Amuse-Bouches

By Anne Billson

A demon with a weakness for Dry Martinis. An inexplicable pregnancy with violent side-effects. Film critics are targeted by a serial killer. A woman gives up her old life to join a sinister cult in Croydon. A fashion blogger finds herself trapped in Paris when the City of Light is overrun by zombies. Five short tales of the unexpected from the author of horror novels Suckers, Stiff Lips and The Ex, described by Salman Rushdie as "a superb satirist".

DIRTY MARTINI a party girl accidentally summons a demon. I wrote this for submission to an anthology called Respectable Horror (Fox Spirit books; edited by K.A. Laity), but didn’t finish it in time.

BORN AGAIN: originally published in Granta in 1993, to tie in with my inclusion that same year in Granta’s list of Best Young British Novelists. It formed the basis for my novel THE COMING THING (2017), which took me 20 years to finish, by which time the story had gone through so many permutations it was barely recognisable.

SUNSHINE: originally published in The Time Out Book of London Short Stories in 1993 (Penguin; edited by Maria Lexton). Some events in Sunshine eventually provided part of the backstory for one of the characters in my novel The Coming Thing. This short story has proved unexpectedly popular in Denmark, where it has been adopted as a set text for English language students.

PARIS WHEN IT SIZZLES: originally published in Zombie Apocalypse: Fightback in 2012 (Robinson; edited by Stephen Jones). A British fashion blogger is trapped in Paris when the city is overrun by zombies. This was great fun to write; part of my research involved climbing to the top of Notre-Dame cathedral. As the zombies advance, so the city shrinks; it’s essentially the history of Paris in reverse.

THE CAT AT THE CORNER OF YOUR EYE: Jennifer's cat was dead, mown down in his prime by a careless driver. So why does she keep catching glimpses of him? Has he come back to haunt her?

THE PSYCHO MURDERS: a roman à clef inspired by the 1973 film THEATRE OF BLOOD and replacing theatre critics murdered in ways described in the plays of Shakespeare with film critics murdered in ways depicted in the films of Alfred Hitchcock. Initially posted on Twitter in 2009, in 50 increments of approximately 140 characters. One of these days I shall write this story up into a proper novella. In the meantime, enjoy the tweet version.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Billson
• Release date: Jun 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311568199

Anne Billson

Anne Billson is a film critic, novelist, photographer, screenwriter, film festival programmer, style icon, wicked spinster, evil feminist, and international cat-sitter. She has lived in London, Cambridge, Tokyo, Paris and Croydon, and now lives in Antwerp. She likes frites, beer and chocolate.Her books include horror novels Suckers, Stiff Lips, The Ex, The Coming Thing and The Half Man; Blood Pearl, Volume 1 of The Camillography; monographs on the films The Thing and Let the Right One In; Breast Man: A Conversation with Russ Meyer; Billson Film Database, a collection of more than 4000 film reviews; and Cats on Film, the definitive work of feline film scholarship.In 1993 she was named by Granta as one of their Best Young British Novelists. In 2012 she wrote a segment for the portmanteau play The Halloween Sessions, performed in London's West End. In 2015 she was named by the British Film Institute as one of 25 Female Film Critics Worth Celebrating.

Book preview

AMUSE-BOUCHES

some short stories by Anne Billson

Copyright 2016 Anne Billson

Smashwords Edition

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CONTENTS

1. Dirty Martini

2. Born Again

3. Sunshine

4. Paris When It Sizzles

5. The Cat at the Corner of Your Eye

6. #THEPSYCHOMURDERS

7. About the author

8. A free sample of The Coming Thing, a novel by Anne Billson

DIRTY MARTINI

The man who arrived out of nowhere on the stroke of midnight was extraordinarily good-looking, so although he gave me a start, I wasn't entirely displeased to see him. He didn't look thrilled to see me, though. And once I'd studied his carefully composed facial expression, there seemed to be something just beneath the surface, like a slight displacement of surface grains of soil which might hint at some scaly creature slithering through the earth beneath.

'Your timing,' he said, 'is detestable. I was just sitting down to a slap-up supper of buttered sole.'

And indeed, I saw now, he still had a napkin tucked into his shirt collar. It was a very expensive-looking shirt collar, and a very expensive-looking shirt. In fact, he was turned out quite magnificently. Old-style. Formal, like Fred Astaire. But better-looking. Much better-looking. If it turned out that he could dance like an angel as well, I thought, then he'd be one up on old Fred.

The only thing letting the side down was the napkin, which was covered in unpleasant stains. When he noticed me staring, trying to work out exactly what kind of food would have left those disagreeable blotches, he plucked it from his neck and shoved it into his pocket, momentarily spoiling the otherwise impeccable cut of his jacket. But only momentarily.

'Well then,' he said, 'let us get it over with, so I can return to the table. I had company, you know. What is it that you want?'

'I beg your pardon,' I said, 'but it is I who should be asking the questions. Who are you? And what are you doing in my bedroom? And how did you do that, er, that thing you did with the purple smoke? Are you some kind of magician?'

A look of distaste crossed his face. 'I'm from the agency,' he said, adjusting his cuffs. 'And you brought me here. I thought that was clear.' He seemed bored, though how a man with the ability to materialise suddenly in a woman's bedroom could possibly ever get bored, I had no idea. I wondered if perhaps he were gay.

'Agency? What agency? I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,' I said. 'Is this some kind of prank? I hope you're not a singing telegram.'

He sighed and stretched out on the bed. His legs were very long, and his shoes were pointed, which made them seem even longer. 'Oh dear,' he said, addressing the ceiling, 'I can see this is going to be a vexing seventeen minutes. You can tell me, you know. I am contractually obliged to keep your confidence. Think of me as your doctor. Or lawyer, perhaps. Or your priest, if you must.' On the word priest he wrinkled his nose, as if he'd smelt something unpleasant.

'No really,' I said, 'I really don't know what you're talking about. I was just sitting here, removing my make-up, and all of a sudden, there you were! I have no idea how you got in. I'm assuming you followed me home from the party, though I can't imagine how I didn't see you there. You would have... stood out in that crowd, the way you're dressed and everything. But I am a bit squiffy and I wasn't wearing my spectacles, so I suppose I might have missed you. I didn't notice you sneaking in here behind me either. I do hope you're not a psychopath or anything. You don't look like a psychopath. You seem far too indolent, for a start. Would you like a Martini?'

'That's dangerous thinking,' said the man, sitting up again. 'Psychopaths can be indolent too, you know. But no, I am not what you call a psychopath. Not at this precise moment, at any rate.' He narrowed his eyes. 'And yes, I think the least you can do is fix me a Martini to drink while you dither around. A Dirty one, if you please.'

'Coming right up,' I said. 'Why don't you stay right there and relax?'

But the man said, 'Aha, you can't get rid of me that easily,' and stood up and followed me into the kitchen, where he watched me open the fridge-freezer and rap the back of the ice-tray to dislodge some cubes into the stainless steel cocktail shaker. He continued to watch as I measured out the gin and added a dash of olive brine, and then impaled six olives on two cocktail sticks, one stick per glass.

'Black ones, eh?'

'I ate all the green olives last night, so black will have to do. Unless you'd rather have a twist of lemon.'

'Black is fine. Black is my favourite colour. Though if we're going to be technical, what you're making there is not a Dirty Martini but a Buckeye, since the olives are black and not green.'

I offered to let him shake, but he declined with a small shudder, as though I'd asked him to touch something slimy, so I did it myself. I returned to the bedroom with the cocktail shaker and two glasses on a small tray, and he stuck to me like a shadow.

'You're a bit clingy, aren't you. Following me from room to room like this.'

'I am contractually obliged to accompany you everywhere.'

'Or else what?'

'If I let you out of my sight within the allotted time the contract is decreed null and void.'

'And what's the allotted time?'

'I told you. Seventeen minutes.'

'Why seventeen?'

He sighed. 'How should I know! Something to do with ancient Rome.' He glanced at his watch. 'Though the clock is ticking, so you now have precisely twelve minutes in which to fulfil the terms of our arrangement.'

'I wasn't aware there was an arrangement.'

'There is always an arrangement. With terms.'

'Which are what, exactly?'

Out of nowhere (again with the cheap theatrics) he produced a sheaf of paper, each sheet wispy as onion-skin, and all covered with tight cursive handwriting in umber ink. The paper looked ancient, the colour of oolong, and crackled faintly.

'You sign these, I give you want you want, and then I leave you to complete whatever tedious little task you were engaged in when I arrived.'

'I knew it! You're a tradesman. What are you selling?'

'I am not a tradesman,' he snapped. 'Not unless you mean trade in the sense of barter. As in, I give you something, and you give me something in return.'

'But that's precisely what a tradesman does!' I started to giggle. 'Oh I say, you're not a gigolo, are you?'

He seemed vexed. 'This is not a monetary transaction, nor does it involve sexual favours.'

The vexation diminished considerably, however, when he took a sip of his Martini.

'Oh yes, that is perfectly Dirty. You're a purist, I like that. None of this awash-with-Vermouth nonsense.'

I was in my element. 'As Noël Coward once said, you fill a glass with gin, then wave it in the general direction of Italy. Or, according to Luis Buñuel, you allow a ray of sunlight to pass through a bottle of Noilly Prat and strike the gin. Though, obviously, there is no sunlight here right now, since it's past midnight. Would you like some peanuts to go with that?'

'No thanks.' His mouth puckered at the very notion. 'Too salty.'

I watched as he used his fingernails - which I now saw where unusually long and well-shaped - to slide one of the olives from his cocktail stick and, in a movement so slick it made me feel queasy, tipped back his head, opened his mouth and dropped the fruit straight into his gullet, swallowing it whole without bothering to bite or chew or even taste. It reminded me of a python devouring a mouse. I saw his Adam's apple bob once, briefly, and that was all.

I started to feel sorry for the olive.

'If it's not money, what is it?' I asked. 'What are you supposed to give me?'

He lowered his chin and studied me from beneath his brows which all of a sudden seemed quite beetle-ish.

'I perform a service.'

'What kind of service?'

He gave me the sort of look one might direct at a Johnny Foreigner who refuses to understand English, no matter how slowly and clearly one might be speaking it.

'Well that is entirely up to you, but it generally involves me taking a life. Just one. Yours or someone else's, I'm not particular.'

I laughed so hard that gin came out of my nose. In truth, I was a bit shocked, but