This is all because of my ex-father in-law, Gus. Gus is a good egg, a fine chap, a decent bloke, and (as indeed is his daughter these days) a man’s man. He likes his fiction red in tooth and claw, the bloodier the better, and, preferably spiced with a modicum of sexual deviancy. Needless to say, occult religious practices and a glowing review from Colin Wilson are de rigueur if a book is to come up to scratch.
About a month or so ago, Gus phoned me. I’d not spoken to him in several years, and I knew his health had not been great, so I did initially wonder from which side of the grave he was calling. To cut a long and slightly repetitive phone call short, we now have in the shop more works of horror fiction than I could ever possibly want (no word of a lie there). Hence, for the first time, a dedicated space for horror. Note that the picture only shows the first thirty or so titles that have been sorted out – there’s about another 150 to go.
The sale of these books (mostly at £2 each) is going to fund Gus’s continued supply of (and reliance upon) Lidl’s finest Queen Margot blended scotch. I reckon another six to eight litres should see him right.