A character in 'The Unblemished' by Conrad Williams (Virgin books) says:
'I am like them, but I'm not like them. I helped them. Unwittingly, unwillingly. Occasionally it felt as though I was on their side. But I'm not. I know I'm not.'
I fear the character is in denial. This dangerous book is now in all bookshops, airports, and so forth. By reading it, are we being drawn into this character's circle? We scarcely know what we do. We are party to it, without realising.
Even in the late nineteen-eighties you could find a Conrad Williams story in 'Dementia 13' magazine and other small beginnings. The foul fruit is now being harvested.
I feel myself being cannibalised by a Conradian 'Mr Can', but before I finally succumb and become part of the Horror conspiracy of which we are all part, by liking books such as this, let me say...
...that 'The Unblemished' is a fabrication of truth made into a terrible tangible nightmare by its endless pages of poetica-viscera.
Over-dosing on language.
Where does the light come from to enable the characters to see each other? Is London's electricity still running? Or, rather, where has the light gone to ... to leave such dark visibility?
Like a theatre or cinema still working properly despite being in someone's nightmare.
Or a blog entry that needs no maintenance once it's posted. Read or not.
'The Unblemished' - a book that we hope will bring a mass market back to the Horror genre? Nah! It's far too good for that, far too frightening. And that's me talking at last. Undeniably.