Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (28 page)

“Tie up marketing and it's far less hassle than actually managing a band,” said Mitzi. She had seen it all. “Often a better turnover. And there are no people to get in the way and spoil things.”

“Maybe the marketing company could pay my wages.”

“Ah, well, Mo, it's a separate organisation, you see. They would if they could. But they have their accounts.”

“Maybe I should look at their accounts.”

“Only accountants understand accounts. You need an accountant to check it for you.”

“A lawyer?”

“A lawyer and an accountant's what you need.”

“To keep an eye on the manager?”

“It isn't as simple as that, Mo.”

Mrs Cornelius stuck her neck through her strap. “Ter tell yer the truth, Sarge, I'm glad ter be back at me regular job. 'Ow's business?”

“Who?” said Sergeant Alvarez.

“Not 'oo—wot.” She flashed her torch on and off. “Somebody's got ter earn a livin'.”

She paused at the door of the auditorium. “O' course, it's in troubled times like these, people see a good picture, don't they?”

“Killed,” said Alvarez.

“Oh, yeah. That, too.”

Before she could go through, Mr Bug's representative entered.

“Everything all right here?”

“Loverly,” she said. She had never liked the look of him.

“Plenty of stock?”

“Ask the Sarge.”

“Any more handcuffs? Whips? Lengths of chain?”

“We're orl right for most o' that, far as I know,” she said. “But it's Sarge does the stock, doncher, love?”

“We've got to look after the housewives,” said Mr Bug's representative. “Can't have them getting bored, can we?”

Mrs Cornelius frowned at him. He seemed to be attempting a joke.

“Are you the usual fellah?” she asked.

“I'm filling in for him.”

“You ‘aven't—I mean, it's not a takeover or nuffink?”

“Just a change of territory. It'll all settle back to normal soon. Are you sure you don't need any more gags?”

Mrs Cornelius tittered. “Not if they're anyfink like ther last one.”

Mr Bug's representative didn't get it.

“What do you need?” he said. “You must need some replacements.”

“New feet,” said Mrs Cornelius, “would be nice.”

He looked at her shoes.

“Something elegant in rubber?”

She turned back towards the doors.

“I've got them in the car.”

“It's no good,” she told him. “I 'ave ter rely on the National 'Ealth.”

“Business is bad all round at the moment, even in entertainment. I remember when you couldn't go wrong in entertainment, so long as there was plenty of crisis and stuff. Cash from Chaos, eh?”

“Chaos?”

“It's not the same as entropy. Not superficially, at any rate. Still, it's all the same in the end.”

“Wot the bloody 'ell you talkin' abaht?”

“Stuff..” Mr Bug's representative felt about his person. “I'm having a spot of trouble with my tubes. It's hard to remain attached. Do you find that?”

“Ask bleedin' Alice in bleedin' Wonderbloodyland,” said Mrs Cornelius. She sniffed. “Blimey! You don't arf pong.”

“Ping,” said Alvarez pulling at his beard.

Mr Bug's representative slouched away. “Everything's rotting.”

“You could've fooled me. You're enough to give ther fuckin' 'otdogs a bad name. An' that's sayin' somefink.”

She backed through the doors with her tray.

On the screen they were shooting extras.

The airship was drifting over the debris near the river. People had already set up stalls and were selling various souvenirs: bits of ship, parts of planes, twisted singles.

The Assassin could hear their voices.

“Get yer genuine Prince Philip bandages.”

“Johnny Rotten's safety pins. All authentic.”

“Fresh Corgi!”

Not a lot had changed.

He watched the shadow of his own ship as it passed over the ruins, over the dirty water, over the collapsed bridges.

He was feeling more depressed than ever.

“I need … ” he murmured. “I need … ”

But his memory was failing again. He had seen too many alternatives. All the directions were screwed up. All the pasts and all the futures. They rarely seemed to make a decent present, which was only what he'd been aiming for. A bit of relief. But Time resisted manipulation, finally.

“Time's a killer,” he said, He tried to turn up his volume, but the music remained a whisper.

With an effort he moved the wheel and set a course for what had once been Derry and Tom's Famous Roof Garden. Now it was some sort of posh nightclub. He had relinquished his interest in 19—.

He had all but relinquished his interest in the 20th century.

He checked his instruments.

“There's never a World War Three around when you need one.”

Sid had lost another game of pool at the Café Hendrix. He went over to a window seat and looked out into the grey mist of eternity.

“I don't think it's going to clear up,” said George, Lord Byron, arm in arm with Gene Vincent. They had been having a medical boot race. “Don't mope, lad. You didn't do so badly. And think of all those Sid Is Innocent badges they won't be able to sell now.”

“What about all the Sid Still Lives badges they
will
be able to sell?”

“There's a lot more money in death, these days, than there was when I coughed it,” said Shelley. “Although it didn't do any harm to the poetry sales. Just think what they could have done for me? I did get a funeral pyre, though, and all that. Shelley posters would have gone over a treat, don't you think. Shelley pens.”

Jesus came over, chewing on a toothpick. “I've never had any problems,” he said. “My marketing's been going strong for a couple of thousand years. Gets better all the time. But then none of you were crucified, were you?”

“Don't listen to him, the snob.” Oscar Wilde put his hand in Sid's lap. “You still on for that game of skittles?”

“You have to aim for universal appeal,” said Jesus. “And that means your middle classes, I'm afraid. Without them, you'll never do it.”

“Sid didn't understand that, did you Sid?” said Nestor Makhno. “And neither did I. And neither would I want to.”

“I did it my way,” said Sid. “I think.”

Miss Brunner sighed with pleasure. “What a terrible trip. I'm glad to be home.”

“We achieved nothing,” Frank complained. “Not true, darling. We found out certain things by a process of elimination.”

“It was a wild goose chase.”

“It was a field trip. Trust me, darling.” She stroked her cryptik.

“We'll just feed in what we know and then run another complete programme. Be a good boy, Frank, and put the kettle on.”

Bishop Beesley said: “You still think we might be able to get the concessions?”

“We've the experience and the knowhow. Show me a product, bishop, and I'll show you a profit in a very short while. How have I managed to stay in business so long? We'll need a few ideas to show the captain.”

“But we can't find him. No-one can find him.”

“Wait until he hears what we have to show him. For the
Mirror.”

“
You're an incurable optimist, Miss Brunner,” said Bishop Beesley. He began to force a chocolate orange into his mouth.

The Assassin opened the door and man-handled the bomb out.

He watched it sail down towards the new estate opposite Rough Trade in Kensington Park Road.

It landed with a clang in the street. People began to come out of their doors and look at it.

Faces stared up at the last of the Musician-Assassins. He spread his hands.

“Sorry.”

“Is it a dud?” shouted the grocer.

“I was told it would go off.” Jerry shrugged. “Win a few and lose a few, eh?”

When, a couple of seconds later, the bomb did explode and bits of the crowd were scattered in directions, the Assassin was struck in the face by the grocer's left foot.

He wiped the blood from his cheek.

“What a lovely bit of fragmentation.”

He violently dislikes Rotten because Rotten insulted him all the time. Rotten used to talk to him in words that he didn't understand, like English swear words. It was quite amusing to see Meyer trying to make sense of it.

Meyer took Rotten out to dinner and Rotten was incredibly rude and disgusting over his food. He was trying to alienate him because it was Malcolm's project. By that stage Rotten really didn't get on with Malcolm, so the film was one of the major causes of a rift in the group that led to the break up.

… Apparently they spent three days tracing down this deer until they found the right one, and Meyer shot it himself.

The focus puller was thrown off for being squeamish about the thing. Meyer wouldn't have anyone anti-American on his set.

—Julian Temple, Interview with John May, NME, October 1979

“The fabric's wearing a bit thin, isn't it?” Mr Bug's representative sat in his static limo. People moved like ghosts through ghostly trees. “Is there any way of compensating?”

“It's a write-off,” said Jerry sheepishly.

“You're losing your touch.”

“I haven't got the help I used to get.”

“True. You'd had hopes for the Pistols, then?”

“It isn't their fault.” Jerry shifted as far away from Mr Bug's representative as possible. He cleared his throat. “Would you mind if we opened a window, squire?”

“Not at all. But the fumes …?”

“The fumes are fine. It's quite pleasant. The scent of dissipating dreams.”

“I'm afraid … “

“What?”

“I can't follow you.”

“Just as well, squire. I'm on my own. I have to be. People try to turn you into leaders. Do you find that?”

“Not exactly. I just tend to the sick. When I do anything at all.”

The car started up again and moved at less than ten miles an hour through the strangely faded park. Mr Bug's representative pointed at a distant outline. “The Palace is springing back again, isn't it?”

“Oh, I wouldn't be surprised, squire.”

A large mob, all greys and light browns, ran through the car, carrying torches. They wore 18th century clothes. “The Gordon Riots,” said Mr Bug's representative. “But they seem to be burning the Pistols in effigy. Look over there.”

The Assassin nodded. “Everything's out of focus, at present. This happens when you mess about the way I was. Still, it might have gelled. You never know.”

“You manipulate Time?” Mr Bug's representative was impressed.

“I pretend to.”

“I pretend to manipulate people. On Mr Bug's behalf, of course.”

“Who is Mr Bug?” asked Jerry.

“Have a guess,” said Mr Bug's representative.

The Cessna came in to land on the deserted airfield. Its wheels bumped on the broken tarmac and it narrowly avoided the collapsed remains of a small airship.

Mr Bug's representative and the last of the Musician-Assassins crouched behind a ruined wall and watched.

Jerry held his vibra-gun in a trembling hand.

“It's the Americans,” said Mr Bug's representative.

A figure in a red and blue diving suit emerged from the plane.

“Their technology's so sophisticated.” Mr Bug's representative was admiring. “You'd hardly know there was anyone inside would you?”

“I'm not even sure about you.” The Assassin wet his lips.

Mr Bug's representative nodded in agreement. “Yes.” His breathing became erratic. “Yessss.”

Jerry had the feeling that, given half a chance, Mr Bug's representative would begin some kind of mating ritual with the American suit.

Moleskin glowed in an abandoned control tower.

Jerry leaped from cover. “Flash!”

“Not yet” hissed Mr Bug's representative. But it was too late.

Aiming the vibra-gun, Jerry hit the American just as he was reaching the tower. The suit fell to the ground and began to thresh as the sonics shook him to death. Part of the tower broke away and crashed onto the corpse.

Tartan dodged from window to window as the vibra-gun swept the building. Concrete cracked. Glass shivered.

Mr Bug's representative grabbed Jerry's arm. “Too ssssoon. Oh, dear!”

A helicopter swished into the sky.

“Bugger,” said the Assassin.

“I'm not sure you have any understanding of anyone's best interests,” said Mr Bug's representative, walking with slow, sad steps towards the American corpse. “It could be the culture gap, but I'm beginning to think you're past it. I must have a word with Mr Collier.”

“He wants his wages. I thought … “

A strange, high-pitched hiss came from Mr Bug's representative. It took the Assassin a while to realise that he was whistling “Dixie.”

“The Captain's in America, I'm afraid,” said Clivey on the phone. “I'm sure he'll want to get in touch the minute he comes back.”

Mo replaced the receiver.

Mitzi said: “I told you so. You ought to go there.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason he's gone. For the same reason everyone goes. Because you've run out of possibilities here. Desperate times require desperate journeys.”