The Adventures Of Una Perrson

by Michael Moorcock

  'These days, yes. We live in a very superstitious age, Mrs Persson. Why try to swim against the tide?'

  'You don't have to stay here, any more than I do.'

  'Then why are you here, if you don't like it?'

  'I'm trying to help.'

  'So am I.' He smirked, smoothing back his hair. 'You're a bit short of charity, aren't you, Mrs Persson? I don't sit in judgement on people. That's the difference between us.'

  'You can't afford to, can you?'

  'You sound tired.' He rounded on her.

  'So do you, Frank.'

  'Do me a favour!' He put away his vestments. 'I've never been fitter.'

  'Where do you think I might find Jerry?'

  'Try the hospitals. Or the loony bins. He wouldn't let me treat him. I should think he's in one of his comas by now.'

  'Copping out again.'

  'See what I mean about judging people?'

  'You could be right.' She drew her S&W from her pocket. 'I'll do a bit of self-analysis tonight. In the meantime, it won't stop me executing you, Frank.'

  'You can't kill me. They can't kill any of us.'

  'Effectively, I can kill you. I can take you out of all this. You might go somewhere nasty.'

  'Jerry's staying at our mum's. Blenheim Crescent. Know where it is? He's resting.'

  'In London.'

  He contemplated her revolver. 'He knows I can't touch him there. It's a sort of sanctuary for us.'

  'And Catherine?'

  'Probably there with him. They always get together when they can.' He sounded petulant, resentful. 'What are you trying on, Mrs Persson? Still hoping to find a world you can change? You've no chance here. Or is it just the Truth you're after?'

  'It hasn't occurred to you that all this was created by my manipulation of events?'

  'Don't kid yourself!' He was amused. 1 shouldn't have thought it would suit you.'

  ‘Things have to go through stages,' she said.

  'And they never work out the way you expect.'

  She put the gun away.

  He cackled. He was enlightened. 'You're calling them all in, aren't you? You're worried. You think we might have fucked things up. Why?'

  'Can you always remember everything you've done?'

  'Of course not. But I don't feel guilty . . . No—of course not. . .'

  'Can you remember now?'

  'Yes.' He became alarmed.

  'Work it out, then. I can remember, too. Almost everything. Clearly. Is that normal?'

  He sniffed, playing with his tie. 'Jesus Christ!'

  'I think there's time to get clear before the disintegration really hits,' she told him. 'You can have that information for nothing, though you deserve whatever happens to you. You've seen what can happen, haven't you? To people like you and me.'

  'All right! That'll do.' He wiped his mouth.

  She headed back through the arch. 'If I don't see you again . . .'

  'You're just trying to fuck things up for me here, aren't you?'

  'I wouldn't do that. I'm not interested in individuals one way or another. Maybe that's my trouble. You ought to know that, at least, by now.'

  'Bloody puritanical bitch!'

  She entered the cold air of the churchyard. She buttoned up her coat. The last of the congregation were getting into their cars. Those who had come on foot were plodding up the asphalted road towards the village. Una caught a whiff of charred flesh. She avoided a second sight of the stake and the corpse. The afternoon light was already fading. The sky was red behind the hill on which the village stood. A dog barked as its owner unlocked the door of his car. 'Good boy. Good boy.' An engine started. 'See you tomorrow, Harry.' Someone got on a bicycle, saluting a limousine. 'Bright and early, sir.'

  Una could never get used to the alienating sights and sounds of the rural home counties. She controlled her fear, making for her helicopter. At least she had the information she was looking for. The sun sank. Getting into the chopper she looked back at the church. Candles were flickering in two of the windows. She thought she heard Frank chanting. She was pleased. At least he was more frightened than she was. The same could be said for the whole congregation. She strapped herself into her seat and started the rotors, lifting towards the first stars and the comfort of the darkness, of hatred divorced from its object. She flew over hard fields and stiff little towns, over mean rivers and petty hillocks and the pathetic remains of forests. All that was really left of the forest, she thought, was the stake and the black corpse hanging from it, for the inhabitants of this world seemed to have a profound will towards preserving only the worst aspects of their way of life and banishing the best. Was there any point at all to her trying to save them from their inhuman destiny?

  She pulled herself together. Frank had been right. She was tired and, because of that, she was getting the usual delusions of grandeur. It was lack of sleep which destroyed many a promising revolution. She recalled the faces of all those many friends who had failed. She saw their red-rimmed eyes, the lines: the intense stares of those denied the security of their dreams. And it was their efforts to find those dreams, to create them from the objective world, that brought doom to their endeavours and terror to millions. But was it possible, any longer, to distinguish between the dream and the reality? She had seen so many futures, so many ruins.

  She yawned. The sooner she got to sleep herself, the better. She would not bother to visit Blenheim Crescent tonight but would leave it until the morning, when she could cope with the Cornelius family, particularly the mother, who would almost certainly deny that her children were at home.

  It would not be the first time Mrs Cornelius would try, in her blind mistrust of reason, to stem the tide of history.

  SIXTEEN

  In which Miss Catherine Cornelius finds Fresh Romance

  Jerry was laughing at his little mate Shakey Mo Collier. 'It's a complicated number, all right. Four bloody chords, Mo!' They leaned in the shadows of the alcove at the back of the stage, trying through a small practise amplifier at their feet, to get their guitars in tune. The alcove was of grimy, bare brick. Catherine thought the whole back of the club was more like a disused railway tunnel than anything else.

  Catherine was confused and self-conscious, feeling like an interloper as, around her, young men in Italian suits humped electrical gear about, apparently at random, and exchanged mysterious jokes.

  There were four groups playing tonight, Jerry had told her, and his group. The Blues Ensemble, was on third. They would go on stage at about midnight. It was now eight o'clock. Only Jerry and Mo had so far turned up. The drummer and the bass guitarist were coming together in the drummer's dad's van. Jerry was friends with The Moochers who were top of the bill and they had agreed to lend The Ensemble their amplifiers because they were going on last to play their second set which, if they were in good form, wouldn't finish until about four.

  Two men, middle-aged and heavily built, also wearing Italian suits, came out of the darkness at the side of the stage. By their distinctive, menacing swaggers, Catherine guessed that they must be coppers. Her mouth went dry as she saw one of them put a hand on Jerry's shoulder and whisper in his ear. She was surprised that Jerry didn't go with them. Instead he stayed where he was and nodded seriously. Their mission finished, the two men sauntered back the way they had come.

  'Who was that?' she said.

  'Manager,' Jerry told her. They want us to do a longer set, to spin it out a bit. The Yellow Dogs can't make it.' He shrugged. There's an extra fiver in it.'

  ‘That's not bad,' said Mo Collier. 'Over a quid each. That's about six quid for everybody. Blimey!' He was impressed.

  'If we get paid,' said Jerry.

  'They're all right here.' Mo was confident. 'They're straight. Johnny said so.' Johnny Gunn had fixed up the gig for them. He liked to call himself their manager and they paid him ten per cent of every gig he arranged. This was their first in Central London. Mo paused. 'Have we got enough material rehearsed?'

/>   'We'll just jam the standards a bit longer,' Jerry said. 'Like everybody else.'

  'Oh, good.' Mo preferred jamming. He began to play the chords of 'Bo Diddley.' He and Jerry were fanatical Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley fans.

  Catherine felt cold and it seemed to her that grease was settling on her bare arms. She was wearing a cotton jumper and slacks. She wished that she had brought her chunky sweater.

  'You bored, Cath?' Jerry asked.

  'Oh, no. It's very interesting.'

  'You could go through to the bar and get a coffee if you wanted to,' said Mo. 'They'll be open now.' Unplugging the lead of his guitar he walked to the side of the stage and pushed back the filthy curtain to look through into the hall. 'Yeah. It's open.'

  'I think I will, then. Does anyone else want one?'

  'No, thanks.' Jerry pulled a bottle from his pocket. It contained Coca Cola mixed with whisky (the club had no liquor licence). 'This'll do me. Did you manage to get the other stuff. Mo?'

  'Naturally!' Mo drew a manilla envelope out of the top of his pullover. 'I got twenty.'

  'Twenty what?' asked Catherine.

  'Purple hearts. They're lovely.' Mo smacked his lips.

  Catherine walked to the curtains, peering nervously through. There were about fifty people scattered about the hall. Nobody was dancing to the record playing through the loudspeakers. The sound was so distorted it was impossible to tell what the record was. As she went down the steps at the side of the stage everyone looked at her. She thought they must be wondering what she was doing here and she felt a bit shaky as she crossed to the far side of the hall to the little bar selling Espresso coffee, Walls' hot dogs, hamburgers and Coca Cola. The hall was painted bright yellow all over. On the walls were pictures of various jazz musicians; until recently, this had been a modern jazz club.

  'White coffee, please,' she said to the girl at the counter. The girl had dyed red hair and heavy, fantastic make-up. She looked worn out. She pulled the handle of her machine, holding the Pyrex cup under it. She put the cup in a Pyrex saucer. 'Shilling, love.'

  'Cor!' said Catherine, taking the money from the purse in her left hand. 'And it's half foam!'

  'Don't tell me about it.' The girl was friendly. 'You with one of the groups?'

  'My brother's The Blues Ensemble.'

  'Good, are they?'

  'Not bad.'

  'You heard The Moochers?'

  'Not live. I saw them that time on TV.'

  'They're really too much. Really groovy, you know. Fabulous!' The girl became confiding, leaning on the bar. It was the first time that Catherine had heard this sort of slang used naturally, without a hint of irony or embarrassment. 'Oh, good,' she said.

  'D'you know any of them?' the girl wanted to know. 'D'you know Paul?'

  'Is he the tall one?'

  'Yeah! All the scrubbers hang around him.'

  'I've met him once. I've only just come back to London, you see.'

  'Where've you been?'

  'Carlisle. Liverpool.'

  'Liverpool! That's fantastic. The Cavern an' that?'

  Catherine began to feel ashamed that she hadn't visited the Cavern, seen the Beatles or Billy J. Fury or Gerry and the Pacemakers. I was just working there,' she said. 'I didn't get out much in the evenings.' Gerard had been jealous of her going out on her own and he hated popular music. 'Oh, I've been there a few times.'

  'That's my ambition,' the girl said, 'to go to Liverpool. But I suppose it's not the same now.'

  'Not really,' agreed Catherine. That, at least, was bound to be true. 'Well . . . ' She picked up her coffee cup and began the long walk back to the stage. 'See you, then.'

  'See you.' There was admiration in the girl's voice. Catherine hadn't realized quite how much respect one got from being associated with beat groups. She grinned to herself, no longer bothered by the stares, as she pushed her way through the curtain.

  Jerry and Mo had disappeared. She felt abandoned. A thickset young man went past. ‘Looking for Jerry? 'E's in the dressing-room.' He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. Jerry's group hadn't merited the dressing-room which was technically reserved for the main attraction. She approached the dark door in the wall and opened it. The lights were brighter in here. The room was roughly eight feet long by five feet wide. There were about ten people in it, including two girls in short plastic skirts and waistcoats, who were made up like the girl at the bar. Catherine couldn't help thinking how much like young prostitutes they looked. Were these ‘scrub-bers'? Jerry was leaning against a tiled fireplace. The dressing room had long ago been lived in, it seemed. There were fragments of rotting carpet on the floor and two steel-framed chairs with torn plastic seats. As Catherine entered, one of the girls sat down, glancing curiously at her. Neither of the girls was speaking to anyone and yet they both seemed to take a keen interest in what the men were saying. Their language was as strange as the girl's at the bar. ‘I dunno how he kept that riff going so long.' ‘Put Black Diamonds on and see if they're any better.' ‘Roy put them on his acoustic and pulled the whole bloody belly off!' They were laughing, enthusiastic, friendly with each other. Catherine thought she had never seen her brother looking more cheerful. This atmosphere seemed to bring out all that was best and most enthusiastic in him. 'Or it could be the pickups,' Jerry was saying. 'You could move them apart a bit more, couldn't you?' 'Not on my guitar, mate. What d'you think it is, a fucking Fender?' Jerry passed his bottle round. With some dismay, she saw him put a couple of pinkish pills into his mouth. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

  She thought that four of the boys must be from the same group. They all had pudding basin haircuts, Brooks Brothers shirts with high, button-down collars and thin ties, cream-coloured jackets with thin green and blue stripes on them, and maroon trousers. Everyone wore scuffed black high-heeled winkle pickers. She noticed, in the corner, a very tall one wearing a short leather jacket and jeans. He looked more like a beatnik than the rest. His features while youthful were gaunt. He had his ear to his cherry-coloured guitar and kept plucking at the strings as if puzzled by something. He had a panatella sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Catherine thought he looked very romantic.

  'Hello, Cath.' Jerry was merry. 'This is Brian—me old mate from school, remember? Ian. Bob. Pete.' She found it difficult to follow him, but she smiled at them all and they smiled at her. 'Nice to meet you,' she said.

  'What a little darlin'!' said Brian appreciatively. He had a round, plump, cheeky face. 'How'd you fancy a big R & B star, Cathy?' Everyone laughed.

  The biggest he's ever been is two all-nighters in a row at the Flamingo,' said one of the boys in a cream jacket. 'Anyway, you don't know what R & B is. All you're interested in is bloody Muddy Waters and Leadbelly.'

  Brian grinned, to reveal a missing middle tooth. 'Well, I've gone commercial, 'aven't I?'

  'If three quid a week's commercial,' said another, 'we're really in the big time now. I'm gonna get me a monster Cadillac car an' drive off down Route 66, goin' nowhere!' His attempt at an American accent seemed neither incongruous nor embarrassing, probably because of his enthusiasm.

  'You'll be lucky.' Brian accepted the bottle. 'You told me you were behind the payments on your Transit.'

  Catherine began to enjoy the feeling of comradeship in the dressing-room. She was reminded of old films she had seen, of soldiers or airmen in the mess, before they went on a mission. When Brian handed her the bottle, now almost empty, she took a swig. It was nice to be around people who were keen on what they were doing, who didn't seem to feel a need to justify it or rationalize it. She passed the bottle on and sat down next to the silent girl. 'Hello. Is your boyfriend in one of the groups?'

  The girl seemed grateful for being spoken to. 'No. Me and Yvonne come from Haringey. We go to all the London gigs. We know Roy.'

  'He's in The Moochers?'

  'Yeah.'

  'He's a friend of yours, is he?'

  'Sort of, yeah.'

  Somebody blundere
d past Catherine and fell against Yvonne. 'Sorry, darling.' He gave her breasts a squeeze. 'Co-ar!' He continued on his way, to speak to the gaunt guitarist in the corner. Catherine was surprised by the way Yvonne reacted. She looked at her friend as if she had scored a point, then turned. 'Do you mind?' she said.

  'Not with you, darling. Anytime,' said the boy absently, continuing to talk to the guitarist. 'What about it, then?'

  'I wanted to start with "Mojo." You know, a good raver.'

  'Yeah, but this way we build up to it.'

  'I'd rather start with something easy.'

  'Come off it, Paul. What's hard about "Memphis bloody Tennessee"?'

  'Nothin'. But I like getting up on "Mojo." You know?'

  'Okay, then.' As he stumbled back, he chucked Yvonne under the chin, 'See you later, darlin',' but he was looking speculatively at Catherine as he spoke.

  The room had become very hot and the air was stale. Catherine could smell cigarette smoke, sweat and mould. She felt a bit dizzy. Nonetheless she had begun to enjoy herself.

  The heavily built manager looked into the room. His voice was aggressive, off-hand. 'Hurry it up, lads. You're on.' He spoke to no one in particular. It was evident that he didn't know one of the groups from another. Four of the boys separated themselves from the rest and picked up their instruments. 'See you,' said Brian to Jerry. He grinned at Catherine. 'See you, too, eh?'

  Catherine grinned back at him.

  Jerry came over. 'Want to hear them? They're not bad.'

  'Do they do the same sort of stuff as you?'

  'R & B? Sort of.' He took her hand. ‘Come on.'

  She was glad to be out of the dressing-room, into the comparatively fresh air. Peculiar whines and shrieks were coming from the stage. 'We can stand at the side,' said Jerry. They could see the stage now. The four young men were adjusting their instruments round their shoulders, kicking trailing leads clear of their feet, playing a few notes. The drummer kept thumping his bass drum and leaning down to adjust it. She saw one of them nod to the drummer who nodded back and immediately began a rapid roll around all the drums and cymbals in his kit. The noise was sudden and shook the floor as the guitars began to thump and scream out a fast eight-bar blues tune. She could hardly hear the words Brian was singing into the microphone. She craned her head to see the audience. Boys and girls were swaying on their feet, clapping inexpertly to the rhythm. The whole place was now packed, darkened.