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Conrad Williams runs with a pack of relatively new British writers who -- influenced by M. John Harrison, I suspect -- all share a certain bleakness of tone. In their books, everything is grey. Everything is decayed. Everything is fading. There are no strong emotions, no joy, no love, no rage or terror. Just a detached numbness. Why get wound up? It's all hopeless anyway. "Head Injuries" fits right in with this morbid bunch. Three sort-of friends who don't seem to particularly care much for one
I remember reading this about 13 years ago and being intrigued by its bleak and slightly gruesome tale. Williams hasn't popped up on my radar since but I intend to look out for his later books now.
Definitely his first book, rough around the edges and slow in a few spots, doesn't have that kick your teeth story line that I've grown accustomed to with his later work, still good story.