The New Uncanny by Etgar Keret, Ramsey Campbell, Hanif Kureishi, Christopher Priest, Jane Rogers, A.S. Byatt, Matthew Holness, Adam Marek Page B
Authors: Etgar Keret, Ramsey Campbell, Hanif Kureishi, Christopher Priest, Jane Rogers, A.S. Byatt, Matthew Holness, Adam Marek
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silly girl. A very naughty little girl, probably trying to be funny. We won’t be seeing her again. Now eat up your breakfast and go and play in the garden.’
He ate up his breakfast and went into the garden but not to play. He had so seldom been lied to directly that he did not understand it. Thought and speech were one in his closed world. But he knew, he knew that nanny had made a deliberate gap between her thoughts and her words. He went into the garden, but not to play. There was playing, which was not relevant; there was hearing, which was not trustworthy; there was seeing which was not possible. There was touching and feeling. He looked at the little red mark at the base of his thumb, which was beginning to bruise and very tentatively, very, very carefully, using only his finger tips and ready for sudden attack he began to explore the back of his head.
After an hour he knew. And knowing, he knew that he had always known. There was another face: he could feel its nose through the flannelette of his hood, shorter perhaps than his own, though hard to tell, but with two indentations for nostrils, certainly; he could feel its lips though carefully with the flat of his hand so as not to get bitten again. He knew already it had teeth. He thought he could feel the hinge of its jaw moving just behind his ears.
He could not untie the string of his hood, but after some effort he worked it loose enough to pull it back from his head. He placed his two hands delicately on the back of his head, either side of its nose, and could feel the hollow underneath his palms. He waited and felt a flutter, like a butterfly’s footfall. It was blinking. He pulled his hood back on and wriggled the knot tight. He went inside and sat on the sofa again and chanted his times tables, all the way from one-two-is-two to twelve-twelves-are-one-hundred-and-forty-four over and over again, all day long.
Later on, just as the day began to fade, he left his room very quietly so as not to disturb nanny and went along the passage to find his father. After he had passed the bottom of the stairs that went up the attic he did not really know the way. He opened various doors into various rooms all heavy with dust and cold. A huge cold dining room with twelve empty chairs and faded red velvet curtains; a room with an even bigger table covered in green cloth; there were no chairs and the edge of the table was turned up – he did not know what it was for. There was a long passage, a huge hall almost dark, and a room with little uncomfortable sofas and lots of little tables with lots of little things on them – that room was lighter, with long windows looking out over the shaggy field that his father called ‘the lawn’; he had only ever seen it from high up on the hillside. That room seemed a strange thing to him because it was both beautiful and pretty. He had not known that something could be both. But his father was not there.
He came to a door with light coming out underneath it. He opened it very softly. The room was warm and clean and wonderfully untidy, with precarious piles of paper and books stacked up or lying on the floor, as nanny never let him leave his. His father was sitting with his back to the boy; his bald head inclined forward over a large desk. The boy could see that he was writing. He watched him, watched the smooth back of his skull and the slight movement of his elbow.
His father was unaware of him. After quite a long while the boy said, ‘Daddy.’
His father raised his head, apparently without shock or surprise and said, ‘Hello, what are you doing here? I was just going to come for you. It must have been a boring day for you with Nanny hors de combat .’ He often had to guess what his father meant, and it did not worry him. ‘But you must learn not to be impatient.’
‘I am not impatient,’ he said with dignity. ‘I have come to ask you something of grave importance.’
‘And what is that?’ His father smiled at the
He ate up his breakfast and went into the garden but not to play. He had so seldom been lied to directly that he did not understand it. Thought and speech were one in his closed world. But he knew, he knew that nanny had made a deliberate gap between her thoughts and her words. He went into the garden, but not to play. There was playing, which was not relevant; there was hearing, which was not trustworthy; there was seeing which was not possible. There was touching and feeling. He looked at the little red mark at the base of his thumb, which was beginning to bruise and very tentatively, very, very carefully, using only his finger tips and ready for sudden attack he began to explore the back of his head.
After an hour he knew. And knowing, he knew that he had always known. There was another face: he could feel its nose through the flannelette of his hood, shorter perhaps than his own, though hard to tell, but with two indentations for nostrils, certainly; he could feel its lips though carefully with the flat of his hand so as not to get bitten again. He knew already it had teeth. He thought he could feel the hinge of its jaw moving just behind his ears.
He could not untie the string of his hood, but after some effort he worked it loose enough to pull it back from his head. He placed his two hands delicately on the back of his head, either side of its nose, and could feel the hollow underneath his palms. He waited and felt a flutter, like a butterfly’s footfall. It was blinking. He pulled his hood back on and wriggled the knot tight. He went inside and sat on the sofa again and chanted his times tables, all the way from one-two-is-two to twelve-twelves-are-one-hundred-and-forty-four over and over again, all day long.
Later on, just as the day began to fade, he left his room very quietly so as not to disturb nanny and went along the passage to find his father. After he had passed the bottom of the stairs that went up the attic he did not really know the way. He opened various doors into various rooms all heavy with dust and cold. A huge cold dining room with twelve empty chairs and faded red velvet curtains; a room with an even bigger table covered in green cloth; there were no chairs and the edge of the table was turned up – he did not know what it was for. There was a long passage, a huge hall almost dark, and a room with little uncomfortable sofas and lots of little tables with lots of little things on them – that room was lighter, with long windows looking out over the shaggy field that his father called ‘the lawn’; he had only ever seen it from high up on the hillside. That room seemed a strange thing to him because it was both beautiful and pretty. He had not known that something could be both. But his father was not there.
He came to a door with light coming out underneath it. He opened it very softly. The room was warm and clean and wonderfully untidy, with precarious piles of paper and books stacked up or lying on the floor, as nanny never let him leave his. His father was sitting with his back to the boy; his bald head inclined forward over a large desk. The boy could see that he was writing. He watched him, watched the smooth back of his skull and the slight movement of his elbow.
His father was unaware of him. After quite a long while the boy said, ‘Daddy.’
His father raised his head, apparently without shock or surprise and said, ‘Hello, what are you doing here? I was just going to come for you. It must have been a boring day for you with Nanny hors de combat .’ He often had to guess what his father meant, and it did not worry him. ‘But you must learn not to be impatient.’
‘I am not impatient,’ he said with dignity. ‘I have come to ask you something of grave importance.’
‘And what is that?’ His father smiled at the
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