By Iain M. Banks
Iain Banks' bold new novel opens in a loft condo within the East finish, in a former manufacturing unit as a result of be knocked down in a number of days. Ken Nott is a devoutly contrarian vaguely left wing radio shock-jock dwelling in London. After a marriage breakfast humans begin losing culmination from a balcony directly to a abandoned carpark ten storeys lower than, then they begin losing different issues; an outdated television that doesn't paintings, a blown loudspeaker, beanbags, different undesirable furniture...Then they get over excited and begin shedding issues which are nonetheless operating, whereas wrecking the remainder of the condominium. yet cellphones commence ringing and they're advised to show on a television, simply because a airplane has simply crashed into the realm alternate Centre. comfy with the volatility of modernity, Iain Banks can be our so much comprehensive literary author of narrative-driven experience tales that by no means forget about the injustices and ethical conundrums of the true global. His new novel, monitors his trademark darkish wit, buoyancy and momentum.
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Extra info for Dead Air
Umm, well …’ Most of the people at the party were taking turns to throw things over the parapet. For a dedicatedly minimalist couple, Faye and Kul had a surprising amount of stuff they weren’t going to miss when they quit the loft: quite a lot of old kitchen bits and pieces, like bowls, plates, jars, a broken juicer, a defunct Thermos flask, some outdated goblets, a bilious green fondue set … then a handful of ornaments they’d been given by Faye’s parents, which they’d never liked or ever displayed but had kept in case the old couple ever came to visit (the ornaments were, like Faye’s parents, pretty hideous), followed by bigger stuff as Faye and Kul got into it and people started to cam-cord what was happening: an old hi-fi system, a bust TV, a misbehaving radio, and bottles; lots of bottles.
It looked shiny and great but tasted of nothing much. Jo was probably right that I ought to eat something. Breakfast had been some orange juice and a couple of lines of coke each. I did very little of that stuff these days, but I had this theory that the last time you want to get coked up is late at night when you just make your body stay up way beyond the time it wants to and you therefore stand a good chance of missing the next day; snort during the hours of daylight instead and sort of slide off into alcohol as the evening descends, so maintaining something remotely like the body’s usual rhythms.
I looked over my shades at her. She extracted a strip of celery from her Bloody Mary and clinked my glass with hers. ’ ‘Yeah. ’ Jo was small with very thick black hair - cut short - and very thin white skin - variously pierced. She had a wide, rock-star’s mouth, which was sort of fitting as she did PR for the Ice House record label. Today she was looking vaguely Drowned World-era Madonna-ish, with black tights, a short tartan skirt and an old leather jacket over an artfully ripped T-shirt. People, not all Americans, had been known to call her cute and feisty, though not normally twice.
Dead Air by Iain M. Banks