GARY FRY

House of Fear – edited by Jonathan Oliver Review by Gary Fry I rarely finish reading anthologies (I think maybe the only one I ever did was Gathering the Bones , and only because it had my first published short story in it), so it’s a compliment to any tome when I get through the thing…even if, as in this case, it takes me a good few months. This is Jonathan Oliver’s second editorial effort, the first being the Underground-inspired End of the Line . I enjoyed that one a lot – well, you know, I still have a few tales left to read in it – but I have to say I have a real soft spot for haunted house tales, and House of Fear was more, ahem, up my street. As for the tales, well, I went at them in a random order, as is my wont with anthos. I often start with my favourite authors, or with the stories that seem most intriguing on the basis of title / intro / first few lines. This was unfortunate in this case, because the first tales I chose didn’t do a great deal for me. Joe Lansdale’s haunted...

SACRIFICE by Paul Finch Review by Gary Fry For all his sterling work in the horror genre, I think the Heck series of police procedurals / detective novels are Paul Finch's ideal milieu. As a former cop, his narratives have an air of authority, of events lived rather than just researched, and this is perhaps the key to the books’ success. Paul is an unassuming guy, a native of Wigan, who talks straight and wouldn’t know a “pretension” if it danced in front of him. This second characteristic – the “man of the world” tone of his fiction – is perhaps the second reason why the books fly. The prose is half-chatty / half-lyrical, the storytelling headlong and headstrong. I loved this book from the first page – it hooks at once, with its appealing premise concerning a calendar killer. But this is just a front for some pretty trenchant and satisfying commentary about the spiritual vacuity of modern life, how even folk promising fulfilment are as bereft as those against whom they pitch thei...

Astonishingly it's ten years this month since I wrote this tale. TEN YEARS! Anyhow, here it is, for anyone who wants to read it. IN THE WORLD Man is in the world, and only in the world does he know himself. -- Maurice Merleau-Ponty He’d grown contented in his world, though today had been more like the past. Martin Brink straightened the papers on his desk, the plaque that read MANAGER, the framed photograph of Stacey and Tim. Right now he could do with a chat about the end-of-month figures, but Jamie Rock, his fellow property evaluator at MP Estates, was away sick for the week. Martin stood and strolled across the uncommonly quiet office for the window. The weary visage of Bradford – near the end of a working day, shadowed by the petulance of autumn – glared back at him. He remembered the awkwardness of his childhood, saw the reflection of his shirt and tie; he’d not done badly in the circumstances. And that was when he heard the commotion inside the building. He was immediately ou...