by Tony Telford
Further on, there was a bus shelter with a poster advertising some new computer. The picture showed a ridiculously good-looking guy in specs gazing into a computer screen.
‘I bet ’e usually models underwear or something,’ said Jean. ‘Probably only wore glasses to make ’im look more intelligent.’
At the top of the poster there was a caption, white letters on black:
BE LIKE
NO ONE ELSE.
We all stood looking at the poster. Then Matty noticed that the plastic cover had come away at one side. ‘Hang on, has anyone got a black felt-tip?’
I gave him the one from my satchel. Then we kept watch for him while he wiggled his arm inside the casing and got to work on the poster. It didn’t take long. ‘How’s that?’ he said, standing back to let us see.
Now the caption read:
BE
NO ONE.
‘Perfect,’ said Draemon.
‘Brill,’ commented Jean.
Matty glanced at me. ‘I’m not necessarily anti-computer, by the way. It’s just—I mean, look at him.’ He gestured towards the man smirking into his computer screen.
‘You don’t have to explain, Matty,’ I said.
As we walked through the afternoon streets, Miri and I talked about future hopes and plans. She said she wanted to do something in music, but I didn’t know what I was going to do.
‘Find your true will,’ she said. ‘Then follow it with all your heart and all your strength.’
9
By the time we got back to our neighbourhood the lights were on in the skyscrapers and the sky had turned the most wonderful dark shining blue, like the wings of an Amazonian butterfly. In a small tree by the side of the road a blackbird was singing quietly to himself.
We crossed the road and cut through the park. ‘Hey, what’s going on over there?’ said Matty. Between the trees you could see flames curling up into the darkness. We immediately changed direction and headed towards them. As we got closer, we could hear the steady thump of a drum. Then other instruments—guitar, harmonica, smoky clarinet. Figures were passing back and forth in front of the flames.
‘I do believe it’s a party,’ beamed Draemon.
We came into a clearing. About a dozen people were gathered round a fire in a big oil drum. Off to one side there was a small group of musicians. The drummer, a skinny guy with tattoos and a Mohican, was sitting on a tall wooden box, tapping funky beats on the front of it. Miri told me the box was called a cajón. Next to the drummer, a young woman in a fur coat and rainbow-coloured fairy wings was playing a huge square guitar with a curly neck. Perched on a tree stump with eyes closed, she swayed from side to side as her fingers brushed the strings. Behind her stood a big red-faced woman, not so young and built like a rugby player. Every now and then she brought a tiny silver harmonica to her mouth, screwed up her face and blew long wailing bluesy notes. Next to her, half-hidden behind the drummer, was a small, neat man in his sixties or seventies. He looked like a professor—thick specs, tweed jacket and tie. I wondered what he was doing there until I noticed the clarinet between his long, bony fingers. Delicately as if he was sipping tea, he raised the black and silver tube to his lips and clusters of drowsy notes seemed to hang in the air like swarms of fireflies.
‘This music is so weird,’ said Miri. ‘Weird but cool.’ I knew exactly what she meant. It was the kind of music you hear in dreams.
A couple started dancing in front of the fire. The girl was wearing a gorgeous red and black skirt that floated up as she spun around. She had silver chains on her ankles and a flower tattoo on the top of each bare foot. Her partner must have been twice her age. With his long wavy golden hair and his gypsy earring he looked like an ageing rock star. I could have watched him dance all night. It’s not that he did anything spectacular. There was just something in the way he turned his hips and rocked his shoulders and kept that one arm pumping to the beat. And he was smiling all the time, a faint, devilish smile that made me think he knew what dancing’s for.
On the far side of the fire, three tramps were passing round a huge plastic flagon. One of them called out to us and held up the flagon. His face was as red as a Chinese lantern.
‘Don’t touch that stuff,’ warned Jean. ‘Not unless you’re into battery acid.’
People were starting to pour in out of the darkness, drawn by the music and the flames. The band was getting bigger, too. Now there was a woman playing upright bass, and a girl, probably only fifteen or sixteen, picking out amazing rhythms on electric guitar. It’s funny how I never saw any of the new musicians arrive. Suddenly they were just there.
‘Ooh, look at him,’ said Jean, pointing to a guy in a blue coat with long black hair. The guy saw us looking and smiled shyly at Jean. The only person interested in me was an old guy with one of those warrior tattoos down one side of his face.
Just then the beat started getting louder. ‘Look!’ shouted Miri. A group of about twenty drummers, tapping and thumping on every kind of drum you could imagine, were strolling towards us through the trees. They were all dressed in pink—nothing but pink. Some of them even wore pink wigs. As they came into the clearing they spread out amongst the crowd. The sound of the big drums went right through you. Next second, a man in a white raincoat, sunglasses and trilby jumped out of nowhere and started playing saxophone right in front of me, hunching over the sax as he made it moan and growl and then leaning back to make it squeal like a frenzied pig.
Everybody started going wild. Draemon was jiving with some crazy woman in a tinsel dress and a sombrero. Jean grabbed Matty’s arm before anyone else had a chance. ‘Time to dance, buster,’ she said, and dragged him off into the middle of the crowd. Then Miri gave me a secret smile, raised her arms above her head and let herself get swept away on the tide of people.
I glanced at Hook Morton, shuffling around by himself at one side of the crowd. ‘Wanna dance, Hooky?’ I called. He just shook his head and looked away. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I settled Boo next to a fence at one side of the clearing, and then I was off, spinning like a dervish, the rhythm pulsing through my arms and legs like electricity. Never in all my life had I danced like that. It was like I had a fever or something. Some people were going even crazier than me, but they all seemed to have their own special way of freaking out. A girl next to me was thrashing her head back and forth like she was having a fit, and there was a tall thin guy who was just standing on one spot with his arms spread, grinning ecstatically. There were all ages, too. I noticed an elderly woman in a headscarf jigging around with a piano accordion. When I passed close to her, I realized she was playing something completely different to the other musicians, a polka or something, but nobody seemed to mind.
Suddenly there was a big cheer and a girl rose up into the air and hung there for a moment like an astronaut on a space-walk, her hair fanned out like a dandelion clock around her astonished face. Then down she went, sinking safely into the blanket held by her friends. It was the first time I’d seen people doing that.
The band played on and on, one song after song another without a break, and all the time the clearing was getting more and more crowded. By this time, I was dying of thirst and my arms and legs felt like they were going to drop off, but no way was I going to stop while that music was still going. A lot of the songs had sort of African rhythms that got inside you and took control of your limbs. All around me, people were just dancing, nothing else but dancing. There was something urgent about the way they were all concentrating on the music.
Finally there was a pause while the musicians tuned up. I spotted Boo sitting with Miri under some trees and dragged my weary carcass over to them. When I got up close I realized Miri was sitting very still, with her legs crossed, eyes half-closed, hands resting in her lap.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I whispered, wondering if I should leave her alone.
She smiled. ‘Just give me a minute.’ So I collapsed next to her on the grass and watched the silhouettes of t
he dancers going round and round the fire. The band were playing that old reggae tune, ‘Keep On Walking.’ I love that song. It always makes me feel like everything’s okay. Once or twice I glanced at Miri. Her face seemed to shine in the darkness, and her long black hair was lifting in the breeze.
She opened her eyes and stretched.
‘Isn’t it hard to do that with all this noise?’ I said.
‘No, I can meditate almost anywhere these days. Silence is nice too, though.’
‘How long have you been doing it?’
‘Couple of years.’
‘What made you start?’
‘Serendipity.’ She smiled as she remembered. ‘I’d only been in the City a few weeks. I guess I was pretty messed up in those days…’ Her smile faded for a second. ‘But I’ll spare you the depressing details.’
‘You said you ran away from home.’
‘Yeah. My family were going back to India. They wanted me to get married there.’
‘Arranged marriage?’
‘Yeah. I just couldn’t believe they’d do that to me. It was incredible.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t handle it, so I ran away.’
‘Have you been in touch with them since then?’
‘Oh yeah, all the time. I always keep in touch with Mum.’
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘Two sisters and a brother.’ She smiled sadly.
‘I guess you miss them.’
She shrugged. ‘Me and my sisters are really close. I’d go back tomorrow if I could.’
‘Are they in India now?’
‘No, they all stayed here in the end.’
We watched the dancers kick up clouds of gold.
‘You were going to tell me how you started meditating.’
‘Yeah. Well, one day I was wandering around town like a lost soul, and I saw this guy outside a department store. He looked just like an ordinary guy, but he was sitting on the footpath with his legs crossed, you know, in the meditation pose. Just sitting there while everybody was rushing past. And I just thought, oh my God, what an incredible thing to do. There was something about him… He kind of stood out without trying to. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, definitely.’
‘Anyway, a bit later on that day, I was looking at a secondhand bookstall in the market and I accidentally knocked a book off the table. Picked it up, and it was about zazen—you know, Zen meditation. I thought, that’s funny, so I bought it. Twenty pence, it cost me. And that’s how it all started.’
‘Have you still got the book?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can I borrow it?’
‘Course you can, my darling.’
Hook Morton approached in a grass skirt with Draemon’s traffic cone pushed down over his ears. He was with a middle-aged man in a flat cap and a dirty yellow overcoat.
‘Pearly, Miri,’ said Hook excitedly. ‘I’d like you to meet Siegfried.’
The man raised his cap and gave a little bow. ‘Grrrrr-HOOD terMEECHurrrr!’ That’s what it sounded like—a growl and then a couple of hiccups. ‘Grrrrr-HOOD terMEECHrrrr!’ It took me a moment to realize that what he’d actually said was ‘Good to meet you.’
‘Siegfried is a n-nephologist,’ said Hook Morton.
‘Pardon?’
‘A nephologist.’
‘Yurrss.’ Siegfried cleared his throat. ‘NeePHOLogy—N, E, P, H, O, L, O, G, Y. The—rrrrr—STUDy or contemPLATion of CLOUDS.’ Every second or third word was like a little explosion, with a sort of purring noise in between. ‘The—rrrr—term deRIVes from the—hmmmm—GREEK wurrd nephos, meaning—hmmm—CLOUD!’ Like an actor in an old-fashioned play, he raised his arm and pointed to the dark sky. Sure enough, a small orange cloud was floating past all by itself, as if it had been brought on especially for us. Siegfried bowed again and gave us a big showbiz smile, revealing two rows of long yellow teeth.
‘I love clouds,’ I said. ‘Especially at sunset.’
‘Hmmm.’ Siegfried gazed at me for a moment with his hands clasped over his breast. ‘The young LAdy is a—hmmm—romantic.’ He sighed.
Miri couldn’t help giggling. Siegfried suddenly frowned at her. For a moment I thought he was cross. ‘Did YOU know that in the ancient Hindu myths CLOUDS are—hmmm—the close—rrrr—COUSins of ERLYphants?’
Miri shook her head.
Siegfried pointed at Hooky. ‘And did YOU know that a CLOUD is heavier than an erlyphant? Yurs, inDEED, rrrrr. The WATerrrr DROPlets in your AVurrage CUMulus CLOUD weigh as much as—hmmm—EIGHTY FULL-GROWN ERRLEPHANTS!’
Then suddenly a change came over him. He cleared his throat, shifted his feet, and raised his eyes to the sky:
‘I see a dark brown shabby cloud—
The moon has gone behind its back.
I look to see her turn it white—
She turned it to a lovely black.’
It was if someone else was speaking. His voice was low and tender, and he even looked different, somehow.
‘A lovely cloud, a jet-black cloud,
It shines with such a glorious light,
That I am glad with all my heart
She turned it black instead of white.’
‘—Who wrote that, then?’ he asked.
He was about to tell us when an old woman approached with a wooden box.
‘Would you like to buy a ferret, dear?’ she asked me. ‘I’ve got a lovely albino in here.’ She tapped the box.
‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ve already got a dog.’
Her eyes landed on Boo. ‘Oh, so that was your snap dog running around wi’ them lunatics?’ Suddenly she was really cross. ‘I’ve never seen such a bunch of layabouts and scroungers.’
Draemon emerged from the trees in a long silver cloak and a policeman’s helmet. The old lady backed away.
‘What’ve you got in that box, my dear?’ boomed Draemon. ‘Is it something for me to eat?’ His eyes widened at the thought of food.
‘You keep away from my ferret!’ screeched the old lady, clasping the box to her chest.
‘Listen!’ said Miri suddenly.
We listened. The crowd had gone very quiet and all you could hear was the strumming of a guitar and a single female voice—a voice like I’d never heard before. In two seconds Miri and I were on our feet and moving towards the clearing, towards that voice. It was hard to get close with all those people, but we found a little grassy mound that gave us a good view of what was going on.
At the front of the crowd, under an oil lamp hanging on the branch of a tree, stood a guitarist, a middle-aged man in a black quilted jacket with crinkly grey hair and a small goatee beard. Next to him was a woman, Middle-Eastern-looking, maybe in her thirties. Most of her thick black hair was coiled up on top of her head, but some hung down in small plaits around her neck. The plaits were woven with gold thread, and every time she moved her head they danced and wriggled like little golden snakes. She was wearing the most wonderful dress I’ve ever seen, a long black velvet gown covered with shining, twisting strands of scarlet, saffron, emerald and indigo, like vines in an enchanted forest. She herself wasn’t what most people call beautiful. In fact, her face was a bit lopsided and her nose was rather large. But she had something inside her that made her shine more brightly than any of those blank-faced models in the fashion magazines.
Just at that moment she’d stopped singing and was standing with her head bowed, listening to the guitar’s soft chords. But then, as the music changed to a minor key, she lifted her head and set loose a long, mournful note that seemed to float out over our heads like a kestrel riding the air above a hillside. Then the voice started spiralling round and round and round, and the guitarist fell into a lazy, lurching rhythm, and the circling notes melted into the words of a song—Arabic, by the sound of it—and I could see sand-dunes, a line of camels on a stony plain, a woman watching the desert for her nomad lover, like Dido waiting for Aeneas…
‘Who is she?’ whispered Miri.
I looked around. Above the listeners, the black fringe of trees gave way to an endless starry sky. Suddenly, words came into my head, like a line from an old book of spells: ‘There is another world, but it is in this one.’ I guess I must have read it somewhere.
Slowly the voice faded, the song dwindled and died. For five, ten, twenty seconds no one moved, no one made a sound, and all you could hear was the wind in the tops of the trees. Then one of the drummers, a tall man in specs and a pink tutu, started thumping out a slow, steady beat on his fat bass drum: boom…boom…boom. As he began to move out of the clearing, everyone simply fell in behind him and followed him out onto the park.
‘I think we’re going into town,’ said Miri.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Don’t know. But what does this remind—’
She was drowned out by the band, which for some reason started playing crazy, out-of-tune circus music. Half a dozen people wearing blank white masks were dancing round like deranged puppets. One of them came and stood right in front of me doing these weird ritualistic gestures, as if he was trying to exorcise me or something. I was quite relieved when he drifted away into the crowd.
Now we were approaching a big main road and the music had to compete with the thunder of rush-hour traffic. Inside the cars, I caught glimpses of phantoms leaning over luminous dashboards. Beyond the road, office blocks towered like monstrous tree-trunks, each of them burning from within.
When the lights changed, we danced across the road, waving and shouting to the people in the lines of cars. On the other side of the road there was a huge black building with a sign saying WELCOME TO CYBERWORLD. We went straight in, the whole lot of us, maybe a hundred people, all jumping and jiving around as the band played some kind of crazy jungle beat. A flight of stairs took us down into a wide, low-ceilinged room, as dark as a cave, where all you could see were dozens and dozens of screens, each one flashing with its own endless nightmare of robot wars, hi-tech weaponry, ruined cities, exploding jets, exploding buildings, exploding people… Everything seemed to exist only so that it could be blown up and destroyed forever. The noise was incredible, a constant deafening storm of wrenching metal, screams, booms, whooshes and, above it all, the angry voices of machines.
