The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 19

imagination. He was, after all, merely typical of the sort of book-addict found anywhere and at any time. Meanwhile Juan San Isidro had noticed Victor's arrival and called down to him.

'Ay, Victor, quiero mas chela! Lo siento, pero no tengo dinero.'

Armstrong sighed, and made his way up the stairs.

When they were eventually sitting opposite one another, Armstrong with a bottle of Indio and San Isidro with a fresh bottle of Sol, the Mexican switched from Spanish to English. He was always keen to take whatever opportunity he could to converse in the language. A huge bear of a man, he'd recently grown a shaggy goatee beard and the T-shirt he wore bore the logo of some outlandish band called Control Machete, whose music Armstrong did not know and did not want to know. Years ago Armstrong had foolishly mentioned San Isidro's literary efforts to the publisher of a small press imprint in California who was looking for cosmic or outre verse. The result had been a chapbook with a selection of San Isidro's Aztec-influenced work translated into English, and thereafter Armstrong had never been able to entirely shake off his 'discovery'.

'So,' San Isidro said, 'how are things with you? Still editing those antologias?'

'There's scarcely any money in them Juan,' Armstrong replied, 'unless I've managed to wrangle something original out of Steve King, the publishers want to nail my balls to the wall.'

'You know him? King? Do you think he'd give me a loan? He's very rich, no? Help out a struggling brother artist?'

Armstrong tried not to smile inappropriately. He could only imagine how quickly San Isidro would piss away any handouts he'd receive on booze. No one other than their agents, accountants, lawyers or publishers milks cash-cow authors.

'He's a busy man. I don't think he'd appreciate my…'

'You mean he's a pinche cabron. Keeps his money up his culo where no one else can get at it. That's why todos los gringos walk around with their legs apart, like cowboys, no? All those dollar bills stuffed in there.'

Armstrong was relieved to be British. Even liberal Americans who came south, seeking to atone for the recent sins of NAFTA and a long history of land grabbing, were objects of ridicule here. They might get away with such conscience posturing in the north, in cities like Monterrey that were closer to the border and which looked to rich US States like Texas for inspiration, but in Mexico D. F. gringos are only ever pinches gringos and no amount of self-loathing or atonement on their part could ever erase the fact. The British, on the other hand, despite their Imperial past, were redeemed by virtue of having given the Beatles and association football to the world.

'Why did you want to see me, Juan?' Armstrong asked, taking out his packet of Faros and putting them on the table. His companion looked at the cheap brand with amused contempt. Nevertheless, this attitude did not stop him from smoking them.

'I want you to take a look at some cuentos' San Isidro replied, puffing away on the cigarette he'd taken. 'Read them and make me an offer. They're in your line of work.'

He delved into a shoulder bag lying underneath the table and took out a pile of papers, individuated into sections by rubber bands, and handed them over.

'I thought you didn't write short stories.' Armstrong said.

'I didn't write them. I'm acting as the exclusive agent. They're in English, as you see, and they're the type of horror stories you like. I handle all his stuff,' San Isidro replied.

'Who's this author,' Armstrong said, looking at the top sheet, 'Felipe Lopez? I can't say I've heard of him.'

'Elsenor Lopez has only been writing for a couple of years. He's my personal discovery, like you discovered me, no? Es un autor autentico, not some hack. Mira al cabellero down there, the one who's looking through the books? That's elsenor Lopez. He doesn't want to meet you until you've read his stuff. I told him I knew you, and that you weren't the same as all those other culeros who'd rejected him.'

So that man in the crumpled grey suit was San Isidro's first client, Armstrong thought. He hesitated for a moment but then relented. At least this man Lopez had the appearance of being literate.

'Alright,' Armstrong said, 'I'll take them away with me and call you once I've read them. I can't promise anything though.'

'Why not sit here and read them now, companero? I tell you, these things are a gold mine. We can have a few more chelas while I wait for you to finish. He also does his own proofreading, so you won't need to trabajar mucho yourself.'

'Short stories,' Armstrong riposted, 'are fool's gold, Juan. I told you, there's no real money in them anymore. Have another on me if you like, but I've got to go. I'll be in touch.'

With that closing remark Armstrong stood up, left a hundred pesos note on the table, and made his exit. He didn't notice whether or not el Senor Lopez saw him leave.

Over the next few days Armstrong almost forgot about the stories by Felipe Lopez. He hated being asked to read fiction by an unknown author that had been praised by one of his friends. All too often he had to prick their enthusiasm, usually fired by beer and comradeship rather than from an objective assessment of literary merit. And San Isidro had never acted as an agent for anybody before; he was far too consumed by his own literary ambitions. So it appeared obvious to Armstrong that San Isidro was paying back a favour of some sort. Though it seemed unlikely given the down-at-heel appearance of Lopez, but perhaps it was a case of San Isidro owing him money.

Armstrong was staying close to Cuauhtemoc metro station in an apartment owned by Mexican friends of his. The couple, Enrique and Maria, were in London for a few weeks, staying in his flat there in an exchange holiday. It was something they did every other year to save on hotel bills. There were only three days left before they were due to cross each other high over the Atlantic in flights going in the opposite direction. Enrique and Maria were both involved in publishing themselves, and he'd struck up a friendship with them in 1995 whilst attending a fantasy and horror convention held in San Francisco.

Since he was staying in an apartment belonging to friends, Armstrong paid little attention to the telephone, as he knew he'd just be taking messages for his absent hosts. Anything desperately important that needed to be passed on to them would be left on the answering machine. When he got around to checking it, there were three messages, two for Enrique and Maria, and one for him. It was left by Juan San Isidro.

'Oye, que onda? Man, don't fuck me over. Have you read los cuentos? I think not. Otherwise you'd be chasing my ass like a puto. You don't leave Mexico until I hear from you, te queda claro?'

Despite his reluctance, Armstrong didn't see any alternative but to look the stories over. He took them out onto the little balcony overlooking the privada in which the apartment was situated. It was pleasantly warm outside in the evening, being October, and since the only traffic passing below consisted of pedestrians it was easy to concentrate. He sat down on the chair he'd moved out there, put the papers that he'd retrieved from his suitcase on his lap, and looked them over.

San Isidro had given him four stories, the longest of which was the third at around 40,000 words.

Armstrong had seen this type of story on dozens of occasions in the past, usually sent for his consideration by 'fan authors' who were obsessed with the life and works of H. P. Lovecraft. Most of these pastiches contained long lists of cliched forbidden books and names of unpronounceable entities to be incorporated into the so-called 'Cthulhu Mythos'. As he turned the pages of the first of Lopez's tales though, he was surprised to discover that they did not also contain the other feature associated with Lovecraft fan pastiches — there were no obvious grammatical, spelling or common textual errors. The work had already been gone over by an author with a keen eye for copy-editing.

Additionally, it had to be the case that Felipe Lopez was fluent in English to the degree of being able to pass completely for a native. The text contained no trace of any Spanish language idioms indicating his Mexican nationality. Indeed, Lopez even favoured the British spelling of certain words, rather than that used in the United States, in exactly the same fashion as Lovecraft himself had done.

Despite his disdain for pastiche, Armstrong kept reading. Eventually, to his surprise, he found that Lopez's