by Jeff Noon
‘That’s right. And so did you.’
Through the wave of spices, and free.
That’s it. I’ve told this as best I can, from memories and imaginings. We’re living in the ruins of the Monstermarket now, Daisy, Celia and I, surrounded by the brethren. Life’s not the same without the weekly thrill of chancing all on the dance of Lady Luck, but we make up for it in other ways.
Every day I read the papers for news of a suicide. It hasn’t happened yet, but Hackle would keep it secret, wouldn’t he? Either that, or he’s still out there somewhere, roaming the city with the Joker inside him. That’s somebody else’s problem, because I tell you, I’m through with the hero bit.
Open all channels, Joe was always saying. Connect to everything.
Pretty soon it will be time for us to move out, maybe London, maybe abroad. Maybe just another part of Manchester, go legal. I’m seventeen now, ready for life. Love and life, gently lived. I’ve got a tube of vaz in my pocket and the urge to take wing. Maybe I should set myself up in business again, serve some grease to the people, and I don’t mean a new curry. I mean, Make life easy with a little touch of Malik’s International Vaz.
Daisy’s ready to go back to learning. She wants to be a teacher. I think she’d be good. She’s certainly taught me a few tricks.
And Celia? Little Miss Celia Hobart? She’s coming with us, of course, sticky feather in hand. She never goes anywhere without it, never sleeps without it tickling her nose, never lets it go. She reckons it gives her good dreams.
Yesterday something strange happened. Celia has this new friend, a little brethren boy called Eddie Jnr. His mother claims him to be Big Eddie Irwell’s son, but I don’t know for sure. Anyway, him and Celia were playing some game or other outside our den. Celia was tickling him with the feather, and suddenly he grabs it off her, angry like, and you’ll never guess what he does then?
The young boy puts the feather into his mouth.
