【预订】A Sliver of Darkness
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￥ 118 ￥ 118 九五品
库存2件
广东广州
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作者C. J. Tudor
出版社Random House Publishing Group
ISBN9780593500873
出版时间2023-09
装帧平装
定价118元
货号YB-85982
上书时间2024-06-29
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商品简介
The debut short-story collection from the acclaimed author of The Chalk Man, hailed as “Britain’s female Stephen King” (Daily Mail), featuring eleven bone-chilling and mind-bending tales
“All hail the queen of scream. A Sliver of Darkness is C. J. Tudor at her spine-tingling, nightmare-inducing best. Read it if you dare.”—Chris Whitaker, New York Times bestselling author of We Begin at the End
Time slips. Doomsday scenarios. Killer butterflies. C. J. Tudor’s novels are widely acclaimed for their dark, twisty suspense plots, but with A Sliver of Darkness, she pulls us even further into her dizzying imagination.
In “The Lion at the Gate,” a strange piece of graffiti leads to a terrifying encounter for four school friends. In “Final Course,” the world has descended into darkness, but a group of old friends make time for one last dinner party. In “Runaway Blues,” thwarted love, revenge, and something very nasty stowed in a hat box converge. In “Gloria,” a strange girl at a service station endears herself to a coldhearted killer, but can a leopard really change its spots? And in “I’m Not Ted,” a case of mistaken identity has unforeseen fatal consequences.
Riveting, macabre, and explosively original, A Sliver of Darkness is C. J. Tudor at her most wicked and uninhibited.
被誉为“英国女性斯蒂芬·金”的著名《粉笔人》作者的处女作短篇小说集(每日邮报)，收录了十一个令人毛骨悚然、令人费解的故事
“尖叫女王万岁”。 《黑暗之银》是 CJ Tudor 的巅峰之作，令人脊背发麻、噩梦连连。如果你有胆量，请阅读它。 —克里斯·惠特克，《纽约时报》畅销书作者，《我们从最后开始》
时间流逝。世界末日场景。杀手蝴蝶。 CJ Tudor 的小说因其黑暗、曲折的悬疑情节而广受好评，但她的《黑暗之条》将我们进一步带入她令人眼花缭乱的想象力中。
门口的狮子，”一块奇怪的涂鸦让四位同学发生了可怕的遭遇。在“最终课程”中，世界陷入黑暗，但一群老朋友抽出时间参加最后一次晚宴。在《失控的布鲁斯》中，受挫的爱情、复仇以及装在帽盒里的一些非常肮脏的东西汇聚在一起。在《格洛丽亚》中，服务站的一个陌生女孩赢得了冷酷杀手的青睐，但豹子真的能改变它的本性吗？在“我不是特德”中，身份错误会带来不可预见的致命后果。
引人入胜、令人毛骨悚然且具有爆炸性的原创性，黑暗之条是 CJ Tudor 最邪恶、最不羁的一面。
作者简介
C. J. Tudor is the author of The Drift, The Burning Girls, The Other People, The Hiding Place, and The Chalk Man, which won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First Novel, the Barry Award, and the Strand Critics Award for Best Debut Novel. Over the years she has worked as a copywriter, television presenter, voice-over artist, and dog walker. She is now thrilled to be able to write full-time, and doesn’t miss chasing wet dogs through muddy fields all that much. She lives in England with her partner and daughter.
精彩内容
End of the Liner
Introduction
In 2021 my family and I went on a cruise for the very first time.
This was during the pandemic, so it was a “staycation cruise.” It only lasted four days, and the ship never left British waters. But it was fun and very family friendly. It was bound to be. It was organized by the major operator in the family entertainment market. (Think mouse).
One day, while Betty was in the pool and Neil and I were on deck, sipping iced cocktails, conversation turned to the pandemic, space programs and the apocalypse (as it does). We stared out over the expanse of water, and I remember Neil saying: “If a virus really obliterated the world, you wouldn’t need to send people into space. Just stick them all on giant cruise ships.”
The comment and the idea stuck.
One of the reasons I love theme parks is because they tread a fine line between magical and creepy. Especially if they are abandoned or run-down. Anyone who has seen Donnie Darko will know that there’s something quite sinister about someone dressed up in a big furry animal costume. And while everything being shiny and magical is nice for a week or two, would you really want to live like that for the rest of your life? Wouldn’t it perhaps feel a tad authoritarian? Especially if you were in the middle of the ocean with no way to escape.
It was with those ideas in mind that I sat down to write “End of the Liner.”
I hope you enjoy the magic. All aboard now.
She often dreamed of drowning.
In the empty hours between midnight and dawn, she lay in her narrow bunk and imagined the waves taking her. It would be cold. And if she was lucky, the freezing temperatures would claim her before the dark water invaded her mouth and lungs. Or, if she was even luckier, perhaps a Sea God would be merciful.
She wondered if she could request a winter ceremony.
She wondered how it had been for the others.
And when it would be her turn.
Not today. Today she had a packed schedule of breakfast, followed by aqua aerobics on the main deck. Then, an hour or so in the shade, reading. Perhaps she might stroll around the ship before lunch. In the afternoon, the crew often tried to provide entertainment, although the theaters were looking a little tired these days; no amount of clever lighting could disguise the fact that the paint on the elaborate sets was peeling and the velvet upholstery on the seats was faded and patched. People tried not to notice, and for many, it had been that way for all their lives.
But she remembered. And occasionally she felt a yearning for the old days. For a time when this existence was a privileged luxury rather than a slow torture. She glanced at the photographs she kept on her tiny dresser. One of her and Nick when they boarded with her parents. She looked so young, with her new husband—and they were young, she supposed. She was twenty-five and Nick was only two years older. They had hardly lived, really. Barely built up a bank of experiences before they boarded the ship and their lives shrank to these decks and corridors.
The other picture she looked at less often, because even a short glance drew fresh pain. Sometimes, she wondered why she kept it at all. Certainly, it did her no favors with the Creators. Those who were “lost” were never spoken of, nor commemorated. Keeping mementos was frowned upon. But it was the one thing Leila couldn’t let go of.
Her daughter, Addison.
This was the last photo ever taken of her little girl. On the verge of becoming a young woman. Celebrating her eighteenth birthday. Dark hair falling over her face, a wide grin, blue eyes glinting with mischief—and rebellion. Too much rebellion, perhaps.
Maybe Leila should have been sterner. Maybe she should have encouraged her willfulness less. When Nick had tried to cajole Addison into partaking in traditional female pursuits such as sewing and cookery, perhaps she should have backed him up rather than supporting Addison’s decision to enroll in maintenance and engineering.
Regrets. Mistakes. No life lived long is short of them.
Leila turned away from the photograph. She couldn’t be late for breakfast. The Creators liked routine, and any small aberration meant that questions might be asked. She faced herself in the mirror. Unlike many of the older passengers, whose skin had weathered like leather from the abrasive winds and unforgiving eye of the sun, Leila had always protected herself from the elements. Her skin remained pale and soft, criss-crossed with a myriad of fine lines. Her blue eyes were clear—no cataracts yet, although she needed glasses for reading—and her long, thick hair was pure white, secured into a sensible bun.
Leila smiled at herself in the mirror. Past her heyday, but still holding up. Much like the ship itself.
In two days, she would mark her seventy-fifth birthday, and fifty years on board.
Breakfast was in the Grand Suite today.
There were three main dining areas and passengers were rotated around them for breakfast, lunch and dinner, grouped by room number. Leila joined the queue to be seated. The queue was the usual mixture of older people like herself and younger families. Children scampered around the atrium playing tag, faces happy and eyes bright. They had never known anything but the ship. The fourteen decks and one thousand two hundred feet their whole universe. Of course, they had the pretense of space and freedom all around them. The skies above, the endless expanse of ocean. But sometimes, Leila thought, that only served to emphasize how small their world had become.
The queue shuffled forward. Leila nodded and smiled at familiar faces. Eventually, she reached the maître d’s desk.
“And how are you this morning, Mrs. Simmonds?”
The maître d’ was a small, coiffed man with tanned skin and sharp black eyes. His name was Julian. He had been the maître d’ here for ten years, ever since his father was retired. Leila didn’t like Julian so much; he had a reputation for snitching. Passengers had learned to be wary around him.
Leila smiled back. “Very well, thank you, Julian. And yourself?”
“Oh, I am always good, Mrs. Simmonds—and all the better for seeing you.” He smiled, slick and unfelt. “Your companion is already at your table. Let me take you through.”
Leila frowned. “Am I late?”
“No, no. Your companion is a little early this morning.” His smile widened, but it looked strained at the edges. Something was wrong. “Please, come this way.”
Leila followed him between the rows of perfectly laid out tables. The Grand Suite was decorated in the style of a Victorian tearoom. Fake candelabras, walls patterned with floral paper and hung with pictures of the Creators’ famous animated characters in their Victorian finery. The servers were also dressed for the period—high-ne
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