Secret Language

by Neil Williamson

Genres: Fantasy Anthologies & Collections; short stories

Synopsis

Secret Language is Neil Williamson’s first collection in ten years, but it has been worth the wait. A regular contributor to magazines such as Interzone and Black Static, Williamson’s short fiction has gained plaudits from critics and readers alike. In 2014, his debut novel The Moon King appeared to great acclaim. It was runner up or the BSFA Award for best novel and shortlisted for the Holdstock Award.

Secret Language gathers together sixteen stories, four of them written especially for this volume, that demonstrate why Neil Williamson is one of genre fiction’s finest writers. The BSFA shortlisted story “Arrhythmia” provides just one of the highlights in this exceptional collection.

“Williamson’s territories are the liminal experience and the murky corners of the psyche. He is a virtuoso of the fleeting glimpse, a laureate of loss.” – Interzone

“Williamson nails style and structure to tell of high school hackers heisting music on the streets to create their own mixes.” – Speculation (of ‘Pearl in the Shell’)

“A talented writer who transcends genre, and should be bought, read and cherished.” – Shaun Green, Yet Another Book Review

“Williamson is one of the best Scottish short story writers alive today.” – Jim Steel

1.Introduction
2.Deep Draw
3.The Secret Language of Stamps
4.Sweeter Than
5.Arrhythmia
6.Pearl in the Shell
7.Killing Me Softly
8.The Bed
9.Fish on Friday
10.The Posset Pot
11.Lost Sheep
12.Silk Bones
13.Messianic Con Brio
14.Last Drink Bird Head
15.This is Not a Love Song
16.The Golden Nose
17. The Death of Abigail Goudy
About the Author

 

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Release date: June 6, 2016

Publisher: NewCon Press

Print pages: 216

Sample

Deep Draw

“Say, son. Do you want to hear a story?”

Fat fingers tugged the sleeve of my shirt. Under its Angelino camouflage, the old fellow’s face was brimming.

Did I want to hear a story? As if the timing of me coming by his table was a coincidence.

The tropical storm raged against the windows. Reflected in the streaming glass, the airport hotel bar was all but empty. Just a few desultory sots spending an unplanned evening away from home. Sitting in their self-absorption, stirring who knew what stories. I could have chosen any one of them to tap, but this old West Coaster was ready to spill. It was obvious from the second he walked in, grumbling about the flight cancellations, complaining that people didn’t get treated like this in LA. A stream of babble directed at no one in particular until he found his way to the bar and asked for a whisky. One of the good ones. By which he meant a conspicuously expensive scotch, but I’ve been a barman a long time: when a customer demands a drink you don’t give him the one he asks for, you give him the one he needs.

For the sake of appearances, I hovered, rubbed at an imagined speck on the mouth of the water carafe I happened to be holding. “If the manager catches me slacking off –”

His eyes crinkled. “You’re not worried about your manager.”

“No.” I placed the empty carafe on the table, sitting it just so behind the bright distraction of the candle glass. “No, I’m not.”

“My name is Vincent Deluca,” he said once I was seated and he had my full attention. “I’m a Hollywood man.”  

He wanted me to be impressed. I’ve served water, in all its forms, everywhere from the banks of the Ganges to the highest table on Olympus. And even Olympus struggled to match Hollywood for misplaced self-importance. This introduction wasn’t a pleasantry, it was an establishment of our dynamic; high to low. And that suited me fine.

True to form, Deluca didn’t offer to shake my hand. Neither did he ask my name. I could have told him: Ganymede. But to do so would have changed the gradient between us before the flow had even started. So, instead, I replied with an indulgent smile.

“Forty five years in the movie business,” he said. “You know what it takes to last that long in Hollywood?”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. He really wanted to bang the Hollywood man thing home. The cinema is a useful tool, but not one I hold in much regard. At its best it is capable of piquancy that almost echoes truth, but at its worst, like chick-lit novels and soap operas and sci-fi shows and bandes desinée, it generalises and dilutes. In my experience, the majority of Hollywood men treated story like a cheap currency, squandering it disdainfully.

The only tales of value are true ones. Those treasured by the gods are unique. They are seldom spoken, and to obtain them takes skill.

“Oh,” I said lightly. “I’d imagine: pluck, luck, and a ruthless streak that’d make Chuck Bronson look like Little Orphan Annie.”

He liked that, gave me an appraising look that took in the ambrosia blond of my tied-back hair, the sandstone stubble on my chiselled chin, the old Adriatic eyes. He leered like a man half his age. I didn’t react to that, kept my expression friendly but neutral. He’d promised me a story. I wanted him to focus on that.