Channel Sk1n (17 page)

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...