The Texts Of Festival (24 page)

He crept silently through the wreckage of the Merchants’ Quarter. A few buildings burned but otherwise it was quiet except for the odd scavenging looter.

At the Northgate he paused and looked round with caution but the gate appeared to be unguarded.

As he stepped through the fallen timbers a sudden voice out of the darkness startled him.

‘Hey bro’, y’ wanna drink?’

Frankie Lee started and jerked round.

‘Huh?’

‘I said d’y’ wanna drink?’

An outlaw, in the final stages of drunkenness, leaned against one of the broken gateposts offering a jug.

‘No man, I … I gotta go sleep.’

Frankie Lee began to edge away but the outlaw stumbled towards him.

‘C’mon buddy, y’ can’t refuse t’ drink wi’ a combrade in arms.’

The man put an arm round his shoulder and Frankie Lee gasped as the outlaw’s hand gripped his damaged arm. Whassamatta?’

‘My arm … I …’

‘Shit, y’re wounded!’

‘It’s okay, I jus’

‘Lemme taka look.’

The man squinted alcoholically at Frankie Lee, then a frown crossed his face as he took in the torn and bloody velvet jacket.

‘You don’ look like one of our boys. You look like a Festival man!’

With his good arm Frankie Lee punched the outlaw hard in the stomach. He folded up and sat down heavily. Desperately Frankie Lee ran towards the highway. He could hear the drunk stumbling and cursing behind him.

Unobserved, he crossed the highway and hurried into the safety of the Northside ruins.

His arm seemed to be getting more and more painful. By morning he had reached the western edge of the great ’Ndunn swamp. He should have made better progress but he found that his wound and a mounting fever constantly forced him to stop and rest. For a while he had lain on the highway sick and dizzy but as soon as it had passed slightly he had forced himself to his feet and stumbled on.

As the morning sun rose over the marsh, dispersing the blanket of mist that lay on the black surface of the swamp, he trudged on, almost oblivious of destination or purpose, his whole being concentrated on keeping on his feet and going on.

His throat was painfully dry and he wished that he had brought a jug of wine instead of the gun that seemed to drag at his belt. The black poisoned waters of the swamp seemed to be calling him to drink but he rejected the temptation, knowing that it would only bring sickness and death. His mind strayed to his name text, the legend of Frankie Lee the gambler who died of thirst. It was too ironical and anyway, he told himself, the fall of Festival meant that the texts would soon be forgotten.

Deeper into the swamp the highway became broken and rutted; brambles and weeds flourished in the cracks and the rotting hulks of iron wagons littered its length. Frequently he stumbled; the need to stop and rest became more and more pressing.

A twisted length of iron, hidden by weeds and nettles, caught his foot and he fell heavily. Pain and nausea flashed through his body and he lay for a while, attempting to get a hold on himself. He tried to rise but only succeeded in turning over onto his back.

The heat of the sun seemed to soothe his tortured body and the will to rise became smaller and smaller in a world of warmth and pain. Images drifted lazily across his vision. The night with Claudette swirled in curves of rounded brown flesh that looped and writhed faster and faster, dissolving into Claudette writhing on the whipping post, the faces of the onlookers became the animal grins of the rushing outlaws and then they were blasted back in an explosion of pain that spread out into the wide fields of his childhood and then they tilted and he was sliding down and down.

Down into unconsciousness.

26.

The young man had been walking for three days. He was footsore and tired and he leaned heavily on his staff. The store of bread and dried fruit in his pack was dwindling and he hoped that he would reach Festival in the next few days.

In the desolation of the swamp it was hard to maintain the excitement that he had felt at leaving the village and setting out to make his fortune at Festival but he pressed on eagerly, picking his way along the derelict highway. He gave thanks that the map his father had given him had led him to the raised highway. The prospect of having to find his way through the ruins and black water that surrounded the highway on either side filled him with loathing.

A flash of colour on the road ahead made the young man pause. There seemed to be a figure lying in a clump of weeds and nettles. The young man approached cautiously.

It was a man. He lay on his back with eyes shut and the young man was unsure whether the man was asleep or dead. As he drew closer he saw that the man’s clothes were similar to those of the drifters from the city who occasionally passed through his village, telling tales of strange places and great deeds, although he lacked the usual cape and wide-brimmed hat. The shoulder of his jacket was caked with dried blood from an ugly, infected bullet wound. Hanging at his side was a heavy-calibre pistol.

The young man’s eyes widened. A gun like that was far beyond the reach of any villager. Silently he knelt beside the still figure and reached out for the gun. As his fingers touched it the man’s eyes suddenly opened. Swiftly he withdrew his hand and got ready to run. Then the man spoke, his voice was dry and rasping:

‘Don’ rob me till I’m dead.’

‘I…’

‘Jus’ wait a while an’ th’ gun’s yours.’

‘I thought …’

‘You thought th’ gun’d make a fine prize. You headin’ for Festival?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t. There is no Festival.’

‘No Festival?’

‘It fell to outlaws.’

The young man’s mind reeled. What should he do? He had planned to go to Festival all through the winter.

‘Where should I go?’

‘Go on or go back; it’s all th’ same.’

‘But there must be somewhere?’

‘Eternity.’

‘What?’

His voice became very faint and the young man had to lean forward to hear.

‘Eternity?’ said Frankie Lee, with a voice as cold as ice.

The young man looked alarmed and baffled.

‘What you mean? I don’t understand.’

But the man said nothing and his eyes slowly closed.

Appendix: Mick Says
 (From the original 1973 publication) 

‘I was born in Cheltenham on 3 September, 1943. It made me Virgo with Scorpio rising. My family moved to the conservative town of Worthing when I was six; I went to the local high school, saw James Dean movies, listened to Elvis Presley, hung out on the street, did my best to become a juvenile delinquent and got out of Worthing as soon as I could, with a scholarship to St Martin’s School of Art.

I arrived in London the year of the Cuba crisis and the rock ’n’ roll boom, hung out with a series of bands and formed the Deviants. We did three albums together, and then I produced my own. Worn out by speed and the strain of taking the band to America, I retired from being an active musician, helped with the Phun City festival, got involved with politics, ran the underground paper
it
for two years and, with designer Edward Barker, produced a book on the politics of rock called WATCH OUT KIDS. At the same time Edward and I produced the first British underground comic, NASTY TALES, got busted for obscenity and, after waiting for nearly two years, were acquitted at the Old Bailey.

Currently I do little else than write and try to keep stoned. My favourite food and colour are irrelevant, but I admire Bob Dylan and respect William Burroughs. After too many run-ins with the law I’ve tried to avoid radical politics. But the way they have this planet set up makes it difficult.’