Nothing To Me

Caught, he could only stare.

She was gazing skywards, the volleys of colour reflected in her eyes, her lips parted with the wonder of the moment.  His face was flushed, he could feel the bolts of pleasure that sheeted through her body – feel them as if they were his own.  It took a moment for him to ask himself the question: why was she here?

His breath caught fire in his throat.

A lifetime, an instant for him to remember her face – oh, mercy of God, every plane and line.  She should have changed so much; she looked just the same.  He could not tear his eyes from her; not for the ballet of fireworks over the heads of the crowd, not for the full moon of the clock face over the water.  He was a fly, as helpless as if he had never been free.

 Even as he watched, a new blossom of light made her bite her lower lip with tension. Aching, he breathed the thrill in with her.  Look at me, he willed her to do it.  Look at me!

She turned.  His heart hammered once, and stopped. Long-past flashes of pain and longing – ridiculous! – shook him like a fool.

But she was only looking at the great fractal-flowers of light that leapt further up and down the river; her eyes had traveled across him as though he was nothing.

He swallowed hard, remembered to exhale.

Beside her, a tall figure laid a hand on her shoulder and she glanced back, smiling at the touch.  The look they exchanged made him inspect his boots; when he looked back, they were both gazing again at the sky.

She’d looked at him like that, once.  ‘You’re special’– he remembered the thrill it had caused.

So many years of wanting. And one mad summer—

Oh, Christ!

“Saul?” The gentle touch on his arm made him start as if guilty.  “Who’s that?”The intensity of his focus was broken, people and lights and noise suddenly confused him. Human sweat and human ecstasy. Fireworks shattering under their own joy.  Somewhere, voices sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, tuneless and ten minutes too late.  Closer by, he caught the faint, heavy scent of marijuana.

He blinked at Lynne’s mild expression.  Sensations swum, bewildering.  He heard himself say, “Who’s who?”

“The girl.”  Lynne loved him, unconditionally; she trusted him.  Her touch was his anchor.  The swirl of sensation started to lessen.  “Someone from work?”

He looked back, a reflex he could not avoid, but the shifting sea of people had blocked his line of sight.  A gang of lads shoved past him, wishing him a Happy New Year; teenage girls shouted defiantly at the night air.

Then they were gone.

And she was gone.

Bitter disappointment wrestled with a wash of shaking relief.  He rubbed a hand over his face as if awakening; perhaps some thing were just better left—


Oh, dear God.

The undulation of the crowd had released her; she was suddenly closer to him. He could see the line of studs in her ear, the hairs stuck to the lapel of her charcoal coat.  He hair was longer and fuller, her face smoother, her garments masculine, shapeless and layered against the cold.  With her were two – no three – companions, all male, all with faces turned raptly skywards.  As he saw her, she exchanged a brief glance with one of them, grinned, and pointed at something further into the crowd.

He stood on his toes to look, but she was too far up the bank and he could not see.

As the surge of fireworks died, her eyes continued across the sea of people. He resisted an insane urge to call out to her, or maybe it was to run, and run, and run, and never look back.

Oh, God, it was destined, it was inevitable.

Her gaze crossed his.

And the great clock stood still.

A single, crystallised moment that held him frozen.

He hammered at them, railing silently, God, why me?  Why now, why again?  The need still surged in his chest.  Like blows of a fist, images hit him; after five years, that moment when she’d kissed him for the first time.  They had dated all that summer, watching movies, walking the beach, racing like kids down the pier.  Lying on his bed in his parents’ house, trying to keep his teenage fumblings quiet…

The memory kicked and screamed to be reburied.  The purity of the crystal shattered.  A new blemish of radiance swelled against the orange sky, and her eyes glittered with its light.

Banishing the image, he shook himself, and tried to gain control of his thoughts.

She was moving.

The fireworks haloed her as she skidded sideways down the bank towards him, her hair loose in the riverside wind.  Her face softened into a smile, and he saw that she would greet him with warmth, and open arms.

How many times had he pictured this moment?

She jumped from the small wall down onto the pavement.

“Hello, Saul!”  She sounded genuinely pleased; before she could stop her, strong arms encircled him and her body was held against his.  Her hair smelled faintly smoky.  For a moment, his hands writhed in the air as if he did not dare touch her, then he gripped her shoulders and pushed her firmly away.

Holding her still, he looked down into her face.



Her eyes were blue. Sea blue.  Sky blue.  Frost blue. They were not as he remembered.  There were lines around them, now;  tally-markers of the twelve years since he had seen her.


He realised that he was still holding her shoulders.  Flustered, he recoiled.  A heavy, leather-jacketed woman barged between them, jumped on to the wall, and was gone up the bank towards the river.

He had pictured this moment so many times – how they would meet, what she would look like. What he would say.

How he would make her sorry.

“Hello,” he said.

The last firework flared, sparkled, and died.

A cold, foul breath was exhaled from the tunnel-mouth, and Saul pulled his jacket tighter.  The platform was crowded with laughing, singing people, all of them high on themselves. They clamored with joy, and their hopes sparkled in the stale air.

A pretty, velvet-clad young woman staggered against him, giggling an apology.  He shrank from her; her pupils were as black as nightfall and as deep – it was like looking into the eyes of a fiend.  The smell of her body, cheap scent and perspiration, turned his stomach.

In the midst of the celebration that shouted all around him, he was alone.

Lynne still held his arm, smiling contentedly at the people.  Her gloved hand was an unwelcome restriction, preventing him from embracing his desolation.  He wanted to be—

“Happy New Year! Happy New Year!”  An older gentleman in a suit grabbed Lynne’s hand and shook it, fiercely, then went to do the same to him.  “Have faith!  A better world is coming!”  There was a small, fish-shaped pin on the lapel of his jacket, shining with the force of his belief.  Saul silenced the man’s enthusiasm with a curt refusal.  He turned away, breaking Lynne’s hold.

She looked up at him, hurt, her eyes wide with self-reproach, but her love and concern only served to isolate him further.  He wrapped his arms about himself and watched, unseeing, across the track.

A bitter, lonely taste had tainted the great, new confidence of the twenty-first century. In the damp chill of the Underground, he was remembering other things.  The holiday they’d taken together – a first real taste of their own independence.  They’d danced down the paved and sunlit streets, stood open-mouthed in the museums…

His mind coiled about its emptiness, chewing its own tail.  How was he supposed to have armoured himself?  How was he supposed to have known?  When their holiday had ended, she had wept with the loss of it and his heart had melted like wax in a flame.  He hadn’t known that she had already betrayed him.

Taken his wax heart and closed her grip around it, letting it squeeze though her fingers—


Lynne touched his hand, pulling his attention away from the devastation that his remembrances had left.

The tunnel-mouth was beginning to rumble like a great beast’s hunger, and a sigh was whispering through the crowd.  In thrall, the people began to move towards the platform’s edge.  Great, curved posters urged them to view, to buy, to visit, to behold.

The people were passive, aimless.  They meant nothing.

A red spark of hatred shot through the grey.

In the tunnel, white eyes were getting larger.  Something roared, and the rails rattled.

The moment of his comprehension had been branded into his forehead, so hot that she should have witnessed it, and shrunk from him in shame.

The tube train rumbled and crashed, its lights dazzling.  It was deafening in its anger, and in fallible in its advance.

Had she chalked it as another victory?  Laughed at his naïveté?

As the train screeched to an impatient pause, the crowd surged forwards, gleefully pushing and shoving.  Somewhere, Saul lost Lynne’s soft hand on his coat-sleeve.  He was carried forwards by the blind desire of the beast’s minions, shoved into its power without his consent.  A voice called his name, “Saul!  Saul!”  but it was drowned out by the cold, mechanical voice that told him to mind the gap.

There had been no guilt in her face, no shame, no apology.  No awareness whatsoever of the anguish he had suffered for her.  Without warning, he was furious, betrayed.  Years! He had loved her for years!  The greatest moment of his life had been the moment they had embraced after that first date; the most terrible, the moment he had seen the letter upon her desk.

The door behind him hissed shut.

The memory of that surprise made his hands clench into knots.  His jaw locked against the thousand vicious, wounding things that he needed to say to her.

Make her sorry.

The train lurched into motion.  He was aware of a hand, banging on the window; a figure, racing panicked along the platform.  Somewhere in his mind, he registered that it was trying to help him, but he turned away from it to stare blankly outwards.

The world around him clattered and shook.  The wind sounded hollow in his ears, but he could not feel it.  The floor jerked; he staggered.  Why could he not feel the wind?  The suited gentleman beside him caught his elbow and stood him up with a grin.

She must have taken the wind away.

Taken it from him, taken it from him, taken it from him, taken it fromhim, taken it fromhim…

Her bedroom, barely big enough for the tiny, hard bed and the desk beside it.  Her notice board, covered in the fantasy pictures she loved so much.  Her bookshelves, literature, history, philosophy.

One letter, lain open like a wound. 

I cannot stop reading.  The comprehension of her betrayal is a moment of anguish to me, but my understanding only grows greater.  It is an infection.  It grows past one lie, past another, past too many to count.  I cannot stop reading.  It grows into anger, and fear, and hatred, and humiliation, and fury, and disgust. I cannot stop reading.

Beneath his skin, tension and adrenaline rose to a choking crescendo; he was only dimly aware that he was standing, packed into a hot sardine-tin of people, all of them vibrating to the motion of the train.  He wanted to scream, to strike out, to release this massive uprising of resentment and dismay.  He could feel the heat swelling in his face, the muscles bunch in his jaw.  He could not breathe.

Dear God, how many have there been?  One?  Two? More?  Were you as passionate with them all?  The letter burns into my fingers, into my eyes.  I am blinded, but I cannot stop reading.  I am being torn apart.

“…you all right, mate?”

Reality was his hand on the upright rail.  Hard. Cold.  His knuckles has turned bloodless white, his fingernails had left tiny, stinging gashes in the palm of his hand.  He blinked at them dazedly for a moment.

The pain gave him focus, and he drove the darkness back.

“Been in the boozer too long, that’s your trouble, eh?  Eh?”  A bearded, middle-aged man in a grubby denim jacket slapped Saul’s shoulder.  He reeked of liquor.  “What’s your stop, mate?”

“What?”  His voice sounded hoarse, and faint.

“I said, ‘Where you going?’”

Confused, he could not assimilate the thought.  “’Where am I going?’”  He looked at his hands, chapped with the cold and scarred by his absurd career.  These battered hands had once lain upon smooth, pale skin.

That same smooth pale skin which had yielded to the filth of so many others.  Has she been as responsive?  As abandoned?  As sincere?

He cringed, curling up against the onslaught of shame.  How had he ever trusted her?


In his soul, pain and hatred fused.  These scarred hands were strong, capable.  He had the key he needed, he knew where he was going, now.

His focus was sharpened.  He was whetted, eager.


He raised his chin to answer his Samaritan.  “Back,” he said.  “I’ve got to go back.”  Something prompted him to say, “Thank you.”

The Samaritan blinked.

I can stop reading.  I have been given my answer.  My mind is clear.

The great clock moved faster.

         Fighting free from endless, sunless tunnels, Saul raced up the steps, pushing through the crowd’s flow like a man demented.  People swore as he knocked into them, cursed him as he fought madly ahead against the onward-swelling tide.

         Around him, the revelry still cavorted through the night-time streets; neon jewellery and glittering sparklers pricked at the corners of his vision.  He saw their optimism, but their seductiveness could not touch him.  There was one though, burning a hole in his mind – he must find her.

         So it could all be as he’d imagined it.

         He surged ahead, fighting for progress, oblivious of the people who barred his way. His certainty was absolute;  there was no question of her absence.

         Again, he heard her voice say, “Saul..?”

         He hard his reply, just ‘Hello’, as if he could not bring himself to say more.

         She had asked him questions, a barrage of questions.  “How are you?” “What do you do, now?”  “Where are you living?”  “Going to introduce me?” His responses had been automated, he was fine, an electronics engineer, living in Sussex, mostly, this was his fiancée.  The conversation had been so mundane, so predictable – it had been too surreal for him to understand.

He goaded himself, ‘Coward!’ 

         Twelve years, he had dreamed of her guilt; imagined how she could not forget, how she would lay awake at night.  So many times, he had fantasised about how he would meet her, and return that moment of horror.

         But – she had asked him questions!

         By God, he would show her that pain and betrayal.  And she would fold beneath its weight, and she would reach to him to love her.

         Oh, yes.  And he would turn away.

         His breathing was harder, now.  His body was trembling with anticipation.  He pushed through the flowing crowd faster, now almost running. Someone behind him fell, voices shouted indignantly, but he had a blazing purpose that was driving him relentlessly onwards.

         He must reach the river.

         There! As he turned a corner, there was the great clock, silent sentinel, watching him.  It stood stark, silhouetted against the clouds, but its ghostly face had lost all authority.  With his blood thundering in his ears, Saul raced to the end of the street.

         His lungs strained to control their impatient breathing.

         “Hey, you!  You’re late!” A bubble of laughter carried a dozen kids out of his way.  Snarling, he almost challenged them, but his anger was for greater things, yes, greater things.

         Trembling, he paused and stared up the bank.  The crowds by the river had thinned to a sporadic carpet of trampled grass and litter.  A few stragglers still loitered, but she was not among them.

         In rising panic, he scanned backwards and forwards, all around him.  Adrenaline made him feel sick.  When he still did not see her, he ran up the bank, skidding on the hard-packed mud.

         The river was mirror-black, whispering emptiness.  Arced over it, the sky glowed low and orange.  The mass had dwindled to small clusters, still high from the spectacle they had seen.  As Saul turned to watch across them, a trio of motorcycles raged up the road in a blare of engine noise.

         There – on the wall.

         Drowned in brightness for a moment by passing headlights, a quartet of figures that by the road.  She had her back to him, but he knew her hair, glimmering in the street-lamps; he knew the breadth of her shoulders.  As he saw her, she blew a long, reluctant tail of blue smoke into the night.

         A spark of disbelief died under absolute vindication – he had never doubted. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes not leaving where she sat, he began to move along the top of the bank.

         A predator.

         Now, his heart was pounding steadily, his blood beat hard in his temples.  His focus was sharpening to an exquisite, steel point; he was aware of where she sat, of her companions, but the night, the sky, the river -–they were all fading.  They were nothing to him.

         Only she mattered.

         She was talking, smoke escaping from between her lips in wisps and tatters. One hand gestured as she grinned, the other rested upon the thigh of the man beside her.  Saul remembered the thrill of her touch; that hollow, empty thrill. For an instant, he felt a peculiar empathy with the nameless man in the long leather coat – did he know what she was? What she would do to him, remorseless?

         She blew out the last trickle of smoke, took another drag.  He came closer, edging quietly down the bank.  His breathing was shallow and tight, his vision was narrowing to incredible intensity.  There was wind, rushing in his ears.

         He was shaking.

         His scarred hand found what it was looking for, deep in the pocket of his anorak. It was a gift.  A rare gift, for his first love.

         He gripped it like the last piece of his sanity.

         “…seen him in years.”  As he came closer, he caught the end of what she had been saying.  He froze, tension coiling about fear.  She shrugged, dismissing everything that he had ever been.  “I’d forgotten all about him.”

         A sharp convulsion stabbed through his soul.  That was it?  ‘Forgotten’? That was the truth, that was all she had for him?  It was the final cut; the crippling slash that tore out his heart and trampled it in the mud at his feet.

         He was nothing to her.

         He did not need his heart, it only bought him pain.  Stifling the fearful, animal snarl that rose in his throat, he exploded into a run, headlong down the bank.  His needs, his desires, his anguish, his life, had all been building to this moment – this was the very zenith of his existence, the instant where he was everything he could ever be.

         The clock watched him; it slowed the world for him.  It gave him the vehemence and clarity upon which to build his own new Millennium.


         One of the men was turning.  In serene slow motion, the figure began to stand, began to cry aloud.  But he was not fast enough, not strong enough. Driven by passion to wild to control, controlled by resolve too commanding for passion, Saul closed his fingers into a fist.

         She started to react.  For a split-second, he saw her face in profile, saw the horror that open her mouth.

         He punched.

         Her nose splintered; he punched again, fast, grunting with the effort it took.  She swore, tried to stand; he felt her muscles spasm as he punched her a third time.  She began to slide from the wall, and the pain in her eyes sent shivers right through his body.

         Oh God, how muchhe had wanted this!

         For one instant, one sliver of a moment, it was as he had always dreamed it would be. His fingers hurt, but they was alive with hunger.  She was down, helpless, and her eyes flashed suffering like the last of the night’s fireworks.

         Make her sorry.

         Sea blue.  Haze blue.

         Pain blue.

         His hand was wet with red and sliding warmth. 

         Sudden pain exploded in the side of his skull.  Without warning, his legs were shaking and he was reeling sideways.  His focus had left him; the great clock had let him go.  He tried to catch his footing, failed, and crashed sideways into the wall.  A second heavy-fisted blow caught him temple and made him raise his hands to shield his head.

         Through the clangour, he groped for understanding.  What..?

         A heavy boot slammed his jaw sideways, shattered his collarbone, crunched through ribs. He curled up, hurting, uncomprehending; he could not move away from the white heat of the pain.  Spikes of agony shot though his head.

         He heard vicious swearing, angry voices.

         “Jesus fuck!  Is she all right?”

         He could no longer tell where the blows were falling.  It was just a sea, a blue-eyed sea.  White fireworks were exploding throughout his body; they were flowers against the clouded sky, bringing with them rushes of tension and release.  He really had shared them with her.  Slowly, he realised that the voices did not matter, they could not hurt him any more. 

         Dimly, he was aware of shouting, the indignant wail of a siren.  Dimly, he was aware that the vengeful, furious kicking had stopped.  Voices quarrelled loudly over his head.  He was awash with pain, the siren’s scream was all in his mind.  There was a woolen coat covering him.

         He tried to open his eyes.  He saw the mighty face of the clock, the vast stillness of the sky.  Nearly, there were heavy steps, the crackle of a powerful radio, but the sky was absolute and endless, and the clock face made no judgments.

         And there were tears streaking down the sides of his face.

The Next Big Thing

They got me! Many thanks to both Adam Nevill and Liz de Jager for tagging me with The Next Big Thing meme… and a chance to share a little information about the next book!

What is the working title of your next book?

Opening with the big question, the shocker – the working title of the book is Ecko II. I’d go into the reasoning, but, y’know, that’s a tough one to break down…

Where did the idea come from for the book?

From a decade of shared creativity and story-telling, from friends with imagination and humour, from having too much time on our hands and the energy to dream whatever we wanted, limitless and occasionally ludicrous. Some people to use their youth and fire to change worlds – we made our own.

And then we broke them.
And then we made some more.

From the concepts initially explored in the first novel, this one takes Ecko’s fundamental culture-shock and savage denial to a different level, but also moves in new directions, looking at a more politically involved storyline and dipping a curious toe into the concept of a fantasy dystopia. Can such a thing exist – or do you need urban/modernisation before you can add the decay?

What genre does your book fall under?

Apparently, I’ve committed the cardinal sin, written the unthinkable – though I wasn’t aware of this when I started. The Ecko books are science fiction and fantasy fused, they’re a hard-edged SF character in an essentially fantasy world – a mix that can result in hard violence, sharp insight and dark humour, and often in all three combined.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

That’s always a tough one. Andy Serkis was one of our first ever guests at the FP Megastore – and watching him do Gollum for real was both transfixing and terrifying. In some ways, he has the capability to craft a perfect Ecko, but my inspiration (one of them anyway) has always been Michael Keeton’s Beetlejuice.

You know he’d do a good job!

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

The strapline for the first one was ‘a unique and stunning debut novel’. Marketeer I may be, by writing my own publicity defeats me!

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I’m represented by Sally Harding at The Cooke Agency, and Ecko II will be published by Titan Books next September.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

And here we come to the old joke – twenty years to write the first one, I want the second one in six months…

In fact, like ‘Rising’, this book was originally written in the 1990’s, though has been revised and re-drafted in keeping with the changes to the overall story, the requirements of characters and editors, and (not to put too fine a point on it) that fact that I’m now in my forties and have a slightly different take on the world/s around me…

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Is this a trick question? ‘Rising’ was compared to everything from Game of Thrones to Neuromancer to Thomas Covenant to Michael Marshall Smith. Go figure!

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

In the first instance, my friends. Coming back to the story after an eight-year break from writing? Um, that would kind of be my friends.

What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

Ecko is difficult, dissonant, foul-mouthed and chaotic – in the first book, he was an explosion looking for somewhere to happen.

In this book, he finds it.

For next week’s NEXT BIG THING I nominate some of my fellow debut authors from 2012 –  and very proud to be in such capable company…

Hereby tagging – Samit Basu, Adam Christopher, Paul Cornell, Lou Morgan and Tom Pollock.

The Pigeon’s Feet

In a time when the greatest cities are still young and their grey boundaries have not yet stretched from coast to coast across the broken world, Pigeon goes to see Rat.

Her feathers are rich and brown, her beak gleams. ‘But I am weary,’ she says. ‘These growing cities are like the hungriest of predators. My lands diminish; my children are hunted and killed and eaten. I wish to make my peace with them, so my children may thrive. Tell me, what must I do?’

Rat sees Pigeon’s distress. His nose twitches and his black eyes shine. He thinks.

‘You must go to the Guardian of Creatures’, he says. ‘And you must offer him that which is most precious. If you do, he will grant you one desire. But make sure you voice it well, for the Guardian is wily, and he is more than he seems. He must say to you, ‘I Promise’ and then your wish is sure.’

‘Where is the Guardian?’ asks Pigeon.

‘Fly’, Rat tells her, ‘Fly far, fly into the sunset until the cities are behind you and the horizon is beyond the edge of the world. And there you will find him’.

So, as the sun lowers towards the horizon, Pigeon beats her brown wings and rises into the darkening sky.

She flies west, towards the failing light. As the great sun swells and sinks, as it turns blood-red and floods the lands with its own death, so Pigeon sees the lights of the new cities glittering. They call to her and she is afraid of them, of what will become of her family. Pigeon flies until she can fly no more, until she is sure that she must have reached beyond the very end of the world – and then she sinks, her wings failing, her chest pulling with pain.

There is a creature there, a creature of all forms and of none. Its eyes are brilliant with energy, but she cannot see it clearly – she knows not whether it has two feet or four, wings or paws, fur or feathers. ‘Welcome,’ it says to her, in a voice like the sky. ‘You have flown long and bravely. Tell me, what did you bring to the edge of the world?’

Pigeon has no doubt that this is the Guardian of Creatures, and she remembers what Rat has told her. She says, ‘I carry nothing, only the love of my children. But if I offer you my egg, will you give me your promise? Will you guard them down through the generations, as these cities swell and grow? Will you make us safe? Will you let us live in peace with the greatest of predators?

The Guardian of all creatures has eyes of many colours. Their pupils shift – now narrow like Cat’s, now long like Goat’s, now round, like those of Man. He regards Pigeon’s single, precious egg and he says, ‘I Promise’.

But the egg is cold inside; her flight has rendered it lifeless. The Guardian says, ‘You have tried to deceive me, Pigeon.’

Pigeon cries out and flaps her wings. She says, ‘You gave me your promise!’

‘So I did,’ the Guardian tells her. ‘And I will keep it.’

As it speaks, so it stands taller – on two rear limbs with its eyes like the light of the red setting sun. It says, ‘I promised you would live in peace with the greatest of predators. And so you shall. The greatest predator is not the city, Pigeon – it is the Man within, it is Man that swells the cities. And you will go there, and you will dwell alongside him. And you will be mangled and reviled and dirty; your feathers will be grey, your feet will be broken and you will eat your own kind as they lay dead upon the filth. But you will multiply, and your children will be safe.”

As he speaks, so Pigeon’s wings darken and her feet curl into toeless broken stubs. She can no longer walk – but she can still fly. She can fly away, fly back beyond the edge of the world, she can find Rat, make him tell her how to undo this horror…

But as the red eyes of the Guardian fade into the darkness, she understands too late how Rat himself has known the truth of the Guardian’s guile and promise.

Rat has already made his own bargain. And she will be seeing him again, down among the dirt heaps of the greatest of predators.

(The illustration is by Susan Seddon Boulet. Though you probably knew that!)

FantasyCon 2011

The best place to be in a heatwave? Brighton seafront.

Yeah, you’d think.

Bless the Royal Albion Hotel, shambling sprawl of saggy Victoriana in which no self-respecting Steampunker would ever set boot – there’s something both familiar and comedic about it. But the names and faces of UK SF/F publishing have weathered the chalets of the SFX weekender and know no fear.

Brighton in the shimmering heat was ghastly – the heaving, sweating masses of sunburned and lagered up public massing outside, seething along the promenade and the beach. They cheered the endless mass of VW campers on Saturday morning, and dropped so much litter that the army of roadsweepers woke us all up at 6am on Sunday… when I went for a walk along the beachfront in the early and the cool, the garbage resembled nothing so much as post Fatboy Slim in 2002.

Seriously. How can people do these things?

Inside the hotel though, it was cooler and calmer than the sweating town of Brighton.

There were lots of questions about my forthcoming book – thanks particularly to Kari Sperring for her empathy, and to Mike Carey for extending a wonderfully unexpected hand of support. Thanks also to Tony Lee for spoiling my son, and to the legendary Brian Aldiss who, while signing in our room, joined Stephen Jones to serenade us with the chorus of ‘When You’re Smiling’ – a memory that will be making me smile for a long time to come.

We worked a long day, but a good one – Alex discovered a truly glorious cake shop, we indulged in fish’n’chips on the pier and free wine from multiple book events including those of our own Titan, the irrepressible Christopher Paolini and the new brand new Jo Fletcher Books.

A good time, as they say, was had by all.

My mother asked me recently, in fun, are you a ‘Geek’ then, Dan?’ with an intonation on the word that spoke volumes from the Daily Mail. My answer is now as always – ‘Yes, of course I am’. And all I have to do to understand my choice is to look at Brighton seafront on a sweating Saturday afternoon.

Long shift or no, I would rather be where I was than outside frying myself on the hot stones.

And, hell, as I passed Mister Rankin on my way back into the Albion, I guess I was wrong about the Steampunkers. Maybe it’s the perfect place for a little far-fetched fiction!

The Doctor Who Experience

When I was a kid, Doctor Who teetered on a line, the one between fear and exhilaration. It’s the line between your fingers as you peep, thrilled, through them; it’s the line of excitement that has you poised on the edge of your seat..

…it’s line of the crack that runs down the screen as the Doctor Who Experience opens.

But it’s not a crack, it’s part of the event. As it parts to reveal the Experience itself, it has parents laughing and kids open-mouthed – it’s your very own space-time doorway, opening to a mini-story that has you racing to save the Universe, with none other than the Doctor himself as your guide.

The Experience is sensational to the point of being overwhelming, enhanced by Matt Smith’s relentless, almost slapstick dialogue. You’re surrounded by props, yet your eyes are on the main event – you race through the tale almost too fast. Here is the inside of the TARDIS, a wonder to adults and kids alike. Here are the Daleks, right over you and bloody terrifying. Here are the Weeping Angels, lurking the darkness at the edges of your vision. Here is the Pandorica, opening before your eyes.

Walking the Experience with my son, seven, made me remember the thrill of ‘Who’ when I was that age – perhaps one of the secrets to the new Who’s success. He was absolutely testing his limits; other than exclamations of wonder, his only comment was that it was all too fast. I found the same thing – I wanted to linger, and remember, and renew.

Yet as the experience itself races to its 3D ending, you emerge into a hall of props and beasties and costumes and you can wander, and wonder, to yours heart’s content. Here the generations are spanned, and my son can see Who though my eyes, as well as the other way around. The evolution of the Daleks was particularly fine – and made me view the most modern incarnation with new eyes. We have an old one in the lift at FP Southampton… and the new ones are huge!

Of all the things, though, that we saw during the Experience – from driving the TARDIS to watching the invading Dalek spaceships blowing the snot out of everything – one thing has made today magical.

And that’s the expression on the face of my son.

*Pictures in this post are courtesy of The Doctor Who Experience, used with permission and thanks to Susannah Martin.

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New Tricks!

There are (ironically really) a thousand and one different websites that will tell you how a short story differs from a novel.

In keeping with the theme, it can be distilled down to one word: –


Narrative format, single incident, character that reveals itself at a critical point in the storyline… I’m sure we’ve all studied this stuff.

The point is: this is where your close analysis kicks in – you don’t have room to fuck about. All that artsy scenic description and character motivation and exploration and development and yadda yadda… sod all of that, get to the point.

So – I will.

The guys at GeekPlanet have been kind enough to host my short story, ‘Valkyrie’, here.

This is completely new – not only the story itself, but the fact that it’s read aloud – a creative venture that’s been fun to undertake. It’s a very short short story, hearkening back to my wannabe-warrior-maiden days in the Vike… and hence seemed to lend itself to an oral (aural?) tradition.

Music is courtesy of Thumpermonkey and my despicably talented friend Mike Woodman – check out the full album here.

Oh – and forgive (enjoy?) the polished public school tones…

…some things you just never grow out of.

An Anti-Vamp Rant

I used to like watching Buffy – I own it on… actually on VHS… and I’ve watched it to absolute Undeath.

But by every Mother of God am I sick of fucking vampires!

It was with a huge cheer, then, that I read Neil Gaiman’s comments in the Independent this morning – kicking back against genre and marketing saturation, and against the de-fanged and de-balled castrato-vamp that we’ve all learned to loathe. He’s right, they’re like cockroaches, they’re everywhere – and we’ve had enough.

And not only Gaiman, bless him. He’s backed up by Sam Stone and Graham Marks… and even Ms. Meyer herself has had enough. Could it be – finally – that the public backlash is finding its teeth?

I get marketing trends – hell, I’m supposed to, I have to follow and ride them for a living. But when does a trend become a dictation? When does it stop being something the audience want – and become something they’re told they must like? Working where I do, I’ve been on ground level with marketing a motherlode of Vampire merchandise… and you can guarantee that, for every Twilight-Sparkly-Box-Souvenir that we’ve promoted through our Social Media net, we’ll get a kick-back of customers who’ve all reached their own saturation limit.

And so I ask: have we now reached the point where our media consumption is being utterly dictated by its buying trends – and where those very trends are set by a nation of proto-teen consumers? Just who is in fucking charge here anyway?!

Please – enough with the ‘safe sales’, already, and enough with the sheep-herding; enough with the force-feeding of pulp and enough with having our consumption controlled.

Let’s give the Vampire back his teeth… while we open out, and embrace the full scope of our genre.

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Adapt or Die? SF and New Media

So why, for the love of whatever God you choose, is the science fiction community so reluctant to embrace new forms of expression?

While the comics industry surges off the page and onto the iphone, the science fiction profession has progressed as far as the Real Ale bar. Steeped in the traditional – novels, short stories, radio, television – they reluctantly protest that they like books, they like to have paper under their hands, something they can read without getting glare-ache from the screen.

And yes, I guess there’s a bit of that in all of us.


It’s a strong time for Geek Chic – literary uber-agent John Jarrold quoted that sf and fantasy count for up to 11% of total UK book sales… and that figure would be impressive had I not walked past Zavvi this morning. The rise in new ways to access non-format literature, music and film is driving major labels out of business. Adapt or die. That ‘11%’ is a lot less convincing when the overall total starts to plummet.

Dave Hutchinson rather wisely said that it isn’t ‘a future of literature, more a future of delivery’. Writers need to move into new mediums, adapt their skills to different platforms. They’re at last appearing on twitter; they’re venturing into audiocasting or writing plots for major game releases. Maybe it’s time to add a new award to the Hugo and Nebula – one for innovation, for successfully breaking new ground.

And why stop with the professionals. From the letters page of the fanzine to today’s LiveJournal, fans won’t just be told what they can read. They like to take control of the characters they love and put them in new situations. Fan-fiction, both on the web and off, has become huge and very successful, writers gaining sizeable credibility in their own right. In the greater world of social media, the potential for author/reader collaboration is blown wide-open – why tell a story when you can create a world?

Who writer Paul Cornell stood to champion sf and new media. Arguing my beliefs for me, he talked about web visibility, versatility, mass appeal and the importance of viral marketing. He gets a round of applause for the immortal line, “There will always be the novel, but that novel may not always be a book.”

For the moment, then, the new and the old complement each other – a presence on the web will boost visibility of a book – and vice versa. But in ten years? When the CosPlayers, the X-Box generation, are in their thirties, are they going to be sitting in a corner with a pint of Theakstons and a paperback?

I don’t think so.

My thanks to the NewCon panel for the inspiration. Entitled ‘Does the Future of SF lie in Media other than Traditional Literature’, it featured Uma McCormack, John Jarrold, Steve Longworth, Dave Hutchinson and Paul Cornell.
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