The Condition of Muzak (15 page)

“She can’t be. I moved her, didn’t I? I had her—I had her—that’s what I can’t remember. But I was sure…”

“Only the surface suffered much. The underground sections are still almost entirely intact and functioning. Why, there’s a rumour that some of these tunnels go all the way to Lapland.”

“So she was under my nose before, before, before…” Jerry’s head was aching badly. “Have you got her safe?”

“She doesn’t look too good to me. But Miss Persson assured me…”

“She’s an expert at that.” Images filled his poor battered head. He left the chapel and ran across to the main building, up the fractured stairs, over the demolished threshold, waist-deep in lath and plaster, brickwork and shattered timber, wading towards his only hope, his goal, his faith, flailing around him as, with his last reserves of energy, he shifted muck and rubble.

“Catherine!

“Catherine!

“Catherine!”

In critical awe Sebastian Auchinek watched the wasted body of the wailing barbarian disappear in a chaos of dust.

“Airship! You never bin on a bleedin’ airship—not since you woz a boy at ther bloody Scrubs Lane fair!” Mrs Cornelius had a good laugh before looking down on her son and shaking her huge head, freshly permed, freshly gold. Her mouth was a handsome crimson, an exotic blossom, its tints echoed in her cheeks, contrasted by her eyelids of midnite blue, the pink powder. She belched and her breasts wobbled as she patted at her belly. “Pardon.” She tugged at the waist of her cotton frock with its pattern of maroon and yellow nasturtiums. “Ah. Thass better. Wot’s ’appened ter Frank?”

“He went off with the colonel, Mum,” said Jerry meekly. “You didn’t tell him about Cathy, did you?”

“Fink I’m daft? Silly bugger! ’Course I didn’t. We don’t wan’ the ’ole fuckin’ world ter know, do we?” Although not altogether sure what was wrong with her daughter, Mrs Cornelius had a strong suspicion that it was connected with something scandalous. When Jerry had brought her home his mother had immediately suspected him of having attempted an abortion on her. It had been Colonel Pyat, with his connections, who had known of the fortified hospital at Roedean and arranged for the girl to be taken there. Catherine had been in the worst condition Jerry had ever seen her—more than a little frost-blackened. The hospital, however, was the best there was. The doctors had every confidence, they said, in an early revival. Jerry had had to borrow four cases of 12.77mm machine-gun ammunition from Colonel Pyat to add to his own store, and that had been for the hospital’s down payment only. He wasn’t sure where he was going to find the BTR-50PK armoured personnel carrier he would need to secure the release of his sister once she was up and about. Again Colonel Pyat had been reassuring, promising that he would underwrite Jerry until the situation improved for him.

Jerry had wanted to go straight back to London from Roedean but his mother insisted on making a day of it. Frank was living in Brighton now, running a small general shop, and Mrs Cornelius wanted to see how he was getting on.

“It ’asn’t arf changed,” declared Mrs Cornelius as she stood regarding the twisted pier, most of which had tipped itself into the sea. She pointed at a distant girder. “Thass where the ol’ dodgems useter be, innit?”

Jerry turned up the collar of his black car coat. He put his hands deep into his pockets. It was very cold for May, although the sky was blue and clear and the water as calm as the Mediterranean. He was worried in case Colonel Pyat told Frank something which would start the whole trouble all over again. He looked back towards the darkened dolphinarium in time to see the colonel and his brother ascending the steps to the street. Colonel Pyat shook his head calling: “Nothing I’m afraid!”

“Orl I bleedin’ want is a bag o’ fish an’ chips!” said Mrs Cornelius with a gigantic sigh of dismay. She patted her son on the shoulder. “Up yer get, Jer.”

Jerry rose from the bench, moving his weight from foot to foot, running his tongue round the inside of his mouth. “I’m a bit worried about the lorry,” he said. “What with the scavengers and that.”

“It’ll be safe enough where it is,” she reassured him. “I wish ther bloody trains woz still goin’. Cor! Wot a cum-darn, eh?” She cast a disgusted eye over the wrecked façades, the faded signs. “Yer carn’t even go on ther fuckin’ beach for bleedin’ bar’ wire!”

Frank and Colonel Pyat arrived to stand beside them. Jerry was disturbed by the fact that Frank wore a black coat almost identical to his own. His brother’s eyes were warm and cunning as if he had recently sniffed prey. “Not a chip to be had,” said Frank. “Sorry, Mum. It’s what I thought. Nobody’s catching any fish, for one thing.” He anticipated his mother’s next question before she asked it. “And, of course, there hasn’t been a pub open since the ordinance. You’d better take me up on that sandwich.” He nodded towards the twittens of the town’s cold interior. “Back at the shop.”

Mrs Cornelius sighed. “I used ter love this place. It woz reelly fun. Remember ther races, Ive?”

Colonel Pyat, who wore a cavalry twill military-style overcoat, nodded his heavy Slavic head. “Everything is gone now.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” said Frank. “A lot of the old residents are still here. We’ve quite a flourishing community, really. We’ve kept our identity, which is more than you can say of some. We can’t offer the facilities to visitors nowadays, of course, but perhaps that’s for the best—so far as the indigenous population’s concerned. But you’ll see. Brighton’ll be back to normal before you know it.”

Jerry removed a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose. Frank darted him a weary look. “Cool it, Jerry.”

Jerry put his handkerchief away. “I shouldn’t’ve thought it could have got any cooler.”

For the first time Mrs Cornelius noticed the cold. “You’re right. It’s bloody freezin’. You got anyfink I c’n put on, Frank?”

“I’ve got some lovely coats back at the shop. Real mink. I’ll lend you one of those.” Frank began to walk along the front and they followed.

“Mink?” said his mother. “Bloody ’ell! You must be doin’ orl right, as usual!”

“There’s not a lot of call for luxury goods just now. But that’ll change in time. I accepted them as barter.” Frank laughed. “I must have every decent mink coat on the South Coast. I’ve literally got a back room full of them. The trouble is, though, that they attract rats.”

“Aaawk!” said Mrs Cornelius ritualistically.

Frank stopped and then fell in beside Jerry. “And how’s life treating you?” His bleak eyes stared out to sea, giving the horizon a shifty once-over. “Getting by, are we?”

“Under the circumstances,” said Jerry.

“A bit more realistic, these days, I should think.” Frank was almost euphorically triumphant. He tapped his head. “Got the old imagination in check at last. You’re staying with Mum?”

“I’ve been a bit queer,” said Jerry.

“So she’s looking after you, is she?”

“Well, my own place…”

“A direct hit, I heard. Shame.”

They were some distance ahead of Mrs C. and Colonel P. now. Frank led the way up King Street. “You had your head in the clouds, you see. Now I saw the way the wind was blowing. I’ve got my shop. In real terms I’m probably the richest man in Sussex. Surrey, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Got four Pakis working for me. Kept my head down, see, and my nose clean and here I am. I don’t deny I’m well off. I don’t feel guilty.”

“Guilty?” Jerry had never heard his brother use the word. He cheered up a fraction. “Blimey! You must have done some terrible things. Brighton’s getting to you, then?”

“What?” Frank was puzzled. “I’m happy, Jerry. Not many can say that, these days. Got my pick of anything I want. Any
body
I want.” He nudged his brother in the ribs. “Some of those people’ll give anything for a bit of fresh liver. Their little daughters. Eh? What! They never learned to fight, you see—only complain. I must have had every ‘Disgusted’ in the Home Counties in my shop! Well, I ask you!” He paused. Mrs Cornelius and her escort were a fair way behind, labouring up the hill. “You want to work for me? Is that why you came?”

“Mum wanted to see how you were doing. I just drove the lorry.”

“Your lorry, is it?”

“The colonel’s. He was in the last government for a few days.”

“Did all right for himself, then?”

“He reckons he was sold short.” Jerry spoke listlessly as he looked at a sea bereft of boats, a sky without ships, a street without music. Catherine remained and he was helpless to give her comfort or take any direct part in her destiny. He swayed as his mother came closer. She was bent almost double, rubbing her thumb against her index finger, making peculiar smacking noises with her lips. He felt very dizzy indeed. Frank glanced at him. “You’ve gone all yellow.”

“I’m tired,” said Jerry.

“Totch-totch,” said Mrs Cornelius. “Come ’ere, yer littel bleeder. Totch-totch-totch.”

Through rapidly blurring vision Jerry saw that she was addressing a small, mangey black-and-white cat in the gutter. The animal walked slowly and amiably towards her, rubbing its flank against the kerb, its tail erect.

Jerry sat down on the pavement.

His mother didn’t notice what was happening to him; but the cat turned to look at him, its intelligent green eyes piercing his own.

For a moment it seemed to Jerry that his entire being was about to be drawn into the body of the cat. Then Mrs Cornelius had pounced and seized the animal. “Gotcha, yer little bugger!”

“This is a fine time to start playing the Fool,” said Frank.

Jerry passed out.