検索キーワード： 著者 "R. B. Russell" すべてのカテゴリー

Bernard heard the news one busy evening in my bar on the rue des Abbesses. He heard it from Jules, who had been told by Lulu.

Shaffer returned home at five, just as it was getting dark. He had to put down his bags to unlock the front door, and picked them up again feeling annoyed that he had set so much homework for his pupils; after all, he was going to have to mark it all.

The tape came off the first reel, threaded its way through the guides and heads, and flapped uselessly, rhythmically, as the full spool continued to turn.

The five stories that made up R.B. Russell's debut collection, Putting the Pieces in Place, were described on first publication as demonstrating 'a subtle mastery of the macabre. Enigmatic and enticing, they combine a pleasing respect for the great tradition of supernatural fiction with a chilling contemporary European resonance.'

Following on from Literary Remains, R.B. Russell's previous collection for PS_Publishing, the twelve stories of Leave Your Sleep concern sex and death, love and loss. Russell allows his characters to disappear, slip into alternate realities, or re-write their own histories. They find they are able to do the most extraordinary things, even though they may not immediately realise it. And who is in control of their actions, or those around them?

When I look back on my life in Eastbourne in the late 1980s I find it amazing that I could have ever had enough time and energy to accomplish what I did.

If only we would take the time to look a little closer, delve a little deeper, when ordinary life goes awry, we might find the world more strange and unexpected than we ever could have imagined.

For the first time since his arrival in Arkos the Right Honourable David Barrett, M.P., was up early, washed and dressed and standing on the quay.

David Planer and I walked into the hotel bar through opposite doors and met in the middle of the room before anyone else could accost him.

When I heard the knock at the door on that Friday afternoon in early December I was in my workshop at the back of the house. I was carving some panels that were to form the backs of a set of chairs and the last thing I wanted was an interruption.

Everything went right for Jayne just as it appeared to be going wrong. Or, at least, that's what she assumed. To begin with she lost her home and her job.

At the edges of everyday life, on geographical boundaries and in the margins of society, certainties and realities can wear thin. And if we find ourselves in such occult and outland territory late at night, we might glimpse phenomena out of the corner of our eye that cannot possibly be there. At such times even the past, apparently fixed and unchanging in memories and dreams, cannot be relied upon. But what happens if we find ourselves passing beyond even these frayed perimeters of life? Can others follow us, or are we on our own?

When young Lucian Miller visits the house of a friend it is everything he had long fantasised about; decay and grandeur, lofty rooms, dark red shadows and dust. The evening, however, is a disaster, and Lucian finds himself apparently alone with the sophisticated but troubled Miranda Honeyman. They shut all of the doors in an attempt to keep their problems out, but it soon becomes apparent that someone else may have access to the house. On the threshold of adulthood, in a heightening atmosphere of sexual uncertainty and violence, Lucian tries to make sense of what is happening around him.

David Riley knew that he spent rather too much time watching the world go by as he worked at his desk in the window of his shabby flat. He looked down on a busy city street and in a couple of months he had come to recognise the familiar faces of those who lived and worked there.

Justin had been humiliated many times in front of his fellow students. On a regular basis they were all made to put their work up on the studio wall for a Criticism, when their tutors would patiently explain exactly how and why their art failed.

Up until the moment I approached the door everything had been effortless. My connections from Amsterdam to Bialystok had been on time, and there, at the airport, had been my old friend David to greet me.

My father was one of seven boys and all of them married young and went on to have large families of their own. Consequently I ended up with more uncles and aunts than I have ever been comfortable with, and the number of cousins was almost incalculable.

I had to go outside. The air in the room had grown almost unbreathable from the cloying smoke; a mixture of hashish and incense. Normally I revelled in such an atmosphere, in the artificial light and warmth.

: She was an odd-looking, insubstantial little thing; ill at ease in their company, sipping determinedly at a sparkling water that didn't seem to get any lower in her glass. Her attention was firmly fixed upon it.

Mr Gabo was an unlikely looking author, but then most of their authors were unlikely looking. Asphodel Books always attracted the improbable.