Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (22 page)

The train from Balham was stuck on the bridge over the Thames. The bridge seemed to be swaying a lot. Mo felt tired. In the far corner of the compartment, Mitzi Beesley had curled herself on a seat and was asleep. Elsewhere came the sound of desultory vandalism, as if weary priests were performing a ritual whose point had been long-since forgotten.

The train quivered and began to hum.

In the sunset, the Houses of Parliament looked as if they were on fire. But it was only an illusion. The structure remained. A little graffiti on the sides made no real difference.

“Who's got the money?” Mo asked again.

Mitzi opened her eyes. “The people who had it in the first place. That's where it comes from and that's where it goes. How much did you spend at the pub last year?”

“About thirty thousand pounds.”

“Exactly.”

“What are you trying to say?”

She shook her head. “What the bloody hell did you ever know about Anarchy in the UK, Mo? You gave all the power back, just like that. You gave all the money back, just as if you'd found it in the street and returned it to the police station.”

“Bollocks!”

She shrugged and closed her eyes again. “What's in a name?”

From the luggage rack above them an old hippy said: “Words are magic, man. They have power, you know.”

Mitzi glanced up at him. “You've got to walk the walk as well as talking the talk, man.”

“I blame it all on nuclear energy,” he said.

“Well, you've got to blame something. It saves you a lot of worry.”

As the train began to move again Mitzi sang to the tune of
Woodstock.

“
We are wet; we are droopy

And we simply love Peanuts and Snoopy
… “

Hundreds of drab back-gardens began to fill the windows. The train made a moaning noise.

Mo slid towards the door.

“A pose is a pose is a pose,” said the hippy.

Cries of “Anarchy!” have always been associated with bored, middle-class students who followed each other like sheep.

But the Pistols are spearheading, or hoping to, a backstreet backlash of working class kids who have never really had it hard, but are still put down.

“They try to ruin you from the start. They take away your soul. They destroy you. ‘Be a bank clerk' or ‘join the Army' is what they give you at school.

“And if you do what they say you'll end up like the moron they want you to be. You have got to fight back or die.

“You have no future, nothing. You are made unequal. Most of the time the kids who fight back don't use their brains and it's wasted. Join a band is one way, or teach yourself is another. It doesn't take very much.”

—Record Mirror, December 11, 1976

Nestor Makhno, anarchist hero of the Ukraine, took another glass of absinthe and looked out onto the deserted Rue Bonaparte. “As far as I'm concerned,” he said, “I died in the mid-thirties. But you can't believe anything you hear, can you?”

“I know what you mean,” said Sid.

Things were quiet, that evening, at the Café Hendrix. The romantic dead were feeling generally low; though there was always a certain atmosphere of satisfaction when another young hero or heroine bit the dust.

“Besides,” said Brian Jones, “there are these second and third generation copycat deaths, aren't there, these days? You're not even sure if some of these people really are martyrs to the Cause.”

“What Cause is that?” Sid helped himself to a slice of pie.

“You know—Beautiful Losers—Dead Underdogs—Byronic Tragic figures. All that.” Jones was vague. It had been a long time since he had thought about it.

Sid was under the impression that Jones was simply upset. Maybe he thought his thunder had been stolen.

James Dean limped in and put his Michelob on the table. “It's all bullshit. Boredom is what brought us to this, my friends. And little else.”

“That isn't what the fans say. They think we died for them.”

“Because of them, more likely.” One of the oldest inhabitants of the Café Hendrix (if this timeless gathering place could be said have an oldest inhabitant), Jesus Christ, offered them a twisted grin. “Dead people are easier to believe in than live people. As soon as you're dead you can't stop the myth. That's what I found. They
want
you to die, mate.”

Several heads nodded. Several hands lifted drinks to pale lips.

“You always wind up doing what the public wants,” said Keith Moon, “even if you don't do it deliberately. They expect violence, you give 'em violence. They expect a tragic death, well … Here we are.”

“That's showbusiness,” said Makhno. “The pressures get on top of you. You're carrying so many people's dreams. And all you wanted in the first place was a better life.”

“They expect you to do the same for them.”

Makhno was disapproving. “That isn't anarchism. You scream at them for years not to follow leaders and they'll say ‘Isn't he wonderful. He's right. Don't follow leaders.' Then they come round and ask you what they should do with their lives.”

“They think anarchism means impulse or something. They don't realise it means self-determination, self-discipline and all of that. ‘Neither master nor slave.' It serves us right for becoming heroes.” Michael Bakunin was on his usual hobby horse.

“Don't say you never liked it,” Makhno refilled his glass.

“Only sometimes. Anyway, how do you stop it once it starts?”

“Go into hiding and lead an unnatural life,” said Jesus. “I wish to God I had. It wasn't any fun for me, I can tell you.”

“You didn't have so many bloody journalists in your day,” said Sid. “And you had a high opinion of yourself. Admit it.”

“Well nobody was calling you the bloody Son of God.” Jesus tried to justify himself, but they could tell he was embarrassed.

“They called me the Antichrist,” said Makhno with some pride.

“Johnny called himself that,” said Sid.

Jesus sighed. “It's all my damn fault.”

“You should be such a big man, to take the whole blame.” Brian Epstein sipped his orange juice. “Do you think we're in Hell?”

“It was all a bloody con.” Marc Bolan adjusted his silk shirt. He was sulking again. Albert Camus, from behind his back, winked at the others.

“We just try to make death seem worth something. Like saying good comes out of pain. You can't blame people. And that's our job.”

“Dying young?” said Sid. He was still pretty new to the Café Hendrix.

“Making death seem romantic and noble.” Byron began to cough. “How they can think that of me I don't know. Death is rotten and we shouldn't have to put up with it.”

In a far, dark corner of the café, Gene Vincent began to cry.

Nestor Makhno lifted his glass. “Ah well, here's to another boring evening in Eternity.”

“Fuck this,” said Sid. He went to the door and tried to open it.

“I'm afraid it's stuck, old chap,” said Chatterton.

“Self-hatred makes excellent idealists. You tolerate yourself and you get to be able to tolerate almost anything. I suppose there's some good in that.” Mitzi stood on Mo's shoulders and climbed over the gate of the Gothic studios. “What do you want me to say to him?”

“Just that I need to see him about me wages.”

“All right.” She scurried off into the darkness.

“I wish she'd stop bloody talking,” said Mo. He turned up the collar of his trenchcoat and lit a cigarette. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”

A few lights went on in the farthest building. Then they went off again. He heard a car start up.

The gates opened outwards, forcing him backwards.

A Mercedes droned past. In it were Frank Cornelius, Maggy and, trying to hide from him, Mitzi Beesley.

Mo shrugged and got through the gates before they closed again. He would do his own dirty work.

“You always think you must be in control,” said Frank, as the car turned towards Hampstead Heath, “but it's usually other people's desperation that's operating for you. As soon as their desperation disappears, the scam stops working. You have to keep as many people as desperate as possible. Look at me. I know what bloody desperation
means.”

“But you should never let anyone know that,” said Mitzi. “That's where you went wrong, Frank.”

“You were too honest,” said Maggy.

“I couldn't keep all the balls in the air. When you drop one, you drop the lot.” Frank wiped his lips. “Still, there's always tomorrow. I'm not finished, yet. Lick a few arses and you're back on the strength again in no time.”

“You should have been rude to him,” said Maggy.

“My morale's weak. After what mum said.”

“Mum's'll do it to you every time,” said Mitzi. “Are you sure Mo will be all right in there?”

“He'll be better off than you or me,” said Frank. “Little wanker. He deserves all he gets.”

“Every business is a compromise. You get into the business, you get into a compromise.” Mr Bug's representative stroked Mo's frightened head. The old assassin lay spreadeagled across a twenty-four track desk, his wrists and ankles secured by red leather bondage bracelets. Everything stank of warm rubber.

“Now what can I do for you, Mo?”

“Not this.”

“You know you like it really. And you've got to do something for the money. Are you ticklish.”

“Blimey,” said Mo as the feather mop connected with his testicles. He added: “But that's not where I'm dusty.”

“Are you a virgin, love?” The voice was greasy with sentiment.

“It depends where you mean.”

“Enjoy life while you can, darling. This whole place is due to go up in a few hours. Insurance.”

“Aren't the tapes all here? Auschwitz?”

“Every single copy, my beauty.”

“They must be worth something.”

“They're worth more if they're destroyed. Didn't you ever realise that? The harder things are to get, the more valuable they are. If they don't exist at all, they become infinitely valuable.”

“Is that a fact. Tee hee.”

“There, darling. You
are
ticklish.”

“Did you want to see Mr Bug?”

“Mr Bug anything like you?”

“I'm only his representative. I'm an amateur compared to him.”

“Then I'm not sure I want to see him. Can I go home now?”

“And where's home?”

“I suppose you've got a point.” Mo lay back on the desk. He might as well get the most out of this.

Mr Bug's representative's breath hissed within his mask. “Now you're really going to make a record.”

He reached for a large jar of vapour rub.

The black flag was flying over the Nashville Rooms. There must have been another temporary seizure of power. Outside in the street groups of hardcore punks, lookalikes for most of the Sex Pistols in their heyday, scrawled A on every available surface. They weren't sure what it meant but they knew they had to do it.

Nestor Makhno rode up in his buggy. He had never been much of a horseman since his foot was wounded. His woolly hat was falling over his eyes. The rest of his anarchist Cossacks looked as worn-out as he did. Their ponies were old and hardly able to stand.

“I think we might be too late.” Makhno guided the buggy round to the side entrance. From inside came the sound of chanting. “Is this what we fought Trotsky for?”

One of his lieutenants fired a ghostly pistol into the air. Its sound was faint, and drowned by the noise from within. “Comrades!”

“They can't hear us” said Makhno. “Is this what we all died for?”

“It's an attack on the symptoms, not the disease,” cried a Cossack dutifully from the rear. “Comrades, the disease lies within yourself, and so does the cure. Be free!”

With a shrug, Makhno tugged at the reins of the buggy and led his men away. “Ah well. It was worth a try.”

“Where to now?” asked one of the Cossacks.

“Camden Town. We'll try The Music Machine.”

Something was collapsing.

Miss Brunner plucked at her hair and blouse.

“The more childish you are, the more you score. Throw enough tantrums and they'll pay anything to get rid of you.”

Frank looked wildly about. “Are you sure this place is safe?”

“Safe enough.”

He lay tucked up in bed surrounded by Snow White and the Seven Dwarves wallpaper, Paddington Bear decals, Oz and Rupert books.

“I can hear a sort of breaking up sound. Can't you?”

“It's in your mind,” she said. “How much should we invest, do you think, in that new band?”

“We haven't got any money.”

“Neither have they.”

“Then it's all a bit in the air, isn't it?”

“Big money still exists, in big companies. It just takes a bit of winkling out.”

“No,” said Frank. “No more. I've been warned off. I'm frightened. The City is involved. They can do things to you.”

“Mr Bug has scared the shit out of you, Frank.”

“How did you know about the shit?”

The former Johnny Rotten tried to focus on Nestor Makhno as best he could. The little Ukrainian was almost wholly transparent now.

“Don't you think we can do it through music?”

“Persuade the public,” said Makhno thinly. “We had an education train. But do they ever know that the power rests in them?”