Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (23 page)

“They never seem to want it.”

“They don't want responsibility.”

“And that's why managers exist.”

“I'll be seeing you … “ said Makhno, fading.

“That's more than I can say for you.”

The former Johnny Rotten reached for his Kropotkin. Maybe it could still work. Maybe it was already working on some level.

Mo wriggled. “What do you want me to say?”

Mr Bug's representative stroked the fronds of his cat-o'-nine-tails over his own rubber.

“Anything you like, sweetheart. Isn't this the way to relax? No personal responsibilities, no anxieties? Just lie back and enjoy yourself.”

“There must be other methods of relaxing.”

“Well, dearie, you could always join a rock and roll band.”

Mo began to scream.

Bishop Beesley bit off half a Crunchie bar. Chocolate, like old blood, already stained his jowls. “Why is everyone suddenly going South?” he asked.

His daughter shook her head. “Maybe it's Winter.”

“Winter?” Frank Cornelius looked unblinkingly at the sun which was just visible over the heap of dodgems. “Some winter of the mind, maybe.”

“Let's try and steer clear of abstractions, dear boy.” The bishop spoke with soft impatience. “I have a meeting with the Prime Minister in just over an hour. What are we going to do about this, if anything? I mean is it a serious threat to authority?”

“I thought we were avoiding abstractions,” said Miss Brunner.

From within an abandoned Ghost Train car, Mo's weak voice said: “I told them nothing.”

“You've nothing to tell them, you horrible little oik.” The bishop sighed. “I think we're in a poor position, Mr Cornelius.”

“Somebody turned the power off,” said Mo vaguely.

The wind drummed against the hollow metal of the fairground debris.

The Cossacks, by now hardly visible even to one another, had reached The Rainbow and were surrounding it. Their black flag had turned to a faint grey. They were getting despondent.

Determinedly, they rode their horses into the venue, able to pass through the audience as if they did not exist. On stage Queen were displaying the virtues of production over talent. Thousands of pounds worth of equipment was manipulated to produce the desired effect. It was a tribute to a wonderful technology.

Makhno cried into the empty megawatts: “Brothers and Sisters! Brothers and Sisters!”

A young man with longish hair and a “No Nukes” T-shirt turned, then raised his fist at the stage.

“Freedom!” he cried.

The volume began to rise.

Back at the Café Hendrix Nestor Makhno took a long pull on his bottle of absinthe. He was shaking his head.

“Didn't you enjoy any of the gigs?” asked Sid.

“I didn't see anything I liked. At first I'd hoped—you know, the audiences … “ Makhno fell back in his chair. “But there was nothing there for us to do.”

“Don't despair,” said Shelley, “there's a rumour the Sex Pistols are going to reform. After all, they're more popular now than they ever were.”

Says Johnny Rotten: “Everyone is so fed up with the old way. We were constantly being dictated to by musical old farts out of university who've got rich parents. They look down on us and treat us like fools and expect us to pay POUNDS to see them while we entertain them and not the other way round. And people let it happen! But now they're not. Now there's a hell of a lot of new bands come up with exactly the opposite attitude. It's not condescending any more. It's plain honesty. If you don't like it—that's fine. You're not forced to like it through propaganda. People think we use propaganda. But we don't. We're not trying to be commercial. We're doing exactly what we want to do—what we've always done.

But it hasn't been easy. Sceptics and cynics simply didn't want to believe what was happening. Quite unjustly the Sex Pistols were written off as musical incompetents. They were savagely criticised for daring to criticise society and the rock musician's role in it. They have been crucified by the uncaring national press—ever ready to ferret out a circulation boosting shock/horror story—and branded an unpleasant, highly reprehensible Great Media Hype.

—Virgin Records Publicity, 1977

The city was black. Through black smoke shone a dim, orange sun. The canal was still, smeared with flotsam. From Harrow Road came the sound of a single donkey engine, like a dying heartbeat. Overhead, on train bridge and motorway, carriages and trucks were unmoving. It seemed everything had stopped to watch the figure in the dark trenchcoat and trilby who paused beside the canal and peered through the oily water as if through a glass.

A fly, ailing and lost, tried to buzz around his head. Slowly the traffic began to move again. From behind a pillar Mitzi Beesley emerged, hurrying on skinny legs towards him. She was back in Shirley Temple mode.

“You feeling any better, Mo?”

“You let me down, Mitzi.”

“I didn't have any choice.”

Mo did not resent her. “How's that wanker Frank?”

“Going through a bit of a crisis, I gather.”

“He'd better look after his bloody kneecaps.”

“That's the least of his worries.”

Mo glanced away from the water and back towards the half-built housing estate. “It used to be all slums round here,” he said nostalgically. “Now look at it.”

“You've got over your own spot of bother, then? You've stopped looking for the money.”

“I think so. But I'm still looking, anyway.”

“For what?”

“A solution to the mystery.”

“The mystery goes on forever. There's never a solution. There isn't even a cure.”

“We'll see.”

“Why are you here?”

“Ever heard of the Old Survivor?”

“Well, there's a myth … “

“I'm seeing him here.”

“Lemmy of Motörhead?”

“He's doing me a favour.”

“Isn't he an old hippy fart?”

“His hair may be long, but underneath he's a punk, through and through.”

“Something's disturbed your brains, Mo. You need a rest.”

“I need help.”

Down the steps from the pedestrian bridge came a figure in black leather, festooned with silver badges, a bullet belt around his waist. His face, moulded by a thousand psychic adventures, was genial and distant, ageless. The Old Survivor laughed when he saw Mo and Mitzi standing together. “You look fucking miserable. What's the matter?”

“I didn't think you'd come.” Mo made an antique sign.

“Neither did I. But I was passing. On my way home. So here I am.”

“You're probably the only one left who can help me.” Mo was embarrassed.

“I haven't got any drugs,” said Lemmy.

“It's not that. But you'd know about the legend. Whether there's any truth in it or not.”

Lemmy frowned. “I didn't realise you were a nutter.”

“I'm not. Well, I don't think I am. I'm desperate. Have you ever … ?” Mo's voice dropped. Tactfully, Mitzi went to sit on the side of the canal and dip her boots in the liquid. “What do you know about the League of Musician-Assassins?”

Lemmy began to chuckle. “That hasn't come up in a long time.”

“But you were supposed … “

“It was ages ago. A different era. A different universe, probably.”

“Then there's some truth in it.”

Lemmy became cautious, “I couldn't take a job like that. I've got enough to do as it is.”

“There's money … “

“It was never a question of money.” Lemmy drew a battered packet of Bensons from his top pocket and lit one. “We soldier on, you know.”

“But what about the other one? The one who's supposed to be sleeping somewhere in Ladbroke Grove?”

“Your old mucker? What about him?”

“You're in touch with him.”

“I see him occasionally, yeah.”

“Couldn't you ask him?”

“He gave it all up. He said there wasn't any point in it any more. You know as well as I do.”

“Does he really think that?”

“Well … He
has
been having second thoughts. He was 'round at his mum's the other day … “

“So he's not asleep.”

“It depends what you mean.” Lemmy was losing interest. He rubbed at his moustache and sighed.

“Could you put me in touch with him?”

“He's not working. I told you. None of us are. Bullshit-saturation does it to you in the end. Haven't you found that out yet?”

“Would his brother know … ?”

“His brother doesn't know a fucking thing about anything. His brother spends his whole bloody life trying to work out what's going on. Whenever he thinks he's found it, he tries to exploit it. He's been doing it for years. But him and his mates seem to have won.” Lemmy looked up at the black buildings. “They sort of linked hands and formed a vacuum.”

“It's important to me.” said Mo. “I mean, I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't desperate … “

“You've only lost a battle, my son. We lost a war.”

The sea was pale and calm; a frozen blue. Mo walked out of the Dreamland enclosure and crossed the promenade in the peaceful Margate dawn. He wasn't sure, even now, if Lemmy hadn't tricked him into this trip. If the last of the Musician-Assassins had been sleeping under Ladbroke Grove, why had Mo been told to come to the seaside?

Near the horizon a seagull seemed to be wheeling. Then he heard the sound of an irregular drone. It was a plane.

It began to come in rapidly, heading straight for the beach. It was painted brilliant white and had wartime Luftwaffe markings. A huge biplane, with at least six engines, none of which were firing properly. The thing lurched in the air as it turned, the sunlight flashing on its floats. It was a Dornier DoX flying boat.

It landed on the water, almost keeling over, heading for the end of the pier. Mo began to run. He reached the turnstiles and climbed over them.

By the time he got to the edge, the flying boat had come to a stop and was bobbing on the surface of the sea like a waterlogged sponge.

A thin figure climbed out of the cockpit and stood shakily on the upper wing. “Oh, Christ.” The figure began to vomit into the ocean. “Oh, bloody hell.”

The figure was dressed in a long black jacket, black drainpipes, and wore black winkle-pickers. It removed its tattered flying helmet. “I'm not up to this anymore, you know.”

Did Lemmy give you my message?”

The figure nodded. “I didn't come all the bloody way from 1957 just to buy a stick of rock. What's going on?” The wasted, weary face regarded Mo through wiped-over eyes.

“I hoped you'd know.”

The figure coughed and spat again. “I feel terrible. I've never known. I was just trying to cut out a bit of territory. But that fell through, too. Are you the one who wants to fly down to Rio?”

“If you think that's a good idea.”

“You'd better get in. Don't blame me, either, if we never make it. Got anyone to eat?”

“You said he could never be revived.” Frank was frightened. Even his grip on Mitzi's hair was weak.

Miss Brunner was at a loss. “It's what we all understood. Why should he want to come back?”

“He's been resurrected.” Bishop Beesley spoke through mouthfuls of Maltesers. “Before.”

“But never like this.” Frank helped himself to a few of the bishop's chocolate-covered Valiums. “We'd blanked out every bit of possible music. He has to have it, to recover at all. To sustain himself for any length of time. It's the one thing we were sure of.”

Miss Brunner pushed her red hair back from her forehead. “Something got through to him. There's no point now in wondering how. Couldn't have done it. He didn't know anything, did he, Mitzi?”

“Ow,” said Mitzi, “I'm getting tired of playing both ends against the middle. It hurts.”

“Did he?” Miss Brunner drew out her special razor.

“Not as far as I know.”

“He's a demon,” said Bishop Beesley. “And he can never be completely exorcised. I'm certain of that now. Just when we thought we had everything under control.”

“Who got the music to him?” Frank let go of Mitzi. “You?”

Mitzi shook her head and tried to get her father's attention.

“Lemmy?”

“Might have been.”

“Nothing came through on the detectors,” said Miss Brunner. “There's always someone on duty. You know that.”

“We were squabbling amongst ourselves too much. It's that money problem.”

“A very real one,” said Bishop Beesley.

“I'll have the equipment checked.” Miss Brunner shrugged. “Not that there's much point now. I could have sworn he was stuck in 1957 for the duration. Still, it's no use crying over spilt milk, is it.”

“The problem we have now,” said Bishop Beesley, “is where he's got to. We found most of his bases and destroyed them. Any clues?”

“You'd better ask your mum,” suggested Mitzi.

The blimp was drifting towards the coast of Brazil. The flying boat had been abandoned in Florida. The blimp was losing gas.

“I thought you still had your old touch.”

Mo was unshaven. “We've been in this bloody thing for days!”

The last of the Music-Assassins blew his nose. “I haven't been well. Anyway, all my equipment's old.”