He bent to the hole, resting one hand on the cold shingle, reaching his other towards his boy.
‘Stanley, it’s time to go.’ His fingers touched the cotton. It did not feel right.
The whimpering stopped. The shivering of his boy stopped.
The tiger turned around within the black circle of the hole and showed Jane what properly rotten jaws ought to look like.
‘Stan,’ Jane said, and his voice was nothing but an old man’s breath, tired, played out, defeated. He kicked back against the shingle but managed only to dig his heels deeper into the loose stones. He was going nowhere. The strength was gone from him. The tiger clawed a path towards him, muscling out of the hole like something born of darkness. Its ragged, matted cloak stank of death. It placed one massive paw on the centre of Jane’s chest, pinning him back against the cold ground. The pitted box of its muzzle wrinkled as it bared its black fangs. The shrivelled tubes of its eye sockets told of distances that Jane could never comprehend. How many millennia had these things drifted through the stars, waiting to find food? How many dead planets had they impacted upon, waiting for an atmosphere, a primordial scenario, an evolution that would never come?
He was thinking this as the tiger almost nonchalantly swatted a claw across his throat. Jane felt an instant numbing chill there and found that he could not swallow. He tried to say something, but his mouth only filled with blood. He jerked against the weight of the rotting animal but it did not budge. Jane couldn’t breathe. He was vaguely aware of footsteps in the shingle slowing. He couldn’t see who it was.
Light.
A gap as the clouds parted. The moon appeared, gibbous; osteal white. The tiger raised its great head towards it, growling, unsure. Jane put his hand to his own shoulder and withdrew the long shard of shrapnel. He didn’t feel a thing. He drove it deep into the tiger’s eye. The tiger made no sound but slumped against him, like Stanley used to as a baby when he was tired. His sweet, warm head on Jane’s chest. The passage to sleep, so swift as to be almost seamless.
Jane felt like that now. He could close his eyes and drift into oblivion and it would not be any effort. He placed a hand against his throat and there was nothing but pumping wetness.
A snuffling noise.
But he felt no pain. He saw the girl and behind her, coming up the beach, Loke with his arm around Becky, who was steadfastly looking out to sea. The girl raised her hand. Protection. He knew the baby would be cared for. He knew there could be a future.
That snuffling noise.
Jane turned his head and Stanley was standing there in his pyjamas, at the edge of the dip, Walter dangling from his hand.
‘Hiya, Dad,’ his boy said. ‘Where’ve you been? I’m freezing.’
Jane struggled free of the tiger’s dead weight and stood up. He moved slowly towards his son. He was cautious, unsure. He didn’t want to be tricked again. He clambered up to level ground and Stanley reached out a hand, slid it through the gap between Jane’s thumb and forefinger.
‘Makeme warm, Dad. I’ve been cold for such a long time. Waiting for you.’
Jane wiped away tears, eager after all this time to have Stanley clear in his sight. ‘I’m here. I’ve always been here.’
‘Me too, Dad. Come on, it’s this way.’
Jane allowed himself to be led. He did not look back. After a while, he reached down and picked his boy up. He closed his eyes to his magical, unique smell, the soft measure of his breath, his strong, regular heartbeat. He closed his eyes and it was as if nothing had changed.
Critical acclaim for The Unblemished
‘His carefully crafted descriptions of horrific images, along with the ability to suggest they are even worse than words can tell, is reminiscent of Poe and the early stories of Clive Barker. Not for the squeamish, but no fan of literary horror should miss it.’ The Times
‘The Unblemished, winner of the International Horror Guild’s Best Novel award, is cleverly constructed, building relentlessly from intense, intimate terror to something on another scale altogether… the ruined London in the closing chapters of this stark gripping novel will stay with you a long time.’ Guardian
‘Top-notch writing skills, poetic vision and beautiful prose raise this way above your Hammer House of Horror… unusual as well as highly accomplished terror.’ Sunday Express
‘Williams is so good at what he does that he probably shouldn’t be allowed to do it any more, for the sake of everyone’s sanity.’ Publishers Weekly (starred review)
‘Williams has built a whole mythology, one that makes the book feel like a cobwebbed relic from another time. Dust it off, if you like. Just do it at, say, ten in the morning. In a crowded room. In a military compound.’ Time Out
‘The Unblemished scooped last year’s highly coveted International Horror Guild Award, beating off some pretty stiff competition (which included some bloke called Stephen King). The Unblemished is a stomach-churning vision by an accomplished and courageous author and definitely not for the faint of heart.’ John Berlyne, SFREVU
‘The Unblemished is a strong book that gets in your face and doesn’t back down. Its unsettling nature is one of its biggest assets. This is one of the best books that I’ve read this year.’ Bookspotcentral
‘Williams’ threat emerges from the world like an optical illusion being revealed, then you find that society fell apart while you were looking somewhere else.’ SF Site
‘A terrifying tale of violence and determination to survive. Highly recommended.’ Monster Librarian
‘This book scared the crap out of me… In my estimation, Williams does so many things so well that there’s really not much he can’t do. He is one of the few writers working in the area of horror and dark fantasy who has my full attention all of the time. The Unblemished is further evidence of his superlative talent.’ Jeff VanderMeer
‘[A] rich, emotionally engaging and extremely fast-paced novel… The Unblemished achieves the admirable, tricky task of interweaving physical horror with spiritual terror… an unapologetic white-knuckle thriller.’ William P Simmons, Infinity Plus
‘Conrad Williams takes us on a roller-coaster ride through ancient buried secrets and body-horror invasion into the pulsing gut of apocalyptic British horror.’ Christopher Fowler
‘The Unblemished combines a carefully orchestrated accumulation of paranoid detail reminiscent of Ramsey Campbell with passages of vividly described transformations evocative of early Clive Barker.’ Steve Rasnic Tem
‘An apocalyptic nightmare narrated with great vigour, clarity and stylishness. Steel yourself for some hideous sadism – there’s awe along the way.’ Ramsey Campbell
‘A tour de force. Awe-inspiring in its sheer unsparing, unflinching, grimly horrifying view. One nasty piece of work.’ Ed Bryant, Locus
ABOUT THE AUTHOR