The gift of joy, p.1
The Gift of Joy, page 1
The Gift of Joy
Includes the BSFA Award shortlisted title story.
Praise for Gift of Joy
“Ian Whates has a way with words, a storyteller's sensibility and is rapidly developing the writing skills to match. Definitely one to watch.” – Jon Courtenay Grimwood.
“Darkly funny tales of the unexpected, with a deft science-fictional turn of the knife.” – Ken MacLeod
“...satisfying, well observed and entertaining.” – The Guardian
“There isn't a single let-down in the book.” – SF Crowsnest
The Gift of Joy
Ian Whates
NewCon Press
England
Kindle Edition. First published worldwide April 2011 by NewCon Press
First edition, published in the UK April 2009
by NewCon Press
NCP 011 (hardback)
NCP 012 (softback)
This collection copyright © 2009 by Ian Whates
Introduction copyright © 2009 by Ian Watson
Cover Art copyright © 2009 by Vincent Chong
The Gift of Joy © 2007, originally appeared in TQR, November 2007
A Hint of Mystery © 2006, originally appeared in Hub 4, April 2007
The Key © 2006, originally appeared in Nature, August 2006
Gossamer © 2008, originally appeared in New Horizons 2, January 2009
One Night in London © 2007, originally appeared in Fusion Fragments 2, July 2007
Knowing How to Look © 2006, originally appeared in Tower of Light 1, June 2007
The Sum of the Past © 2007, originally appeared in Fictitious Force, April 2008
Flesh and Metal © 1986, originally appeared in Dream Magazine 10, March 1987
Hanging on Her Every Word © 2007, originally appeared in Beneath the Surface, 2008
Darkchild © 2008, originally appeared in Oddlands Magazine, March 2008.
A Piratical Sabbatical © 2007, originally appeared in Nature, July 2007
It’s About Time! © 2006, originally appeared in Time Pieces, 2006
The Laughter of Ghosts © 2006, originally appeared in Glorifying Terrorism, 2007
In Fear of Fog, Ghosts in the Machine, The Final Hour, Glitch in the System, and The Battle for Paradise, all © 2009 and all previously unpublished.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-907069-00-0 (hardback)
978-1-907069-01-7 (softback)
Cover Artwork by Vincent Chong
Cover layout and design by Andy Bigwood
Invaluable editorial assistance from Ian Watson
Book layout by Storm Constantine
e-book conversion by Tim C. Taylor
‘Without Whom’ Department:
My sincere thanks to the members of both the Northampton SF Writers Group and the BSFA’s Orbiter 1, who have read and critiqued many of these stories. Also, to the editors who have been brave enough to publish them and the friends who have been so generous with their time and wisdom; in particular: Henry Gee, George Mann, Lee Harris, Farah Mendlesohn, Eric Brown, Mark Robson, Pat Cadigan, Storm Constantine, Liz Williams, Kim Lakin-Smith, Chaz Brenchley, Heather Bradshaw and Tom Hunter. I’d also like to acknowledge the debt owed to the late Trevor Jones, proprietor and editor of Dream Magazine, who published my first stories back in the late 1980s.
I would especially like to thank two people: Helen, for her love, her support and for putting up with me; and Ian Watson, for his encouragement and his willingness to share such a wealth of knowledge and experience, but most of all for his friendship.
Contents
Introduction ~ Ian Watson
The Gift of Joy
A Hint of Mystery
The Key
Gossamer
In Fear of Fog
One Night in London
Ghosts in the Machine
Knowing How to Look
The Sum of the Past
Flesh and Metal
Hanging on Her Every Word
The Final Hour
Darkchild
A Piratical Sabbatical
Glitch in the System
The Battle for Paradise
It’s About Time!
The Laughter of Ghosts
A Bit About Ian
Introduction
Ian Watson
In a few brief years Ian Whates has already established himself as a great and jovial presence at conventions, rather like a latterday Bob Shaw, and also as a maker and shaker within the genre world, not least due to being a publisher of innovative and beautifully designed anthologies from his own Newcon Press; and here in his first collection he reveals himself as a master of the short story too – both SF and horror, for his range is wide.
The Gift of Joy is the sort of collection I love, where planetary escapades and vivid battle action rub shoulders with charming yet eerie rural tales and with perilous urban nightmares. Generally, chatty narrators tell these tales, narrators who may sometimes be flawed individuals. The result is an engaging sense of an intimate conversation; rather than narrators, perhaps we should say raconteurs. I’m reminded of the humanism and the science-fictional inventiveness of, yes, Bob Shaw, whose natural heir Ian Whates often seems to me to be.
Here are disappointed desires and frustrated yearnings, poignant misfortunes, hard-bitten yet tender episodes, brilliant surprises and finales, and much lovely imagery in lucid prose, grace notes abounding. Ian is a master of pacing, and he’s far from averse to skilful experimenting, as in “The Sum of the Parts” which questions not only narrative but also the nature of reality, yet without flying off into metafiction. Or there’s the one-sided interrogation of a naïve spoilt brat in “Piratical Sabbatical”, just the twit’s answers, resulting in a comic tour-de-force.
Utterly gripping is “The Final Hour”, where the entire universe is at risk in a countdown from one hour to zero. Powerful, surreal and nightmarish is “The Ghost in the Machine”, a Kafkaesque vision where persons who lack… no spoilers please! …where those persons will live in my imagination for a long time, in the same way that in the film Pan’s Labyrinth… I said no spoilers!
A nifty variation upon Dorian Gray, and much else besides, propels “Knowing How to Look” – and Ian Whates certainly knows how to do so – set in a London somewhat more familiar to us than that of the fast-paced “One Night in London”. As a narrator points out, there are many Londons, just as what underlies the carpet of reality we tread upon blithely may be frighteningly different when that carpet is lifted or pulled aside; which is what the innocent narrator of “Hanging on Her Every Word” discovers to his cost. Ian does have rather a knack with titles! Expect to discover dire implications in this particular phrase, although not the most obvious one.
Whates describes one of his tales as a sugar-coated bonbon with a hot chilli centre. So I’m tempted to describe this collection of nineteen stories as an assortment box of varied delights, beautifully gift-wrapped, except that far from being just confectionery to amuse a few moments, the tastes of the centres linger long. And as for gift-wrapped, be aware that gift is the German word for poison, of which there are various insidious kinds, not necessarily always fatal, though for some characters it might be better if this were so.
The Gift of Joy
Conrad sauntered into Lacey’s bar and took his accustomed place on one of the high stools, which settled with a disconcerting lurch. He wriggled in an effort to find a more stable base, causing the stool’s feet to scrape against the mock-wood beneath with teeth-jarring effect. Roach glanced up to favour him with a sour look that bisected a smile and a grimace – his customary form of greeting.
Roach was a constant feature at Lacey’s. He ate there, drank there and worked from there. For all Conrad knew, he might even have slept there.
“Another lousy day,” he observed.
“Aren’t they all,” Conrad responded, completing a ritual that had become established between them an age ago. My-Ling materialised at the other side of the counter, armed with a coy smile and a glass of gently effervescing beer. She was not coy, as Conrad well knew; it was just part of the camouflage she presented when at work. With a grunt he fished in his pocket for some coins, forcing his fingers beneath the tight crease formed by his trousers and wishing he had thought to take the money out before sitting down.
Beer paid for, his gaze settled on the television. It sat above the bar and currently featured what was clearly a news or current affairs programme. The image switched from earnest reporter to a close-up of President Kelly; coverage of a recent speech, by the look of it. Grey-blue eyes gazed straight at the camera for an instant, integrity oozing from every pore of his craggy, near-handsome face. The volume was set too low to make out individual words – a minor mercy for which Conrad was grateful. The picture then cut to a long shot from the same event, the President shaking hands with some dignitary or other.
“Do we have to have that thing on?” Conrad complained. He had his own reasons for not wanting to look at the President more often than necessary.
My-Ling shrugged and clearly had no intention of switching the TV off. A deliberate act of perversity – she knew how much he loathed watching that man and why.
“I hate this town,” Roach said to no one in particular.
No he didn’t; more camouflage. Slate was not the sort of place that anyone stayed in unless they wanted to, and Roach had been there for as long as anyone could remember. The comment did not require a response and Conrad duly obliged by ignoring it.
The story went that the town’s founders had called the new settlement Slate because it represented a new beginning, a chance to start again, to ‘wipe the slate clean’. Conrad had his own theory. He believed the place had been called Slate because it was cold, hard and grey. Of course, not everyone shared his jaundiced view – it was all a question of perspective, with his particular perspective being from the bottom looking up.
As with any place that had been established for a while, Slate inevitably evolved its own districts and strata. There were those who had done very well for themselves – affluent types who lived in nice, upmarket suburbs. Anyone who saw only these areas might be forgiven for thinking this was a nice place to live. But that was just the icing; lift it up and you would soon find the crumbling layers of stale pastry hidden beneath.
Conrad was not a native of Slate, having arrived several years ago and knowing at once that it would do just fine. He quickly found his own level, settling somewhere towards the base of the pile, where people kept themselves to themselves and were rarely inclined to ask too many questions. Not that he had a problem with questions as such; it was the answers that could prove a little awkward.
By way of contrast, the woman who had just walked into Lacey’s and was now hovering uncertainly by the door clearly belonged to the opposite end of the social spectrum; the icing. Tall, blonde, porcelain-skinned and immaculately made-up, wearing designer shoes that were perfectly matched by a bag of the most impractical sort: far too small to hold much of anything. The ensemble was completed by a long, stylishly tailored coat that had not been bought from anywhere around here… unless it had come from the back of a large anonymous vehicle, and Conrad was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
He looked away, continuing to watch from the corner of his eye. Beside him, Roach came alert and did the same. They were both calculating the odds. The woman stood out like a mermaid in the desert and there could only be so many explanations for her presence. The way he figured it, either she was lost or she was looking for something. If the latter, then she was probably seeking one of several illicit thrills that Roach could guide her to, or his own unique services.
She made her way hesitantly to the bar. Both he and Roach continued to feign indifference.
Further evidence that she was out of her element: she ordered an expensive cocktail that stood absolutely no chance of being made properly in a joint like this. My-Ling did her best, presenting a tall glass that held a fair approximation of the requested drink – at least to Conrad’s inexperienced eye.
Then she wanted to pay electronically and was completely fazed by My-Ling’s shake of the head, fumbling around in her pocket-sized bag for coins as if she had all but forgotten what real money was for.
“I was looking…” Both his and Roach’s ears pricked up. “I mean, I was told that a man called Conrad sometimes drinks in here…” Roach slumped a fraction.
My-Ling’s eyes flicked in Conrad’s direction an instant before he turned, displaying his most engaging smile. “Then you were told wrong, madam. I always drink in here.”
“Oh.” Her nervous laugh was a delight.
He led her to a corner table, where they could talk more discretely. As he took both their drinks from the bar, he caught My-Ling watching him, her expression unreadable.
“My name’s Joy,” the vision before him stated.
How very appropriate.
“You were recommended to me by a friend, Anna.”
He smiled and nodded, as if that explained everything. In truth he knew three women by that name, any one of whom could have been the Anna referred to. Well, any of two, he amended, discounting the under-age junkie from Sandra’s massage parlour next door.
“I was told that you… That is, Anna said…” He let her flounder for a minute, taking small pleasure in watching her do so. She really was a beauty; younger than he’d first assumed, as well. The tailored clothing and expert make-up created an illusion of greater maturity and sophistication than truly existed in the woman they adorned. Nor was she entirely stupid, having evidently divested herself of all jewellery before venturing into this part of town. With one exception.
“You’re married.” The wearing of wedding rings had again come back in vogue in recent years.
Her cheeks reddened prettily. “Yes. So?”
Which was a fair question. What had been intended as an observation must have sounded more like an accusation and it had been a mistake to blurt that out. She was having doubts. He could see as much in her face. Presumably it took a lot of courage for her to come here and now the resolve that had carried her this far was starting to waver. He cursed himself for a fool and set about repairing the damage with reassurance, smooth words, and warm smiles, until she relaxed once more.
Then it was time to discuss payment. He had been weighing her up throughout, balancing her obvious reservations and nervousness against her apparent affluence and the fact she was here at all. In the end he decided to raise his usual fee by fifty and blithely said, “Two hundred and fifty.”
She hesitated, her eyes widening slightly. Was it too much? Was it more than he’d charged Anna, more than her friend had warned her to expect? Probably, but he trusted his instincts.
Whatever her thoughts she kept them to herself, eventually responding with a simple nod – a quick, shallow bob of the head.
“In cash,” he stressed, feeling it a point worth making after her performance at the bar.
“Yes, of course. I drew out specially.” She reached for her bag.
“Not here,” he said, holding out a restraining hand. “That can wait until we’re less public.”
“Oh… right.” Her hand retreated back to her lap.
When Conrad felt she was ready, he suggested they leave.
He made a point of not looking in My-Ling’s direction on the way out.
His place was just around the corner. They were there in less than five minutes. Rarely had any client made him so aware of his home’s short-comings. It had not seemed this shabby when he left it, nor as chilly.
“Sorry, it’s a bit cold.” He switched on the fire, conscious as he did so of how quaint this must seem. Doubtless in her own residence the heating was completely automated; perhaps she even had one of those integrated systems where temperature, humidity – the entire ambience – was constantly maintained at predetermined levels according to the time of day and the season of the year.
He turned back to Joy and found her staring at the bed. At such moments, that particular piece of furniture always seemed to dominate the room, as if it somehow swelled in stature especially for the occasion.
“Drink?”
She shook her head. A pity, it might have steadied her nerves. She had barely touched her drink back at Lacey’s – not that he blamed her, My-Ling being no cocktail waitress. It was also apparent that her nervousness had increased since they left the bar and he had no intention of allowing her to back out, not with two hundred and fifty at stake.
He helped himself to a scotch. “Are you sure?” Again she declined.
“Shall I pay you now?” It was always a relief when the client offered without any further prompting. He accepted the money and tucked it away so rapidly that it must have seemed like sleight of hand.
His was not a large room and the fire was already having an effect, taking the edge off the chill.
He helped her out of the coat, fingers lingering a fraction longer than they needed to – a brief caress of shoulder and top of the arm. She must have been aware that the touch was deliberate but did not shrink away, which was a good sign.
“Now, Joy,” he said, with an appropriately reassuring smile, “is there anything in particular you had in mind?” Knowing full well that there would be.
