British Fantasy Awards

Dead Letters cover - FINAL

News hot off the presses: Dead Letters, published by Titan Books, has been shortlisted for the 2017 British Fantasy Awards (Best Anthology). I couldn’t have had a happier time editing this book. All of the contributors were a pleasure to work with and their stories were outstanding. I’m thrilled their collective efforts have led to this recognition.

The winners will be announced on the weekend of September 29th. Good luck to all the nominees!

New Fears

Mark Morris, doyen of all things creepy, has edited a new anthology of horror fiction for Titan Books. New Fears will be published in September and contains my story Succulents. The book also contains stories by Alison Littlewood, Stephen Gallagher, Angela Slatter, Brady Golden, Nina Allan, Brian Keene, Chaz Brenchley, AK Benedict, Brian Lillie, Ramsey Campbell, Carole Johnstone, Sarah Lotz, Adam Nevill, Muriel Gray, Josh Malerman, Kathryn Ptacek, Christopher Golden and Stephen Laws.

Best of Year 2016

It’s a privilege to appear once on a year’s best list, so to have two books on Crime Fiction Lover’s top 5 books of 2016 is a real treat. Joel Sorrell isn’t the easiest man in the world to get along with, and he leads his readers into pretty bleak territory, but Sonata of the Dead (no. 3) and Hell is Empty (no. 1) both make the grade. CFL reckons ‘There is no more fascinating recurring character in crime fiction that Joel Sorrell,’ and Joel’s sitting in the corner of the room here, sipping a sherry (‘What the glittering fuck is this shit? Haven’t you got any Stoli?’) and yes, I think there’s the rumour of a smile on his lips…

Big thanks to Michael Parker at CFL and everyone else who ran with Sorrell over the past 18 months.

Blog Tour

Hell is Empty is officially published today, apparently (although it seems to have been available on Amazon for a few days already). To accompany the launch of the novel, I’m privileged to be involved in a blog tour. Details are below. Big thanks to all the hosts. I hope you’ll dip in to see what’s on offer…

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Hell is Empty Teaser #3

m56
I headed back to the car. Gone two a.m. I felt as if my internal clock had been overwound and dropped on the floor and kicked against a wall a few times. I wasn’t even sure what day it was. Only the Christmas lights shining in the houses parted by the M1 gave me any kind of clue as to where we all were.

I thought of wrapping presents on Christmas Eve with Rebecca and trying, and failing, every year to get her to do it in the nude. While wearing a Santa hat. I would always write a letter from Father Christmas to Sarah after I’d had a few Bristol Creams, disguising my handwriting best I could. You’ve been very good this year. You know that Mummy and Daddy love you very much. Maybe next year you can sit on Rudolph… I’ve been very busy, you know. And then I’d scarf the mince pie and toss back the glass of brandy and put the carrot back in the salad crisper.

I might have wrapped presents with you in the nude if you didn’t get so piss-pants drunk.

It’s Christmas Eve. What else are you supposed to do?

But that’s your excuse for everything. Christmas Day. New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Day. The first daffodil of spring. Having a shave.

You’re being dramatic. And more than a bit unfair.

Just think on the number of times you could have spent truffle time with my magnificent norks. But you forwent that because you had your gob around a bottle neck.

That was then, Becs.

Yeah, well, I was then, too.

Becs. Please.

The wipers keeping beat to the sad song that always played. The rain. The splintering of all those red lights on wet tarmac. So much blood. There had been so much blood. The amount we carry in these fragile vessels. And it had all flowed so feverishly for me, as mine had for her, all those years ago. Now it felt like cold porridge in my veins. What was left of hers was soaked into the fibres of the floorboards on Lime Grove or turned to ash by the flames at the crematorium.

One thousand degrees Celsius.

You always said I was hot stuff.

Hell is Empty Teaser #2

dsc_0009-2008-03-04-at-16-43-50A stiff breeze, riddled with winter, tore through the exposed bones of the building. There were other giants rising in concert with this one. London, irked by the knowledge that it was a global shortarse, had decided to tilt for the heavens. Across the way the Splinter was nearing completion. Nearly 800 metres of glass and steel fitted together with the kind of top-level engineer-fu that ensured there were no visible joins. There seemed to be no window frames, just a uniform smoked-glass look throughout, as if it had been fashioned from one stupendous layer. It was beautiful and terrifying and it felt as though I could just reach out from where I was standing to touch its gleaming, polished shoulder. The summit of the Splinter would be a jagged thrust of reinforced glass. Something playful the architect had come up with, to offset the dreary pursuit of money that would go on in all the floors beneath it. He wanted to replicate the shattering of some boiled sweet or other that had caused him to lose a tooth. Work was ongoing; the building was due to open officially in the first quarter of the New Year.

I admired it for a while and then tried to imagine a struggle and a person being thrown over the edge. Was there any chance, I wondered, that the Skylark had finally lost one of these skirmishes and plummeted to his death instead of his intended target? I made a mental note to check the details of the final victim, thinking that whoever had been in charge of the investigation back then ought to have done so as a matter of course.

I got so high that I ran out of building. Steel rods reached up from concrete cores. A guy stood there, slouched against them, observing my trespass. My heart pounced but it was just a hi-vis gilet and a hard hat jammed on a strut. Christ it was cold. Wind buffeted the heights – it probably did so most of the time, no matter if it was completely still at street level. I was about to go – cursing myself for not rocking up in hat and gloves – when I saw light on the uppermost levels of the Splinter.

I might not have been so surprised at that of course, in this metropolis of megawattage, but for the way the light arrived, and the nature of it. It bloomed into being and was softer, a buttery light next to the harsh burn of the halogen. It flickered and leaned as it was moved across the floors. A security guard whose torch had let him down, relying on a candle? Highly unlikely. Kids then. BASE jump researchers. I kept my eyes on the flame. Now it ascended. When it had risen as far as it was able I thought I saw something just beyond its reach: the pale round of a face most likely, looking out, as I was, on the yawning muddle of roads and buildings that meant home. I fancied, with a chill of recognition, that he, or she, was looking straight at me, though surely I was concealed by the dark. It didn’t stop me from moving back into deeper shadow, or whomever it was from suddenly extinguishing the flame.