Killers, edited by Colin Harvey

Killers are fun. Why not? Well, all right, someone does tend to get hurt, so maybe not fun—but certainly interesting. After all, a story about someone who kills or is in jeopardy of being killed (or both, as is often the case), presents an extreme example of a theme that inevitably draws us in: change. Surely, there can’t be too many forms of change that are as absolute, as compellingly binary, as that which precipitates alive-becomes-dead—or, for that matter, since this is fiction, dead-becomes-alive. Colin Harvey, with the anthology Killers, brings us eleven disparate tales that all feature the end or transformation of life in some guise or another. The anthology succeeds in its stated cross-genre pursuit, an idea which I found personally appealing, with stories ranging from the chic to the uncouth, from the sophisticated to the crude, from the abstract to the visceral. And while some of the edge may be absent in a few by dint of their inclusion in an anthology which advertises their subject matter, readers of diverse tastes should find several tales, at least, contained herewith hard to put down indeed—or else…

Jonathan Maberry gives us the first dose of death with the weirdly atmospheric and effectively chilling “Doctor Nine.” The tale is formed by two narrative headlights beaming into the night which collide by the story’s end. Halloween winds blow an unsavory group of characters (including the Mulatto, the Sage, and the eerie Doctor Nine) into town, while somewhere else, Bethy sits awake watching her sister, Millie, die. Laden with unsettling imagery, the alternating tone of contemplative dread and mystical noir of the strangers driving down the road contrasts dramatically with the mock-innocent tone of the sister’s story. While the ending may not be entirely surprising, and Maberry might just possibly be trying to get away with too many unanswered questions, there’s more than enough to recommend, and the merging of both storylines is satisfying.

Sarah Singleton takes “Dead Wood” and sets it on fire, striking up a compelling, psychologically-absorbing story of broken hearts and lichen-spotted branches. It begins with the following stark, deceptively simple image:

The drowned scarf rippled on the surface of the river, black and silken, the fringed ends snagging the claw of a fallen branch.

Chris spots the scarf while taking his dog, Louis, for a walk near Merton Wood. Shortly thereafter, he meets a woman, Maddie, who asks him for a light, and they exchange some uneasy conversation. Singleton’s technique is perfectly suited for intimacy, focusing on the terror of horrific, gradual inner revelation, rather than gore or external action. She manages the difficult task of portraying the depressive, self-absorbed, wounded Chris in a sympathetic light, eliciting our empathy instead of our disdain. Chris’s ultimate “surprise” revelation may border on genre cliché, which places it at odds with the earlier almost magical-realism tone; it wraps things up, but perhaps too tightly, not allowing enough breathing space for implication. However, the gripping descriptions of his journey towards this redefining truth and the rhythm of the prose are deeply enjoyable.

Philip J. Lees’s “Virtual Analysis” feels slightly incomplete, and I’m not just saying that because of the title. The protagonist, Somerville, agrees to help the research scientist whom she’s assisting, the contemptible Farrow, with a particularly daunting task: she will immerse herself in a virtual world and allow herself to be murdered by a killer named Forsyth. Not surprisingly, things go wrong. I’m not sure how most readers will feel about this, but to me, the VR-serial-killer theme seems a bit tired; not to say something new can’t be fashioned out of it, but it’s just that much harder, considering the plethora of stories, novels, and movies that have already played off it. Lees’s prose is unadorned and functional, and might at times benefit from less exposition, especially during the initial scenes. Somerville’s motivations and conflict are intriguing but stretch the credible, and I didn’t feel there was enough emotional foreshadowing for the action at the end. While there are some moments of suspense, this was a far cry from deadly good.

Bruce Holland Rogers plays a fresh-sounding riff on the not-by-its-cover theme with the short but punchy “Pushover.” The first-person narrator seems to possess a natural quality that compels others to walk all over him, thus embodying the title. Rogers has a crafty eye for telling detail and uses it build a character study cum morality play a la the best of the Twilight Zone series.

Eugie Foster creates an unforgettably “Beautiful Summer” in her story of young teen Natsumi and the talent scout who discovers her in a park one day, recognizes her striking, mercurial beauty, and elevates her to fashion supermodel. Foster displays strengths for poetic writing, elegiac imagery, and evocative scenes, which all work to positive effect here, suited to the subtleties of a layered narration. She utilizes setting as an extension and amplification of the characters’ moods, but at times, this comes close to stagy. I wish I could have discovered this story outside of the anthology; that way, I would have had no clue where it was going, and the sharp metaphors and icy prose would have cut into my heartstrings just a little bit deeper.

Colin Harvey sets “Just Another Day” in Iceland, and this refreshingly different backdrop of fjords and frozen lava plains takes on a striking beauty all its own in this techno-thriller/speculative procedural. Detective Ryan is set to start a new murder investigation, but before doing so, uncovers a crime much closer to home involving his gene-researching wife, Anna-Haidur. Harvey’s Icelandic details (including several delightful turns of phrase) are well-realized and the perfect complement to his swift-moving, naturalist prose. The story is involving from the start, leading to an ending in equal measures plausible and melodramatic. As a side note, I also enjoyed the genre references (Doctor Who, Star Trek, and SF magazines all get a mention), which are appositely placed, given Anna’s background. This story may appeal to crime readers more than to fans of speculative fiction, but hopefully it will win new adepts of both.

G. C. Veazey does something quite remarkable with “Losing Paradise,” steeping the trope of supernatural/gothic fiction in an excellently crafted historical setting and thereby making the otherworldliness of the protagonist, Virginia, nearly invisible. I say “nearly” because it’s hard to ignore her ravenous appetite and grave-robbing. Virginia lives in a mental ward in the 1930s, where she receives and highly prizes the attention of one Dr. Everett. Veazey’s ability to make us believe that such a character could have existed at that time and place is a true storytelling triumph and begs the ironic question of whether there is any use in trying to distinguish one kind of affliction from another.

Paul Meloy’s “Visibility Less Than Zero” could be described as harsh. It’s the story of Phil, a “crisis worker,” and his increasingly unhinged life and troubled relationship with his daughter, Lizzie. The narrator’s faltering sanity is explored through sessions with his psychiatrist that involve dream regression and interpretation. This setup suggests a contemporary and even conventional psychoanalytic context which rests uneasily with Meloy’s attempt at more postmodern storytelling techniques. Also, the repeated and near-constant profanity exceeds the requirements of characterization and becomes desensitizing, which ends up being distracting rather than seamless; the prose screams when it should whisper. “Visibility Less Than Zero” does create several chilling moments and deftly conveys the protagonist’s disintegrating reliability on his own perceptions, but I didn’t care for the ending. I wish the visibility, and any insight offered to the reader, would have been greater.

The teen hacker at the heart of Charlie Allery’s story may have received more than he bargained for when he created his “Hunter-Killer” simulation. Detective Kate interrogates the teenager but reveals little understanding of his world and his preoccupations. With an almost relentless determination, she proceeds to piece together the various clues of this slightly quaint-feeling whodunit. Her detachment and thoroughness, which prove crucial, are well-conveyed. Allery’s sense of rhythm is also strong, although his characterization is a little more inconsistent, at times coming across as facile (during one crucial scene a character “howls,” and during another a tech “high-fives” a colleague). Serial killers, hacker teens, and AI are familiar motifs, and though Allery doesn’t add much new, he does craft an entertaining story.

There are perhaps multiple puzzles in the ambitious “Index of An Enigma” by Gary Fry. The thirty-something protagonist, a lecturer at Stafford, temporarily escapes some domestic infelicity with wife Geena and son Ben by returning to the town of Huddersfield and participating in a psychology seminar. He stays at Storthes Hall, previous home of various mentally disturbed patients, and almost immediately has not one but two strange encounters, one with an enigmatic woman and one with a highly eccentric, possibly delusional man. More mystery—and action—follow, and a comfortable interpretation only emerges by using the protagonist’s own psychological theory, namely the belief that:

perception and behaviour are intimately entwined, that to see or hear or touch or taste or smell is simultaneously to respond to such sensual phenomenon without conscious reflection. We find ourselves falling into familiar patterns of regrettable acts because personal history shapes the way we understand our lived experience.

This notion, introduced early on in less specific terms, is important to the plot, but I found my disbelief stretched by the fact that the narrator could present this conventional description of how the brain works and processes perceptions over time as something new, in an academic environment no less. But, in fairness to Fry, if he’d devised something more abstract, it might have been too alienating, and it does integrate cogently into the story. The internal discoveries that arrive at the end are thought-provoking, and the voice of the story is smart and honest. There’s enough dramatic tension to overcome the sense of familiarity with certain elements (e.g., staying at a former mental institution), and overall, this conceptually-fueled, character-based piece is a welcome challenge.

Lee Thomas brings us the “The Good and Gone,” perhaps the strongest story in this anthology. Max Evans has been hospitalized as a result of a hip injury incurred through a funny set of circumstances. While bored in the hospital, he remembers a game his granny taught him, Good and Gone, in which he is essentially capable of roaming as a disembodied consciousness by means of whistling a tune. Solid walls or objects present barriers which ground and limit his odysseys, and the durations of his “excursions” are also limited. Max quickly spots a man—who is not alone. What he discovers when he follows the individual is disturbing, provocative, and suspenseful, to say the least.

One immediate objection to this story might be the implausibility of its plot, which hinges on multiple unlikely events that don’t stand up to close examination (for example, how likely is it that someone with Max’s ability would have forgotten this “game”?). Another objection might be the shift in tone from mostly comical to horrific. In response to the first, I’d argue that the specifics of the plot are not completely relevant; the truth that emerges from accepting them at face value is far more important, and they are handled consistently. Furthermore, Thomas’s writing is so skillful that he can engage in such wild speculations without tearing us from the story, and the strength of his writing carries the tonal transition. The ending is particularly elegant, framing events in the context of a profound character transformation while not shying away from the horrific consequences of what has happened. By that point, I was good and gone.

Considering the stylistic variety of the anthology and the differences in approach taken by its authors, I do wish it featured more stories by more writers. Any reader who finds himself enthralled by one particular tale may discover only a few even remotely similar in voice or aesthetic. Of course, while no one would want to produce an anthology of predictable or even reiterative, similarly-styled visions, it would have been nice to have had more room to showcase alternative takes on this subject, so redolent with fictional possibilities. One might also get the sense that there are too many mental wards, AIs, and serial killers—but hey, it’s called Killers for a reason.

And I guess that wishing an anthology contained more than eleven stories is not really a complaint, now is it?

Publisher: Swimming Kangaroo Books (Sept. 2008)
Price: $14.99
Trade paperback: 233 pages
ISBN: 978-1-934041-66-6