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The Harm
64 pages, Paperback
First published March 25, 2010
19 people want to read
About the author
Gary McMahon
179 books108 followersGary McMahon lives, works and writes in West Yorkshire but posseses a New York state of mind. He shares his life with a wife, a son, and the nagging stories that won’t give him any peace until he writes them.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
April 23, 2010
A novelette in four parts, this deals with the much-later aftermath of an atrocity that befalls three eight year old boys. We only get snatches of what happens to them but it’s more than enough and sets up perfectly the far reach that these events (the harm of the title) have on not only the lives of the victims but also those around them. Each of the boys, as mid-thirties men, has their own section - Tyler is subjected to random violence, Roarke is haunted by mouthless zombies and Potter sees things he doesn’t want to in the execution videos he likes to watch on the Internet - with Potter’s sister Audrey taking the last part, helping to tie up those loose ends that McMahon doesn’t deign to leave tantalisingly just out of reach. This is a dark book, dealing with grim events and shattered lives head on, with no attempt to leaven the gloom with humour and it’s all the better for that. It’s a gripping read (and astonishingly assured), bleak and despairing but also full of humanity and it shows McMahon’s continued growth as a writer. If you like your horror fiction dark and full of human monsters, then this is very highly recommended.
October 7, 2017
Dark. Gritty. Urban. But also poignant, understated and satisfyingly ambiguous. Above all, it's McMahon's ability to articulate nightmare visions that impress.
August 8, 2010
The best species of horror story-writing is that which preys on primal fears, especially if it’s something which could happen only too easily in real-life. Gary McMahon’s novelette, the first entry in a projected series of ‘longer’ short stories issued in a mini-book format by TTA Press (the publishers of Black Static and Interzone magazines), does just that: it touches on one of THE darkest and most appalling of horrors, a true blight that appears to form an increasingly grim narrative of daily life – child abuse. However, before anyone thinks it inappropriate to fictionalise such grim events (especially for ‘entertainment’), McMahon gets around that objection cleverly: the focus isn’t on the event itself, which is only referred to in passing, but on what comes after – its effects on, and the consequences for, the victims in later life.
Tyler, Roarke and Potter were the best of friends, and only eight years old when they were brutally sundered from their childhoods, by a group of shadowy perpetrators who are only hazily alluded to and never specifically outlined (and beyond them, there are hints of something darker, something inhuman). The three of them were held captive in a derelict warehouse, where they were subjected to repeated beatings, torture and rape over a period of twelve hours. The novelette is divided into four shorter stories, outlining the subsequent lives of each of the victims (now aged 34) and Audrey, the sister of Potter: each of these tales delineates the hand the event has had in shaping them, and their individual responses to it. The men (and those around them) have been swathed in an inexpressible darkness, felt but not fully realised, certainly never come to terms with, and filling them with a chilling, psychic emptiness. If you want happy endings, then look elsewhere.
These four tales are grimly, uncomfortably, stiflingly claustrophobic, neatly summarising the repression, the guilt, the fear and the metaphysical isolation that the men’s shared past represents. The abandoned, fire-blackened warehouse, where the event took place, becomes an apt metaphor for the hollow shells they subsequently become. Their worlds have tight little orbits, never appearing to stray outside prescribed bounds, which is but another form of claustrophobia, adding an additional layer. Parallel to that, lines defining their everyday relationships have been fractured: that of Tyler’s with his wife, Roarke’s with the people he terrorises and Potter’s with himself. Concomitantly, resolutions can only come a fine point of tragedy, thus compounding and deepening the darkness. There are no easy ways out here.
McMahon does grim preternaturally well: he achieves in 64 pages what many struggle to do in ten times that amount. He doesn’t waste words either: the bleak, uncompromising pictures McMahon paints of the character’s lives, and their psychic malaise, are done quickly, precisely, and without preamble. The milieu against which these stories are told is joyless, airless, suffocating, perfectly reflecting the characters’ dislocation socially, as well as temporally and spatially. The characters appear oddly distant, neither particularly likeable nor particularly unlikeable, no doubt simply for the reason that what happened to them is just so far outside normal experience. However, it’s just that very sense of narrative displacement which helps to render the scenario that much more horrific and unsettling.
As horror writer Simon Kurt Unsworth aptly, and perspicaciously, noted in a recent blog – “We are the monsters”. McMahon’s The Harm drives home this truism with the force of a steam-powered hammer blow, emphasising, quite correctly, that the monsters we imagine capable of perpetrating such atrocities are not those creatures armed with sharp teeth or raking talons, or are covered in scales and spikes, but those who are clothed in flesh and the trappings of civilisation. In other words, they are US. Masterful stuff, indeed.
(Special mention must be made of the excellent cover by Ben Baldwin – atmospheric and superbly rendering McMahon’s particular brand of grim)
Tyler, Roarke and Potter were the best of friends, and only eight years old when they were brutally sundered from their childhoods, by a group of shadowy perpetrators who are only hazily alluded to and never specifically outlined (and beyond them, there are hints of something darker, something inhuman). The three of them were held captive in a derelict warehouse, where they were subjected to repeated beatings, torture and rape over a period of twelve hours. The novelette is divided into four shorter stories, outlining the subsequent lives of each of the victims (now aged 34) and Audrey, the sister of Potter: each of these tales delineates the hand the event has had in shaping them, and their individual responses to it. The men (and those around them) have been swathed in an inexpressible darkness, felt but not fully realised, certainly never come to terms with, and filling them with a chilling, psychic emptiness. If you want happy endings, then look elsewhere.
These four tales are grimly, uncomfortably, stiflingly claustrophobic, neatly summarising the repression, the guilt, the fear and the metaphysical isolation that the men’s shared past represents. The abandoned, fire-blackened warehouse, where the event took place, becomes an apt metaphor for the hollow shells they subsequently become. Their worlds have tight little orbits, never appearing to stray outside prescribed bounds, which is but another form of claustrophobia, adding an additional layer. Parallel to that, lines defining their everyday relationships have been fractured: that of Tyler’s with his wife, Roarke’s with the people he terrorises and Potter’s with himself. Concomitantly, resolutions can only come a fine point of tragedy, thus compounding and deepening the darkness. There are no easy ways out here.
McMahon does grim preternaturally well: he achieves in 64 pages what many struggle to do in ten times that amount. He doesn’t waste words either: the bleak, uncompromising pictures McMahon paints of the character’s lives, and their psychic malaise, are done quickly, precisely, and without preamble. The milieu against which these stories are told is joyless, airless, suffocating, perfectly reflecting the characters’ dislocation socially, as well as temporally and spatially. The characters appear oddly distant, neither particularly likeable nor particularly unlikeable, no doubt simply for the reason that what happened to them is just so far outside normal experience. However, it’s just that very sense of narrative displacement which helps to render the scenario that much more horrific and unsettling.
As horror writer Simon Kurt Unsworth aptly, and perspicaciously, noted in a recent blog – “We are the monsters”. McMahon’s The Harm drives home this truism with the force of a steam-powered hammer blow, emphasising, quite correctly, that the monsters we imagine capable of perpetrating such atrocities are not those creatures armed with sharp teeth or raking talons, or are covered in scales and spikes, but those who are clothed in flesh and the trappings of civilisation. In other words, they are US. Masterful stuff, indeed.
(Special mention must be made of the excellent cover by Ben Baldwin – atmospheric and superbly rendering McMahon’s particular brand of grim)
September 19, 2012
The first thought that struck me when Gary McMahon’s new novella slid through the letterbox was how pretty it looks. I know the old adage says don’t judge a book by it’s cover, but with Ben Baldwin’s cover art it’s extremely hard not to. And the size of it seems perfect for a bit of light reading (even though it’s immediately apparent that the subject matter will be anything but light). At 64 pages, it’s perfect for a quick dip into McMahon’s disturbing imagination, and as a fan of the novella, I hope that this marks the beginning of a new series of similarly sized publications from TTA (and Andy Cox has given every indication that such was his intention).
The novella itself is divided into four sections, focusing on the three victims of sexual abuse, and the sister of one of them, and the introduction immediately indicates the tone that the novella will take. I’m going to try to avoid giving away too much in this review, but anyone who is familiar with McMahon’s work will understand his tone. For those who aren’t, he managed to capture the psychological tone of such masterpieces as the old Silent Hill games. McMahon effortlessly blends the psychological traumas of his characters with a genuinely frightening supernatural force that stalks them. Such is the level of McMahon’s skill that the overwhelming sense of mystery leaves the reader unsure whether what befalls the characters is some supernatural force, or just the manifestation of the abuse they suffered.
The message of the fiction is probably the most important thing here. Certainly McMahon’s afterword indicates such, explaining his motivation and intentions with the story, and yet still leaving a modicum of mystery over the whole thing. And that is the most impressive part, from my perspective. Although what happens and what it means is stated with perfect clarity, the reader remains unsettled and curious as to the nuances of meaning.
But the plot, and the bizarre things which happen to the characters, are the unsettling part. As the novella states at the beginning, it is concerned with “the results of the harm“, and I’m quite sure that much of the novella is subject to the interpretation, and as with the finest traditions of psychological horror, the meaning will rearrange itself within McMahon’s clearly defined parameters, to touch the particular exposed nerves and fears of the reader.
Overall, this novella is triumph of genre fiction, demonstrating precisely how complex and effective such literature can be. It uses the fear that horror specialises in as a vehicle for commentary on the human condition, and in particular the very current issue of pedophilia. In terms of editing, it was up to TTA’s usual high standards, with the only fault I could find being a missing period at the end of the first sentence of the second part, a stumble, but not enough to trip the story up. If I have to criticise it, my only grounds can be the first thing I praised; the length. I read it on the train from Brighton to London, in just over an hour, which is a perfect length for a quick read, but does leave the reader wanting more. So if you’re unfamiliar with McMahon’s fiction, with it’s bargain price and easy length, this is a perfect read. And if you are familiar with him, this whole bloody spiel was probably completely unnecessary.
The novella itself is divided into four sections, focusing on the three victims of sexual abuse, and the sister of one of them, and the introduction immediately indicates the tone that the novella will take. I’m going to try to avoid giving away too much in this review, but anyone who is familiar with McMahon’s work will understand his tone. For those who aren’t, he managed to capture the psychological tone of such masterpieces as the old Silent Hill games. McMahon effortlessly blends the psychological traumas of his characters with a genuinely frightening supernatural force that stalks them. Such is the level of McMahon’s skill that the overwhelming sense of mystery leaves the reader unsure whether what befalls the characters is some supernatural force, or just the manifestation of the abuse they suffered.
The message of the fiction is probably the most important thing here. Certainly McMahon’s afterword indicates such, explaining his motivation and intentions with the story, and yet still leaving a modicum of mystery over the whole thing. And that is the most impressive part, from my perspective. Although what happens and what it means is stated with perfect clarity, the reader remains unsettled and curious as to the nuances of meaning.
But the plot, and the bizarre things which happen to the characters, are the unsettling part. As the novella states at the beginning, it is concerned with “the results of the harm“, and I’m quite sure that much of the novella is subject to the interpretation, and as with the finest traditions of psychological horror, the meaning will rearrange itself within McMahon’s clearly defined parameters, to touch the particular exposed nerves and fears of the reader.
Overall, this novella is triumph of genre fiction, demonstrating precisely how complex and effective such literature can be. It uses the fear that horror specialises in as a vehicle for commentary on the human condition, and in particular the very current issue of pedophilia. In terms of editing, it was up to TTA’s usual high standards, with the only fault I could find being a missing period at the end of the first sentence of the second part, a stumble, but not enough to trip the story up. If I have to criticise it, my only grounds can be the first thing I praised; the length. I read it on the train from Brighton to London, in just over an hour, which is a perfect length for a quick read, but does leave the reader wanting more. So if you’re unfamiliar with McMahon’s fiction, with it’s bargain price and easy length, this is a perfect read. And if you are familiar with him, this whole bloody spiel was probably completely unnecessary.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews