Lots of my weird stories are also supposed to be at least a little bit funny. The self-regarding literary psychogeographer who narrates ‘The Horns in the Earth’ gave me lots of opportunities for humour.
For example, I had great fun coming up with titles for his books – Avenues and Alleyways: an exploration of the back passages of Britain is a particularly puerile example.
But this character is also a reflection of me. His constant stream-of-consciousness search for ways to jam disparate ideas together into a coherent story is a bit like how I write fiction:
I found shards of crockery, chunks of blue glass and an ink bottle, and several pieces of terracotta with fractured text: ‘Ginger beer’. A century’s-worth of crap that had tumbled down the slope from the houses on the ridge above… Hold on, I thought – is this a metaphor for something? These post-war dormitory estates as human landfill. Dumping grounds on the edge for people towns and cities don’t want. A nation divided. Yes, this was good, definitely worth tugging at.
This is another story set largely on council estates.
I had in mind, as I often do, Southmead and Lockleaze in Bristol; the Sydenham estate in Bridgwater where I grew up; and the Treneere estate in Penzance, where I spent hours wandering when I lived in Cornwall.
I took an alleyway from one, a recreation ground from another, an arcade of shops from a third, the wind-swept square of a fourth…
I’m so familiar with the textures and feel of places like this that writing it comes naturally. In fact, my dreams are often set on council estates – usually a distorted version of Sydenham – as if that’s the default game map for my subconscious.
Another important influence on this story is an ancient religious site near where I live, near the CO-OP, round the back of an industrial estate.
In St. Anne’s Woods there’s a wooded valley with a holy well.
It’s surrounded by iron railings and the tree above it is covered with tattered rags – the remains of face masks hung there as a sort of offering during the pandemic.
There’s often a burned out moped nearby.
The well was associated with the Chapel of St. Anne which stood about 350 metres away. It was destroyed by Henry VIII. In 1486, his father Henry VII made a pilgrimage to the chapel and the well.
So, I’m gently mocking psychogeographers, while also indulging in a little psychogeography myself.
Cake and eat it, me.
‘The Horns in the Earth’ is also the closest I’ve got to indulging in a trope I dislike: the scary youth in a hoodie.
Without wanting to self censor, I challenged myself when I noticed the story drifting that way, and I hope I’ve done something slightly more interesting than simply say: aren’t working class kids terrifying?
That the narrator finds them so perhaps tell us something important about him.
Intervals of Darkness will be published on 7 September. You can pre-order the eBook now.
Precast Reinforced Concrete Heart 