The Adventures Of Una Perrson

by Michael Moorcock

  'I always take my knitting to gigs,' Catherine told her. 'It's something to do. And Jack doesn't like it if I stay at home when they're playing in London. Besides,' she waved at a passing acquaintance, 'this is a special occasion, isn't it. Biggest gig of the year.'

  Terence re-appeared. 'We've sold out,' he said. 'There must be sixty thousand people out there.'

  'Blimey!' Mrs Cornelius was impressed as she watched him scamper towards the dressing-room. 'Sixty thahsand!'

  'Say twenty and you'll be closer.' Catherine accepted a drink from a tray one of the waitresses offered her. 'He always doubles it, at least, by about this time. Since it's a big gig he'll have trebled it, probably.'

  Mrs Cornelius didn't listen. She preferred Terence's estimate. 'Blimey!'

  There were tables scattered about the cafeteria. Catherine sat down at one and pulled a chair towards it, for her mother. 'That's better,' said Mrs Cornelius. She peered contentedly around at the war-painted faces, the brocaded beauties, the worn-out boys in Texan boots and studded leather toreador pants whose pale chests were littered with silver crosses, swastikas, ankhs and medallions, whose flimsy shirts seemed fixed to their bodies only by the sweat of their backs and armpits, at the sharp-featured, gloomy girls whose eyes would become suddenly eager when they saw someone they recognized, at the fat teenagers in muu-muus who held babies in their arms and chatted good-naturedly to old friends with big belts and wistful smiles and long, lank, hennaed hair, who handed on joints or tiny containers made of silver foil. There was an enormous amount of movement, of people leaving tables, sitting briefly at I tables, striding slowly about, while managers and roadies raced through the throngs. 'Have you seen Dave?' 'Have you seen Stoatsy?' 'Have you seen that bitch Beryl?' 'What's going on, then?' Nobody paid attention to them; they might have been noisy, playful dogs. Terence went by again, like the White Rabbit. 'There's going to be trouble. I know there's going to be trouble.' He vanished up a flight of stairs.

  'Ullo, Cathy. Long time no see.' A familiar hand reached under her hair and fondled her neck. Long fingers pushed a joint between her lips, a head appeared to kiss her on the nose, dark drugged eyes regarded her from the depths of an almost fleshless skull. 'How are you love?' It was Zonk. She had been his chick for a couple of months before he had gone off to Wales on his own, to live on a farm, to get his head together.

  'Oh, Zonk! I thought you were in the country!'

  ' 'Ad to come up for this, didn't I? Social event of the year.'

  'This is my mum.'

  He bowed. The action caused him to stumble and almost fall into Mrs Cornelius's lap. His body was even thinner than ever. He wore a green velvet waistcoat and muddy Levis, patched on the knees and seat. His arms were tattooed, with War on one arm and Peace on the other; they were as muscular as ever and hard as they gripped her round the shoulders, more for support than in affection.

  'This is Zonk,' she said to her mother.

  'Pleased ter meet yer.' Mrs Cornelius smiled up at the swaying newcomer.

  'Yeah,' said Zonk. He nodded profoundly several times. 'Enjoying yourself, then?'

  'Oo, yes!'

  'That's great.' He fell toward her again, kissing and patting her jowls.

  ‘This is so sudden,' giggled Mrs C. 'Are all your friends like this, Caff?'

  ‘The best of them,' she said.

  Steadying himself by means of the back of Mrs Cornelius's chair Zonk scratched himself with a blue fingernail. 'Seen Jack?' he said after a moment's thought.

  ‘Probably in the dressing-room,' said Cathy.

  'You his old lady now, eh?'

  'Well,' she said, 'I was before, wasn't I?'

  'Oh, sure. Sure. No, that's good. Where is he?'

  'Dressing-room,' she said.

  'Yeah. Right.' Zonk took a deep breath and shoved himself off into the crowd. 'See you, Cathy. Take care.'

  'See you, Zonk.'

  ' 'E seemed a nice enough bloke,' said Mrs Cornelius. 'Sailor was 'e?'

  Catherine took her knitting from her big denim bag.

  'Wot you smoking?" asked her mother.

  'Oh.' She had been automatically drawing on the joint.

  'Reefer, is it?'

  'It's only . . . '

  'Give us a puff,' said Mrs Cornelius adventurously.

  Catherine handed the joint to her mother who drew on it deeply and coughed her heart out. 'Rough bloody stuff, innit?'

  Catherine began to knit.

  'Don't feel any different,' said Mrs Cornelius.' 'Ere, ain't that the butcher's boy? 'Enry.' She pointed. 'You know. Caff. 'Is eldest.'

  Catherine looked up. Her mother was indicating a group of Hell's Angels who were swaggering sheepishly towards the bar, their helmets and goggles under their arms. ' 'Enry! 'Enry! Yoo-oo!' One of the Angels turned, grinning with recognition. He came towards them, his mates following.

  'Well, well, well,' he said, 'Mrs C! 'Ow you doin' then, love?'

  'Pretty good. Ya know Caffy, doncher?'

  'What 'o. Caff. Wouldn't a recognized ya in that gear.'

  Catherine laughed. 'I wouldn't have recognized you in that gear, either, Henry. How long have you been with the Angels?'

  'All me life,' he said seriously. 'We come up the M4 from Bristol this mornin'. Give us a drag, then, Mrs C He removed the joint from Mrs Cornelius's fingers. 'What is the older generation comin' to, eh? This is me brothers—Rotty, Bern, Carno and Swish. Old friends o' mine,' he explained to the other Angels, handing Swish the joint. 'Watch it. It's a bit manky. Well, well, well.' He fell into an awkward silence, shared by his brothers. *So . . .'

  'Shall we get that drink, then?' said Rotty.

  'Yeah. Right, then. See ya later, maybe.' He raised his gauntleted hand in a clenched fist salute and led his friends once again in the direction of the bar.

  ' 'E must 'ave a motorbike now,' said Mrs Cornelius.

  'Yes,' said Catherine, casting off.

  ‘Is it tomorrow — or just the end of time?' asked the late great Jimi Hendrix over the speakers.

  Catherine began a new row.

  She saw Jack striding through the crowds, scowling to keep the people at bay. His method of moving was to aim straight for the spot he wanted to get through, ignoring friends and strangers alike until he had arrived. Already journalists had sighted him and were beginning to circle, while acquaintances were left gasping 'Hello, Jack' in his wake.

  Jack's black hair was damp with sweat, it curled around his swarthy, sullen face. He wore a Wrangler denim shirt and yellow velvet trousers. His feet were bare. As he approached their table, his scowl began to vanish and by the time he reached Cathy he was giving her a weary smile. 'You all right, then?'

  'Fine,' she said. 'It got too crowded in the dressing-room.'

  ' 'Alf of London's in there,' he said. 'Watcher, Mrs C. Finding all this a bit strange, are you?'

  'It's smashing,' said Catherine's mother. 'I'm glad I said I'd come. I could stay 'ere forever. Everybody's so nice.'

  Sighing, Jack sat between them. 'You seen what it's like out there?' He indicated the hall.

  'Terence says there's sixty thousand.'

  Jack was amused. 'What? Fleas?'

  'It's packed out,' said Catherine.

  'It'd 'ave to be, to pay for all the free booze Terence is givin' away.' Jack expected his career to collapse at any moment and he resented anything he considered unnecessary expense. He already had a fortune invested in property, but he continued to be as insecure as he had always been. He was the only member of Emerald City to take any interest at all in the book-keeping.

  Already some journalist had arrived. He wore a black plastic windcheater and grey flannels, with a pink open-neck shirt, and his shortish fair hair was unkempt and greasy. The journalists were always the graceless ones. 'Have you got a moment, Jack? I don't want to break into a private party. But if we could get a photo? Is this the family?'

  Jack ignored him, rubbing his left eye, his hand half-covering his face, his rings fl
ashing on his fingers.

  'How does it feel to be the greatest guitarist in the world?' the journalist went on.

  Jack grabbed a handful of little sausages from a passing tray and began to cram them into his mouth. Journalists always made him act as crudely as possible. It was about his only protection.

  ‘That's what our readers have just voted you. It was overwhelming. Did you see it?'

  Jack had spent most of the morning laughing about it. He licked his fingers.

  'Don't bother him now,' said Catherine. Tou know he won't speak to you.'

  Catherine heard the journalist mutter to his photographer, even as the flash-guns went off, blinding her. 'Arrogant sod. Manners of a pig.'

  ‘I thought Terence said there wouldn't be any press people backstage.' Jack took the paper tissues Catherine handed him and began to wipe his fingers.

  'He lets them in and you let the Angels in,' said Catherine. That's fair.'

  Jack put his tongue in his cheek and smiled, relaxed again. 'I hadn't thought of it like that.' He cupped his strong hand behind her head and drew her to him for a kiss.

  'Watch the bloody knitting,' she said.

  'Bugger the knitting.' He whispered in her ear. 'I got a present for you.'

  'Oh, thanks, Jack.' They shared a grin.

  He sat, rocking his chair on its back legs, looking out at the crowd, whistling to himself. A couple of young girls approached holding pieces of paper and Biros. Without warning, perhaps not even conscious of their presence, he leapt up and set his face back into the scowl, heading for the dressing-room, body stooped as if he pushed a plough. 'See ya.' He was gone.

  'Cor!' Mrs Cornelius wheezed as she hunted in her bag for a cigarette. 'What 'appened to 'im?'

  'It's all the fans,' Catherine explained. 'He gets embarrassed.'

  'Go on! 'E enjoys it! 'Oo wouldn't?'

  'I don't think he does. Mum. The more famous you get, the less you're sure of yourself. He hardly knows his own name sometimes.'

  Too many drugs.'

  'Maybe;

  'You gonna marry 'im?'

  'Maybe.'

  She continued with her knitting. She could guess what Jack's present would be. It was something to look forward to. She wished that she wasn't quite so tired, so that she would be able to enjoy it better tonight. Still, a short line of coke would solve that one.

  She watched as two security guards entered and stood staring disapprovingly around them, arms folded. They wore white caps and navy-blue uniforms, with armbands printed in red: SECURITY. She became depressed. The two men talked together for a while and then moved off in different directions.

  'I'll 'ave anuvver o' them, darlin'.' Mrs Cornelius reached for a drink. The waitress paused to let her take one from a tray. 'What abaht you. Caff?'

  'I'll have a glass of red,' said Catherine.

  The waitress's mouth tightened.

  The music which began to come over the speakers was disorganized and unpleasant. Catherine realized that it must be live. The concert had begun, probably starting with Better Off Working, who were friends of Jack's. A high voice was singing. 'Sweet paranoia, well, it's melting my brain. Cant get away from that narcotic rain. Don't let it wash me right down the drain. Girl, wont you help me get back on my train . . . '

  Realizing that she had missed a stitch, Catherine began to unravel the line.

  Terence reappeared. 'I told them they should do a sound check. Oh, Jesus, it's horrible.'

  'They always were horrible,' said Catherine. 'It was your idea to book them. Jack said you'd regret it.'

  'Jack didn't say anything to me.'

  'Well, he knows them, doesn't he?' Catherine reached for her wine. She had a headache. It might be worth going to the dressing-room, now that the first band and its followers would have left, to get something to make her feel better. She put her knitting away. 'Will you be all right here for a bit. Mum?'

  'Don't worry about me, love.'

  Catherine stood up, shaking off her dizziness and trying to get on top of her depression. She drew a deep breath of the incensed air. It seemed cold, suddenly.

  Reaching the corridor to the dressing rooms she was stopped by a middle-aged security guard. 'What d'you want, love?'

  She looked beyond him, spotting one of the roadies chatting outside the door of Jack's room. 'Bob!'

  The roadie saw her there and shouted. ‘It's okay.' The guard let her through.

  When she got into the room there were only five or six people there, sitting in the chairs or on the floor, all rolling joints. Jack sat on a table chatting to Zonk who appeared to have fallen against the wall and let himself slip to the ground. A very young girl, with long, straight, dark red hair, a beautiful oval face, wearing a dark blue sari, a headband, and little silver chains on her wrists, ankles and throat, stood close to Jack, looking at him as he spoke. She was lovely.

  Jack saw Catherine enter but finished what he was saying before greeting her. 'It's better in here now,' he said. 'Cathy, this is Marijka.'

  'Hello, Marijka.' Catherine admired her body.

  'Hello.' She spoke with an accent.

  'She's come all the way from Amsterdam to see us,' said Jack.

  'Far out.'

  Marijka moved a fraction closer to Jack. She was the loveliest present Catherine had ever had.

  'You really ought to start another band, you know, Zonk,' Jack was saying reasonably. 'I mean, you're off the junk now. You'll be happier working.'

  'No, man. I can't stand it,' Zonk mumbled. They had been together in the first band Jack had formed and Zonk had played bass in Red Harvest before it became Emerald City, but he hadn't been able to keep it together; mostly, then, it was downers. They had wrecked his sense of rhythm.

  Terence came in. 'Get these people out of here,' he said weakly. Nobody moved. 'Has Steve turned up yet. Jack?'

  'No, man.'

  'Then we won't have anybody to do the mixing, "man"!' Terence sounded almost triumphant. 'And you need someone to do the mixing. You really need someone. Have you seen the state Alan's in?' Alan was their keyboard player.

  'Don't panic, Terence. It'll be all right.' Jack took a swig from a bottle of wine and made to hand it to Marijka, who shook her head. He reached under his dressing-table and pulled a can of lager from a big cardboard box. The floor was littered with empty cans, bottles, roaches, cigarette packets.

  'And you're not in any better condition/ continued Terence.

  'Oh, fuck off, Terence.'

  A young man in a pink leather suit covered in silver stars came in behind Terence. 'Evenin' all,' he said. He pushed past Terence. 'Evenin', Terry.'

  ‘Piss off, Denny,' said Terence. There's a good lad.'

  Denny's girlish features showed mock astonishment. 'What? What? When I've brought lovely goodies for everybody?' Denny was a dealer who attended most of Emerald City's home counties gigs, supplying good-quality drugs at moderate prices.

  'What have you got?' asked Terence.

  'Some genuine Nepalese Temple Dope,' Denny told him sensuously, spreading his hands to frame his face. 'Far out!'

  'Did you get those five grams, Denny?' asked Jack.

  Denny put the tip of his left forefinger against the tip of his left thumb and winked. 'Almost a hundred per cent pure. You'll love it, man.'

  'How much have you got?' asked Jack. 'Dope, I mean.'

  'About four ounces.'

  'I'll have the lot,' said Jack reaching into his back pocket.

  Denny seemed disappointed. He was a dealer who loved to deal.

  'You been in England before,' Catherine asked Marijka softly.

  'Oh, yes, many times,' said Marijka. Plainly she did not want to be distracted from her contemplation of Jack.

  Denny was handing over the coke. Five silver paper packets wrapped in a plastic bag. Catherine reached out and took it from Jack. 'I've got a rotten headache,' she said.

  'This is for everybody,' Jack said, adding significantly: 'Marijka would probably
like some, too. Why don't you two chicks go somewhere and have a quick snort?' He tended to be mean with his drugs. He snatched the packet back from her and separated one of the silver paper envelopes, handing it to her. 'Save some for later, eh?'

  'I just want a little bit for now,' she said. 'Come on, love.'

  Marijka looked at Jack.

  He nodded. 'You go with her. Come back later. She'll give you some coke, mm?'

  'Come on.' Catherine put her hand on Marijka's exposed right shoulder. 'Haven't you got lovely skin?'

  Reluctantly, Marijka let Catherine lead her from the dressing room towards the lavatories at the end of the corridor. 'It'll be nice and private in here,' said Catherine, entering a cubicle and letting the plastic seat cover down. She put the cocaine on the seat and began to take her mirror, razor blade, spoon and straw from her bag.

  Marijka watched passively, as she had watched Jack, while with the razor blade Catherine began to prepare two lines for them. She made her own line about twice as long as Marijka's. 'Shall I show you how to sniff it up?' she asked kindly.

  Marijka, kneeling now, on the other side of the lavatory seat, nodded.

  Catherine put the big glass straw into her left nostril and sniffed up half the first line. Denny had been right about the quality. As the stuff numbed her nose she got a fantastic buzz almost immediately. It seemed to open up the back of her head and let the headache out. She sighed with pleasure. 'Oh, great.'

  She snorted the remainder of the line through her other nostril. Too much.'

  She watched tenderly as Marijka imitated her. The girl had trouble getting the line up properly, but the coke brought her to life. Suddenly she was beaming at Catherine.

  'It's wonderful.'

  Catherine leant over the seat and kissed her.

  NINETEEN

  In which, once again, Captain Persson finds herself helping the wounded

  There was thick, grey smoke rising over the tops of the tall rhododendron bushes. Una noticed that the red and purple flowers were blackened around the edges, as if on its way past something had singed them. She could think of no explanation as to the cause of this curious effect.

  She had stayed in 1973 longer than she had needed to, but still she had not managed to get to Cambodia. She rather wished now that she had checked at a Time Centre before coming on to England ' in 1979. She wasn't used to horses. The big sorrel colt kept tossing its head back at her as if it had not been ridden for a while. She controlled it as best she could, yanking at the reins and clapping her heels against its flanks to make it go up the hill so that she could see what had happened on the other side of the rhododendrons. The colt's hoofs slipped in the wet, loamy earth and she thought they would both fall, but eventually the horse had reached the top and she could look out over what was left of the North Devon countryside. The smells were confusing—sweet, rich forest and bitter ash. It was an odd experience to come out of that oak wood to the sudden sight of such absolute devastation.