The Shadow Glass E-Book

Josh Winning

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Dark Crystal meets About a Boy in a race against the clock to save the world in this nostalgia-infused adventure!Jack Corman is failing at life.Jobless, jaded and on the "wrong" side of thirty, he's facing the threat of eviction from his London flat while reeling from the sudden death of his father, one-time film director Bob Corman. Back in the eighties, Bob poured his heart and soul into the creation of his 1986 puppet fantasy The Shadow Glass, a film Jack loved as a child, idolising its fox-like hero Dune.But The Shadow Glass flopped on release, deemed too scary for kids and too weird for adults, and Bob became a laughing stock, losing himself to booze and self-pity. Now, the film represents everything Jack hated about his father, and he lives with the fear that he'll end up a failure just like him.In the wake of Bob's death, Jack returns to his decaying home, a place creaking with movie memorabilia and painful memories. Then, during a freak thunderstorm, the puppets in the attic start talking. Tipped into a desperate real-world quest to save London from the more nefarious of his father's creations, Jack teams up with excitable fanboy Toby and spiky studio executive Amelia to navigate the labyrinth of his father's legacy while conjuring the hero within––and igniting a Shadow Glass resurgence that could, finally, do his father proud.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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26

Acknowledgements

About the Author

‘The Shadow Glass is like the old children’s movies it worships: sometimes dark, but never heartless; gritty yet soulbaring. It embraces its referents as a whole: their beauty with their ugliness, the healing power of nostalgia with its potential to poison the present. But it never goes cynical, never loses faith. It stands proud with a VHS copy of its favorite movie held aloft, daring you to say it’s not the greatest film ever.’ Edgar Cantero, author ofMeddling Kids

‘Wonderful. A bold and heartfelt adventure from another world, another time—and our own.’ Max Gladstone, Hugo and Nebula Award-winning writer

‘The fantasy adventure my 80s-loving heart needed! Loaded with unforgettable characters, a thrilling quest, and the best 80s pop culture references, I loved every moment.’ Kat Ellis, author ofHarrow Lake

‘Henson Heads, rejoice! Of the myriad of pleasures Josh Winning conjures within his stunning novel The Shadow Glass, perhaps my personal darling is the rendering of a complete and hereunto unexplored cinematic fantasia that could easily stand alongside such practical FX classics as The Dark Crystal, Labyrinth and The NeverEnding Story. I was instantly transported back to the video store of my youth, sent down the fantasy aisle once again, where these pre-CGI pleasures of puppetry reside… and magic still exists.’ Clay McLeod Chapman, author ofThe RemakingandWhisper Down the Lane

‘Bringing together an artful blend of nostalgic references, emotionally-wrenching characterisation, and stunning worldbuilding, The Shadow Glass is a delight of a debut.’ Tori Bovalino, author ofThe Devil Makes ThreeandNot Good for Maidens

‘A blast of big-hearted fantasy fun, The Shadow Glass will have 1980s nostalgists digging back through their VHS collections with glee.’ Matt Glasby, author ofThe Book of Horror

‘You don’t have to be a child of the ‘80s to appreciate The Shadow Glass. There’s enough magic within these pages to dress you in leg warmers and take you there. Nostalgic, heartfelt, and bristling with humor. An absolute corker!’ Rio Youers, author ofNo Second Chances

‘Epic, edge-of-your-seat fantasy in its own right, with just enough horror to keep things interesting. The world-building is fantastic, but it’s the beautifully drawn characters that I think will capture readers’ hearts, as they force us to think about growing up, growing old, and the importance of hanging on to that sense of wonder that the best fantasy (like The Shadow Glass itself) can inspire.’ Elizabeth Corr and Katharine Corr, authors of The Witch’s Kiss trilogy

‘Packed with heart and featuring a plot as fiendish as any Goblin King’s labyrinth, The Shadow Glass is a masterpiece! William Hussey, Award-winning author ofHideous BeautyandThe Outrage

‘A thrilling and deeply emotional coming-of-age-in-your-30s quest that perfectly conjures up the feeling of being a viewer fully immersed in the tantalisingly dark worlds of Jim Henson’s 1980s fantasy films while also weaving a heartfelt tale about grief, denial, the complicated relationships between parents and children, and reconciling one’s childhood with the adult you’ve become. Suspenseful, funny, imaginative, and often as creepy as a Skeksis banquet, The Shadow Glass is a must-read for any fan of Henson or ‘80s fantasy in general who ever dreamed of what it might be like if the Creature Shop actually came to life.’ Robert Berg, HensonBlog.com

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The Shadow Glass

Print edition ISBN: 9781789098617

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789098631

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition March 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © 2022 Josh Winning. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

“Keep believing, keep pretending.”

Jim Henson

“Well, c’mon feet.”

Sarah, Labyrinth(1986)

Film, Inc. magazine review of The Shadow Glass (December 2011 issue).

THE SHADOW GLASS(PG)

FILM EXTRAS

OUT NOW// DVD, BDEXTRAS// Featurettes, Commentary, Storyboard track, Galleries

Although it’s now 25 years old, this film remains resolutely one of a kind,” says Bob Co. creative producer Amelia Twine on this anniversary re-release ofThe Shadow Glass. “One thing that still stands out is the fact that it’s a film children can enjoy that is uncompromising in its darkness. There’s no sugar-coating the world of Iri. But that’s a good thing. It’s one of the things that makesThe Shadow Glassso special.”

She’s not wrong. On top of the remarkably adult themes, mind-boggling ingenuity abounds at every level of director Bob Corman’s 1986 feature debut, and the extras on this two-disc set fondly explore everything from the cleverly concealed puppeteers to the lovingly crafted nooks and crannies of the film’s vast sets. “We used a special type of dirt to give the characters a lived-in, grubby feel,” reveals Jenny Bobbin, creator of many of the film’s remarkable puppets, confirming that The Shadow Glassis nothing like the clean-cut kids’ entertainment of Corman’s earlier puppet series Fuzz TV (1975–79).

Yep, this remains nightmare-inducing stuff, set in the world of Iri (pronounced “eerie”), which is home to a plethora of astonishing creatures including skalions, kettu, wugs and a terrifying, bug-eyed soothsayer. The plot sees fox-like pup Dune embarking on a quest to rescue his world from a tyrannical queen, encountering colourful characters along the way (the pom-pom-like “lub” is a shameless scene-stealer) and learning a hero’s lesson in self-worth.

There’s no mention of the controversy that surrounded the release of Corman’s prequel comic series Beyond the Shadow Glass, which inspired a book-burning protest in the 1990s, but perhaps this isn’t the place for that. The wealth of extras include storyboards, photo galleries, and commentary from the rarely-glimpsed Corman, and the love and passion that went into the film is clear for all to see. “This film is my life,” Corman says at one point during his chat track. “People think I’m being disingenuous when I say that, but it truly is.” Delivering everything a fantasy lover could ever dream of, The Shadow Glass is a dark and bewitching tale unlike anything ever seen again.

ROSIE FLETCHER

WHAT TO WATCH NEXT…

The NeverEnding Story (1984)

More puppets, this time of the doggy variety. Plus the terrifying Nothing. Pillows for hiding required, plus a hairbrush to sing the theme tune into.

Game of Thrones (2011–)

We’ve only had one season of this book adaptation but, so far, it’s proved a huge thrill – a grown-up fantasy for grown-up Shadow Glass fans. We can’t wait to see where this one goes.

The Fuzz TV Christmas Special (1979)

The skalions would eat Flick, Bucket and co. for breakfast, but we still love them, and the musical numbers in Corman’s festive favourite are to die for.

Jack Corman swore as he seized the window shutter and forced it to stop flapping. It had been striking the frame when he arrived at his father’s house, making a sound like gunshots that echoed across the street, and he was surprised the neighbours hadn’t come out to complain. Then again, Kettu House wasn’t just any house. People tended to approach it with caution.

Gritting his teeth, he wrestled the shutter back. Like everything to do with his father, it resisted, and Jack’s knuckles ached with the cold as the wind bit into them. His suit jacket squeezed his torso, making it difficult for him to move, and the shutter bucked and jerked as if attempting to throw him off.

Jack gave it one last shove, then swore again and gave up.

Wiping perspiration from his top lip, he stepped back to appraise the building. It was craggier than he remembered, its face weathered and beaten by time. From outside, Kettu House looked like two red-brick Georgian semis with their front doors side by side. In reality, one of the doors was a fake. His dad had been a joker—before it all went wrong.

Over thirty years ago, Bob Corman knocked through both properties to create one scowling super-house, and it only got weirder inside.

The thought of the labyrinthine interior caused Jack’s stomach to clench.

He’d grown up in there, spent most of his adolescence desperate to escape it, and it was only when he went off to university that he was finally free of it. That was over a decade ago and he dreaded to think what he’d find. In the intervening years, the place had grown larger and more confused in his mind, evolving into a house of mirrors. He fought the urge to get the hell out of there.

Instead, he swiped his unruly fringe from his eyes, suppressing the panic.

It’s just a house, he told himself. Just a house.

His hand slipped into his breast pocket, his fingers brushing the envelope nestled there. Through the paper, he felt the modest brass key, and his mind calmed. It had turned up at his flat a week ago, his father’s writing on the front. Bob must have sent it before he died and, even though Jack couldn’t understand why Bob wanted him to go into the attic, he recalled what was stored up there and his plan took shape. He just had to find the courage to go through with it, then everything would be peachy keen.

Scene change. Fresh take. Action, cut, print: Welcome to your new life.

His gaze moved up to a window sticking out of the roof like an eyelid.

He frowned, certain he’d seen movement behind the pane.

No, it was just clouds being buffeted by the wind.

The shutter started banging again.

‘Christ’s sake,’ Jack muttered, regarding it with a mixture of anguish and disdain. It could wait. If he didn’t go into the house now, he never would. His hands shook as he took out his keys, preparing to mount the steps to the front doors.

‘Um, hi! Hello?’

Jack stiffened as a voice called out behind him. A skinny teenager stood just inside the front garden, hovering by the oak tree. The kid’s eyes were too large for his oval face, and his teeth flashed white against his brown skin, a nervous grin that made his age difficult to guess. Seventeen, Jack thought, maybe younger.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ The kid winced. ‘It’s just, I mean, you’re him, aren’t you?’

‘Who?’

‘Jack Corman.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘You are! You’re Jack Corman! Man, I can’t believe it. I mean… Gurchin! You’re really here! I heard you’d moved away or… I don’t know… there are crazy theories, like you became a botanist. Even I had trouble believing that one.’

The kid’s bony shoulders jerked with amusement and Jack squinted at him. Daylight had all but bled from the garden, ushering in a blustery autumn evening, but Jack saw that underneath the boy’s blue raincoat he wore a T-shirt that read I LUB YOU. Jack groaned aloud.

‘Look, mate, I don’t have time for—’

‘Toby.’

‘What?’

The teenager stuck out his hand. ‘Toby. It’s an honour to meet you.’

This. Wasn’t. Happening.

Usually Shadow Glass fanboys stuck to the internet. That’s where they felt most at home, poring over the film, dissecting it frame by frame, exchanging first-viewing stories and creation myths and trying to figure out if you really could see a crew member in the final battle sequence.

Jack hadn’t encountered one of them in years and that was just the way he liked it.

He ignored the hand, filled with the need to get away. ‘Sorry, Toby, it’s been a shitty day. You’ll have to excuse me.’

He started up the steps, but Toby’s voice followed over his shoulder. He was hot on Jack’s heels.

‘Sorry, it’s just… You have no idea what The Shadow Glass means to me. I know it’s for kids, but it’s not just a kid’s movie. It’s real and scary and it’s not safe. Like, it feels so real, even though it’s over thirty years old. I always tell Huw—he’s my boyfriend—I always tell him that’s the sign of a true classic. It only gets better with age.’

‘Mhmm.’

Jack had heard it all before. It was just his luck that the first time in years that he visited Kettu House, he was ambushed by an Iri nut.

‘Sorry, Toby, I’ve got to go.’ He jiggled the door lock, relieved when it clicked.

‘But I—’

Jack hurried inside, shutting the door harder than he had intended.

Silence settled around him.

He took a moment to catch his breath, squinting in the dim light of the hall.

Any relief he felt at escaping the teenager vanished as the musky air filled his nostrils. He sneezed, doubling over and sneezing again.

‘This place,’ he muttered as he straightened to survey his surroundings.

The hall was even more cluttered than he remembered.

Knick-knacks and keepsakes crowded the passage, giving the impression of a pokey antique shop. A grandfather clock stood surrounded by bone-dry potted plants, while Japanese Shadow Glass posters were mounted on the walls. A shelving unit groaned with VHS tapes, DVDs, a Walkman and a cassette tape library, and there were books everywhere. Feathered with age and heaped amid swirling dust motes.

Jack’s neck creaked as he turned his head to take it all in.

The curios were familiar but also different to how he remembered them, as if he were viewing them through mottled glass. They looked decayed. Relics from another time. A life he had almost forgotten he’d lived. And this was just the hall. From where he stood, he glimpsed the rooms and passages beyond, wending in a disordered muddle, combining to form a house of riddles. A place in which to get lost.

He stilled, frowning at the distant point where the back hall turned into the kitchen. He was sure he’d seen movement there. He pictured his father still roaming Kettu House, tall and narrow as a telegraph pole, shuffling in slippers and a moth-eaten cardigan, fingers scratching his beard. He could still hear the whispers of a man who had long since relinquished his grip on reality.

‘In a forgotten time, in a forgotten world, deep within a forgotten chamber few have ever seen, the Shadow Glass sees all.’

Jack gritted his teeth and shook off the image. That was years ago. Bob was dead and the house was empty—of anything living, at least. He couldn’t get distracted.

Aiming for the rickety staircase, he went further inside, his fingers tapping one of the bottles in a drinks cabinet. He recalled being fourteen and smashing bottles in the street, furious at his father for his latest drunken tirade.

The memory stung, and even though Jack wasn’t a drinker, his mouth felt parched. He uncapped the bottle, taking a defiant swig as he started up the stairs. The whisky seared the back of his throat.

‘Jesu—’ he coughed, then froze as a shadow crossed the wall.

He didn’t move.

He’d only caught it out of the corner of his eye, but he was certain it had reared up from the skirting board and flashed across the wallpaper.

Stiffly, he listened, sensing eyes on him.

Ch-ch-ch-ch…

Jack’s arm hair bristled and his gaze snapped to the ceiling. He had heard something above him. A skittering of claws on floorboards.

‘Hello?’ he called.

The house swallowed his voice. He wasn’t sure he had even spoken.

Ch-ch-ch-ch…

Apprehension pinched Jack’s chest. He’d definitely heard it that time. A scratching above his head.

Somebody was up there.

More fanboys, maybe, come to pick over the remains of his father’s empire.

Maybe they were already in the attic, claiming the thing he’d pinned his entire future on.

Adrenaline flooded his veins and Jack battled his way down a landing cluttered with Shadow Glass props, framed movie cells and fake, otherworldly plants that tangled between his feet. He stumbled against a door, knocking it open to reveal his teenage bedroom. It hadn’t been touched since he moved out. Band posters on the walls, single bed beneath the window, headphones plugged into a hi-fi system that he would crank up to eleven to drown out his life.

Above his head the scratching continued, and Jack left the bedroom, clambering up another, even narrower set of stairs that shrieked as he climbed.

He came to a stop outside the attic door.

Of course the sound was coming from there.

Above the rasp of his own wheezing, he heard it louder than before: a scraping like nails on the inside of a coffin. His throat thickened with fear.

For a second, he was fifteen again, crouched in the stairwell while his father told him to go back to bed. Jack had woken in the night and followed voices up to the attic. He’d listened through the door as they echoed in the dark, and he couldn’t tell if Bob was in there watching a movie, or if Bob was making the voices himself. Maybe the newspapers and magazines had been right. ‘Bonkers Bob’ really had lost his mind.

Crouched outside the attic now, twenty years later, Jack felt darkness grasping at his neck.

Was his father still in there?

He should run. Get out of there before it was too late.

No. He shook off the memory. This wasn’t some teenage fantasy. Somebody had broken in. They could be making off with the very thing he was there to claim for himself.

He took the envelope from his pocket, removed the key, and ground it into the lock. Throwing open the door, he charged inside and—

Tripped.

His toe caught something in the dark and he lost his footing. He crashed forwards, striking the floor painfully as he crumpled onto his front. Somehow, he managed to prevent his head cracking against the floorboards, and found himself staring at a pair of knobbly claws resting on the floor in front of him.

He clutched the miraculously intact whisky bottle and craned his neck up at the thing looming over him.

An amphibian creature with boil-pocked green skin leered in the gloom. It was squat and slimy-looking, its too-wide mouth hanging open to reveal glimmering rows of needle-sharp teeth. Its bulbous eyes were heavy-lidded, vacant and staring, and while it looked like something that had slithered out of a swamp, it wore mechanised armour, the kind of sci-fi tech that seemed purpose-built for deep space.

Jack’s heart slammed the floorboards as he recognised the character.

A skalion.

Just a puppet, he told himself as he eased into a kneeling position. It’s just a puppet.

They’d given Jack nightmares as a kid. The skalions were villains by design, created for the sole purpose of terrorising the heroes of The Shadow Glass, and the sight of one now made his skin itch. Not just one. A whole battalion crowded together in a sneering pack, each around four feet tall and bigger than any puppet had a right to be.

Now that quiet had settled over the house, Jack felt stupid. He was letting his imagination get away from him. Nothing was moving in here. How could it?

They were just puppets.

He got to his feet and fumbled for the light switch. As a bare bulb blinked on, he felt the burn of a hundred eyes.

More puppets.

Too many to count were dotted all over the attic, their smiles fixed, their frowns unmoving. Not just skalions but wugs, too. Wizened little gnome-like creatures in woolly hats that snuggled together amid the spider-webbed furniture.

Jack surveyed it all with an uneasy familiarity. When he was a child, these characters meant everything to him. They were his friends. His family. His playmates. Now, though, they stirred only distaste and, somewhere beneath that, a distant sense of longing.

For a brief window before Bob retreated into himself, before the TV interviews and ‘Crackers Corman!’, before the delirium and the drinking and the blackouts, before Bob’s inability to show up to a single important event in Jack’s life… Jack had been happy.

He felt the weight of the bottle in his hand, and was about to take another swig when he spotted a glass cabinet in the corner. It towered over the surrounding furniture like a monument. The sight of it caused a shiver to travel through him.

‘Dune,’ he murmured.

There it was. In the dark of the cabinet’s interior stood another puppet. The reason Jack had fought his way through this haunted funfair ride of a house.

The fox-like figure almost looked alive, as if it had been waiting for this very moment, and as he approached, Jack discerned the adoring detail that had been lavished upon Dune’s creation. The eyes held galaxies of feeling and Dune’s lips were parted as if preparing to speak, his fur-tipped ears alert.

He was crafted out of foam prosthetics threaded with dense black and rust-coloured fur, and he wore hardy kettu attire that protected him from desert storms. A mud-stained breast plate, brown leggings and a pair of lightweight leather boots. The very best a movie budget could buy.

As a kid, Jack had wished more than anything that Dune would talk. He would hold staring contests with him across the breakfast table, or he’d lie in bed at night and whisper in his ear, ‘I know you can, I promise I won’t tell.’

But Dune was stubborn. Most kettu were. It was the quality that separated them from just about everything else in the world of Iri. The hero-making quality.

‘Hi, Dune,’ Jack said quietly.

He already felt like a traitor for what he had planned. Jack raised the bottle and took another hit of whisky. Before he could lose his nerve, he dug out his phone and dialled.

‘Jack?’ The man who answered sounded older than Jack remembered, his voice nasal and hard.

‘Hello, Mr Smithee.’

‘Alden. Please, call me Alden.’

‘Sorry, Alden, hi.’ He took a breath. ‘I thought you might like to know who I’m looking at right now.’

‘Oh?’ An expectant breath came down the line.

‘Dune is in the original cabinet. Hasn’t been touched in years. He looks just the same as he did in the movie.’

A pause, then Alden Smithee sighed. ‘Marvellous. You understand my apprehension, I’m sure. We aren’t discussing a used car, here.’

‘No, I understand. It’s a lot of money.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m more concerned about the puppet himself. He’s an important cultural artefact and I want you to rest assured that I intend to give him a good home.’

Jack shook his head. Alden Smithee sounded just like the teenager who had jumped him outside. Just like the bloggers and YouTubers who praised Bob and all he had created. He swallowed his irritation, remembering that fifty thousand pounds was sitting on Alden’s table.

Beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

‘Would this weekend be convenient to complete the sale?’ Jack asked. ‘Tomorrow? Around six?’

‘Oh! Yes. Yes indeed.’

Jack turned away from Dune, ignoring the constellation of eyes seeking him out in the attic. His tongue felt swollen with booze.

‘It’s Kettu House on Knight Street, New Cross. Drop me a text when you’re on your way. Goodbye, Mr Smithee.’

‘Goodbye, Jac—’

He hung up.

His hand ached around the phone.

Tomorrow his bank account would be in the black for the first time in a year. He could pay off his debts and start again. The ship hadn’t sunk yet. He could still turn it around.

Forget about the unfinished business degree and the dead-end jobs and interviews, the fact that he was on the wrong side of thirty and hadn’t paid his rent in two months. Not to mention that he’d burned his way through five brief relationships and a dozen incendiary flings.

Jack’s mouth pinched at the corners, a smile devoid of amusement.

Things were going to be all right.

He could do this.

He forced himself to look at Dune, and was unnerved by the sensation that he was in the presence of an old friend. He raised the bottle again, his eyelids heavy, and fought the onslaught of memories the puppet conjured, but they assaulted him in waves.

When he was seven, he would race home from school every Friday to watch The Shadow Glass with Dune and his dad. They would sit in his study and Bob would hum as he fed the VHS into the machine—

No.

Jack struggled free from the memory. There was no point going back there.

He looked down at the phone digging into his palm, and was about to pocket it when he noticed the call list on the screen. Every call he had received in the past few weeks. Towards the bottom, a name stood out in red. A missed call from a month ago. The day Bob died.

Dad.

‘What happens next, Dad?’

It was the question Jack always asked when the credits rolled on The Shadow Glass. Because when he was seven, before he hated the film and everything it stood for, he couldn’t bear the story to be over.

‘Well, there’s no such thing as a happily-ever-after.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means there’s always another story.’

‘Does Dune go on another adventure?’ Jack would ask, even though he knew the answer.

‘Oh yes, many adventures, some even more dangerous than the fight to reclaim Iri from Kunin Yillda.’

‘When can I see Dune’s other adventures?’

His father took a moment to reply. He brushed crumbs from his beard with a large hand. ‘One day, my boy. One day.’

Staring at the call log, Jack felt unsteady on his feet.

He found himself flicking through to voicemail and his thumb hovered over the most recent message. It was only fifteen seconds long and he had only listened to it once.

He hit play.

A whispering voice crackled through on speaker.

‘Jack? Boy-o? Are you there?’

His father’s voice was hoarse, short of breath, and there was no power to it. None of the resonance he had possessed as a younger man. He sounded lucid, though. Sober.

Jack glanced at Dune, searching the puppet’s face for any sign he recognised the voice of his creator. Feeling stupid, he looked back down at his phone, but his vision blurred as his eyes grew wet, and all he saw was a rectangle of light from which his father’s voice croaked.

‘I need you, Jack. Will you come? Please?’

He hadn’t.

Transcript of a YouTube video entitled ‘Crackers Corman MCM MELTDOWN June 2002!!!’ uploaded on 5 September 2014.

[Shot of a panel table with the MCM Comic-Con backdrop]

RICH WENDIGO:

Welcome everybody to the ‘Fantasy Worlds’ panel at MCM Comic-Con 2002! [applause] I’m Rich Wendigo, comic writer and movie journalist, and I’m honoured to be here as your host. Let’s give a big round of applause to our panel: horror author Gina Powers, artist Todd Campbell and—Oh. It seems Bob Corman has ducked out for a minute. Somebody check the toilets for Bob Corman? [audience laughter]

BOB CORMAN:

I’m here! I’m here!

[Bob Corman climbs onto the stage, struggles with a chair, and sits down]

RICH:

Here he is! Everybody, please welcome filmmaker and puppet master Bob Corman! [applause]

BOB:

Sorry about that. I had an urgent Iri issue to deal with.

RICH:

Haha, that’s great. Sorry, Bob, if you just move slightly back from the mic that’ll fix the feedback issue.

BOB:

Like this? Hello-hello, paging all space oddities. Do you have audio?

RICH:

Perfect. Ahem, right, Gina, let’s dive in with you. Tell us, what do you think makes us fall so hard for fantastical worlds?

GINA:

Sure, great question. I personally love worlds that show us something unexpected. The ones that put a twist on familiar environments and explode them somehow. Make them spectacular.

RICH:

Absolutely. Bob, this sort of applies to your film The ShadowGlass—

AUDIENCE MEMBER:

YEAH!

[Bob stands]

BOB:

All right! Who here loves The Shadow Glass

[smattering of applause]

BOB:

No, really. Shout ‘I LOVE IRI!’ No, better, ‘I LUB IRI!’

AUDIENCE MEMBER:

I lub Iri!

RICH:

Right. Uh, so Todd! You created Battleworld for your book series The Rage of—

BOB:

Battleworld? Did he say

Battleworld?

GINA:

Yeah, Battleworld.

BOB:

See, this is what I don’t get about fantasy nowadays! It shouldn’t be about the battles. I—Wait, is that a kettu in the audience?

RICH:

I think that’s somebody dressed as a fox. [Bob climbs onto his chair]

BOB:

It’s a kettu!

TODD:

Here, do you want some water?

BOB:

Don’t patronise me.

RICH:

I think we should move on—

BOB:

Argh, everybody’s so hung up on conforming these days! Nobody wants to stick out. Be different. Look at The Shadow Glass. The system was stacked against us! You know what I say to that? Fuck the system!

AUDIENCE MEMBER:

Yeah, fuck the system!

BOB:

That’s the Iri spirit! See, there’s none of this corporate bullshit there. Raise your hand if you believe in Iri! Come on! Say it with me! ‘I BELIEVE IN IRI!’

You’ll see—

[Bob loses his balance, falls off the chair and crashes onto the table. He rolls over and lands on the warehouse floor]

RICH:

Shit, Bob, are you okay? Is he okay?

Can we get a medic in here?

[crew members run in to surround Bob, who lies motionless on the floor]

BOB:

[just audible] Nobody gets it.

Nobody.

10:28

[Transcript ends]

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Troyville / seven years ago

Corman was a genius! publicity stunts like these make him LEGENDARY! Anybody believes this is a real drunken meltdown is an IDIOT, he was doin’ it for the press

Baylaymania / seven years ago (edited)

What a mess. No wonder his film sank.

Lub1te / six years ago

BOB 4EVA YEAH!!!!!!

A distant hammering woke him.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and lay listening, tangled in what he assumed were bedsheets, wondering why his head felt like it was being smashed between two rocks. His mouth tasted like a slug had crawled inside and died.

As the hammering persisted, he rolled onto his back and scraped open his eyes, staring up at a wall papered with peeling nineties movie posters. Scream, The Guesthouse, Pulp Fiction, and an array of Spielberg classics. There were bands, too. Jimmy Eat World and Foo Fighters, a whole bookcase of CDs and cassette tapes.

For a crazy moment, Jack thought he had woken up in the past, because this was his teenage bedroom. The one he had hidden in for most of his youth, turning up the music, losing himself in angry American rock. Jack had been particularly pleased with the Spielberg posters because they were like a middle finger to his father. Spielberg had the career Bob dreamed of.

With a sinking feeling, Jack realised he was still at Kettu House.

He raised a hand to his head and recognised the exquisite agony of a very adult hangover, and he remembered he had found his room sometime around midnight. He must have passed out, because now light was poking through the curtains, and the hammering that had roused him wasn’t the window shutter flapping loose again, but somebody relentlessly assaulting the front door.

He waited for them to stop.

They didn’t.

‘Christ!’

Jack grabbed his suit trousers and shirt from the floor, dressing as he struggled onto the landing. If it was another fanboy eager to share his love of all things Bob, Jack would happily give them a piece of his hungover mind.

‘What the f—’ he began as he yanked open the front door, but the sight of the woman killed the remainder of the sentence.

‘Jack!’

His cousin was a vision in purple. Her floaty trouser suit matched her nails and her brown hair was pinned up from a smiling, make-up-free face. Jack stood paralysed by her blue-eyed stare. He almost didn’t recognise her.

‘Amelia.’ He coughed. His throat felt sore, as if he’d been gargling toilet cleaner. Maybe he had.

‘You’re here.’ Amelia hesitated and then moved forward to hug him, but it was a professional embrace. Their torsos didn’t touch. ‘Gosh, it’s so good to see you, J.’

‘How’d you know I was here?’ he asked, his eyes watering at the brightness of the day. Behind her, the morning was brittle and cold, the road wet from an overnight downpour. The oak tree dripped white pearls. He had no idea what time it was. It had to be early.

‘Female intuition?’ Amelia smirked. ‘Okay, there’s a chance I also spent an hour banging on your flat door before your neighbours complained. Charming people, by the way. Very loud voices. Anyway, I figured there was only one other place you’d be, although I have to say I’m surprised.’

They blinked at each other, the air thick like an invisible screen between them. Jack fought the surreal feeling that they were kids playing dress-up, pretending to be adults, the way they did when they were younger. But rather than the cousin he remembered, a stranger stood before him.

‘You wouldn’t leave a woman on the doorstep, would you, J?’

Amelia’s smile was tight against her teeth. Was she nervous?

Begrudgingly, he stepped back to let her in.

‘Wow, the old place hasn’t changed,’ Amelia said as she strolled into the lounge, bold as brass. The drapes were only part open, filtering in a shaft of light that gilded the fireplace. Amelia took in the sunken sofas and winged armchairs before turning to settle on Jack, who stood in the doorway.

‘Remember those shows we used to put on in here?’ she said.

How could he forget? When they were kids, he saw Amelia every day. They were the original Shadow Glass super-fans, and they’d watch the film and draw comics at every opportunity. Jack had been excited to have a friend who loved kettu as much as he did, even if she was his cousin and therefore a by-default playmate, not one you had to earn.

A week after Jack’s eighth birthday, though, Uncle Grant and Aunt Gill had followed their restaurant-chain dream to America, and Jack and Amelia rarely spoke again.

Now Jack thought of it, he was sure that was when things went downhill with his father. Amelia wasn’t there to confide in when Bob turned up at Jack’s school for parents’ evening wearing open-toe slippers and a dressing gown. She wasn’t there when Jack broke a peacock-like mesaku figurine in Bob’s study, and Bob refused to look at him for two weeks. She definitely wasn’t there when Bob made his infamous television appearances, and Jack could barely walk through school without somebody dropping a ‘Crackers Corman’ joke.

Jack had been alone with his father’s demons.

And the biggest joke of all was that Amelia now ran Bob’s studio. She was the one Bob mentored when she returned to the UK looking to get into filmmaking, and now she looked every bit the knuckle-cracking movie executive. Jack still had no idea what made her different. How she was able to drag Bob out of his cocoon. Maybe Bob saw something in her that he couldn’t in Jack.

Amelia gave him a hooded look. ‘So? How’ve you been, J?’

‘Good. I just got promoted.’

He’d said it before he knew the words were coming.

‘Really? That’s great!’

‘Yeah, at a publisher.’

‘That’s… Wow, publishing!’

Jack’s temple thudded. The publishing gig had only lasted a month because they said he kept turning up late, or not at all, and even though there were always reasons, he couldn’t remember them now. Meanwhile, the interview yesterday had gone so badly he wasn’t sure he’d ever get a job.

Jack shrugged. ‘Better than messing around with puppets, anyway.’

The flash of irritation in her eyes was so familiar he couldn’t resist a satisfied smile. He knew he was being juvenile, but he couldn’t help it. Blame waking up in his old room. Blame the house or the hangover or the fact that just being there made him feel seventeen again in the worst possible way.

He rubbed his aching forehead, wishing he had water and paracetamol.

‘What do you want, Amelia?’

‘Right.’ His cousin brandished a large folder he had been too addled to notice, setting it on the coffee table. ‘I wanted to show you these, figured I’d bring Bob Co. to you. I won’t even apologise for the ambush, it comes with the showbiz territory. Also, the funeral wasn’t the right place to talk, and I wasn’t sure you were getting my messages.’

‘I got them.’

‘So you were avoiding me.’

‘Trying to.’

Amelia didn’t seem offended. She flipped open the folder and stepped back. Irritated by his own curiosity, Jack moved forward.

Illustrations filled the portfolio. The first showed a glittering lake teeming with broken ruins, mystical symbols etched in stone. Another depicted bug-like creatures hauling themselves out of the ground. The style was familiar, ranging from full watercolours to charcoal sketches.

Breath hitched in Jack’s throat.

‘Are these Rick Agnor originals?’ He recognised the style of the artist who helped Bob create the world of Iri. Whole books had been dedicated to his eye-popping concept art.

Amelia nodded in answer to his question.

‘Rick’s drawing Iri again?’

Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘I forgot you were this slow. It’s art for a new movie, J. A new Shadow Glass.’

Jack didn’t move. He struggled to process what she was saying. Bob Co. were making a sequel? That didn’t make sense. When The Shadow Glass flopped in 1986, Bob and his studio moved into special creature effects, providing puppets and monsters for films like A-Maze, Riddlemaster and Man-Hero. It sustained them for thirty-plus years.

But they didn’t make movies. Not after The Shadow Glass.

A noise came from upstairs.

Amelia showed no sign she had heard it, so Jack pretended he hadn’t, either.

‘I thought the BBC thing fell through,’ he said, remembering the sequel mini-series that almost got made five years ago, until Bob’s vision was deemed too expensive and the deal collapsed.

‘Right,’ Amelia said. ‘But eighteen months ago we ran market research on the original film. It’s bigger than ever, thanks to the nostalgia renaissance. All those kids like us who grew up in the eighties are craving more of their childhood favourites. Plus, a lot of those kids are parents now. They’re introducing Shadow Glass to a whole new generation.’

She cracked a smile. ‘Either way, the numbers were clear. Audiences are desperate for more Iri and Dune.’

Jack stared at her, dumbstruck.

‘Look,’ Amelia said, ‘with Uncle Bob gone we’re sort of feeling our way in the dark here. We’ve gone through eight script treatments in eighteen months and none of them work. None of them are him. Which is why I want to bring you in.’

Jack snapped from his daze. ‘Me?’

‘You know this world better than anybody. Better even than me. We need you, J.’

Jack’s jaw had gone rigid. ‘To write your script?’

‘Please,’ Amelia said. ‘Say you’ll try?’

‘I’m done trying.’

Ch-ch-ch…

The sound needled under his skin. He scratched the back of his hand.

‘And here’s the thing,’ Amelia said. ‘The Shadow Glass prop is missing. Nobody’s seen it since the eighties, but we need it. Big time.’

Her expression hovered between entreating and resolute. Jack could see how much she needed this.

‘We’re going for absolute authenticity here,’ Amelia continued. ‘The nostalgia crowd want the real thing. But it’s not at Bob Co. and I’ve exhausted all my contacts trying to track it down. I figured if it was anywhere, it’d be here. Have you seen it?’

Jack laughed.

‘You’re unbelievable.’