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He gets worse

‘I don’t like it,’ Olsen said, ‘when a man of his type becomes mixed up in that kind of thing.’ ‘There are circumstances to explain it.’ ‘That does not interest me. And it was a...

Is it she that warns?

‘Great peril,’ she said, ‘– the wind like a thousand banshees, and the great green waves that would pull a man down into the deeps.’ ‘Is it she?’ Carling asked. There was sweat on his...

The White Voyage

As The Independent’s Invisible Ink article put it, was there ever an author with so many pseudonyms?

With its third publication, The SYLE Press turns its attention from the Hilary Ford novels to those of John Christopher.

A land of perpetual sunshine

I had forgotten what good stories he told, as well: long and involved but so engrossing that I never wanted them to stop. This was one of my favourites, about a dog we had lost...

Carmaliot will have an heir

The day-bed had been set up with its head against the wall, between the two high windows. Sir Donald lay with cushions propping him; beyond his bed on one side he could see his leather-topped desk, on the other a cheerful blaze in the hearth. On a chair at the foot of the bed sat Lady Bedivere. Of their two faces I saw the greater alteration in hers. The paralysis which had seized on Sir Donald had only graven more deeply the lines of immobile calm which had been his usual expression.

Cornish pasties

Something touched my face. I was aware of light through my eyelids but would not open my eyes for fear of what I should see. A hand was lifting me. I could visualize it­ –...

An interminable night

I could no longer see my hand before my face: I might as well have been blind. I thought of the miners, who had worked down here. At least they had had lanterns. But even...

On a knife-edge

Jane had been there before – or rather, Cynthia. In John Christopher’s The Caves of Night, after a caving accident, she finds herself clinging on to the edge of an abyss, with the weight of...