note.

***

My office looks spartan – just the desk, two chairs, a couch, a bookcase and a filing cabinet. Mould on the walls and a carpet that’s mostly stains. But there’s more in the bookcase than just books. As for the cabinet, let’s just say it wasn’t built for files.

Once I’d finished strapping my hand, I dropped the remains of my coat on the couch and went to the filing cabinet. Usually it’s got three drawers, but I walked clockwise round it until it had four. I rummaged in the extra drawer until I found the Scrier.

Compressed, the Scrier resembles a portable radio. Expanded, it looks a little like a pipe organ, a little like a chemistry set. And it fills half the room.

I flipped the switch that makes it expand. And stood back.

As soon as the Scrier started humming, I took the ransom note and dropped it in the slot on the front panel. The Scrier sucked it up and fired it through the first set of pipes. The pipes sang a minor chord and spewed the note into the brass section. Jets of air pumped it through a series of valves and coils and bubbling flasks. It fizzed a while, then moved on. As soon as it hit the second level, the atomic untangler reduced it to less than its components and reassembled it from scratch. Lead shields crashed shut while the gamma rays did their thing. The note fell in a quantum box and sat there until it was everything it could possibly be, all at the same time.

When it finally dropped out of the slot at the far end of the equipment, the note looked exactly the same as when it had gone in. Beside it was a report.

I flipped the other switch and the Scrier crabbed its way back inside the filing cabinet. I walked counter-clockwise round the cabinet until the drawer it had come from was gone.

The report didn’t tell me much.

The paper was nothing special: regular city stock from the Ibis Mill. The ink wasn’t ink but ichor. No hidden messages, even at the molecular level. The bloodstains were mine.

A ransom note written in bug-juice. Neither more nor less than what it was.

Except ...

Giant cockroaches are odd, even by String City standards. Odd enough to stand out. Even distracted by Pheme, I’d stayed alert to him, because he’d never been far away. I’d seen everything he’d done.

I hadn’t seen him write a note.

He’d already written it when he came in the room. He came with the sole purpose of abducting Pheme. And giving me the note.

Why me? Pheme and I had barely met when the mob appeared at the door. How could the bug have known we’d be together? Or that we’d have ...

What? Fallen in love?

And how about that for odd? Crazy, actually. I’d spent maybe five minutes with Pheme Bacall, a dame I’d never set eyes on in my life. And here she was riding my heart like a bronco.

Except it wasn’t crazy, because she was Laura.

Even though she wasn’t.

I thumped my injured hand on the desk, hoping the pain would drive some spike of sense into my thoughts. But it just made me howl. Also, it made me imagine how that vile insect might be trying to torture Pheme Bacall. Never mind feelings. I had to find her!

Back to the note, then. This time the words themselves.

... if you want to see her alive.

The threat was clear enough. It was the demand that was the puzzle.

Take the other two ...

The other two what?

I paced, getting angry. I’d been ten years a private eye. The filing cabinet was full of things like the Scrier: clever analytical devices from other worlds, other dimensions. On the bookcase was the Big Dictionary, which is all the reference books you could ever want bound into one. I had every tool I needed, and none of it worth a damn. Because all I had was four words I didn’t understand.

Take the other two.

If I didn’t work it out, the bug was going to kill her.

Pheme!

The bug had taken her! My Pheme! My Laura! Without her I was nothing! I had to have her back. I’d do anything. Anything at all.

Anything!

Wherever I looked I saw her: the china-white gaze, the halo of black hair. The places on her where that robe had folded into shadow, the places where she’d stretched it to transparency. I tried to shake away the visions but they crashed like waves against me, over and over. Pheme as I’d seen her. Pheme as I imagined her, with me, and the robe nothing more than a memory. It was exhilarating. Mesmerising.

And wrong. Utterly wrong.

I staggered to the bookshelf, bent double. The weight of her was unbearable. Hand shaking, I fumbled the Big Dictionary off the shelf. I cracked spine until it was a Bestiary of Seduction and leafed through the pages. The text was minimal, the pictures stark and simplistic. The book was designed to be read by folk in big trouble. Like me.

I stopped at L for Lamia. The picture showed a creature with the body of a leopard and the face of a beautiful woman. Six pairs of pendulous breasts hung from the monster’s belly. Long canines jutted through rosebud lips.

Pheme was no vampire.

I riffled the pages, found S for Syren. I didn’t even need the picture for this one. I’ve encountered syrens before. Even heard one sing, if only for a second or two. That was enough to innoculate me for life. But that’s another story.

Pheme didn’t have feathers; she was no syren either.

I flipped back a page settled on an entry I’d never seen before. That’s the thing about the Big Dictionary. While you’re not reading, it’s rewriting itself.

The entry was called S for Skandaliser. Most of the page was picture: a tall, slender woman wearing nothing but a pendant. Under the picture were two words:

No cure.

I dropped the book. So it was true. I’d been enchanted. Pheme was the worst kind of seductress around. Not a predatory lamia. Not a showstopping syren. She was pure potion, built for one purpose only: to insinuate herself into any male mind she chose and stay there, forever.

And the mind she’d chosen was mine.

***

I sat a while, staring at the picture on the page. It was Pheme, no doubt about it. Time drifted. My eyes filmed over. I wiped them clean, found myself gazing at the pendant dangling between her breasts. It was shaped like an acorn.

I placed my left hand on the picture. I tried not to imagine it was Pheme herself I was touching. I took a breath, grabbed the front cover of the book and slammed it shut.

The pain flashed through my hand and all the way up my arm. I roared, or screamed, or both. I jerked my hand free and rammed the book back on the shelf. Then I went to the coffee machine.

Coffee’s what gets me through most cases. Mostly it just keeps me alert, but occasionally I like to add a dash of something extra.

‘Firewater,’ I growled at the machine.

The machine said nothing, just bubbled a warning. Just because a thing can’t speak doesn’t mean it’s not thinking. Most of the things in my office think, one way or another. And that coffee machine’s smarter than most.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘and I don’t want to hear it. Just trust me when I say I need an edge like I never needed an edge before.’

The coffee machine spat out a plastic cup. But its spigot stayed dry.

‘Don’t push me,’ I said. ‘Just spill the beans.’

Hot, black liquid spurted into the cup. It frothed almost to the rim, then stopped. The spigot rotated, deployed a secondary spout. Gurgling sounds came from deep inside the machine. A tiny bead of red liquid bulged at the end of the spout. It hung, trembling, for a second, then splashed into the cup. Immediately the coffee began to fizz.

I snatched it up, drained it dry. The coffee seared my throat, scoured my guts. The fizzing filled my guts, boiled up my throat, exploded through my sinuses and into my head. Fireworks went off behind my eyes. I dropped to my knees and waited for my scalp to ignite.

It didn’t. Lucky: I’ve seen it happen. The fizzing subsided to a dull crackle, like the sound pine cones make on a fire.

And Pheme was gone.

I stood, feeling sharp-witted and excessively tall and entirely, indisputably me.

I checked my watch. The effects of the firewater would last an hour, no more. After that, Pheme’s enchantment would be back with a vengeance. And nobody in their right mind would use firewater twice in one day. Or even one year.

‘Thanks, buddy,’ I said to the coffee machine.

There was a knock at the door.

***

I snatched up the ransom note from where I’d left it on the desk, stuffed it in my pocket. I unsnapped the deadbolts and opened the door. There stood Edwin, the faery janitor, still as a statue. His fist was raised, frozen in mid-knock. His head was thrown back and he was gazing at the sky.

‘Come inside, pal,’ I said. I reached out my hand. Edwin didn’t move.

I kept my feet inside the threshold and leaned out. The world outside was as flat as ever; the last thing I wanted to do was tread on that awful glassy page of moving ink blots. I grabbed the strap of Edwin’s biballs with my good hand. Before I could tug, I saw something reflected in his eyes. It halted me, made me look up.

Firewater sharpens all your senses. In this state, I’d have made the perfect sniper. But even without it I’d have seen something was wrong.

The sky had changed. The change was slight, barely noticeable. But there. Earlier, it had been dead black, the colour of nothing. Now something was bleeding through. Something with a vast and terrible order, some cosmic weave. A weft. A pattern. Something vastly more complex than the Picasso shapes on the ground. Something with stripes.

I tore my gaze away from it, told myself it wasn’t there. I bunched my hand on Edwin’s biballs and pulled. He tottered like a doll, then fell inside. I slammed the door and engaged the deadlocks.

I eased Edwin on to the couch, sank down beside him. We sat breathing together. Slowly we both came round.

‘What was it?’ he said at last.

‘Something that shouldn’t be seen,’ I said.

He shuddered. ‘Ain’t gonna argue with that.’ He shook himself. He grinned. His teeth were crooked but the smile lit up his wrinkled old face. ‘Glad to see you, fella. Reckon you’re th’only normal one among ‘em.’

I considered this for a long time. Finally I stood. I went to my desk and sat in the chair I keep for the clients. I swung it round to face the janitor.

I said, ‘Let’s talk.’

***

‘I been caretakin’ this old place more’n forty year. Seen folk come, seen ‘em go. Seen you come, mister, what is it, eight or nine year since?’

‘Ten.’

Edwin nodded. ‘You don’t never go home, do you?’

‘No.’

‘You even got a home?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s your story? Don’t hafta to say, you don’t want to. Just interested, is all. I’m interested in folk, me.’

With Pheme gone, there was room in my head for a thousand other things. Fizzing firewater, for one. Also other thoughts. Thoughts I hadn’t processed for years. Thoughts of Laura.

Something tickled my cheek. I pressed a fresh bandage to the cut. It came away wet but clean. No blood, just tears. And the words just came.

‘She died. Laura. My wife. Back then I was ... well, I’d been lots of things. Laboured on building sites, fought in a war. Even collected taxes for a while. When I met Laura, I stopped everything I’d been doing. We both did – just stopped. There was space, suddenly, and time, just for us.’

I reached for the rye, found I didn’t want it, went on.

‘Laura was younger than me. Except in her head. An old soul, you know? Said she’d always want to go to college. I said she should go. So she went.’

Edwin said, ‘What she study?’

‘Photography. She was a real artist. Saw things other folk didn’t see. In the end, none of that mattered, because she didn’t see that death was just round the corner.’

‘What happened?’

‘I’d taken a job on a road crew. You remember those days? Armageddon cracks opening up all over? The city needed a lot of running repairs. It was good work, hard work. Good pay. Enough to pay the rent on a house out on Nukatem Street. We moved in, looked to make it a home. We were a team.’

I stopped. My head was still fizzing by my mouth was dry.

‘How’d she die?’ said Edwin.

‘She got sick, all in a hurry. I was working out of town. Other side of the Scrimshaw Bridge – you know the turnpike out past Little Carthage?’

‘I know it.’

‘The cracks had jarred open the Sixth Gate, crazed the tarmac all the way out to the edge of the Drop. Big job. Took weeks. Turned out weeks was all Laura had.

‘I got back to find her gone. She’d left a note, attached the doctor’s report. She had tumours everywhere. Right through her. Same as her mother, her grandmother. A family curse. She’d nursed her mother into hell and back, didn’t want me do have to do the same for her. So she walked into the Lethe.’

Edwin was blurred. I guess it was my eyes. So much for the firewater.

‘It’s not such a bad way to go, I guess,’ I said. ‘The Lethe – those waters, they make you forget. So even as you’re drowning, you’re forgetting the pain. Forgetting your name. Everything you know. Everyone.’

Edwin stayed quiet. Slowly he came into focus.

‘House still there?’ he said.

‘I still pay the rent.’

‘Ever been back?’

‘No.’

‘Plannin’ to?’

I pressed my hands together, the good and the bad.

‘Not today.’

Edwin crossed to the door, looked out through the glass.

‘Reckon nobody’s goin’ no place no more. Not since they took ‘em.’

My ears pricked up. I’d like to say it was my private investigator’s instinct. Or maybe it was just the firewater. ‘What did you say?’

‘You know better’n me.’

‘Know what?’

‘Who took ‘em.’

‘Took what?’

He pointed at the flat land outside.

‘Th’ dimensions, of course. Only two left. Who took th’others?’

***

‘That’s it!’ I was pacing the office, impatient, hungry for action. I’d put Laura back where I kept her, underneath everything else. ‘It’s not that the city’s been flattened at all. Someone’s stolen the higher dimensions. All nine of them.’

‘Nine?’ said Edwin.

‘Sure. The world might look three-dimensional – hell, I think of it like that myself some days – but there’s actually eleven dimensions. It’s just that most of them are all folded up so you can’t see them.’

‘But you can?’

‘I’m good with dimensions.’

‘Not th’only one, by th’ look of it.’

I smiled. It felt odd. It also cracked open the gash on my cheek. ‘Edwin,’ I said, mopping the blood. ‘You ever thought of a career as a private detective?’

I went back to the client chair, gave Edwin the hot seat. It felt right that way, don’t ask me why. I put my feet on the desk. My legs felt full of electricity. I checked my watch. Fifty minutes until the firewater wore off.

‘So who did it, d’you think?’ Edwin said. He looked wizened, swamped by all that leather. But his eyes were bright in his age-worn face.

‘Wrong question,’ I said. ‘Try this: why didn’t they do it to us? To this building?’

Edwin grinned, leaned forward in the chair. A thousand new wrinkles appeared. Somehow they made him look younger. ‘Because we’re at th’heart of it. Ain’t we? Ain’t it true? Whoever did this – they’s in here with us!’

I flicked the ransom note across the desk. ‘What do you know about the bug?’

Edwin studied the note, frowning. ‘Mister Carapace? He’s been here, hell, nearly as long as me. Funny story. Used to be a regular cockroach livin’ under th’ floor, apartment five. Fella there spilt some kinda nuclear mush. All kindsa stuff got mutated. Place got cleared out. Mister Carapace, he stayed. Oldest resident now. Not like this new crowd.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Not a one of ‘em been here more’n six months. Including th’fancy fella on th’top floor. Mimas.’

‘You’re talking about all the other folk who came into Pheme’s apartment? What you called the resident’s committee?’

Edwin nodded. ‘Never known nothin’ like it. Them folk, they all moved here in the space of, oh, I’m gonna say a fortnight. Came from all over. But it seemed like they were none of ‘em strangers. Kept getting’ together. That Mimas fella, he was always throwin’ some party or other.’

‘Parties? Where?’

‘His apartment. Practically a penthouse. S’why it struck me odd he called ‘em all down to Miss Pheme’s apartment this morning. S’why I got ahead of ‘em, tried to warn her. Seemed like she weren’t bothered though.’

‘No, she wasn’t.’ Again I recalled the lightning that had passed between Mimas and Pheme when they met. And how it had made me feel.

Why shouldn’t I feel jealous? There he was moving in on her when all the time she was …

… mine?

I slapped down the thought, yanked my feet off the desk. Edwin eyed me. ‘Somethin’ wrong?’

‘Too much talking,’ I said.

‘Reckon you got a torch burnin’ for that gal.’

‘If only it were that simple.’

‘Just sayin’. So, what you wanna do?’

‘With only two dimensions left, there’s only so many places to hide. I’ve got Pheme’s apartment sewn up. I reckon it’s time we searched the rest of the building.’

***

It didn’t take long to establish something was wrong. The skeleton key helped. My neighbours’ apartments were all the same: a few pieces of plush furniture and nothing else. No sign the place was cared for, or even lived in. These weren’t homes – they were placeholders.

The penthouse was just the same, only bigger. It was open-plan, with all the internal walls knocked out. In one corner stood a four-poster bed and an automated kitchen. One whole wall was a TV screen. Otherwise it was empty.

‘Room for a barn dance,’ Edwin said. He loitered in the doorway, reluctant to come in.

‘It’s a big place,’ I agreed, pacing it out.

‘Ain’t this trespass?’

‘Edwin, this whole building’s a crime scene. Hell, the whole city is. Besides, who’s left to grant a warrant?

The penthouse was forty paces by thirty. I jotted the numbers on my notepad.

‘Somethin’ wrong?’ said Edwin. He looked worried.

‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘We’re done here.’

Back on the second floor, I stopped to listen at Pheme’s door. Through the wood came angry conversation, muffled by the web I’d spun in there. Dull thuds too, as my neighbours tried to break free.

‘What’d you do in there?’ said Edwin.

‘Just slowed things down.’ I pointed across the hall. ‘Is that where the bug lives?’

It was the only apartment we hadn’t looked in. The door was warped by damp and half off its hinges; it swung open before I’d got the skeleton key all the way into the lock.

‘Not exactly security conscious, is he?’ I said.

Leaving Edwin in the hall, I stepped inside.

It was dark and stank of ammonia. The floor was spongy under my feet. I inched forward with my arms outstretched, cursed each time I cracked my shin on something invisible.

I reached the far wall, fingertipped along it until I found a window shutter. I pulled it open. The flat, dead light from the diminished city crawled in. I took a good look round the big bug’s home.

The place was filled with old furniture, rotten planks, broken computers. Reams of paper stood stacked almost to the ceiling, like mouldy Greek columns. Pinned to the walls – covering them in fact – was more paper, sheet after sheet. On some were drawings, on others printed photographs. On other were words. Actually a single word. A name, repeated over and over.

Pheme.

She was everywhere. Every drawing was of her, every photo showed her on the stairs, at her door, waiting for the elevator, all taken from the bug’s own doorway, like surveillance snapshots. The drawings were hasty but good, the photos voyeuristic.

‘He’s a stalker.’ I picked up an old chair leg, used to it to prod a tower of cans stacked on a teetering desk. Dog food sloshed out on a wave of maggots.

‘Guess he’s been watchin’ her a while,’ said Edwin, peering round the door, old eyes wide. ‘Always figured he was weird. Guess he finally snapped.’

‘Looks that way.’

‘So how’d he do it?’

‘Hmm?’ I was transfixed by the images of Pheme. They surrounded me. I wondered if this was what it like to have an insect’s compound eyes.

‘I saw what he did. Th’door was open. How he just kinda spun her away. Was that dimensions, d’you think?’

I went to the window. Pheme’s eyes followed me. All of them.

‘It’s possible,’ I said.

The bug’s apartment was on the back of the building. Normally the window would have been blocked by a stack of gas towers. But the gas towers were gone, reduced to grey pancakes. So I found myself looking out on a view I’d never seen before.

I saw skyscrapers squashed down to mere architectural plans, pine thickets like wide green carpets, multi-lane highways printed out like sleek graphic designs. But, even though it was flat, it was anything but dead: everything was in motion, like a projection screen playing a thousand different movies all at once.

I realised I was looking south, towards the Mountain. The Mountain’s where all the municipal government’s done. It’s where the Thanes have their offices, where the decisions are made. The heart of the city.

It was just as gone as all the rest of it.

The magnitude of what had happened hit me. I slumped against the window frame. The light hammered in. In the sky, that terrible pattern that was more than stripes, more than anything, pressed towards me.

***

Edwin’s apartment was smaller than the others – hell, it was smaller than the elevator. I knew the Sidhe were famous for their love of enclosed spaces, but this was worse than cramped.

‘How do you stand it?’ I said. It was my turn to stand in the door and peer inside. There was literally no room for both of us in there.

‘I got simple needs.’ He was trying to tidy a mess of pizza boxes and abandoned socks. ‘Want to search? Figure I’m a suspect too, far as you’re concerned. If only ‘cos I’m Sidhe.’

I didn’t argue. Nobody trusts the Sidhe. But that suits them because they pretty much hate everybody who isn’t them. Once they filled this city; three years ago they all moved out, saying they had proof the apocalypse was due – why stick around? Nobody knows where they went. One of the unseen worlds, most likely, although the last time I passed through they were nowhere to be seen.

There’s those who think the Sidhe rumours actually triggered the beginning of the end of the world. Self-fulfilling prophecy, or some such. Not that the world’s ended yet. But the rain never stops and most of the pundits are packing their bags. All I know is nobody trusts a faery.

But Edwin was third generation, born and bred in String City. And he’d stayed behind. Maybe that added up to a difference, maybe not.

All I knew was, I liked the little guy.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s put you to the test. There’s two ways a person could steal all those dimensions. Either they’re an adept …’

‘Like you?’

‘Better than me. But yes, you could say that.’

‘What’s th’other way?’

I shrugged. ‘A fancy machine. No idea if such a thing exists. If it did, it would take up a lot more space than you’ve got in here.’

Edwin’s eyes narrowed. ‘But I could still be a … whatcha call it?’

‘An adept. No, you couldn’t. You said it yourself: you’re Sidhe. I’m good with dimensions. The Sidhe aren’t. Simple as that.’ I checked my watch. Thirty minutes left before the firewater wore off. Thirty minutes before the Pheme-bomb went off in my head again. This time, I was sure, the effect would be nuclear.

Thirty minutes left to solve the case.

‘So I’m off the hook?’ Edwin’s grin ran all the way from one pointed ear to the other.

‘Not exactly.’ I balled my good fist and cracked him on the point of his jaw. His eyes rolled back, followed by the rest of him. The pizza boxes gave him a soft landing.

I grabbed his feet and pulled him into the hall. I used some of his socks to tie his wrists and ankles. Then I squeezed into his apartment and measured it out. Tiny as it looked, it turned out to be enormous. Almost the same size as the penthouse, in fact.

I stepped outside, eyeballed the space again. It still looked like a cupboard. I went back in, paced it out again. Twenty-nine by forty.

I went to the middle of the apartment, sat down. The four walls closed in on me, close enough to touch. When I reached out my arms there was nothing there. I shouted, appreciating the echo.

Someone wasn’t just stealing dimensions. They were redefining them.

I took out my notebook, opened it on my knee. I licked the end of my pencil and wrote:

Pheme = Skandaliser. Love enchantment. Time running out.

She knows Mimas.

Acorn pendant.

Nine dimensions stolen. Why?

The Pattern’s coming through.

I thought a moment, then added:

Her door was unlocked.

I stared at the words on the page, then flipped back to the numbers I’d written in the penthouse:

30 x 40.

Sidhe glamour was disguising the true size of Edwin apartment. Also the fact that it, like the penthouse, took up the entire footprint of the building. Well, that was faeries for you. But the glamour was also hiding the most important fact: this apartment was one pace shorter than it should have been.

I wrote:

Hidden room!

I walked the walls again, hands flat against the plaster. First time round I found nothing. I wished I had my coat with me. Wearing it protects me while I’m travelling between the strings, but it also keeps me sensitive to dimensional anomalies. Which was exactly what I was looking for here.

But the coat was crippled, its lining torn out to make the web that was holding my neighbours in check. I was on my own.

I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes left.

I made another circuit, this time with my eyes closed. I tried to make my heart beat slow and silent, but it kept thudding in my ears. I concentrated, letting my fingers feel every crack, every dimple in the plaster.

Third time round I found the join. It felt like an ordinary crack, but when you got real close and listened real hard, you could hear the voidwind whistling through it.

I pushed the fingers of my good hand into the crack and tried to fold it open. It refused to move. I sniffed, caught the unmistakeable burnt-toast smell of an interbrane lock. Whoever had set this up was a pro.

I turned from the crack and unzipped a regular dimensional snag in the air beside me. The snag opened with a roar, exposing a hank of cosmic string. It looked like a vast furrowed meadow. Seven huge animals grazed on the strings, tearing into them like they were so much spaghetti. Steadily eating reality’s weave.

The apocalypse mules.

It was the first time I’d seen them all together like this. Once, you’d have been lucky to see a single one. Now they were everywhere, all at once, munching away at the strands that hold everything together. Another sign of the end of all things.

I pursed my lips and whistled. One by one, the mules stopped grazing and looked up. Their eyes, bright as suns, locked on mine. Their tails twitched like comets. They were identical but for their manes, which were all different colours. Their bodies looked like X-rays, the bones more defined than the flesh that surrounded them. They steamed like kettles.

One of the mules – the one with the purple mane – started running towards me. Its hooves churned up the strings. The meadow it had been grazing on twanged apart like a broken guitar. It looked like it was a million miles away, but already I could feel its breath searing my face.

I waited as long as I dared. Its eyes were close enough to give me sunburn. Froth from its muzzle splattered through the snag. I ducked: that stuff burned like vitriol.

***

Here ends the partial manuscript of Flatland by Graham Edwards. Unfinished it may be, but it's still my copyright, so hands off. Thanks for reading.

Flatland 15

Being the fifteenth – and final – post in a series charting the writing of a new fantasy detective story.

Things rarely turn out the way you expect. Including my short story Flatland. If you've been following this blog, you'll know how this project has taken a few unexpected twists and turns. Now it's sprung its final surprise. Flatland isn't a short story at all – it's a novel.

At least, it wants to be a novel. Whether it will become one or not only time will tell.

My suspicions were first aroused when I found I'd incorporated The Pattern into the story (The Pattern is the underlying structure of the cosmos, a strange and terrible texture the sight of which does strange things to you). Now, The Pattern also happens to be the central concept of an as-yet unwritten novel about String City, that mysterious burg where my nameless private investigator plies his trade. That novel has a working title of Big Picture.

The more I got into Flatland, the more its plot began to overlap with my notes for Big Picture. So much so that the two became completely intertwined. At that point I realised I wasn't writing a short story at all - I was plotting a novel.

"So are you going to put us out of our misery and write the damn novel now?" I hear you ask. "Not just yet," is my reply.

Big Picture is a novel I want to write, have no doubt about that. But before I devote any serious time to it I have other things more pressing. First is a ghost-writing project, delayed from January, that's just landed at my door. That'll keep me busy until the summer. After that I'm committed to completing the first draft of a new fantasy novel - a speculative project at the moment but I have hopes it will find a home. So Big Picture's going to have to wait.

All the above means this is the last post in the Flatland series of posts ... for now. As and when the Big Picture project goes live, I may consider blogging about that in the same way.

For posterity, I may even post the work to date on Flatland on this blog - all unfinished 8,500 words of it. Keep visiting, and you may yet get to read it!

Flatland 14

Being the fourteenth in a series charting the writing of a new fantasy detective story.

Sometimes writing is a straight-line process. I wrote Girl in Pieces in just a few sittings, with minimal editing as I went along. Everything just fell together. Flatland is more kind of falling apart. The good news is that, as I pick up the pieces, I find they really were meant to fit together, just not quite the way I’d imagined them. Ultimately productive, but endlessly frustrating.

Equally frustrating is the speed at which I’m writing, namely dead slow. This is mostly down to the day job, which is busy enough right now to fill up my head – not to mention my breathing hours – both in and out of work. So right now the writing has to be squeezed into whatever corners I can find.

Never mind all that, I hear you say. Where’s the story at? Well, despite the above, progressing okay. Yesterday I reworked a scene where the PI returns to his office to recover from a) being unexpectedly seduced and b) being attacked by a giant cockroach (a pretty typical day, in other words). In the first draft, my hero was very much under the supernatural spell of Pheme, the story’s femme fatale. But that made him reactive rather than proactive. Vulnerability’s all very well, but I need my hero to call the shots.

The solution was to have him recognise that he’s been supernaturally seduced, and to do something about it. So he programmes the coffee machine to concoct a special brew containing a magical substance called firewater, which blanks out Pheme’s influence for one hour. This plot device does several things. 1) it restores my hero to something resembling his usual self; 2) it lets me keep Pheme’s spell lurking in the background as a constant reminder that he isn’t his usual self; 3) it introduces a ticking clock, bringing some urgency to the narrative – if our hero doesn’t solve the case within the hour, Pheme’s spell will reduce his brain to sentimental mush and he’ll never think another rational thought again.

That done, I built up Edwin’s character a little by establishing that he’s a member of the Sidhe, a second-generation faery who stayed behind in String City when the rest of the Sidhe abandoned ship, fearing an imminent apocalypse. Just background really, and dangerous to overdo in a short piece like this, but it bears on the story so needs to be there.

Talking of length, I’m already running at 8,500 words and there’s a lot of plot to get through. At this rate, the finished piece could be as long as 15,000 words. A novelette heading for a novella. You might wonder why that matters. Well, it’s harder to find a market for something of this length. 10,000 words is the top limit for a lot of publications. I’m not overly worried at this stage – I’m just trying to tell the story as it wants to be told; it’ll be as long as it needs to be. But I would like folk to read it one day, so commercial viability is an important concern.

Next step in the story is for the PI to start putting his clues together. He’s got enough of them now. A mysterious silver amulet shaped like an acorn, the odd measurements he took in Mimas’s enormous apartment, plus the curiously small size of Edwin’s little abode. Pheme’s behaviour, the ransom note left by the cockroach. And, of course, the flattening of the city.

And it’s time to ramp up the pace. After four or five pages of seduction and deduction, it’s time for a little action!

Flatland 13

Being the thirteenth in a series charting the writing of a new fantasy detective story.



Having just written an exterior scene (in which our detective hero and Edwin trek across the flattened city landscape) I've decided to keep the action set entirely within the apartment building.

This was an idea I toyed with earlier, but rejected. Now I've changed my mind. Doesn't affect what I've written too badly. The exterior scene can play out much as it did, just in a different location.

Also, after my last writing session I realised the plot I'd devised for this story was too complicated. So I've replotted. Gone is a trip to the Wildwood, mysteriously unaffected by the flattening. Instead, I've brought to prominence something I call The Pattern. The Pattern is the underlying structure of the cosmos, and something no man was meant to see. Just looking at it can kill you. Or send you crazy. Or something.

The Pattern is a phenomenon I've hinted at in a couple of my other stories. It's also the subject of a novel I haven't written yet (working title: Big Picture). I've decided this story is the place to introduce it as a concept.

As a tease, I've scanned the notebook I've just used to rework the plot. Just click on the image at the top of this post to view it. The right-hand page contains my scribbles about Flatland - good luck making sense of them!

Oh, and the scribbles on the left relate to another project altogether. About that, I'm saying nothing whatsoever ...