Jakubowski / Self / McGrath Reports From the Deep End

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-80336-318-9
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten

A fascinating and unsettling anthology of 32 science fiction short stories in tribute to the prophetic dystopias of New Wave sci-fi pioneer, and literary titan of the twentieth century, J. G. Ballard-featuring Will Self, Iain Sinclair, Christopher Fowler, Chris Beckett, and a new Jerry Cornelius story from Michael Moorcock. Few authors are so iconic that their name is an adjective - Ballard is one of them. Master of both literary and science fiction, his novels such as Empire of the Sun, Crash and Cocaine Nights show a world out of joint - a bewildering, alienating and yet enthralling place. From his rapturously weird takes on contemporary reality to his classic dystopias like The Drowned World and High Rise, Ballard's legacy shaped the future of literature. This first-of-its-kind anthology, featuring our greatest literary and science fiction authors, pays tribute to the unique visions of humanity's uncanny and uneasy clash with the future - our empires of concrete - seen through the warped lens of J. G. Ballard. Edited by renowned editors Maxim Jakubowski and Rick McGrath, this collection includes stories by: • Will Self • Iain Sinclair • Christopher Fowler • Chris Beckett • Michael Moorcock • Jeff Noon • Preston Grassmann • Toby Litt • Christine Poulson • David Gordon • Hanna Jameson • James Lovegrove • Ramsey Campbell • Barry N. Malzberg • Paul Di Filippo • Samathan Lee Howe • Nick Mamatas • Adrian McKinty • Rhys Hughes • Adrian Cole • Pat Cadigan • Adam Roberts • George Sandison • Geoff Nicholson • A.K. Benedict • Andrew Hook • David Quantick • Lavie Tidhar • James Grady

Maxim Jakubowski is a noted anthology editor based in London, just a mile or so away from where he was born. With over 70 volumes to his credit, including Invisible Blood, the 13 annual volumes of The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries, and titles on Professor Moriarty, Jack the Ripper, Future Crime and Vintage whodunits. A publisher for over 20 years, he was also the co-owner of London's Murder One bookstore and the crime columnist for Time Out and then The Guardian for 22 years. Stories from his anthologies have won most of the awards in the field on numerous occasions. He is currently the Chair of the Crime Writers' Association and a Sunday Times bestselling novelist in another genre.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Jakubowski, Maxim

Self, Will

Mcgrath, Rick

Sinclair, Iain

Leseproben

ROADKILL
TOBY LITT
It was not a deer, of that much I was certain. Maybe a very muscular stag. Yes, that’s it, I remember thinking, as I drove on, just an unusually big stag. And part of me – the old, cowardly part – still wishes I had left it there, both the thought and whatever prompted it, and continued on to Norwich, and not got involved. But although it being a stag would explain its tawny colour and breadth, shoulder to shoulder, it would not explain the strange rippling musculature of its back. Even at 77mph, I had noted this curious feature, although perhaps the thing’s ribs and spine had been shattered by the impact. With its last strength, it had crawled ten metres more, then slumped down into a ditch near the treeline. Maybe it had been lying there alongside the northbound lanes of the A11 just south of the Elveden War Memorial, for a few days, and had begun to decompose and lose its proper shape. This all happened in mid-August, so fairly early on in the whole mess – or perhaps very late on, if you want to look at it another way. The temperature that month was regularly reaching eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Anything fleshy would start to rot the moment it was dead, and shattered ribs might explain the regular paired bumps down the dorsal region. In the end, it wasn’t so much curiosity about the animal itself as a wish to test both my eyesight and my conceit that made me double back at the next roundabout. Had I really seen that much detail in the two seconds the thing had been in view? I doubted it, and doubted myself, and because of this I wanted a definitive answer. It’s possible, also, that I am deceiving myself in giving this account. I will admit to a feeling of shock the first moment I caught sight of the carcase. That shouldn’t be here, I thought. Whatever it is, it’s in the wrong place – the wrong version of reality. The drive on and back took exactly six minutes, so it was close to noon when I pulled onto the hard shoulder. I was hungry, so ate an apple from my briefcase before I got out. It was a russet, I remember. A very normal snack for me to eat just moments before my life ceased to be normal. I left the hazard lights flashing but locked the doors. Then I waited for a gap in the traffic. If you know that stretch, it’s a long, straight dual carriageway. Cars go much faster than 77mph. I had only been attempting to cross for a few seconds when a black Range Rover slowed down and stopped on the other side. Later I realised that Carolyn couldn’t have seen the thing and decided to pull over. Her car had been decelerating and indicating for some time before it reached its stopping point. “Hey,” I wanted to shout. “That’s mine.” But she was out the driver’s-side door and then hidden from view only a few moments later. The Range Rover was between me and whatever was going on with her and the dead animal. She had either ignored or hadn’t heard me. The A11 was busy. I took a slight risk crossing the second pair of lanes and got honked at by a Humvee and a Tesla. I think I saw a V-sign, too – very old-fashioned but very Norwich. By the time I had rounded the Range Rover and into view of the dark-haired woman, she was standing back from the huge animal – which definitely wasn’t a stag – and taking photographs on her phone. “Look what it is,” she said, with an accent I later found out was Russian. “It’s a sabre-toothed tiger.” “No, no,” I said, as I approached, but then I came round to where she was and saw the teeth. “Can you please take one of me with it?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. She gave me her phone and crouched down near the giant head, between the long forelegs with their astonishing claws. Even though I could smell it, I was afraid the beast wasn’t dead – that it would suddenly stir. I wanted to make sure I was protecting her from it. “Take many,” she said. On the screen, Carolyn looked younger than she was, which was thirty-six. I realised she’d put a filter on. As I tapped and retapped the white circle, I saw her expression change – no, that’s not it: I saw her change her expression. To begin with she was smiling, almost laughing, but in each image she became sadder and sadder, until finally she started to weep. “Are you okay?” I asked. She looked up, brown eyes glistening. “Did you get me?” she asked. I handed her the phone. She went through the twenty or so photos twice. “Just a couple more,” she said. We resumed our poses, with her continuing from where she left off – broken with grief for this magnificent creature, and reaching around its neck to give it a hug. I felt embarrassed but also extremely angry. If this trivial woman hadn’t been here, I would have been feeling something quite profound. After all, I was in the presence of a lifeform that had been extinct since the last Ice Age. Because of her vanity, I was missing a moment of transcendence. She took her phone again, and checked again. “Perfect,” she said. “Carolyn,” she said. “Oliver,” I said. “I saw it this morning,” she said, “and had to come back. It wasn’t there at eight-thirty. By nine-fifteen, it had appeared. I was on the school run. Don’t judge me.” She nodded at her large car. This was a Mercedes estate, not a whole lot bigger than mine. I had to go up and touch the sabre-toothed tiger, just to feel the level of detail. It must be a prop from a film, abandoned for some inexplicable reason. But the rough-haired skin moved easily over the muscle beneath, and I knew this body was not man-made. After this, I stepped back and stood up. Carolyn took my photo. “I thought you might want one,” she said. “Kneel down.” I did what she was asking. I don’t know what expression was on my face. Even when I look at those three photographs now, I don’t know what I’m feeling. Some kind of raw incomprehension, not just of this moment but of the time in which I now lived. “I’ll send them to you,” Carolyn said. I told her my work email, and it was this that allowed them to track me down. We stayed another fifteen minutes. The smell seemed to become worse and worse. It wasn’t just rot, it was a strong, masculine musk. A few cars seemed to slow down but none stopped. Although I wanted some moments alone with the tiger, I began to move off when Carolyn did. “What have we discovered?” she said. I looked back. “Something that shouldn’t be here,” I said, a little helplessly. *   *   * I arrived at the brokerage a little late, at half past two, and was arrested – or taken into protective custody – exactly one hour later. Carolyn, as I heard from her afterwards, had posted the hugging-crying image on her social media and it immediately drew attention. It did not, as you might expect from later events, go viral. Instead, all her accounts were deleted, within seconds, and then her phone rang. “Luckily,” she said, “Freddie was collecting Cristal and Royce, because they asked where I was then told me to stay there. I was in Marks & Spencer’s, trying to buy lemon sorbet, when they reached me.” They were not the police, or MI5 or MI6. They were from the Department of the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, but the armed division. She was taken from the freezer section to a black car almost identical to her own. What she said, later, was that they told her – just as they told me – that she had been in contact with potentially hazardous organic material. We were held separately, in separate bland facilities, for ten days. I think mine was in Kent, but that’s mainly because of the journey time and the look of the skies. The van they transported me in was without windows. Getting there was the exciting part. I soon became frustrated at their lack of interest in me, after the first interview. A pretence was made of checking me for contamination – bloods were taken every morning. A nurse in a hazmat suit carried out a basic set of cognitive tests. I signed the Official Secrets Act. After I was released, I spent a few days at home. My wife had left me two years earlier, for good reason, so it was only some thirsty houseplants I needed to answer to. It took some effort to convince my CEO that I hadn’t been arrested by the Fraud Squad. On my last day, Defra had given me a cover story, and a phone number to call if anyone was over-inquisitive. I was warned not to ask any awkward questions myself. Despite this, I left it only one week before tracking down Carolyn. She wasn’t hard to find – although my phone hadn’t been returned to me, and my call history had been wiped from my account, I only needed to phone the most expensive school within ten miles of where we’d found the sabre-tooth. A quick impression of a confused father whose daughter had left her tennis kit in Carol’s? Caroline’s? Rover – you see, she needs it for a tournament this evening – and the school office passed on my new number. Carolyn called two minutes later. “I can’t talk to anyone about it,” she said. “The biggest thing that’s ever happened to me, and you’re the only person who knows. And they especially told me not to get in touch with you.” “Were you going to try?” “Of course,” she said, and I knew she would have left it alone. “Where shall we meet?” I asked. She said she could easily make a shopping trip to London. “My children hardly know me. Cristal asked if the nanny could adopt her, and Royce doesn’t...