The Memoirist

by Neil Williamson

Genres: Science Fiction; Cyberpunk; novella

Synopsis

In a future dominated by omnipresent surveillance, why are so many powerful people determined to wipe a poignant gig by a faded rock star from the annals of history? What are they so afraid of?

When Rhian is hired to write the memoirs of Elodie Eagles, former singer with politically charged electro-rock band The HitMEBritneys, she has no idea of the dangerous path she is treading, nor the implications of her discoveries, which may well alter the course of human history...

Completing the first set of NewCon Press novellas, “The Memoirist” is Neil Williamson’s most ambitious work since his critically acclaimed debut novel The Moon King (shortlisted for the Robert Holdstock Award and runner up behind Anne Leckie for the BSFA Award for best novel).

“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

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

 

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Release date: March 20, 2017

Publisher: NewCon Press

Print pages: 83

Sample

“Et bien, have you done your homework, Miss Fitzgerald?”

        The question from the kitchen caught me off guard. I was finding the apartment a minefield of distractions: the threadbare damask couch rough under my fingers, the constellation of unswept detritus on the parquet, the little Moroccan table that held a blown glass ashtray and a pair of Intaface glasses, deactivated and by the looks of them hardly used. My client wasn’t a fan of technology; hence the reason I’d gone in person to Paris instead of conducting the interview by face in a professional manner.

        A rustle tugged my attention towards the house plants in artisanal pots that lined the window sill, a breeze-shivered profusion of greenery tumbling from in front of the louvres along with muted Parisian street sounds. The room was cool and crepuscular, and beneath the smell of old cigarettes and fresh coffee there was also a musty, avian odour.

        The first thing that my attention had settled on when I’d entered was the birdcage. It was squeezed into shelves thick with knickknacks, books and faded magazines, door open, perch swinging empty. The occupant had waited until my hostess had gone to prepare refreshments before descending on me from the curtain rail in a fluster of wings and glossy black. Golden-browed and preening on a chair back, that creature more than anything else in the room was distracting me. Sitting there in my best suit, I felt scrutinised, under suspicion, like a home visit banker with bad news.

        Had I done my homework?  “Yes, of course.” I smiled professionally, but already had misgivings as to how our meeting was going to play out.

        The interview is mostly for gloss. Clients think it’s their stage from which to deliver the definitive story of their lives. Most actually believe that you distil their memoir directly from their rambling armchair reminiscences. No matter that most of the information is already freely available and that the good memoirist has already assembled the facts before the interview takes place. Which isn’t to say that the chat isn’t important. It’s when you get a feel for the subject’s voice, and when you find out how they want to spin the story of their life; what they want featured front and centre, and what they want discreetly glossed over. But as for the meat of the story? By that point it’s in the can.

        “You were born Elodie Barthelme, in Avignon, France, seventeenth August, nineteen ninety.” As I spoke, I blinked open my face, kicked off the session recorder and slid the transparency of the window containing the biography to twelve percent. “You ran away to Paris aged fourteen, and then to London at seventeen. Formed electro-rock outfit The HitMEBritneys with John Eagles, who later became your first husband –”

        “Blah, blah, etcetera, etcetera. But do you believe all that?” My client reappeared, perching on the edge of the armchair and crossing her legs. The black polish on the toes peeking from the cuffs of her combats was chipped, and when she leaned forward it was evident that she was wearing no underwear beneath her chemise. I caught myself staring. So did she. Yet again I wished we were doing this over the face.