This Dreaming Isle Read online

  Also available from Unsung Stories

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  Pseudotooth by Verity Holloway

  You Will Grow Into Them by Malcolm Devlin

  2084 edited by George Sandison

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  The Willow By Your Side by Peter Haynes

  Published by Unsung Stories, an imprint of Red Squirrel Publishing

  "Red Squirrel" is a registered trademark of Shoreditch Media Limited

  Red Squirrel Publishing Suite 235, 15 Ingestre Place, London W1F 0DU, United Kingdom

  www.unsungstories.co.uk

  First edition published in 2017

  Introduction © 2018 Dan Coxon

  ‘Old Trash’ © 2018 Jenn Ashworth

  ‘Hovering’ © 2018 Gary Budden

  ‘The Devil in the Details’ © 2018 Ramsey Campbell

  ‘Lodestones’ © 2018 Richard V. Hirst

  ‘In My Father's House’ © 2018 Andrew Michael Hurley

  ‘Land of Many Seasons’ © 2018 Tim Lebbon

  ‘The Headland of Black Rock’ © 2018 Alison Littlewood

  ‘Domestic Magic’ © 2018 Kirsty Logan

  ‘Not All Right’ © 2018 James Miller

  ‘The Stone Dead’ © 2018 Alison Moore

  ‘We Regret to Inform You’ © 2018 Jeannette Ng

  ‘Swimming With Horses’ © 2018 Angela Readman

  ‘The Knucker’ © 2018 Gaerth E. Rees

  ‘The Cocktail Party in Kensington Gets Out of Hand’ © 2018 Robert Shearman

  'Cold Ashton' © 2018 Stephen Volk

  'The Pier at Ardentinny' © 2018 Catriona Ward

  'Dark Shells' © 2018 Aliya Whiteley

  The Contributors have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of their Work

  This book is a work of fiction. All the events and characters portrayed in this book are fictional and any similarities to persons, alive or deceased, is coincidental.

  Cover Artwork © 2018 Jordan Grimmer

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-1912658-02-2

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-907389-59-7

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-907389-60-3

  Editor: Dan Coxon

  Proofreader: George Sandison

  Cover design: VInce Haig

  Text design: Martin Cox

  Typesetting: George Sandison

  This Dreaming Isle

  Introduction

  Country

  The Pier at Ardentinny by Catriona Ward

  Old Trash by Jenn Ashworth

  In My Father's House by Andrew Michael Hurley

  Land of Many Seasons by Tim Lebbon

  Dark Shells by Aliya Whiteley

  Cold Ashton by Stephen Volk

  Domestic Magic by Kirsty Logan

  City

  Not All Right by James Miller

  The Cocktail Party in Kensington Gets Out of Hand by Robert Shearman

  We Regret to Inform You by Jeannette Ng

  Lodestones by Richard V. Hirst

  Coast

  The Knucker by Gaerth E. Rees

  The Stone Dead by Alison Moore

  Hovering by Gary Budden

  The Headland of Black Rock by Alison Littlewood

  The Devil in the Details by Ramsey Campbell

  Swimming With Horses by Angela Readman

  Introduction

  Earlier in the year, when this anthology was entering the later stages of the editorial process, Paul Wright’s film Arcadia was released to a small number of cinemas around the country. Comprised of archival footage set to a score by Adrian Utley of Portishead and Will Gregory of Goldfrapp – with a cursory narrative of sorts provided by Wright’s voice-over – it explored Britain’s relationship with the land, including the passing of folk traditions and the incursion of the industrial age into our countryside. There was an obvious elegiac tone to parts of the film, but also a sense of weirdness, a strange, unsettling undercurrent that emerged from the archives: masked figures, ritual dances, traditions rooted in folklore and legend. It looked like something from The Wicker Man.

  This Dreaming Isle occupies that same fertile ground. It was always our intention to allow the contributing authors a free rein when it came to their stories – we asked only that they should tie them to a specific place in the British Isles, and should in some way explore the myths and traditions, the folklore and history that make this land unique.

  What’s startling upon reading these stories together, in one volume, is that so many of them occupy that territory commonly called ‘folk horror’. We are faced with haunted lochs and medieval witches, spectral apparitions and Black Magic. Even Andrew Michael Hurley’s ‘In My Father’s House’ – arguably the weirdest story in this anthology – suggests a timeless presence in the landscape, something not entirely malevolent, but not on the side of the angels either.

  In some cases, the same images surface with eerie regularity. Secluded hills, mirrors, the appearance of a stranger in a small community: these are all elements that are common in British folk tales, and they crop up here too, threading through the stories. But even more startling are the differences, the kaleidoscopic variety of the authors’ interpretations of place, and folklore, and ‘Britishness’. These tales dig deep into the layers of history beneath our feet, revealing strata upon strata: back through the medieval witch trials to the Norman invasion, and beyond. It’s no coincidence that two of the stories turn up ancient creatures, fossilised in the very bedrock of the land.

  Of course, these days it’s almost impossible to discuss Britain, past or future, without Brexit rearing its scaly head. When this anthology was first conceived (and I can be precise about this, as I’ve time-travelled back through the email threads) the crucial vote on 23 June 2016 was still three months away, and the notion of Britain being anything other than part of Europe seemed ludicrous and far-fetched. Little did we know that two years later – after the Leave vote, the failed negotiations, the infighting and the resignations – it would still seem ludicrous and far-fetched, but we would be shackled to it nonetheless.

  I’m reminded of a ride at Alton Towers called The Black Hole that I rode when I was a teenager, plummeting down through the darkness at such speeds that my stomach felt as if it was rising into my throat. That sensation of being in blind, rudderless freefall scared the shit out of me then – much as it does now.

  The political landscape of Britain is different today, even if the actual landscape hasn’t changed. The notion of ‘Britishness’ is all too often marred by reactionary nationalistic sentiments, the chest-thumping of the far right or the ‘tea-and-scones’ tweeness of Theresa May. It has never been the intention of this anthology to push any kind of political agenda, but we were very clear about what we didn’t want. There was no space here for anti-immigration rants or ‘this is our land’ conservatism. I’m pleased to say that none of the stories we were sent even attempted to head in that direction – our authors are far too sensible, and too reasonable, for that.

  Which brings me back to Arcadia. When the film was released, Paul Kingsnorth penned a short essay for their website, intended to be part of the promotional push for the movie. Kingsnorth is sometimes a controversial figure, and it didn’t take long for the debate to brew around his contribution. Entitled ‘Elysium Found?’, Kingsnorth’s essay quickly moved away from the weird, unse
ttling heart of Wright’s film, instead using it as a flag to wave for old fashioned patriotism and nostalgia. Several of the authors in this book took offence at the right-wing, reactionary tone of the piece – and rightly so. The past isn’t tea and scones on the lawn, it’s malicious ghosts and weird goings-on in the fells, it’s witches burned at the stake and towns razed to the ground by Vikings. The past is a dangerous, cutthroat place, filled with violence, injustice and inequality. Those who see it through rose-tinted glasses aren’t engaging with it, they’re simply fantasizing – and that’s always dangerous.

  The very idea of Britishness is in turmoil at the moment. With everything that’s happening on the political scene, it’s hard to imagine what this country will look like five years from now, never mind the decades to come. But the stories in This Dreaming Isle make one thing clear: there are rich veins of weirdness running through the soil here, an underground river of the strange and the unsettling that has been part of Britain’s cultural landscape for centuries, and shows no signs of drying up any time soon. Brexit or no Brexit, Britain’s weird stories are here to stay.

  Dan Coxon

  August 2018

  COUNTRY

  The Pier at Ardentinny

  Catriona Ward

  It may send me mad. The light in the cupboard will not turn off. Light bleeds through the cracks, creating a glowing doorway in the dark. The bed faces it directly.

  We are in the red bedroom in the west wing. It has a large cupboard set in the wall by the bedroom door. An overhead bulb throws stark light over the dusty interior. A cord switches it on and off, but now pulling the cord produces nothing but a robust click. The bulb burns on regardless.

  I have done everything I can think of. Pulled the cord with varying degrees of gentleness and force. Flicked all the other switches in the room, hoping that one of them controls it. Searched the baseboards for another, secret switch which might have escaped my first sweep. I tried to unscrew the bulb and retreated swearing with singed fingers. I tried again, this time with a towel wrapped around my hand. The towel started smoking and now the room smells of burnt polyester.

  Anthony sleeps on, of course, no earthquake could prevent that. Whorls of grey chest hair struggle through the gaps in his pyjama top. The granite jawline of which he is so proud is softening year by year. But he looks very peaceful. I am envious.

  I could wake Anthony’s mother Estelle and ask her how to turn the light off, of course. But I think I won’t do that.

  Outside the wind races, tugging and tapping at the house – panes shake in their fixtures, latches rattle, slates shift uneasy on the roof. For days the rain has fallen on us from clouds of pewter. Scottish weather can give one the creeps. There’s too much low angry sky. It sees me, somehow.

  ›•‹

  Anthony and I met by the cloakroom of our favourite restaurant. There was a mix-up with the tickets and we both had the same number. We laughed but we were a little annoyed. The flustered girl searched the racks for my green linen jacket and his heavy, velvet-collared astrakhan. He is always cold.

  We talked about the restaurant, how we loved the food, about how long we had been coming to this place. We each claimed it as ‘our place’. There was a friendly, competitive edge to it all which I liked. He wasn’t worried by my beauty. I quickly realised that he was everything I wanted. Kind, intelligent. In search of purpose. I realised that I could give him that. Director of this, CEO of that, Trustee of whatever – all the various ways of saying money. Only those who have too much feel the need to disguise it so.

  He had a wife before me, Imogen. She left him, then shortly afterwards died. I don’t plan to do either of those things.

  ›•‹

  For breakfast there is haggis – of course – pallid eggs and crimson strips of bacon that disintegrate into salty granules at the touch of a fork.

  Estelle comes in from seeing to the hens. Rivers of broken capillaries run down her cheeks. She wears her wellington boots at table.

  ‘Oh, Irene,’ she says, in her traceless accent. ‘Do have apiece of toast at least. There’s nothing to you.’

  ‘Coffee is fine.’ I smile.

  Anthony lowers the paper. ‘Leave her alone, Mother,’ hesays, squinting slightly. He is too vain to wear glasses and he is frightened of contact lenses.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘The light in the cupboard in our room won’t switch off,’I say.

  ‘Oh,’ says Estelle. ‘I’ll ask Jamie to look at it.’ Jamie’s arms are decorated with delicate swirls of blue ink to the shoulders. He has a face that was never young or surprisedby anything. He lives in a flat over the old kitchen at Ardentinny during the week, and goes who knows where at the weekends.

  ‘Drizzle all morning,’ Estelle says. ‘But it’s meant to clear in the afternoon. Let’s walk over to the village after lunch. A good long stroll.’

  ‘How long?’ I ask politely.

  ‘Four miles or so. We’ll have tea by the pier. It’s lovely.

  Jamie can collect us in the Land Rover later.’

  Through the window the hills glower behind their mask of rain.

  She follows my gaze, anxious. ‘It’s better in the summer,’ she says. I can see her heart in her face. She is one of those women. ‘Honestly. The sun is out all day. Isn’t it, Anthony?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s heaven, Reeney.’

  Early on, Estelle fastened onto the idea that I want to be married in London. The thought grieves her deeply.

  I have no objection to holding the wedding here. Ardentinny House is soft with age and surrounded by rolling land. Deer walk the lines of the hills in pronged silhouettes. It is all very suitable.

  I am going to let her persuade me slowly. It is good to startout with her in my debt.

  ›•‹

  The sky clears after lunch. We set out towards the village under a deep blue sky. The path is green and wide. Bees crawl busy through the heather. The air is warm, smokesweet. My skin drinks the sunlight. We all feel it. Estelle’s cheeks pink up beneath the red. I don’t know how anyone stands those grey days.

  Anthony begins to whistle, something melodic with a lilt of folk song. Estelle laughs and hums along. She strides out and soon overtakes us. We dawdle behind, wind whipping our cheeks.

  I take Anthony’s hand. He squeezes it. ‘You’re a peach for coming,’ he murmurs. ‘Ma loves this walk.’

  Ahead, Estelle turns and calls, ‘I love this walk. Come on,slowcoaches!’

  We hurry to catch her. She is standing in a ring of raised turf. ‘There was a Celtic hill fort here,’ she says. ‘This is old land, lived on by many people through the ages. Everyone leaves something behind.’ Her eyes are misty. ‘The past is everywhere. Even the loch at Ardentinny is charmed, you know. They say you see people’s true nature in it. Before two youngsters married they would go together to the lake and look at their betrothed’s reflection, to make sure they were not wedding a demon or an evildoer.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ I say.

  Estelle turns abruptly and strides away. I realise, too late, that she is crying.

  ‘She gets like that sometimes,’ Anthony says. ‘We used to picnic here when we were children. So this place reminds her of Dad and Lisette.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, making my face soft and loving. ‘I am sorry.’I touch his cheek. ‘Let’s not be sad today. Let’s think about the future.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He lifts me off the ground and kisses me. ‘Will you look in the loch with me, Reeney?’

  ‘And reveal my wicked nature? Never.’

  ‘Wicked, you say?’ He squeezes me until I can hardly breathe. He likes me to be pert. ‘Let’s catch up with Mother, wicked woman.’

  The land begins to slope gently downwards and there is the feeling of water nearby. We crest the final rise and the village of Ardentinny lies below us, clinging to the shore of the gleaming loch. Boats rise and fall on the gentle swell. Neat houses of whitewashed stone, a
little grey church with no spire, as if it is unwise to reach too high in these parts. All around the land rolls on in heights of green and purple.

  From this direction one enters the village through the churchyard. We come down the hill and climb the stile. The stones are upright, golden with lichen. I go quickly through the ranks of the dead. I wait by the lychgate while Anthony and Estelle pay their respects. His father lies here. Beside him is buried Anthony’s twin sister Lisette, dead at nineteen. Anthony does not speak of her often. I know he feels guilt. He dared her to jump the fence. They didn’t check the landing side and so missed the rabbit hole. The horse broke a leg, Lisette her neck.

  ›•‹

  The pier is a rickety thing of silver weathered plank. It stretches out over the shining loch. We sit with our legs hanging. Estelle and Anthony produce cheese scones from capacious waxed pockets. I drink tea from the flask.

  ‘Photo of you two,’ Estelle says. ‘I want to remember this.’

  She takes a little camera from her pocket. A light flashes ominous red on the top. She goes down the pier to the shore and picks her way along the rocky beach.

  ‘Shall we look?’ Anthony asks.

  We peer into the water together. It is rough, made of shining rills and ripples thrown up by the wind. There is no reflection, just black water and tossed sunlight.

  Estelle sits down beside us again. ‘I don’t know if it took.’

  Her brow is furrowed. ‘And now the battery’s dead.’

  Anthony puts an arm about each of us. ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘We can remember it instead. Where’s my scone? I had half left.’