Hellbound Hearts (44 page)

PAUL KANE has been writing professionally for twelve years. His genre journalism has appeared in such magazines as
The Dark Side
,
Fangoria
,
SFX
, and
Rue Morgue
, and his first nonfiction book was the critically acclaimed
The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy
. His short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic (as well as being broadcast on BBC Radio 2), and have been collected in
Alone (In the Dark)
,
Touching the Flame
,
FunnyBones
, and
Peripheral Visions
. His novella
Signs of Life
reached the shortlist of the British Fantasy Awards 2006 and his others include
The Lazarus Condition
and
RED
. His first mass-market novel was
Arrowhead
, a postapocalyptic reworking of the Robin Hood myth published by Abaddon, and a sequel has recently been released called
Broken Arrow
. In his capacity as Special Publications Editor of the British Fantasy Society he worked with authors like Brian Aldiss, Ramsey Campbell, Robert Silverberg and many more. In 2008 his zombie story “Dead Time” was turned into an episode of the Lionsgate/NBC TV series
Fear Itself
, adapted by Steve Niles and directed by Darren Lynn Bousman (
SAW
II–IV). Paul's website can be found at
www.shadow-writer.co.uk
. He currently lives in Derbyshire, UK, with his wife—the author Marie O'Regan—his family, and a black cat called Mina.

MARIE O'REGAN is a British Fantasy Award–nominated writer of horror and dark fantasy, based in the Midlands, UK, where she lives
with her husband—author Paul Kane—her children, and the creature of the night known as Mina, the family cat. Her fiction has been published in the UK, United States, Germany, and Italy, and she has had reviews, interviews, and articles published in many magazines both in the UK, United States, and Canada—her essay on
The Changeling
was published in the award-winning
Cinema Macabre
from PS Publishing. Her first collection,
Mirror Mere
, was released in 2006 by Rainfall Books in the UK, and she served as chairperson of the British Fantasy Society for four years (2004–2008), during which time she coedited several publications, including
British Fantasy Society: A Celebration
, as well as a number of FantasyCon convention souvenir booklets. She has also edited the BFS flagship magazine,
Dark Horizons
, and their newsletter
Prism
. In 2008 Marie co-chaired what is widely regarded as one of the most successful FantasyCons in recent years. To find out more, visit
www.marieoregan.net
.

Wordsworth.

Short story by Neil Gaiman, for Dave McKean

‘Words are but pictures, true or false designed,
To draw the lines and features of the mind.'

BUTLER—
Upon the Abuse of Human Learning.

(OK: THE TEXT ON THIS PAGE I IMAGINE AS BEING LAID OVER AN ALMOST ARBITRARY PANEL GRID. IN THE PANELS ARE REALLY NASTY THINGS. REALLLLLLY NASTY THINGS MADE OF PLASTICENE AND HOOKS AND K.Y. GEL TO MAKE IT GLISTEN AND DRIPPY WAX BITS AND RUSTY METAL SLIVERS STICKING OUT AND LEATHERY BITS AND STUFF YOU'D FREAK OUT IF YOU TOUCHED IT WHEN YOU WEREN'T EXPECTING TO . . . POSSIBLY A GLASS EYE COVERED IN A THICK TRANSLUCENT MEMBRANE . . . THAT KIND OF STUFF. DO IT IN 3D – JUST GIVING ENOUGH ILLUSION OF PANEL BORDERS TO GIVE THE IMPRESSION THAT WE'RE SEEING LOTS OF STUFF, THAT THIS STUFF GOES ON FOREVER, THAT IT COULD BE BITS OF THE PEOPLE, OR IT COULD BE A WALL, AN INFINITE WALL . . . )

Examine please the writhing tapestries of choice violence implicit in every scratching and syllable. Smell the beast-blood trickling into each wound, spelling out new ways to violate sweet innocence.

Hooks rend. New blasphemies configurate upon the inside of my eyelids: tales worked in blood and bone and flesh and semen, traced in spittle; a dash of bile here, a slice of kidney there.

Gather round damned children, and together we shall lament and celebrate the configuration that made us what we are, today and forever.

So: do you writhe and shiver in the pangs of darling agonies undreamable, wriggling and gasping and giggling, anticipating the tumescent thrill of another's damnation?

Good.

Then I'll begin . . .

PAGE 2

OK – FORMAL STORYTELLING FOR THE NEXT FEW PAGES. (INCIDENTALLY, I HAVEN'T BOTHERED TO SET TIME OR PLACE ON THIS, BUT I ASSUME IT'S LONDON, PROBABLY 1950S, ALTHOUGH IT COULD BE SET TODAY AS EASILY.)

WE'RE IN A SECOND CLASS CARRIAGE, A SMALL, SMOKE-FILLED COMPARTMENT, ON A SUNNY MORNING. THE SUN COMING THROUGH THE WINDOWS BECOMES SOMETHING MUGGY AND UNHEALTHY. CLAUSTROPHOBIC. A LITTLE MAN, WORDSWORTH, DRIED-UP AND GRAY AND SHRIVELED SITS ON THE LEFT. A HUGE GUY SITS ON THE OPPOSITE SEAT, READING A MAGAZINE. THE HUGE GUY HAS NO FACE, JUST STARING, PIGGY LITTLE RED EYES STARING OUT OF THE SHADOWS. WORDSWORTH IS DOING A CROSSWORD.

His name is Wordsworth.

The final clue, 12 down:
You imply no blazing fronds grow in the abyss? (7).

Inferno
.

He writes it down and sighs dustily.

(WORDSWORTH PUTS HIS PAPER DOWN ON THE EMPTY SEAT NEXT TO HIM.)

Then, crossword completed (6 minutes, 12 seconds),
Daily Telegraph
abandoned, Wordsworth stares out of the carriage window at a parade of allotments, at the ugly backs of houses.

Unsatisfying.

The train shudders into the city center and a fly makes languorous love to the grimy window. Wordsworth lights his cigarette, and reads, unconsciously, the name of the brand that circles the base.

Half an hour to go before he arrives at the library.

Half an hour to kill.

(WHEN THE STRANGER OPPOSITE TALKS, I LIKE THE IDEA OF COLORING HIS WORD BALLOONS GENTLY, JUST AROUND THE EDGES, SO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY'RE WRITTEN ON OLD PARCHMENT.)

Man Opposite: You finish puzzle.

Wordsworth: Sorry?

Oh, the crossword.

I see.

Yes, yes I'm afraid so.

(THE MAN OPPOSITE SMILES; HIS FACE IS IN SHADOWS. POSSIBLY HE HAS NO FACE, JUST A SMILE, WITH A HINT OF SOMETHING SHARP AROUND THE CANINES. HE SAYS:)

Man: Words.

Wordsworth: Er . . . Yes.

(THE MAN STANDS UP, RIPS A PAGE OUT OF HIS MAGAZINE, HANDS IT TO WORDSWORTH.)

Man: You need good puzzle. Here.

(WORDSWORTH SITS, HUDDLED IN HIS SEAT, NERVOUSLY CLUTCHING THE BIT OF PAPER.)

Wordsworth: Oh. I see. Right. Well, uh . . . thank you.

(SILENT PANEL/S: THE FACELESS STRANGER, HIS SMILE NOW GOES FROM EAR TO EAR – AND I MEAN THAT QUITE LITERALLY, A SMILE FAR WIDER THAN ANYTHING HUMAN. HE'S GETTING OFF THE TRAIN. WORDSWORTH SITS ON THE TRAIN, LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOW TOWARDS THE STRANGER.)

OVER THE PAGE TO PAGE 4:

WE ARE LOOKING FROM WORDSWORTH'S VIEWPOINT AT THE PUZZLE. NOW, ONE POSSIBILITY MIGHT BE TO MAKE IT THIS KIND OF SHAPE:

– A SQUARED-OFF SPIRAL OF LITTLE SQUARES, LIKE CROSSWORD SQUARES. DOWN THE SIDE A NUMBER OF CLUES ARE PRINTED, BUT WE CAN'T READ WHAT THEY SAY. EVERY NOW AND THEN ONE OF THE LITTLE BOXES SHOULD HAVE A NUMBER IN IT. FAILING THAT YOU MIGHT JUST WANT TO CUT OUT A BLANK CROSSWORD PUZZLE FROM
THE TIMES
OR
GUARDIAN
OR WHATEVER, WORK INTO IT A LITTLE, PERHAPS. IF YOU DO THAT THEN ADD (DOWN) AND (ACROSS) TO THE CLUES GIVEN HERE – OR JUST GIVE THEM TO ME TO RENUMBER.

Wordsworth gazes at the paper [in dismay. No true crossword here
1
]. He scans the first clue, expects nothing of substance.

1. What you did to the rabbit. (7)

(SLIM PANEL OF A RABBIT'S FACE LOOKING AT US.)

Wordsworth ponders. An anagram, perhaps? He combines permutations of
‘you'
, and
‘U'
, with both
‘Rabbit'
and
‘hare'
, and, as an afterthought,
‘lapin.'

It isn't coming.

But deep in his dry soul something flutters. He
knows
he knows the answer . . .

(RABBIT PICTURE AGAIN)

He just doesn't know what it is.

And then . . .

SILENT, PASTORAL SEQUENCE, IN A DIFFERENT STYLE – COLORED PENCILS, PERHAPS?

A SMALL CHILD WHO IS PRETTY DEFINITELY YOUNG WORDSWORTH, STANDING BESIDE A POND, HOLDING A WHITE, FLOPPY-EARED BUNNY RABBIT. IT'S A BEAUTIFUL SUNNY SUMMER DAY.

(Wordsworth was seven.)

(His rabbit was called Flopsy.)

THE BOY, WHO IS ABOUT SEVEN, KISSES THE RABBIT.

THEN, HOLDING IT BY THE EARS, HE PUSHES THE STRUGGLING BUNNY INTO THE POND.

IT THRASHES FOR A BIT, THEN GOES LIMP IN THE WATER.

THEN WE'RE BACK IN THE HERE AND NOW LOOKING AT WORDSWORTH, WHO IS WRITING SOMETHING.

. . . he knew.

AND WE CAN SEE THE FINAL PANEL ON THE PAGE, WITH THE BEGINNING OF THE PUZZLE ON IT. IN THE FIRST SEVEN SQUARES IS THE WORD
DROWNED
, HANDWRITTEN IN INK, IN BLOCK CAPITALS.

OVER THE PAGE TO PAGE 6.

A HUGE MUSEUM LIBRARY. STACKS OF BOOKS AND PAPERS EVERYWHERE. IT'S DUSTY AND DRY AND OLD. A SYMPHONY OF DUSTY BROWNS – THE
ONLY COLORS WE CAN SEE ARE SPLASHES OF BRIGHT CLOTHES AND LIPSTICK WORN BY THREE YOUNG, ATTRACTIVE FEMALE LIBRARIANS. WORDSWORTH IS ENTERING, HOLDING A BRIEFCASE. THERE'S A BALCONY, A MEZZANINE FLOOR, AROUND THE SIDE OF THE BUILDING, WHERE THE FIRST FLOOR OUGHT TO BE. WE COULD BE PANNING AROUND, LOOKING AT THE BOOKS, THE WOMEN, WORDSWORTH HIMSELF.

Wordsworth worked in the museum library, in the stacks of books, organizing and classifying.

There were over 200,000 books and manuscripts in the museum. They were friends, albeit friends composed of words and stories.

True friends, unlike his workmates – creatures so incomprehensible to him as to be almost alien: Miss Watson; Miss Priddow; Mrs Kelly.

The second clue was this:

2.) Miss Watson's cry of book-borne pain. (5, 7, 4).

WORDSWORTH IS UP ON THE BALCONY BY NOW. HE'S HOLDING A LARGE BOOK. LOOKING DOWN AT THE WOMEN BELOW HIM.

HE LETS THE BOOK FALL.

Cry from below: Jesus sodding
wept! Owwwww!

WORDSWORTH, LEANING DOWN, TALKING TO THE PROSTRATE GIRL. HE LOOKS CONCERNED.

Wordsworth: I, I beg your pardon, Miss Watson. I'm afraid my elbow knocked
The Albigensian Crusade
off the mezzanine ledge.

Are you all right?

UP TO YOU HERE – YOU MIGHT EITHER SHOW THE GIRL ON THE FLOOR WITH THE OTHER GIRLS AROUND HER. OR YOU MIGHT JUST WANT TO SHOW WORDSWORTH UP ON THE BOOK-COVERED BALCONY, WITH THE GIRL'S WORD BALLOONS COMING FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE PANEL. SO WE NEVER SEE HER – JUST HIM.

Girl:
‘Course
I'm not all right, you stupid old
tit-mouse!
I think my
shoulder's
broken!'

WORDSWORTH IS SMILING.

WE SEE THE NEXT SECTION OF THE PUZZLE FILLED IN IN WORDSWORTH'S NEAT CAPITALS.
JESUS
[.]
SODDING
[.]
WEPT
.

OK – FROM HERE OUT WE'RE ABANDONING LINEAR STORYTELLING. GO FOR COLLAGE, OR FOR FLEETING IMAGES, SO THAT WE CAN PORTRAY WORDSWORTH'S DESCENT IN OCCASIONAL IMAGES: POSSIBLY LAY THE OVERALL DESIGN (BLOWN UP) OF THE CROSSWORD OVER THE PAGES?

Wordsworth doesn't know where the puzzle comes from, nor does he care. The puzzle is all. The words are everything.

3. The gift of the Scavenger's Daughter? (5)

He finds out, and fills in the answer on the puzzle in his precise, neat handwriting.

IT'S
BLOOD
, BY THE WAY. I'LL LEAVE IT TO ANYONE READING TO DISCOVER WHY, ASSUMING YOU'RE INTERESTED. A SCAVENGER'S DAUGHTER IS AN ARCHAIC INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE.

Answers.

Wordsworth discovers there is a specialized vocabulary in the more uncompromising realms of bondage and flagellation.

From that province he takes away a scarred back and expertly pierced genitalia; and, more importantly, he fills another nine squares on the puzzle.

Wordsworth attends a meal, at which noble and affluent coprophiliacs[
2
] dine for twelve courses on forty kinds of human shit.

He's there for the last word on the menu: it turns out to be
coffee
. Someone has a sense of humor . . .

The delights of reluctant perversion chill him, although each new experience has a specific end in view.

Words.

For a word he cuts a dog apart and casts its entrails upon his kitchen floor, seeking sense in the loops and whorls of its intestines.

(WE SEE A WORD –
LUNAR
, POSSIBLY, OR ANY FAIRLY LOOPY AND CURLY WORD – SPELT OUT IN INTESTINES AND BLOOD, IN A LOOPY HANDWRITING.)