Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (24 page)

“It was never anything else, as far as I can see.”

“I prefer stuff that doesn't work properly. I always did. How many bloody times do you think I've been resurrected? I'm coming apart all over the bloody place.”

Mo was used to the self-pity by now, but the smell remained dreadful.

“Stand by” Jerry croaked.

The blimp bumped onto the beach. Blondes scattered, screaming. “Here we are. I'll stay while you get the tapes I told you I needed.”

“I'm going to be embarrassed.” Mo took off his coat and hat, revealing a T-shirt and shorts.

“Don't worry. They all talk English here.” The last of the Musician-Assassins frowned. “Or is it German?”

“I don't mind about the Hendrix … “

“Well, just make it Hendrix, then. But hurry. You want help, squire, you'd better help me first. I never expected to pick up a bloody snob.”

Mo opened the door and put his big toe onto the warm sand. “It's nice here, isn't it?”

Behind him, Jerry uttered a feeble sound.

“Get—the—fucking—music … “

Miss Brunner studied the computer breakdowns. “You were right about Hendrix,” she said. “He always resorts to it in the final analysis. But there are other factors to consider. He seems to be finding boosters elsewhere these days. Do you think that's what they're offering him?”

“Fresh energy?” Frank pushed the long sheets aside and looked blankly at the instruments.

She began to punch in a new programme. “I've got a feeling it is. What's bothering me, however, is where they're getting through. I could have sworn we'd blocked every channel. And, moreover, that we'd got them to believe that that was what they wanted.”

Frank flicked an uninterested whip at the little body of Mitzi as she swung gently in her chains above the cryptik vii computer. “You can never afford to relax for a second. We'd become lazy, Miss Brunner.”

“What else did your mum say?”

“Nothing. He came to see her at her job, watched a bit of the film, had about fifteen bags of popcorn and ate all the hot dogs, then left in his Duesenberg.”

“Which was found in?”

“Cromer.”

“WC didn't know about Cromer.” She bit a nail.

“We're spread too thin,” he said. “Those of us who are prepared to guard the borders. It's like the collapse of the Roman Empire. That's what I think, anyway. My own brother! When will he ever grow up?”

“He's got to be in Rio,” she said. “Or, failing that, Maracaibo.”

“What's in Venezuela?”

“Airships.”

“And Brazil?”

“Failures. Exiles. The usual stuff he goes for. You'd better get someone to check all the record shops in Rio. After that, see what recording studios they have out there. It can't be much.”

“Has Mo broken through to him yet, do you think?”

“Nothing available on that.”

“And if so, who is it? Or how many of us?”

“I've got a feeling we're all going to be targets this time.”

From overhead, Mitzi's muffled titters phased in with the click of the cryptik.

“Mrs T. no more created the situation than Hitler started World War II. But once it had happened he had to pretend it was deliberate.” Martin Bormann was closing up for the evening. “Of course I didn't know him very well.”

“Hitler?”

“Nobody knew him very well. He tended to go with the tide. Do you know what I mean?”

“Not really,” said Mo, pocketing the tapes.

“Well, we were all heavily into mysticism in those days. How's my old mate Colin Wilson, by the way?”

“I think he lives in the country.”

Bormann nodded sympathetically. “It's what happens to all of us. I envy you young lads, with your cities and your ruins. We never liked cities much. In the Party, I mean. I sometimes think the whole thing was an attempt to restore the virtues of village life. It's still going on, I suppose, but on a modified level. I blame the atom bomb. It's had the absolutely opposite effect it was meant to have. No wonder all those hippies are fed up with it. I had hopes … “ His smile was sad. “But there you go. I'm not complaining, really. Anything else you need?”

“I'm not sure.”

“That's the spirit.” Bormann patted Mo's shoulder. “And not a word to anyone about this, eh?”

“All right.” Mo was puzzled.

“I wouldn't want people to think I was merely justifying my mistakes.”

As Mo walked up the street, looking for a tram to the beach, Bormann began to pull down the shutters.

It was a fine evening in the Lost City of the Amazon.

In October they signed with EMI. They released the hit single “Anarchy In the UK” and they were all set for an extensive, triumphant tour of the country. Then they were invited onto the Today show. Bill Grundy got what he asked for—and the Nationals had a bean feast. The band who had been playing week after week all over the country for more than a year were suddenly front page news, branded “filth” and made Public Enemies No. 1.

All but five dates of the tour were hysterically banned and the band returned to London on Christmas Eve with the dramatic news that EMI was about to rescind their contract. In January EMI asked them to leave the label. Glen Matlock decided to form his own band called the Rich Kids. Sid Vicious replaced him. Everyone cheered when in March, it looked like the Pistols had found shelter at A&M.

—
Virgin Records Publicity, 1977

Jerry was looking a shade or two less wasted. He removed the headphones and signalled to Mo to turn up the volume. Very bored, Mo did as he was told. He was beginning to regret the whole idea. In front of the Assassin was a collection of peculiar weaponry, most of it archaic: needle-guns, vibra-guns, light-pistols, a Rickenbacker 12-string.

The gondola of the little airship swayed and the hardware slid this way and that on the table. The Assassin seemed oblivious. He took another pull from his Pernod bottle.

“Have a look out of the window,” he shouted. “See if we're near Los Angeles yet.”

All Mo could see was silver mist.

Strange, garbled sounds began to issue from Jerry's lips.

Steve winced.

He had a feeling the Assassin was singing the blues.

His colour was better, at any rate. His skin was changing from a sort of LED-green to near-white.

“If ants ever had an Ant of the Year competition,” said Miss Brunner disapprovingly, “Branson would be the winner. It's the secret of his success.”

They were all uncomprehending. Only Maggy said “What?” and nobody listened to her.

Frank was biting his bullets to see if they were made of real silver. He began to load them into the clip. His hands were shaking terribly.

“Why don't we all go to Rio?” asked Bishop Beesley.

“Because you'd never squeeze into Concorde.” Miss Brunner checked the action of her Remington. “Have you oiled your bazooka?”

“It doesn't need it.” He unwrapped a Twix and sulked in his own corner of the bunker. “Did you try all the A&R men?”

“We can't get through to Virgin.”

“They've probably been used in the ritual sacrifice, ho, ho, ho.” Frank slid the clip into the Browning automatic he favoured.

“I said we weren't going to mention all that. It's poor publicity.”

Mitzi grinned to herself. She now had a Banning cannon all her own. “When do we start to fight?”

“As soon as we run out of other choices,” Miss Brunner told her.

“You divided,” Mitzi was smug, “but they kept re-forming. It's just like real life now.”

“Well be changing all that.” Bishop Beesley was no longer confident, however. He scraped ancient Cadbury's off his surplice and carefully carried the bits to his lips. “I wish I'd stayed in the drug business now. You don't get this sort of trouble from junkies.”

“Do you mind?” Frank was offended.

“That's not bloody Los Angeles,” said the Assassin petulantly. “That's Paris! Isn't it? Don't I know you?”

“It's got to be.” Mo rubbed at his ear, which was hurting. “Unless there's another Eiffel Tower.”

“Right. No harm done. I'll drop you off in Montmartre, if that's okay with you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, you've told me all I need to know. I'll be in touch.” The Assassin combed his lank hair with his fingers. “Mo Coalman, isn't it?”

“You going to kill someone?”

“I'm going to kill everyone if I can get enough energy.” The thought seemed to revive the Assassin. He cheered up.

He began to turn the steering wheel, cursing as the ship responded badly.

A little later he pushed open the door and started letting down a steel ladder.

“There you go. You should be able to get a taxi from here.”

Mo didn't like the look of the weather. He put on his trenchcoat and hat.

“What did you say to Mr Bugs?”

“Biggs,” corrected the Assassin. “Oh, I just needed a couple of addresses in South London and the name of his tailor.”

Mo lowered himself onto the swaying ladder. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

“I never know what I'm doing. There's no point in working any other way in my business.”

It was raining over Montmartre now. It was cloudy. Mo became cautious. “Are you sure this is the right district?”

“The district's fine. You should be worrying whether I've got the time right. For all we know it could be 1990 down there.”

“Stop trying to frighten me,” said Mo.

The Assassin shrugged. “They're all pretty much the same to me, these days. You should have tried the fifties, mate.” He began to shiver. “Hurry up. I want to shut the door.”

More data was coming through to the bunker. Miss Brunner pursed her lips as she studied the printouts.

“He's getting stronger. Five Virgin shops and the EMI shops in Oxford Street and Notting Hill have been raided and a significant list of records stolen. Three of the places were completely destroyed. And there's been a break-in at Glitterbest. That probably isn't him. But three recording studios have had master-tapes taken. Seven managements have lost important demo-tapes.”

“It might not mean anything,” said Frank. He was fixing himself a cocktail, drawing it into the syringe.

They ignored him.

Frank laid the syringe on the table and put his head in his hands. “Oh, bloody hell. Who could have predicted this? I was
certain
it was all under control again. Bugger the Sex Pistols.”

“I told you so,” said Mitzi. Her eyes heated.

Miss Brunner pushed a pink phone towards her. “Get in touch with Malcolm. Tell him we've got to stick together. He'll see sense. I'll try Branson again.”

Mitzi picked up the receiver. “If you think it's worth it.”

They were all beginning to get on one another's nerves.

Mo walked into the Princess Alexandra in Portobello Road. It had taken him ages to get from Paris and he had a feeling he was no further forward. All that he seemed to have done was start a lot a trouble he couldn't begin to understand.

The pub was full of black leather backs. He reached the bar and ordered a pint of bitter. The barman, for no good reason, was reluctant to serve him.

Various overtired musicians clocked him, but nobody really recognised him or he them. Lemmy was nowhere to be seen.

There was an atmosphere in the place, as if everybody was hanging about waiting for World War Three.

The talk was casual, yet Mo sensed that a great deal was not being said. Was the whole of London keeping something back from him? Was the Revolution imminent? If so, what Revolution was it? Whose Revolution? Did he really feel up to a Revolution?

He finished his pint. He was down to his last fifteen pence.

As he was leaving he thought he heard someone whispering behind him.

“Who killed Sid, then?”

“What?” He turned.

All the backs were towards him again.

“They think they're heavily into manipulation, but really we just let them play at it.” Mr Bug's representative sat comfortably in the darkness of the limousine. “Nobody who really believes they're manipulating things is safe. Sooner or later people lose patience. And people are very patient indeed. Most of you don't actually want to make anyone else do anything.”

“Live and let live,” said Mitzi. “It's time I got back to the bunker.”

“I'm interested in human beings,” said Mr Bug's representative, squeaking a little as he moved in his rubber. “I've studied them for years.”

“Do you understand them?”

“Not really, but I've learned a lot about what triggers to pull. And I know enough, too, not to think that I can keep too many balls in the air.”

“Have you seen Jerry? That's who I was looking for, really.”

“We've all seen too much of Jerry, haven't we?”

“Has he left your club?”

“You could try it. But hardly any of us go there any more.”

“Aliens?”

“Call us what you like. I prefer to think of myself as a student person. But I'm not sure I'm going to make the finals.”

Mr Bug's representative uttered a cheerful wheeze and opened the door so that Mitzi could step out.

“It's quite a nice morning, isn't it?” he said. “It was Clapham Common you wanted?”