If you’ve checked your horoscope today then maybe you’re waiting to meet that tall dark stranger, or get that windfall you didn’t expect. It’s all true, those star sign predictions in the newspaper. The planets shift, and we are all just pawns in the system. Do you doubt it? Does your modern, cynical mind suspect it’s just written by some 19-year-old intern on the features desk shift? Then let “Signs of Life” take you through the signs of the zodiac, but perhaps not in the way you might expect. Because sometimes star signs can collide. Lots of things can collide. Not always the way that even your horoscope has predicted.
It’s fitting indeed that Paul Kane finishes his choice of excellence with “Eye of the Beholder”. Because his story is a challenge to our sense of self-importance, of who we are, and our paths of free will and choice. You see, Paul thinks he is in charge. He thinks his long and fruitful career, his prolific output, his generosity and hospitality, all the favours big and small and all the projects epic and tiny, have all been within his control. Master of his own destiny. Pilot of his soul.
But what if Paul Kane’s life and work, that long and admirable span of imaginative and inventive storytelling, was not truly in his hands? What if someone else, no, worse, something else, was merely using him as a conduit, indifferent to his will, ticking him off as another part of a bigger plan, one where the sparkle of his talent and the breadth of his imagination was predestined, none of his doing?
Wouldn’t that be ironic? Let’s leave the idea there and see what happens. The mile-wide Paul Kane smile, the body of work that shames any professional, the accolades and the prizes, the friends, family and colleagues that love and admire him. All a plan. All an unchangeable, unalterable destiny that even the very best, most skilful of writers can’t quite plot himself out of.
Hey, don’t blame me Paul! I didn’t make this stuff up. You did mate. And it’s all bloody brilliant.
Reader. Enjoy.
Muriel Gray
Sept 2016
SHADOW WRITER
I listened to the slapping of water against the boat as great oars propelled me onwards. At any other time I would have found it relaxing, but I was far too excited by the prospect of that which awaited me. Excited and yet strangely anxious.
Had it only been last week when the letter arrived on my desk at the Daily Herald? It seemed like several lifetimes ago. I remember being puzzled by the unique handwriting on the front of the envelope, curling and intricate. Hardly anyone hand-wrote envelopes these days, especially people who corresponded with me. Most printed out their names and addresses using a computer, or simply used email.
But this was nothing compared to the surprise I experienced when I opened it and started reading.
Dear Mr Regis, it said in that same wonderful hand, My sources inform me that you are one of my biggest fans in this country. Therefore, I am granting you the opportunity of coming to my home to interview me, alone of course. If you are interested in accepting my offer, please confirm this by writing to the above P.O. Box address. I urge you not to speak of this to anyone yet, not even your editor at The Herald. I will know if you do so and the offer will be withdrawn at once. Yours sincerely, Herbert Lynch.
At first I believed it to be a joke of some kind. My colleagues were fully aware of the love I had for Lynch’s books: his many, extraordinary books. I thought one of them had forged the note to provoke me.
Everyone knew the horror author never gave interviews—no one had even seen him for decades—but something at the back of my mind told me to remain silent. If the letter really was genuine, I could spoil everything by confronting my bewildered workmates. So I decided to write back. Nothing ventured ...
Then, several days later, I received blunt instructions telling me roughly when I could meet with Lynch and where he was residing: near a small village along the coastline called Rath’s End. Surely none of my friends would go to this much trouble to trick me, I thought. This was real. I was actually going to meet with my life-long literary idol. Not only that, but I was also going to be the first journalist ever to interview the enigmatic recluse.
Ever since I can recall I’ve read, collected and enjoyed Lynch’s dark fiction. The author’s style is unrivalled by his contemporaries—a blend of old and new, with chilling consequences for the reader. His stories, of things in the shadows (hence his nickname the “Shadow Writer”), strange creatures beyond our imagination, ghosts and demons, hellish realms and nightmare landscapes, had come alive in the pages of untold novels and anthologies over the last half a century.
Envied and imitated by other scribes, yet loved and adored by fans in their millions around the world, Herbert Lynch was the voice of horror in the world today. So you can imagine my joy at hearing he’d invited me to his very home, the location of which was a closely guarded secret. I should know, I’ve been trying to discover it for years. And now it had just fallen into my lap with no effort at all. I suppose I could have sold the address on for a small fortune, but didn’t wish to betray the man’s confidence. Anyway, I had no intentions of passing this opportunity up.
I could only assume that he—or someone close to him—must have seen one of my articles. Lynch being something of an obsession of mine, I tended to write about him whenever the opportunity arose. Usually when a new hardback appeared on the shelves or as Hallowe’en descended upon us once more.
The last piece I’d penned was a retrospective of his entire back catalogue, a daunting task for any other journalist, I’m sure. In it I compared his prose to that of the grand master of modern horror literature, 19th century writer Sir Horace Fenshaw, plus other well-known voices in the field such as turn of the century scaremonger James Weir. I drew parallels between their styles and argued that Lynch was indeed a worthy successor to the throne, having updated, as well as embellished upon, their terrifying work.
Perhaps he had been flattered by the comparisons, who knows? If so, then I would die a very happy man because it was Lynch who indirectly inspired me to take up writing in the first place. In my teens I tried to copy him, coming up with my own macabre stories. But the talent just wasn’t there; even I could see that. Dejected, I turned to non-fiction instead, figuring it to be the next best thing.
As it turned out I was right, and over the years I’ve managed to carve out a modest little niche for myself. Now, finally, all that hard work was paying off. My mentor—in all but presence—wished to see me, and only me!
I badgered my editor for some time away from the office, promising him it would be worth his while in the long run.
“Hot scoop, Stephen?” he asked, half-jokingly.
“Could be, boss. Could be. I can’t say any more right now.” He must have seen that look in my eye, the one that meant his circulation would increase if he went along, because eventually he agreed.
“Take as much time as you need, but The Herald gets exclusive rights.”
And off I went, driving up to Rath’s End without further delay—only calling at my flat to grab a few essential items of clothing, my Dictaphone (no camera, as he expressly forbid me to take photographs) and, of course, a bundle of books for him to sign.
The drive was uneventful enough through miles of countryside, but as I careered along I began to feel a nervous flutter deep inside. I put this down to the fact that I hadn’t really prepared for the interview. Just what would I ask this man when I came face to face with him? I quickly suppressed these concerns for the time being and concentrated on the road ahead. It would be a moot point if I rolled the car into a ditch and missed my opportunity. I hoped that when the time came I could play it by ear without looking too much of an idiot.
The journey took nearly a day to complete, by which time it was almost dusk. I eventually stumbled upon a small tavern in Rath’s End where I would spend the night pacing in my room, attempting—unsuccessfully—to bring some order to my thoughts. I concluded that the most important question would be about Lynch’s vast fortune. What exactly did he do with all his money,