Bloody Horowitz

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  THE MAN WHO KILLED DARREN SHAN

  BET YOUR LIFE

  YOU HAVE ARRIVED

  THE COBRA

  ROBO-NANNY

  BAD DREAM

  MY BLOODY FRENCH EXCHANGE

  SHEBAY

  ARE YOU SITTING COMFORTABLY?

  PLUGGED IN

  POWER

  THE X TRAIN

  SEVEN CUTS

  BACK FROM THE DEAD . . . from “The Man Who Killed Darren Shan”

  Henry tried to sleep but he couldn’t. Though he pulled the duvet over his head, the chill still got in. He could feel it around his neck, creeping down his spine. He was annoyed with himself. This was supposed to be his night of triumph. Maybe he should have gone out and bought himself a drink . . . or several. He had committed murder and gotten away with it! Surely that was something to celebrate.

  “Henry . . .”

  The voice came as a whisper out of the darkness. He had dreamed it, of course. It was a ghost voice, like something out of a horror film, rising up from a swamp or out of a ruined castle. Only, how could he have dreamed it when he wasn’t yet asleep?

  “Henry . . .” The whisper came again, louder this time and filled with venom. . . .

  For my son Cass—with thanks for the title

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © Anthony Horowitz, 2010

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Horowitz, Anthony, 1955–Bloody Horowitz / Anthony Horowitz. v. cm.

  Contents: Why horror has no place in children’s books—The man who killed

  Darren Shan—Bet your life—You have arrived—The cobra—Robo-Nanny—Bad dream—My

  bloody French exchange—sheBay—Are you sitting comfortably?—Plugged in—Power—

  The X Train—Seven cuts.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54344-3

  1. Horror tales, English. 2. Children’s stories, English. [1. Horror stories. 2. Short stories.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.H7875BI 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009044748

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either

  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text set in 11-point Palatino

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  WHY HORROR HAS NO PLACE IN CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  by PROFESSOR WENDY GROOLING

  Yes, we want young people to read. But do we ever ask ourselves what we want young people to read?

  It is undoubtedly true that the success of the Harry Potter books has led to what many would call a “golden age” of reading. I, myself, am a great admirer of many of the new wave of children’s writers and in particular Philip Pullman (a lovely, wise man), Geraldine McCaughrean (so warm and delightful!) and David Almond (a genius . . . nothing more to be said). And let’s spare a thought for dear J. K. Rowling herself. It’s all too often forgotten that she has single-handedly taught an entire generation the value of reading, and what is so wonderful is that she has asked for absolutely nothing in return, except for a few billion dollars.

  But the question we have to ask ourselves is—are all books of equal value? On the one hand, we have Alice who has such cheerful and blood-free adventures in Wonderland with the white rabbit and the naughty Knave of Hearts. But on the other, there are books like Bloody Horowitz (what a rude title!), which seem to delight in cruelty and bloodshed. And so we have to ask: Are there perhaps some authors who are just leaping on the bandwagon, writing books that, far from educating or enlightening, are more likely to harm a vulnerable mind?

  As you will have gathered if you have read this far—and I very much hope you have—I am thinking, in particular, of horror writers.

  Now don’t get me wrong. I’m no fuddy-duddy. Indeed, in the past I have been described as a friend of horror or, so to speak, a bloody-buddy. But it seems to me that we are in waters that can become too easily muddy. But if I may put it simply, and in capital letters, IS HORROR GOOD FOR CHILDREN? And here is my answer: No, no, no, no, no.

  It is well known that children have a much more active imagination than adults. You or I may be scared of, for example, spiders. I am so scared of finding a spider in the bath that I haven’t actually had a bath for twenty-seven years. But the point is, we can live with this. Because we are adults, we know how to make the correct judgments. But let us consider the description of a spider in a book. Perhaps a spider crawling out of the eye of a rotting corpse, lingering for a moment on the white, glistening cheek before scampering forward to begin feasting on what remains of the decomposing flesh . . . That sort of description could do permanent damage to a young mind.

  Films like Beyond the Grave and Zombie Stranglers come with a little letter attached to them—R—which means that they cannot be seen by anyone under seventeen. Books, unfortunately, do not have this protection. Indeed, many quite reputable publishers will make their covers as gruesome as possible to attract younger and younger children, driven only by their desire to sell books. I have to say, these people make my blood boil, and if I had my way I would sneak into their offices in the middle of the night with twenty gallons of gasoline and set the whole building ablaze. But first I would make sure that the publishers, and the writers, were tied to their chairs, unable to move, so they would be able to see the flames approaching and, in their last moments before they died in hideous agony, perhaps they would begin to regret their irresponsible behavior.

  Of course, publishers would argue they are only giving children what they want. But do children know what they want? They are, after all, only children. They play computer games and they run around shouting all the time. Really, they don’t know anything at all.

  So I am shocked, really quite shocked, when I visit well-known bookshops and see them advertising horror stories in departments that are clearly designed to be for children. What do they think they’re doing? Don’t they realize there are likely to be children as young as six or seven on the premises, innocently searching for Postman Pat or Fireman Sam? And while I’m on that subject, I might mention that these books have sold millions of copies without any severed limbs, exploding eyeballs or blood jetting out of severed arteries. As far as I can recall, Postman Pat has never once been savaged by a rabid dog, while Fireman Sam has also never been called upon to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a victim with hideous third-degree burns.

  Ho
w do our bookshops get away with this? I think I would be perfectly justified in concealing a small meat-ax in my handbag and attacking the shop assistants, perhaps lopping off a few of their fingers or toes. That would teach them to corrupt our young people.

  I would certainly like to kill Anthony Horowitz. Yes, I know that would mean no more Alex Rider books (although I’m sure Charlie Higson could be persuaded to write some if he was paid enough money), but it would also mean no more of his repellent horror stories. Now that I come to think of it, there are quite a lot of writers I would like to kill. That man who does the Goosebumps series for a start, although they’re so badly written that maybe I’d let him get away with a good spanking.

  And although there are many who might think I’m being a bit extreme, maybe it would be a good idea to start murdering children too. I could stand outside the bookshop, and if I spot anyone under the age of eighteen buying a book that is not suitable for them, I could follow them home with a huge net and then throw them into a swimming pool filled with poison. In fact, I’ve got an even better idea. We cannot allow young brains to be corrupted. Much better to saw off the tops of their heads and scoop them out with a spoon or, alternatively, insert a fishhook up their little noses and pull them out that way, a method used, incidentally, by the ancient Egyptians.

  Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill . . .

  Professor Wendy Grooling is herself a successful children’s author and a world expert on teenage literature. She is also the founder of Read This or Die, a charity that encourages young people to discover new books. This article originally appeared in Straight Talk, Straitjackets, the house magazine of Fairfields, the East Suffolk Maximum Security Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

  THE MAN WHO KILLED DARREN SHAN

  Looking back, Henry Parker could honestly say that he never wanted to hurt anyone. Certainly it never occurred to him that he would one day plan and then execute the perfect murder of an internationally well-known children’s author . . . even if that was what actually happened. To begin with, all Henry wanted to do was write.

  Even as a boy he had dreamed of being a writer. No, not just a writer, but an Author with a capital A—published, with a fan club, his book in every bookshop window, his photograph in the Sunday newspapers and a great pile of money in the bank. And what sort of writing was going to make his name and put that name on the front of a million books?

  Henry loved horror. To him, the only good story was one that had people dying, knives cutting into flesh, brains exploding and blood dripping from every paragraph. In “Verbal Abuse,” written when he was just sixteen years old and still at school, a boy was actually crucified by his Latin teacher for talking in class, while another work, “Tooth Decay,” told of a Birmingham dentist being torn to shreds by one of his patients, who turned out to be a werewolf.

  Having written these stories, Henry wasn’t sure whom to show them to. His wealthy parents were abroad most of the time and didn’t seem to have a lot of interest in their only son. He didn’t really have any friends. In the end, he went to his English teacher and asked him to look at the neatly bound manuscript that he’d carried to school in his backpack.

  “I’d be very grateful if you would tell me what you think, sir,” he said. “Although, personally, I think they’re very good.”

  The teacher, whose name was Mr. Harris, accepted the task with pleasure. He was always glad when any of his young students showed initiative in this way. However, after reading the pages at home, he wasn’t quite so sure.

  “Your work does show promise, Henry,” he muttered uncomfortably. “But I have to say, I did find some of your writing a little . . . over-the-top?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Henry asked.

  “Well, do you really have to be quite so explicit? This paragraph here, where the dentist’s heart is pulled out and then minced. I read it after dinner and felt quite ill.”

  “But it’s a werewolf!” Henry protested. “Werewolves enjoy mincing human organs. It’s well known.”

  “And in this other story . . . the boy being nailed down in that way. Wouldn’t it have been better to leave a little to the imagination?”

  “My readers may not have any imagination,” Henry replied.

  “I’m sure that’s not true.” Mr. Harris sighed. “Have you considered writing any other genre? Romance, for example. Or perhaps a spy story?”

  “I prefer horror.”

  “Well, I don’t want to discourage you. It’s very good to see you taking an interest in anything at all. But I don’t think you’re going to succeed unless you tone it down a little. Scaring people is one thing. Making them feel sick is quite another.”

  That night, Henry began a new story in which a stupid English teacher named Mr. Harris was captured by cannibals and eaten alive.

  Two years went by. Inevitably, Henry wrote less as his high-school exams took over his life. He did not get brilliant results, managing only two C’s and a D. His worst marks were for English Literature. In one essay he wrote five thousand words describing the murder of Duncan in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The woman who marked it resigned from the examinations board the very next day.

  Henry didn’t go to college. By the time he left school, he felt he had learned more than enough and that four more years of education would only get in the way of his becoming a world-famous author. His parents owned a large house in Reading where he could live. He was fairly sure that his father would support him while he wrote his first full-length novel. He already had the beginnings of an idea. Fame and fortune were surely only around the corner.

  But then two things happened that changed everything. First, his parents died in a bizarre accident. They had gone to a circus outside Munich—Henry’s mother had always been fond of trapeze artists—and they’d been having a wonderful time until the time had come for the human cannonball to perform. Something had gone wrong. Instead of being fired into the safety net, the human cannonball had been blasted, with some force, into the third row of the seats, killing Mr. and Mrs. Parker instantly.

  The second disaster was that Henry discovered that his parents had left him no money at all. In fact, it was even worse than that. In recent years, their business (in dental equipment) had taken a distinct downturn and their borrowing had grown so out of hand that their home and all their possessions had to be sold off to meet their debts. And so, at just nineteen years of age, Henry found himself broke and alone.

  Somehow, he needed to earn a living. With such poor grades and no college degree, that wasn’t going to be easy, but a friend of his parents took pity on him and managed to get him a job as a real estate agent. This involved showing people around properties in Battersea, in south London—and he hated it. He sneered at the other real estate agents and he was jealous of the young couples moving into houses that he himself couldn’t possibly afford. He was now renting a single room that backed onto the main railway line from Victoria station.

  But he still had his dream. More than that, he had the use of a desk, paper and pens, the office computer. And so, every evening, once the agency closed, he would stay behind, tapping away into the small hours. He was writing his novel. Two thousand words a night, five nights a week—Henry figured it would be finished in less than three months.

  In fact, it took him eleven years.

  Writing is a strange business. You write a sentence and then you read it and one word leaps out at you. Or should that be jumps out at you? Or bothers you? And then you go over and over it and by the evening you find you haven’t written two thousand words at all. You’ve only managed a couple of sentences and even they don’t strike you as being quite right. So you start again and again, crossing out and crumpling the pages into balls, and no matter how hard you try you never quite reach the two words you’re most keen to write: THE END.

  That was how it was for Henry. Eleven long years of showing people around properties, working through the night and sleeping right through the weekends
certainly took their toll. By the time he was thirty, he had lost most of his hair and much of his eyesight. He wore thick glasses and sat with a stooped back. A poor diet and lack of exercise had both hollowed him and drained much of the color from his skin. The honest truth was that if he had gone to a funeral, no one would have known if he was the undertaker or the corpse.

  But at last he finished the novel. And reading it—while chewing on a cheese rind, which was all he had been able to find in the fridge—he knew that he had created a masterpiece. A horror novel for children, one hundred thousand words long and like nothing anyone had ever written before.

  Curiously, it was the death of his parents that had inspired him. Although he had been shocked by their sudden end, and even more so by the disappearance of their wealth, Henry had never really missed them. His father had always been bad tempered and his mother too busy to look after him. But the way they had died had given him the idea of a story that would begin in a circus; not an ordinary circus, but a world inhabited by strange creatures . . . freaks.

  His book was called Ring of Evil and it told the story of a young boy who ran away from home and got a job in the circus, only to find himself surrounded by ghosts, werewolves, witches and vampires. Henry described in loving detail how the vampires would chase members of the audience, tear their throats open and drink their blood. The hero’s name was Justin and in Chapter Five he was turned into a vampire himself. He then spent Chapters Six, Seven and Eight killing people, gradually discovering that being a vampire was fun . . . certainly more fun than being a schoolboy. Eventually, Justin teamed up with the ringmaster—who was called Mephisto and who turned out to be the son of Count Dracula himself—and the two of them set off on an adventure that brought them into contact with two vampire armies fighting for control of the world.