The Dalziel Files

By Brian Craddock

From Pakistan to Japan, and to the wild frontiers of Northern Canada, The Dalziel Files reinvent the lore of old: of vampires, werewolves, and what lay beyond even their mysterious realms.

Globetrotting photojournalist Richard Dalziel is riding on the success of his acclaimed portrait of an Indian slave child, but Dalziel is haunted by his ambitions. Or rather, the depths he'd stoop to achieve them. To assuage his guilt, Dalziel seeks assignments which endanger him, forever pursuing the chaos he desperately hopes will consume his soul. He needn't worry on that score, however, for darkness and its denizens seek him at every turn.

There are nine short stories that together make The Dalziel Files, including the award-winning Ismail's Expulsion and the novella Masala Nightmares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Craddock
• Release date: Mar 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648112815

Brian Craddock

Brian Craddock is the author of Eucalyptus Goth (Oscillate Wildly Press, 2017). The Dalziel Files (Broken Puppet Books, 2018) is his first collection of short stories, many of which were originally published in Steve Dillon's Things in the Well anthologies (Between the Tracks, Below the Stairs, Behind the Mask, Beneath the Waves).He is also published in Midian Unmade: Tales of Clive Barker’s Nightbreed (Tor Books, 2015), and Book of the Tribes: a Tribute to Clive Barker's Nightbreed (OzHorrorCon, 2013). His essay on Clive Barker appears in The Body Horror Book (Oscillate Wildly Press, 2017).Brian has also written for the puppet webseries The Hobble & Snitch Show (2015/2016), wherein he directed and performed.In the late 1990s, under the pseudonym Dakanavar, Brian Craddock wrote and illustrated eleven underground comics centred on the Goth subculture in Australia (respectively titled "Crimson: Riot Goth" at 7 issues, "Grave Company", "Caduceus", "Dead/Dead", and "Alida: The Reluctant Goth"), and contributed to several zines and small-press publications.

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THE DALZIEL FILES

Text © 2018 Brian Craddock

Published by Brian Craddock for Broken Puppet Books at Smashwords

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HUVININGA ISLAND

The frigid waters of the Northern Passage were usually sparse of life, but the crew of the MV Arluk spied something trailing their ship. For several miles there was some debate as to whether it was a pod of blackfish or a single orca simply surfacing quickly in different spots. Now, with the shore in sight and the waters progressively getting shallower, the crew saw they were horribly mistaken on both accounts. From the black depths beside the vessel emerged the tip of a gigantic, spiked fin, rising further from the water until it reached halfway up the hull. There were a dozen spikes following behind the first, the membrane between them thick and veined.

As the men prayed aloud for salvation, the waters swelled and parted and the sleek, serpentine body of a monster longer than the Arluk rose into view.

Watching from the compass bridge window, the captain trembled, unable to utter the command to outmanoeuvre the threat. The helmsman didn’t need prompting, however: he’d worked with the captain for the better part of a decade and could read the man’s eyes. He thrust the lever to wide-open, and the ship rumbled as the engines worked to push it faster. It would ordinarily be considered the worst of moves, with land so close, but there were none aboard who wouldn’t rather risk their lives running aground than be left to the mercy of whatever monster loomed alongside.

The plan was a futile one, as whatever followed abreast of the ship kept pace effortlessly, its hideous spiked fin waving languidly.

Then, without warning and still some distance from land, the MV Arluk lurched so forcefully every crew member was thrown clear across the deck. The captain crashed against the spin window with such force it was almost dislodged. The helmsman’s head bounced off the binnacle, and he collapsed to the floor.

The great beast which had been swirling in the icy waters around the vessel stopped its progress, and slid its massive, midnight body up the Arluk’s hull.

* * *

God save the Queen, muttered Richard Dalziel, his breath frosting the window and obscuring the motorcade.

Ready the camera, Tekke, announced Lucas from behind the wheel.

Lucas’ colleague – Tekkeitsertok, but Tekke for short – snorted from his half-sleep, furiously rubbing his hands under his armpits to warm them.

Dalziel had spent the better part of an hour shivering his ass off in the subzero temperatures before the pair from a local community TV station offered to share the warmth of their van parked outside Building 623. When The Provincial – the Vancouver newspaper Dalziel freelanced for – had given him the assignment, it hadn’t occurred to him to request a hire car. It was supposed to be a fly-in, fly-out assignment since her royal majesty Queen Elizabeth was only going to be in Iqaluit for a few hours at most.

Dalziel wiped the fog from the window and peered out. The streets of the Four Corners, as the locals liked to call the intersection, were free of bystanders. It seemed as if the Queen would get a chilly reception in Nunavut. He considered trying the joke out on his newfound friends, when from nowhere people poured into the streets, cheering as the royal cavalcade turned the last bend to the Legislative Assembly.

Crap, Dalziel cursed, flipping open his camera bag and pushing at the door in one swift motion.

Jesus Murphy! Tekke, let’s go, roared Lucas, staring aghast at the masses of people.

Tekke shot out the back doors of the van, his camera already mounted to his shoulder, thumbing the ON button as he went.

The pair followed Dalziel across Federal Road.

This is just like the rush minute, enthused Lucas, perhaps more excited by the number of locals who’d turned out than by the prospect of filming the Queen.

Dalziel weaved his way through the crowd. It seemed as if half the city’s population had magically materialised. The Queen’s entourage slowed their approach, wheels turning the fresh sleet on the road into mud, reminding Dalziel of the sweet coffee he’d grabbed at Timmy Ho’s on the way over. What he wouldn’t give to teleport back for another cup, and maybe scarf a half-dozen doughnuts down. Perhaps he could interest Her Majesty to join him there?

That’s a real skookum kit you’ve got there, Coastie! said Lucas, eyeing Dalziel’s camera. The man had taken to calling him Coastie ever since he’d learned Dalziel had flown in from Vancouver, or North Hollywood as Lucas insisted on referring to it.

Dalziel looked Tekke’s gear over, noting the equipment the man had at his disposal was outdated stuff; in fact, Dalziel hadn’t seen a camera like it in operation for years.

I get by with what I can, Dalziel said dryly. No throw needed here, huh? he added, tucking his zoom lens away.

Iqaluit’s Nunavut Gear, Lucas explained. Meaning you just go with the flow. That’s why I moved here, man.

Finally, the Queen emerged from the big black van and onto the red carpet laying sodden in the snow. She wore a brown camelhair coat and hat, which made her look to Dalziel like a chocolate pudding. The crowd erupted into cheers. It was Her Majesty’s first visit to the region since the subdivision of the Northern Territories, and the people of Nunavut were determined to show their appreciation. Dalziel silently cursed the woman for braving the weather to watch a performance by some throat-singers right here in the car park, and he couldn’t have been happier when she finally moved into the Legislative Assembly, Nunavut’s own parliament.

Indoors was decidedly less photogenic than out, so Dalziel gave his trigger finger a rest for a while. Lucas sidled up to him, noticing Dalziel’s index finger was flushed bright pink from the cold.

Here, Coastie, take a swig from my mickey, he whispered, passing Dalziel a small flask from inside his jacket.

Dalziel glanced around nervously before taking the bottle. Alcohol was more or less forbidden in the region, although plenty of locals sealifted bulk quantities in for private use. The problem was, with alcohol more heavily regulated than firearms, bootleggers could sell all manner of cheap vodka decanted into plastic Smirnoff bottles and pass them off at two hundred bucks a pop. Dalziel wondered if the Queen didn’t have a bottle of sherry tucked under her seat in that black van of hers.

He unscrewed the cap for a quick nip, recoiling at the powerful kick.

Lucas chuckled. Homemade.

Dalziel’s wife Lucy had told him about a documentary she’d seen not long ago which had explained how the carp of Northern Europe were able to naturally produce small quantities of ethanol within its blood to stay warm. As if they had their own inbuilt home-brew kit. Guilt-free imbibing!

Skookum stuff, yeah? Lucas smiled, slipping the flask back into his coat.

Dalziel laughed. Yeah, skookum stuff.

The Queen was droning on, thanking the city of Iqaluit for their hospitality and whatnot. The men grew bored, and Lucas suggested leaving Tekke to continue filming the speeches while he and Dalziel adjourned to the van for a puff. There, amidst plumes of bluish smoke, Lucas proposed Dalziel stick around a little longer in Nunavut and join him and Tekke for a trip up north.

We’re doing a piece to highlight the problem of binge drinking in remote communities, Lucas explained, leaning his seat back as far as it would go, and languidly blowing smoke against the ceiling. There’s a sealift due about now on Hivuninga Island, so we can see the effects firsthand. Maybe our story can get the government to open up liquor stores again, to control the sales and curb the violence. But it’s beautiful out there, man. The Arctic Archipelago always gets you some amazing shots for a portfolio.

Dalziel sniffed, rubbing his thumb across his nose to warm it.

Sure, sounds great.

Once the Queen and her entourage had departed Iqaluit, the three men boarded their own plane several hours north-west to Cape Dorset and from there by boat to the nearby island of Hivuninga. Oddly, the cold had stopped affecting Dalziel, perhaps in part due to regular nips of Lucas’s homemade hooch.

They were met on the shore by several men with snowmobiles, parked alongside a modest sized inuksuk marker. The inuksuk was a stone cairn built up to appear like a gate, with a small space underneath. Despite the snowfall, Dalziel found it curious how a small patch of cotton-grass remained unflattened beneath the arch of stone. He made sure to get a couple of pictures.

Lucas conversed with their hosts, and then bid Dalziel to climb onto one of the snowmobiles. The barren tundra they sped across looked unforgivable, and Dalziel couldn’t tell if the sun was even high in the sky anymore or not: the clouds stretched from one horizon line to the other, marking the world in a dull timelessness.

Despite the oppressive weather, the snowmobile ride turned out so enjoyable that had he and Lucy been on slightly better terms, he’d suggest it one weekend upon his return to Vancouver. Something to try and dig them out of the miasma they’d fallen into.

But with the ups must come the downs, and by the time they arrived at the settlement, Dalziel’s nose and fingers were so frozen he feared they might be frost-bitten. His head felt light, too.

Lucas! he moaned, gesturing for the flask.

Lucas chuckled, taking a swig before passing it over. But his mirth was short-lived, for as the people came out of their bungalows to greet the new arrivals, Lucas was certain not one of them was even remotely drunk.

Tekke glanced askew at Lucas, who could only shrug. Their story was now in limbo.

The people of Hivuninga were quite small in stature and although Tekke was short, he still stood a full head height above them. But there was one, now emerging from a trailer home, who towered over Dalziel. The man had the bulk of a pro-wrestler, a veritable giant. Dalziel supposed Tekke, like himself, was resisting the urge to raise his camera and record the moment for prosperity.

Welcome to Hivuninga, the man bellowed, trudging across the snow.

When he reached them, Dalziel put his hand out for the man to shake, but it was summarily ignored as the man leaned in and pressed his nose and lips against Dalziel’s forehead. There was a small sting of rushing air against Dalziel’s skin as the big man took a big sniff of his scent. Dalziel couldn’t help but stifle a giggle, Lucas’s moonshine and the thin air colluding to make him feel tipsy.

Tunngasugitti, the big man smiled sadly at them all, stepping back. Welcome again. I am King Bear. Mayor of Hivuninga. Please come inside.

It’s a day for meeting royalty, isn’t it? joked Lucas.

He, Dalziel, and Tekke were ushered into a bungalow they soon realised was the communal space for the settlement. There were shelves stacked with books and various animal bones for ornamentation. A small portable television and VCR sat on a table, a pile of board games atop. Chairs screeched as they were dragged across the floor for the visitors to sit centre stage. It seemed the entire settlement had crammed themselves into the bungalow, the children jostling through the legs to hover just out of arms reach of Dalziel. They stared at him in wonder.

While some of the women went to fetch food from their homes, Lucas pressed King Bear if they had an imiavik. When Dalziel frowned quizzically, Tekke whispered to him: A bar for drinking.

King Bear shook his head sadly, glancing at Tekke’s video camera sitting on the tabletop. "Ikkutiksraq? But you know our supply didn’t arrive, surely? You are reporting here?"

May I interrupt? Dalziel ventured. Precisely what story do you think we’re here to report on?

King Bear sat back and sucked on his bottom lip, sighing as if it suddenly made sense. But to Dalziel it didn’t one whit; nor, he surmised, did it make sense to Lucas or Tekke either. They’d expected to find a settlement ready to plunge itself into alcohol-fuelled chaos, but instead they were faced with a dry community and, it was evident, something of a mystery brewing.

Come with me, King Bear simply said, hefting his weight off the chair and trundling outside.

Sensing Dalziel’s reluctance to face the cold again, Lucas once again proffered the flask. With their fortifications consumed, the men stepped back out into the icy winds ripping across Hivuninga’s tundra and joined King Bear on the snowmobiles. They were taken in the opposite direction from which they’d entered the settlement and were soon at the edge of an impressive lake. Dalziel could barely see to the other side, but the ship stranded in the icy waters was clear to all. It sat a mere hundred yards from the shoreline.

What is it? Dalziel asked, lining up the ship in his viewfinder. It made for a beautiful image.

The MV Arluk, replied King Bear.

Where is the crew? Tekke wanted to know. He’d also taken his camera out and was filming the Arluk, zooming in to try and find signs of life.

They’re still aboard, King Bear said quietly. Come.

One of the snowmobile drivers pulled a skin-boat – an umiak – from behind a rocky outcrop. Dalziel had never been in an umiak before, so despite his trepidations about heading out onto the dark waters of the Northern Passage, he focused what little reserve of excitement he had within him on enjoying his first voyage in this traditional vessel. Between him, Lucas, Tekke, and King Bear, the umiak had its work cut out staying afloat.

Seal skin? Dalziel asked breathlessly and was granted a curt nod from King Bear by way of reply. The big man’s full attention was on the ship before them, and the unnerving way he kept glancing at the waters around them made Dalziel pull his legs in closer to his chest.

The Northern Passage was full of ice-flows, some of which moved inexorably slowly at the urging of an undertow, but the waters around the MV Arluk were so still it was as if the vessel had somehow embedded itself in an impressive sheet of glass. King Bear’s oar slicing into the surface was the only disturbance to the eerie illusion.

The prow of the umiak tapped gently against the hull of the Arluk, King Bear flinging a rope over a rung on the pilot ladder to secure the skin-boat.

The climb up to the deck was arduous, and Dalziel’s breathing was so laboured he feared he’d pass out from a lack of oxygen and plummet to his death in the icy waters of the Passage. His arms ached as he pulled himself higher, and it was with great relief when he finally collapsed onto the deck amongst sacks of produce and supplies, hoping he could just remain there and never move again. Within moments, however, the great oppressive chill of the north pressed down on him and began to turn his blood to ice, so he knew he had to get moving.

My friend… for your strength, Lucas gasped, clearly also not used to the thin air, passing Dalziel the flask.

Dalziel gave it a little shake. It was nearly empty. He downed the last of it, the moonshine burning deliciously down his throat and bursting to life like a campfire in his belly. He felt the warmth start to spread throughout his body, combating the cold.

You might need more of that, King Bear said solemnly, nodding at the empty flask in Dalziel’s hand then gesturing across the platform of the Arluk.

At first, Dalziel wondered what so remarkable about the scene before them to warrant such dramatics from the big man, before it occurred to him the various sacks of produce scattered around the deck in disarray were in fact bodies.

The crew… bitten the biscuit, noted Lucas, shivering.

Dalziel stepped back from the nearest body, bemused by its configuration until he realised it was missing both arms and a leg. Sleet had piled into the nooks and solidified, making an amorphous mound of the man. He looked up at King Bear with a growing sense of horror, then out across the deck at the rest of the corpse-mounds. He began to pick out details: a mouth opened wide