Authors: Jeff Noon
They stared at each other. Nola saw something in his eyes, something she had not seen for a while.
And she looked at him properly for the first time.
Maybe a little older than she first thought.
Black messy hair falling over his brow, his deep-set eyes.
Eyes that drew her towards them, darkness within.
Redblood mouth,
pale skin that hardly saw daylight.
A face of contrasts, interesting.
I could almost...
She switched herself off from the feelings.
‘What else did you find out?’
The young man hesitated. ‘Well...’
‘Please, tell me.’
‘They never last long, those infected. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Nola nodded. The man held her gaze.
‘Of course, you might be different. The parasite signal is still in genesis, still forming. Who knows what it will turn into, when it finds the optimum host.’
Somebody walked along the corridor, outside: slow tipsy footsteps moving past the closed door.
The young man sat on the bed, a suitable distance from Nola. ‘We have flooded ourselves with the media in all its many forms. Our minds are now open to signals. We have become aerials.’
Nola closed her eyes briefly.
Triggers. Click, clicking in her head.
This guy knew something of her.
She made a smile and the man edged closer. ‘Now the signal starts to contaminate us directly, Nola. Flesh is analogue, and within your body the broadcast melts directly into the human form.’
She looked away. ‘I’m sick.’
‘This isn’t an illness. This is a change in the world’s zeitgeist.’
‘All this is supposed to make me feel good?’
‘Not that. But something. It means something, don’t you see?’
‘It means pain. Loneliness.’
The young man nodded. For a moment he was silent, and then: ‘My name’s Joe. Joseph Palmer.’
‘Good. That’s good to know.’
‘Nola, let me see you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘This is something I’ve only heard about, only dreamt about.’
‘I’m not a freak show.’
Joe’s hand reached out. Nola flinched. ‘No. Don’t touch me. Please.’
‘I was just looking for the ON switch.’
Nola groaned.
‘That was a joke, by the way.’
‘I know. It’s just that...’
She hesitated.
‘What?’ Joe asked. ‘It just happens?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Not lately. I’ve been gaining control.’
‘I’ve heard about that effect. It’s been mentioned. People can learn.’
Nola turned to face him directly. ‘Joe?’
‘What is it?’
‘Is this...do you know, is this contagious?’
‘I believe it is. But you have to get close.’ His voice was hushed, warming. ‘Real close.’
He placed his hands on her shoulders, close to the neck on each side. Waiting for the spark.
Quietly: ‘Show me.’
Nola closed her eyes.
His fingers stroked her hair where it hung down one side of her face, and then the face itself, gently, feeling the heat that lay just beneath the skin, the pictures and sounds waiting to seep through the pores. The tingle as the images formed, as they melted together, separated, formed again into new shapes, not seen as yet, not alive, not broadcast, only concepts, promises, ideas, raw data in the bodymix.
His hand rested on her face, barely moving, just the fingertips lightly caressing. He started to speak. ‘I’ve lost my way, Nola.’
Her eyes came slowly open.
‘I’ve lost my way. My soul has seeped away into my day job. All I have left is what I can see in front of me, what I listen to. What I touch.’
And Nola saw in his gaze her own disease returned. She was the poison oracle, he was the monitor. And then her body started to respond and to speak softly of its own desires. A child’s voice rose from her skin like a cloud telling a story, a tale of the drifting moon lost at sea and the ship made of beeswax that lugged the moon home again.
Colours melted on her face, forming the ship, the lonely moon, the young boy who smiled at its return.
Joe Palmer trembled as he saw this. He could hardly believe that he was so close to the source, his hand moving on down her face now, gentle across her lips - moist, red - down her chin to her neck.
Fingers, decoding,
witnessing.
He leant in close and breathed on her.
He
breathed...
Pictures rippled under the motion of air,
and shimmered,
settled once more as he moved on,
fingers across her breasts,
under the bed sheet, around her stomach
softly drawn,
a scratch of nail
sending the images aflame,
dancing.
Nola shivered,
The bed sheet fell away.
Skin channels blurred over to new stations,
programmes travelled through her
caressing her skin as Joe caressed her now,
now, lips barely touching hers,
then...
touching,
(ah)
converging, parting,
so that pictures dazzled and hummed on her flesh
fading and rising under the fingertips,
and finally to kiss:
Contact...
Real lips on broadcast lips, on real lips,
on broadcast lips.
His body...
wiry, covered in scars both old and new,
self-inflicted.
Her body glowing with stolen beauty,
skinpixels dissolving
making images:
Tigers prowling in bright electric colours
sunlight on a wall
children playing a game
gardens, skyscrapers, waves, sunsets
subatomic structures
pages from a dictionary flicking over
snowfall.
Nola’s skin glistening,
chromatophores alive with pictures:
Shining cities
flame-lit midnight villages
townships crammed with human life
jungle vines
purple flowers
mathematical symbols
a sudden cloud of perfume from a spray bottle
burning clocks
film star profiles
dragonflies, their wings of bronze,
silver,
electric blue.
Flesh on flesh in close-up,
the cusp of love
where curves meet and part...
two wounds caressing each other
across a shared membrane.
Teardrops, both filmed, and real.
The soft wet glimmers
of other people’s bodies
moving through Nola,
famous bodies
unknown bodies
naked, male and female
all forming on her skin, covering her
all
all caressing.
She was feeling the noise,
tasting pictures,
touching aromas with the scent of sight:
Lost in Telaesthesia.
Nola’s eyes fluttered and closed.
Now only darkness.
Now the sounds painted her skull:
whisperings, tintinnabulation
tiny bells ringing, murmurings
echoes
remnants of a jingle
glimmers of noise
Something cold and warm crawling along
at the far edge of her skin,
at the duskedge of skin
rising up her body of light and colour and heat
subsuming her,
making her the fragile ethercast
scattered from the myriad stars to earth:
Stars to earth...
The myriad midnight stars calling the earth...
Calling
...
Conclusion;
There is none.
Climax;
None.
Only the slow emergence of new possibilities
that teeter and fall
and rise again
in waves of sound and vision
and even as the body fades
the body sings...
Images float above the skin
Stars whisper and sing in the airwaves
the moon blurs, softens
skin softens
vision whispers
skin whispers.
Skin blurs, soft
images of stars on skin
the night sky on her skin, the dark
blurs of light where the stars
shimmer
fallen
falling to rest here
on her skin,
iridescent
hushed...
Nola dozed in the man’s arms and dreamed.
The dreams were but the flickers of vision programmes in her head. She imagined her tongue. She could feel the heat of it, the heavy flesh pink and wet, saturated with images of a rain shower, of books and panthers, trees and glitter,
of tears on a young girl’s face
illuminated
spark, spark, FLASH:
Nola’s tongue wet with electric buzztaste,
electric life.
Hours ticking away.
Silver glow through the window, gentle over her body, half uncovered on the bed as night passed away to early morning. Her skin settled to quieter broadcasts: waves on the shore, the roll of fog, sun sparkle.
Slow, slowing...
Still she slept, dreaming on.
Dreaming...