Blood RED. Paul Kane

for the superb cover—I couldn’t imagine anyone else providing them for the RED books now. As usual, hugs and massive thank yous to all my friends in the writing and film/TV world, for their continual help and support. A very special thank you, though, to people like Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Stephen Jones, Mandy Slater, Amanda Foubister, Christopher Fowler, Stephen Volk, Tim Lebbon, Kelley Armstrong, the two Nancys—Holder & Kilpatrick—Peter James, Mike Carey, Barbie Wilde, Nicholas Vince, John Connolly, Pete & Nicky Crowther, Simon Clark, Will Hill and so many more. You’re all the best! Last, but never, ever least, a big ‘words are not enough’ thank you to my incredible family—especially my brilliant daughter Jen and my supportive wife Marie. Love you guys more than words can say.

      CONTENTS

       Title

       Copyright

       Acknowledgments

       Praise

       Introduction

       RED

       Blood RED

       Biographies

      INTRODUCTION

      ALISON LITTLEWOOD

      Seven years later ... it’s a period of time with a suitably fairy tale ring to it. It is appropriate, then, that this is the time when Paul Kane has revisited RED, his dark and twisted take on Little Red Riding Hood of 2008, and produced his sequel, Blood RED.

      Fairy tales have been told down the centuries, changing and adapting to meet the age in which they happen to find themselves. Once upon a time they were told around the fire, and the dangers they spoke of were real: real forests in which to become lost, real wolves to tear out your throat. Little Red is cast into that dangerous world, and she needs her wits about her, should she stray from the path.

      Later, when gatherers of folklore began to write them down, fairy tales began to be used in new ways. Charles Perrault added his own ‘moral’ as a postscript to Little Red, reconfiguring it as a lesson: listen to your mother or suffer the consequences. His version became an instructional tale for aristocratic youngsters, and the character of Little Red was weakened as a result, no longer using her own cunning to face the dangers of the world but learning the hard way to do what she’s told.

      Fairy tales have a way of adapting. It’s how they endure. Handed down from mouth to mouth, once passed on by old matrons and itinerant traders and other storytellers, they have escaped into the wild, no longer in one form but in many. Still, they appeal to the essential fears and concerns within us: fears of the unknown, of falling into darkness, of being brutalised.

      Paul Kane’s version of Little Red is a more than fitting adaptation for a modern world. A concrete jungle takes the place of the forest. The danger from the human beasts found within are all too recognisable; our newspaper headlines are full of it. It can strike indiscriminately and without warning. Bad things can happen to good people, whether they’ve strayed from the path or not.

      In a world without the simple morality of Perrault or the Grimms, nothing is as it appears. The beast could be anyone; it could even reside within. The world Kane creates is complex. It has shades of grey as well as black and white, and the same is true of his characters. They are no simple types; they have layers and depth, which makes the horror into which they are cast all the more frightening. His adaptation is thoroughly modern and suitably dangerous, and our ability to find the right path is ever more uncertain.

      I adored fairy tales as a small child, and I enjoyed reading Blood RED. Whilst being modern, it keeps returning in new and apt ways to the early version we know from the nursery, paying its dues while reinterpreting the tale in ways that will give you the shivers. And Kane is adept at putting flesh on the bones: all the more horrifying, my dear, when he strips it off again.

      Alison Littlewood

      South Yorkshire

      April 2015

      For Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean. Masters of dream, myth and fable.

      PROLOGUE

      Her husband was a stranger tonight—and she’d never been so happy.

      In the last couple of years, Michelle and Tony Marsden had drifted apart, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

      It had happened slowly and subtly.

      Nothing she could really put her finger on, just a general apathy regarding their union that both of them felt, yet neither would broach. It was almost as though their marriage was some fragile culture being grown in a lab, which at any moment might break down and vanish, and the scientists could do nothing but stand by and watch.

      Their wedding day had been a wonderful affair—full of happiness, love and hope. But like the beautiful tiered cake they’d cut into, cracking the icing and destroying its perfect shape, nothing lasts forever. There had been tears in her eyes as he said his vows, promising to love her for all time, to be her shelter in stormy weather. She never thought it was possible to feel this way about another human being. But in the months that followed, there had been tears in her eyes on any number of occasions ... for altogether different reasons.

      They’d married too soon, she could see that looking back. After meeting at a mutual friend’s housewarming party, they seemed to click: same taste in music, same love of the arts and literature—especially the classics—same wanderlust that took the pair to almost every country on the planet. Within a few weeks, they were holidaying together, Tony whisking her off to Venice. There, in a secluded little restaurant away from the tourists, he’d proposed to her, getting down on one knee and bringing out a diamond ring. She’d needed time to think, of course. It was a decision she’d have to live with for the rest of her natural life (she was an old-fashioned girl in that respect, regardless of what the divorce statistics said). Tony, ever the gentleman, gave her that time.

      Her friends were all jealous. Tony was quite a catch, they’d proclaimed. A decent job working in life insurance—a good, stable profession—a nice car, but most importantly, those Colin Farrell looks (with a body to match, she’d boasted after a few drinks one night). When her closest friend asked what she was waiting for, Michelle asked herself the same question. It was obvious the man adored her.

      Michelle’s family was more sceptical. “You’ve only known him five minutes,” said her father, which she had to admit was right.

      Her mother reserved judgement until she’d met Tony, and after suitably impressing her by bringing along flowers and chocolates, she’d said to her own husband, “Now, George, sometimes a woman just knows when she’s found ‘the one’ ...” Michelle’s father had snorted, but she could tell that in spite of his protestations—and the fact that no man she’d ever brought to meet them had been good enough—he grudgingly approved of Tony.

      Michelle accepted the proposal after a night out at the cinema: the Regal was hosting a special screening of Casablanca, one of her all-time favourite films. She’d sat there and watched again as Ingrid and Humphrey said goodbye, and resolved that she would never let her one true love go like that. Ever. The rest, as they say, was history.

      “More wine?” asked Tony now, pouring another glassful of the deep red Bordeaux into her glass. She smiled a thank you, and he blew a kiss back.

      She