I'm still thinking, and worrying, about The Outer
Limits panel that I have to appear on at the Theakston's Old
Peculiar Crime Festival on Saturday. Andrew Taylor, Phil Rickman,
Patricia Duncker, Sarah Pinborough and I have to discuss the
growing popularity of tales of the weird and the wonderful.
Because, one of many things that interests (and worries) me
about the whole business is why I've been invited onto the panel in
the first place.
Whilst I freely admit to being a lover of supernatural stories,
I don't consider myself to be a writer of them. In fact, quite the
contrary. My books might masquerade as spine-chilling,
fingers-on-the-back-of-the-neck tales, but from the first chapter,
the crimes are investigated according to strict scientific and
legal principles and ultimately, the mystery is fully explained.
I'm heavy on atmosphere, I borrow any number of devices from
classic Gothic literature, I get a real kick out of scaring the
bejezzuz out of my readers but, at the end of the day, I'm as quick
to pull on my latex gloves as is Cornwell. What I do is to blend
spooky folklore with forensics. I'm something new.
Well no, actually, I'm not. I came across the definitive work on
supernatural horror in literature by HP Lovecraft, and according to
him, Mrs Ann Radcliffe (1764 - 1823), considered by many to be the
grandmother of the atmospheric suspense novel, was doing it
centuries ago. Mrs Radcliffe had, according to HP, "a provoking
custom of destroying her own phantoms at the last, through laboured
mechanical explanations." He revisits this theme more than once. He
talks about "prosaically dragging down" when I would say
"explaining scientifically". He accuses authors of "injuring their
creations by natural explanations."
Ouch!
Not only am I not remotely original, I'm something of a limp
hybrid who lacks the courage of her convictions and wimps out at
the eleventh hour, thereby dishonouring the glorious phantom and
bigging up the mundane pathologist. I was talking about this to Mr
B at the weekend, on the way to watch Harry Potter, and he said,
'Yeah, just like Scooby Doo.'
Scooby-Bloody-Doo?
Trouble is, he's right. That's exactly what Scooby Doo does.
Sets you up to expect a creepy story of ghosts, ghouls, and
vampires and then, at the end, unmasks the villain to reveal the
perfectly ordinary bloke who works down the petrol station. I am
writing in the tradition of Scooby Doo. They're going to laugh me
off the stage.
But before they do, I'm going to quote HP Lovecraft at 'em one
more time, because he argues that a tale of the macabre is not
about plot resolution, but about the mood it engenders in the
reader. To be considered a truly weird tale, he says, a story must,
first and foremost, offer atmosphere. A weird tale is judged, not
by the author's intent, or by the mechanics of the plot, but by one
simple test: does it excite in the reader a deep sense of dread, of
contact with unknown spheres and powers, a subtle attitude of awed
listening, as if for the beating of black wings. Well now, do
I do that? Here's a wee snippet from Blood Harvest:
Harry opened the door to the church crypt. The stale smell
of things long since forgotten came stealing up toward him. He
picked up the flashlight and the box of tools he'd brought with him
from his car. The darkness below seemed to have grown
denser.
It had been so much easier to walk down these steps when it
had been daylight outside, when he hadn't been alone, and before
the corpses of murdered children started turning up. Last time he'd
been here, evil hadn't come close enough to stroke him on the back
of the neck.
In the beam of the torch, the darkness seemed to be moving,
as though gathering its forces, waiting for him to dare, knowing he
probably wouldn't. He was a man of God. Was this the night he was
to discover his faith was a sham?
I'm off shopping today. Last minute shoes, clutch bags, etc. I
am the only woman on the shortlist of six for the Theakston's Old
Peculiar Crime Novel of the Year, and on one thing I am determined:
I will be wearing the prettiest dress!