Laughing Boy's Shadow Read online

  LAUGHING BOY’S SHADOW

  STEVEN SAVILE

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2010 Steven Savile

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS BOOKS BY STEVEN SAVILE:

  Novels:

  The Sufferer’s Song

  Hallowed Ground – With David Niall Wilson

  The Last Angel

  Collections:

  The Forgetting Wood

  Unabridged Audiobooks:

  The Forgetting Wood – narrated by Ian Stuart

  Buy Direct From Crossroad Press & Save

  Try any title from CROSSROAD PRESS – use the Coupon Code FIRSTBOOK for a one-time 20% savings! We have a wide variety of eBook and Audiobook titles available.

  Find us at: http://store.crossroadpress.com

  Style Guild:

  Laughing Boy’s Shadow is written in British English, meaning it is filled with extra u’s, ise’s instead of ize’s and other peculiarities of spelling that might well jar American readers. Further, speech is denoted by single quotes, in the much older British method ‘thus’, and not double quotes (or speech marks “thus”). Double quotes are used sparingly to denote speech within speech, when one character is quoting another or citing some information verbatim. Words such as no-one appear hyphenated, again in the British style. Rather than Americanise (ize) the book I thought it only right to maintain the quintessential Englishness of the novel and trust that in reading this you will not feel the urge to throw your Kindles, Nooks or Sony’s across the room with yells of disgust that: ‘The moron can’t spell!’

  —Steven Savile

  The Search For Greater Meaning:

  An Introduction to Laughing Boy’s Shadow

  By Gary A. Braunbeck

  “The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that

  loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the

  central and inevitable fact of human existence.”

  — Thomas Wolfe, “God’s Lonely Man.”

  “Loneliness cries deep fro my soul

  Keeps trying to tell my about the world growing so cold…”

  — Grand Funk Railroad, “Loneliness”

  This time around, you get two Introductions for the price of one; the short and sweet one, and the longer, more analytical one.

  The short one:

  Laughing Boy’s Shadow is a mesmerizing, disturbing, compelling novel of modern-day horror and alienation that might possibly change you once you’ve finished reading it. It is a novel that perfectly fits my own personal definition of what constitutes the best kind of horror fiction, and reading it was nothing short of a genuine experience (in the dictionary sense of the word) for me.

  This novel will hit you hard in the mind and heart, as well as scare the bejeezus out of you more than a few times. There. Now if you want to read the more analytical version that follows, do me a favor and wait; jump ahead, read the book, and then come back to read the rest of this. You can thank me later.

  Whenever I sit on a panel at a convention, the question of “What is horror?” inevitably comes up. I almost always point out that the question – a pertinent one, no argument – is nonetheless incomplete; nine times out of ten, what the person actually means to ask is either, “Why do people read horror?” or “What purpose is served by horror fiction?”

  Not to dismiss the first question, but debating the nature of what constitutes horror is tantamount to trying to offer a universal definition of Art; it exists solely in the eye of the beholder. Yes, it’s easy enough to point to stories in the news about war, famine, natural disasters, child abuse, or any of the endless nightmares that afflict humankind, but in all those instances (most of the time) there is a certain, safe distance involved; it’s happening to someone else, somewhere else, and while we may very well be horrified at the events, each lacks (again, most of the time) the element of personal terror that makes horror a very intimate, personal experience.

  And nowhere is this personal experience more delicate and intimate than in horror fiction. What terrifies you may be nothing at all to the next person; what moves you at the core of your being may very well be thought silly or inconsequential by someone else. But there is, I believe, one universal element that unites all horror fiction at its core, be it fiction about vampires, or zombies, or ghosts, or child abuse, psychological disintegration, the collapse of society, nuclear war, etc., and it’s this universal element that I always offer up at conventions when asked about the purpose of horror: The best horror fiction concerns itself with exploring the connections between violence, grief, loneliness, and suffering, and how we as a species reconcile these things with the concept of a Just universe watched over by a supposedly loving Supreme Being wherein even the most mundane and trivial of our everyday tasks carry some kind of greater meaning.

  Even if you’re an Agnostic or Atheist and remove the Supreme Being element from the above equation, the central concern of horror fiction remains unchanged. To offer a concrete example of what I’m talking about, ask yourself this question: what purpose is served by my doing the goddamned laundry when there are children being murdered by their parents every day? Woody Allen had a fairly funny line in Annie Hall that touched upon this concept: “If one guy is starving, it puts a crimp in my evening.” You get the idea.

  Being a stubborn subscriber to String Theory (what used to be known as the Grand Unification Theory), I fervently believe that on a quantum level, everything is connected; every thought, belief, action, event, philosophy, object, and sentient being. It would not surprise me one bit were I to discover that Steve Savile feels the same way, for Laughing Boy’s Shadow is that rarest of horror novels: one that grapples with sociological, theological, philosophical, and – gulp! – metaphysical issues, yet never once becomes didactic or ponderous. Savile never has any of his character climb up on a soapbox and shout through a bullhorn that I Have An Important Message, Dammit! He illustrates, he shows; and considering the core of his subject matter, it would have been oh-so easy for him to preach, but he never does. In fact, his First-Person narrator, Declan Shea, describes many of the events with the semi-detached, unsentimental eye of a documentary filmmaker; he presents things as they are, and leaves it up to the reader to decide how much emotional investment he or she cares to give to the scene or event in question. As a result, much of what Declan encounters is powerfully heartbreaking and often terrifying on a deep, organic level.

  Take for instance Declan’s encounter with a homeless man named Matthew early in the book. Declan and his girlfriend, Aimee, meet Matthew in the wee hours. Matthew is a denizen of the streets, and has accepted his fate. (I’ll leave you to discover the reasons behind Matthew’s circumstances for yourself.) It would have been tempting – perhaps too tempting – for a writer to sentimentalize Matthew’s plight, to present him as an object of pity, but thanks to Savile’s restraint and Declan’s world view, the sequence never even flirts with sentimentality, and is all the more affecting for it. It is Declan’s encounter with Matthew, however, that serves as the main catalyst for Declan’s entering the “Underground” – the world from which Matthew has come, populated by other denizens of the streets. (And Declan’s voyage into the Underground is arguably Horror’s equi
valent to Dave Bowman’s entering the Monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey; surreal, poetic, terrifying, lyrical, and mind-bending.)

  And once Declan enters the Underground, reality becomes twisted and warped beyond (sometimes) his ability to adequately describe it. Think Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere by way of Lovecraft and Jean-Paul Sartre. It is here that Declan learns more about the connections between the Haves and the Have-Nots, as well as the purpose behind suffering, loneliness, violence, and grief, and why these darker elements of existence must be perpetuated.

  The Underground sequence comprises the bulk of this novel, and accomplishes what all great fiction strives to do; it transports you into another world, one so far removed from your daily existence that you’ll rarely recognize the elements waiting there. It is also in the Underground sequences that Savile turns Laughing Boy’s Shadow into the type of horror novel that is so infrequently seen these days it’s in danger of making the Endangered Species list: a study in genuine alienation.

  Now, before you shrug off that term, consider the Psych textbook definition of that word: “…a psychological condition in which an individual comes to feel divorced from the objective world or parts of his or her own personality or feel that he or she is nonexistent.” Alienation goes well beyond mere loneliness – in fact, it would take the light from loneliness a few thousand years to reach alienation. It is the complete and total subtraction of the Self from not only the world but from one’s self, as well. There is no purpose, no meaning, no psychological, spiritual, physical, or even imagined connection to anyone or anything. You cease to be, even to yourself. It is misery personified, and damn few writers have dared to grapple with the concept the way Savile does here. Camus’ The Stranger is arguably the prototype for this kind of story, followed by Kobo Abe’s existential masterpiece The Box Man; and I can think of only a small handful of modern-day horror writers who have attempted to explore the subject of alienation with an unflinching eye: Tim Waggoner’s Like Death, Tim Lebbon’s unjustifiably overlooked and underrated Desolation, and Matthew Warner’s Eyes Everywhere. (Humility and common sense prevent me from adding my own The Indifference of Heaven (a.k.a. In Silent Graves) to the list because, in the end, the central character’s alienation is nullified, whereas in the other novels mentioned it is only intensified.)

  But in the end, Declan emerges from the Underground, and I can say in all honesty that the final 30 pages of Laughing Boy’s Shadow achieve a level of stunning, chilling lyricism that left me shaking; Declan’s final statement to the world, contained in the last 4 pages, is simply amazing; the passages are so luminous that the words threaten to shimmer right off the page.

  What makes this book all the more remarkable is that it was Savile’s first novel; for 95% of its unfolding, it doesn’t read like a first novel; it’s polished, beautifully-paced, and written with the sure craft of a writer who knows precisely where the story is going and who’s refined his narrative voice to razor-sharpness. Sure, there are some bumps along the way; the Prologue (herein called the Intro) strikes me as a bit superfluous; there are a few too many instances where one character “hisses” a line at another, only the words they “hiss” contain no sibilants; and a couple of the events described seem surreal and nebulous for the sake of being surreal and nebulous.

  But in the end, these are minor quibbles that in no way detract from the feverish power of this novel; think of them as being scratches on fine, hand-tooled leather: proof of the authenticity of the product. And just to reiterate: this novel will scare the hell out of you more than a few times. It will also move you, sometimes deeply so.It is, as I said before, a novel that fits perfectly my own personal definition of what constitutes the best horror fiction.

  So, if you’ve picked up Laughing Boy’s Shadow thinking you’re going to find a novel filled with the traditional tropes of horror (zombies, werewolves, vampires, etc.), then you’re holding the wrong book; if you think you’re going to find a tale jam-packed with the usual ooga-boogas, bloodletting, and big-budget set pieces, put this down; and – most especially – if you think for one second that you’re going to be spoon-fed everything in crystal clear terms that even a 6th-grader could understand so you needn’t tax your brain dealing with the implications of everything that happens in this story, if you think you’re going to come out of this unscathed, all safe and sound in the warm embrace of a happy ending wherein the hero overcomes all obstacles and life returns to normal, then close this book right now, start the car, and drive to your nearest Walpurgis-Mart to pick up a copy of this month’s newest horror paperback release featuring zombies, werewolves, vampires, or an ominous-looking house on its cover.

  But I hope you won’t; I hope you’ll dive into this redoubtable achievement and indulge in the dark feast Savile had set out for you. Laughing Boy’s Shadow has garnered something of a legendary reputation here in the states due to its lack of availability; as a result, those who have read it have hyped it to high Heaven, leaving more than a few readers to ask, “Can it possibly live up to its reputation?”

  The answer is a resounding yes.

  This novel will knock you onto the floor and remain with you for years to come. In the event that you didn’t take my advice at the beginning and start the book right away, then you’ve no choice but to do so now, because I have kept you from it long enough.

  Meet Declan, who hates cities, and follow him to the Underground. Bring all the courage you can.

  You’re going to need it.

  Gary A. Braunbeck

  Lost in Ohio

  August 22, 2006

  Intro…

  My hands are my downfall. Shaped like the wings of angels their touch whispers to me words of death, not beauty. Never beauty now. I see faces in their creases. Enigmatic, contorted, hypnotic, and bleeding. Always compelling. My dead. The faces contort when my hands close into fists. My dead screaming with me, screaming through the black spread-winged bird branded into them.

  I have killed.

  And now I cannot sleep; demons live inside my head. I cannot forget them, my dead, and, because of the memories, I cannot forgive. Until forgiveness comes I doubt very much whether sleep ever will. The loop is ironic. Poetic and unbreakable.

  I am not here seeking forgiveness for my demons. The past is done and there is little to be gained from dwelling there. I have come here looking for someone to talk to.

  It is bitterly cold out here on the bridge tonight. The wind is biting, its voice another scream to haunt my ears.

  This is where my world fell apart.

  On this bridge.

  Since then there has been someone else inside me; someone who has seen all the bad there is to see, watched it pass like so much bloodied water under this bridge.

  He has been betrayed. Cheated. Lied to.

  His name is Declan Shea, it is all he has left.

  We are not so different that way.

  My name is Declan Shea, and he is all that I have left.

  I come back here to look at the lights across the water, out of reach like the gates of heaven. More than anything, I want to start walking. You won’t understand what that means, not yet, but you will…

  Theme One

  Beggars’ Banquet

  The Road to Redemption

  one

  Not quite three a.m. and already I had Saturday chalked up as one more in a long line of miserable experiences eager to come my way.

  You know how some days have their own smells? Well, Saturday was mothballed in that rancid, mouldered smell of the meat markets.

  Outside, it was raining hard. Sports cars aren’t made for rain. The Midget’s soft-top was leaking and her heater had given up the ghost the week before. To add insult to injury, crossing the bridge into Gateshead, the DJ slipped into that monotony of love songs aimed at helping loners through the worst of the night. Keeping my eyes open was struggle enough. I was in no mood to suffer another bout of that emotional bullshit, so I switched radio for tape, and coming up S
plit Crow Road, The Surfing Brides were happily informing me that Everything’s Fine (If The World Was Going To End).

  A nice, cheerful little number; its selection was a pretty good indication of my state of mind right then, but I had a car full of music and not a single word about love anywhere to be heard.

  I wanted to be at home, in bed, curled up around Aimee’s soft crescent, not cramped behind the wheel, driving through Newcastle’s own grim parody of Hell’s Kitchen; backstreets, bridges and graffiti. The entire side of a tower block had been painted with the silhouette of a bird, wings rising in a thirty foot ‘v’ that scraped the roof of the tower. Each detail of the shadow was immaculate, though God alone knew how the artist had accomplished his art. I had wondered the same thing nearly every day for the thirteen weeks since the bird’s manifestation, but like everyone else I was no closer to an answer for all that wondering.

  The lights on the roundabout up ahead were changing to red. I thought about running them for as long as it took me to yawn and my foot to ease down on the brake. There were no cars coming either way, so I let the lights run through their cycle again while I groped around on the backseat for the pockets of my jacket and, deeper into the puzzle, my tobacco tin and lighter. The rollups were one last throw back to the good old days I wasted as a student, scruffing about Liverpool Poly. There’s something soothing about the whole process of rolling your own, drawing on the smoke, letting it leak out in a veil that rafts up in front of your eyes. It’s still the cheapest form of therapy I know. That said, I’m not an idiot. I live with my addiction, call the home rolled coffin-nails my pocket shrinks, and tell anyone stupid enough to ask: ‘They’re helping me to quit.’

  Maybe they are, and maybe they aren’t; that’s immaterial. I enjoy my occasional drag, and that’s healthy enough for me right now. When the doctors tell me I’m riddled with lung cancer and have three months to live, well by then it’ll be too late anyway, so I’ll probably start chain-smoking my home-rolled Virginia leaf and taking nicotine intravenously.

  Stifling another yawn, I knuckled the ache out of the bones in the base of my back and stretched, rolling the muscles of my shoulders. I was exhausted, and it felt as if the last week had been an endless series of to-ing and fro-ing between Gateshead and the pianos of the civilised world. London and back twice in the space of three days, and all aches twelve hundred miles could inflict centred on the two-inch square of vertebrae above my belt. Two times over. Once to Golden Square to lay down six tracks worth of free fall backing piano for Tachyon Web’s Live And Unplugged session on Virgin 1215 though what a Tech-Metal band wanted with a jazz pianist I shudder to think and then again to Charlotte Street to audition for the resident piano slot on one of those night-time chat shows The Channel 4 Gurus have been rehashing ever since The Last Resort went its own sweet way.