The Adventures Of Una Perrson

by Michael Moorcock

  'It seemed all right to me,' she said.

  'Maybe it was you cut it.'

  'You only gave me about a hundredth of a gram.'

  He was in better spirits. The coke was working, though he didn't know it. He went to get his coat and his guitars. He came back into the room, pulling on his old Afghan coat. 'I'm sorry, Cathy. You know what I'm like when I'm going off early in the morning. I haven't had a lot of sleep.'

  'You don't need to be there for a couple of hours,' she said.

  'Yeah, I know, but I've got to score first, haven't I? Before we go, you know.'

  'You'd think the army would supply you with that as well.'

  He winked. 'They do, these days, but never enough. Those soldiers can keep going on less than a gram a day, some of 'em.' There was a rumour that the army was paying entertainers entirely on drugs, but that was probably the top acts who didn't need the bread.

  He glanced around the bedroom. 'Try and tidy this place up a bit before I get back.'

  He disappeared.

  'Have a nice day,' she said.

  'Bitch.' He went out of the front door and slammed it so that everything rattled.

  Catherine turned over on her stomach and began to masturbate in the hope that it might relax her.

  Later, she packed her things and went to see Richard. He acted as if he had expected her, kissed her and told her to put her things in the bedroom and get undressed. At least he was positive, she thought.

  Richard came in and took some of his special gear from a drawer. 'All right?'

  She nodded. She was remembering her first pair of high-heeled shoes. She had been fourteen. She remembered how difficult it had been to walk in them, how self-conscious and put-upon she had felt when, lipsticked and permed, she had tottered down the street on the way to the party at Sammy's. She had grinned, however, when the two boys on the corner had wolf-whistled her. Then her mum had shaken her arm, telling her not to be so bloody vain. She supposed it was a silly thing to be thinking about, really, while Richard hand-cuffed her hands behind her naked back and told her what a disgusting whore she was and how he was going to fuck her sore. By and large, she reflected vaguely, he wasn't much of an improvement on Trevor. Richard wasn't even working now. He hadn't picked up his guitar in six months, Trevor had said, and before that he had only done a couple of sessions in a whole year.

  The time passed slowly, but at last she was massaging Vaseline into her wrists while Richard held her shoulders in his manly left arm and told her how she was the only girl he had ever loved. She stared into the gloom of the basement room and wondered why the glittering rails of the brass bedstead reminded her of home. They had never had anything like a brass bedstead. She counted the bars. There were five. The knobs on the outer two had been replaced with glaring Chinese theatrical masks Richard had been given by some girlfriend. Richard's clothes hung over the top rail; brightly patched dirty Levis and a T-shirt that said Assassinate Frodo. She realized that she liked him even less than Trevor. It was probably this sentimentality which put her off him. Sadists were only worth living with if they were consistent. Her own clothes were folded, as usual, neatly on the chair. Richard reached over her and found his Valium bottle. There's only about a hundred mills, left.' He shook four of the yellow five-milligram tablets into his hand and swallowed them down. I'll have to get a new script tomorrow. Remind me, will you, Cath?'

  She had decided not to stay, after all. 'Yes,' she agreed.

  With Richard's history of breakdowns, he had had no difficulty scoring downers from the local GP. When they had first met she had told him that Valium made you speedy and untogether and only calmed you down if you didn't do many drugs (it didn't always work, even then). As it was he had been living off Mandies for years. He wouldn't accept her explanation that the reason he kept falling down and dropping things was not exhaustion, as he claimed, but the effects of the tranquillisers and sleeping pills. He'd told her that she knew shit all about it and that Valium was the only thing that kept him from going over the top, that if he didn't use it he would get violent.

  She put the lid back on the Vaseline jar, turned on her side and tried to get comfortable on his constricting arm. The poor sod had served his time, she thought. He had been famous at nineteen. When he was twenty-one he had already been in two expensive mental hospitals. At twenty-two he had gone to the country to get himself together, had got bored one day and gone into Torquay where he had freaked out in a pub when four policemen had been called to ask him to stop talking to the barmaid because she had to go to bed and they wanted to close the pub. The police had brought on his anxiety with a vengeance and he had fought them for over twenty minutes before they got him into the car, into the nick, and from the nick to the local loony bin, where he had been filled up with Largactyl and sent, after two weeks, into the world, knowing himself to be a fully accredited manic-depressive, because that was how they had classified him. After he had stopped the drugs they had prescribed and lived through the subsequent withdrawal, he had come back to London, joined two or three bands for a few gigs, started going up under his own steam and the euphoria of working again, had become so speedy that no one had been able to stand him for more than an hour at a time, and his best friends had told him to go back on downers for his own sake. They hadn't made a lot of difference. He used more and more every day and every day got stranger, which proved to him that his manic-depression was becoming increasingly difficult to control. He had given her as an illustration of his great self-control the fact that he never used speed because it made him worse, that he never, now, dropped acid because too many bummers had tipped him into his established madness, that he never did coke because it made him paranoid, junk made him only depressed, dope made him too self-aware. His point had been that he only used the Valium and Mogadon for keeping himself from doing harm to himself or others.

  It was familiar drug-logic. Catherine had heard similar rationales a hundred times before. Some drugs worked for you; some didn't.

  She smiled. They started out such nice guys. And so innocent, most of them. She wondered about the housewives and the politicians and soldiers and businessmen whose doctors were helpfully speeding them along through life, keeping them calm, active, happy while every single decision they made was made, as she made her decisions, as Richard made them, in what was rarely better than a semi-conscious condition, whatever it felt like at the time. About the only thing that could be said for the drug culture was that a lot of the people in it at least knew what was happening to them. Her brother, who had in the mid-sixties spent most of his time seeking out new drugs to try, had referred to the Tantasy quotient'; he believed that the world was becoming less and less rational every day, that the increased reliance on the drug and electronics industries was like Rome relying on charms and omens when she could have been sorting out her economic problems. Nonetheless, she could have done with some coke. She was going to miss it a lot. It was the sort of drug that once enjoyed you missed for the rest of your life. She thought of it as a drug of invulnerability. It was the only substitute for sex she had ever found. She began to think of going back to Trevor, if only for the coke. She didn't know anyone else, these days, who could get hold of it easily. Maybe a soldier? She dismissed the idea. It had become so expensive, coke. It made up for a lot of things. She wondered why she had bothered to see Richard again. Her instincts were shot. She had an urge to return home. To see her mother. But she couldn't face the tension she would find. Perhaps she should get away from the rock scene. It had all gone sour, anyway. Everyone was dying or falling apart.

  Richard gave his familiar, peculiar lurch against her buttocks. She relaxed as best she could, hoping that this would be his last effort of the evening to get it up and that, even if he failed, he would not begin one of his inquests. They always revolved around his efforts to give her the kind of sex life she wanted (he had never accepted her claims that it had little, really, to do with sex). He always said at some stage, 'Well, it'
s what you want, isn't it, you bitch?' She wondered whether it was, perhaps, what she wanted now. It didn't give her the release she had come to expect. Maybe she had to be in love. Maybe she lacked self-respect.

  Richard's hands clung to her breasts as if for support while his wasted body pushed desperately against her and then slowly, somewhat apologetically, she fell asleep.

  TWENTY-ONE

  In which Una Persson considers the problems of personal loyalty

  'We're going to have to get out of England, Una,’ said Craven. They had reached the Atlantic. They stood together on the cliff looking down towards Tintagel Bay, now an abandoned coastal installation. The Brigantes don't usually bother to collect heads. Apparently a warrior can win a lot of esteem if he brings in ours. Are you flattered?'

  She was too introspective to bother to acknowledge this poor attempt at humour. Her original plan had been to steal one of the motor boats at Tintagel and head round the coast in the hope of contacting a friendly tribe. All the boats had gone.

  Even in the sunshine Tintagel had a gloomy, seedy look, in common with many other once glamorous places like Haight-Ashbury or Prague or Bangkok. The small beach and the sea of the bay below the castle ruins were spread with every sort of litter picked over by dirty gulls. Una was anxious to be on the move and she separated from Craven, plodding along the cliff-edge, holding her long coat so that it would not be snagged by the rusting barbed wire. Soon it was possible to take note of the broader sweep of the ocean; it was blue and only slightly turbulent. The sun struck the cream of the surf and was reflected. She paused. Something white moved near the horizon, coming towards the land. A hint of a memory. She drew her brows together, shading her eyes.

  Craven rejoined her. 1 don't think Arthur will be much help.' When she ignored him he added: 'You'd like to be shot of me, wouldn't you? I'm hampering you.'

  ‘I don't think it's you,' she said.

  He was displeased with her reply. He made a petulant sound. 1 thought you knew all the angles. You gave that impression.'

  ‘I'm afraid inertia is taking over.'

  'What are you looking at?' He was slightly short-sighted.

  'It could be a ship.'

  'Hadn't we better get off the cliffs before they spot us?'

  ‘They've already seen us, if those flashes are from binoculars.'

  ‘What sort of ship?'

  'Not a warship. I've seen it before somewhere.'

  'Friendly?'

  'Possibly not. I can't remember.'

  The ship was a fore-and-aft rigged steam-yacht; a schooner, white-painted, its brasswork shining, its sails filled with wind. It approached in a curve, turned clear of the wind so that the sails went quite suddenly limp. She saw men furling canvas. She saw an anchor drop.

  'Who the hell are they?' Craven started to laugh nervously. 'Pirates? Smugglers? The revenue men?'

  Una nodded without listening to him. She saw the longboat go down, heard the clear sound of its engine starting. All the sailors were dressed in white, but the uniforms were not familiar. The longboat was heading for the bay.

  She moved quickly, running back along the cliff. 'What's happening?' cried Craven. She shook her head. 'I don't know.' She found the broken concrete of the steps leading down the cliff. She controlled her haste and tested each step as she descended.

  The longboat rounded the headland. She reached the beach, taking cover behind one of the weed-smeared bunkers. She watched the boat's approach. Craven skulked beside her now, his machine-pistol in his hand. 'Would we have a chance,' he whispered, 'if we rushed them? We could steal the boat.'

  'Wait.'

  The longboat was beached. The sailors adjusted their clothes. They wore white baggy smocks, baggy trousers. At their throats and their wrists were huge red ruffs and instead of buttons there were red and blue pom-poms on their smocks, shoes and pointed hats. Only one of them had black and white pom-poms and black ruffs. He appeared to be the leader.

  'Pierrots,' said Craven. 'This is ridiculous.'

  As the pierrots drew the boat up the shingle Una could see the words on its side: Tintagel Concert Party.

  The leading Pierrot wore a black domino. He stood looking about him on the filthy beach, stripping off his mask. Una had already guessed who he might be. She was not entirely relieved; she continued to be suspicious, but she showed herself, wishing that her coat was not so tattered and muddy.

  Jerry Cornelius seemed pensive. He screwed the domino in his , left hand. 'There you are, Miss Persson. I thought we might be too late.'

  'Not at all, Colonel. You arrived just in time.'

  Jerry regarded Craven with the cocked eye of a suspicious vulture. 'Who the fuck's this?'

  'Craven. He's with me.'

  'Any experience?'

  'None.'

  'Oh, sod. Why do you always have to introduce complications just when I think I've got everything neatly sussed . . . ' He was not particularly querulous. 'We've no conditioning facilities on board the Teddy Bear. She's completely stripped down these days.'

  'He'll have to risk it, then, won't he?'

  'You've warned him? It's best to be prepared for an identity crisis.'

  Craven began. 'Were you aware that these people were coming, Una? Hello, Jerry. A Colonel now, are we?'

  'I'm Gilbert the Filbert, didn't you know?' For Craven's benefit Jerry produced a silly smile. Craven missed the reference. It was obvious to Una that Jerry Cornelius didn't recognize Craven. Evidently he had been shifting about and his memory had been at least partially replaced.

  One of the pierrots, a pale, anxious man, consulted a watch, the third in a row which stretched up his arm. Una had seen him once before at a Time Centre. 'We're behind schedule, Mr C. There's not much margin.'

  Jerry acknowledged him. 'Okay. Everybody back in the boat.' ^

  Craven showed reluctance. 'Are you sure this is wise, Una?'

  She was already seating herself in the forward part of the longboat, feeling better than she had done for a long while. There was something reassuring about Cornelius. It must be part of his attraction. 'Up to you,' she said. 'The only thing I can guarantee is that very shortly we'll be out of this zone altogether. I'm not saying the next zone will be any better. On a straight time-line, of course. Nothing fancy. No hopping about.' She looked to Cornelius for confirmation. He inclined his head.

  'Zone?' Craven climbed in beside her. She did not elaborate. The pierrots unshipped the oars, to push the boat away from the shore.

  In the stern, Jerry started the engine. Tou'd forgotten how to get out, hadn't you?' he called to Una. 'It's been happening a lot lately. Everything's fragmenting, as usual.'

  ‘I thought you liked it like that.' The noise of the engine half-drowned her voice.

  'It depends what sort of shape you're in.' He ran a hand over his features, scratching at a faint stubble. 'And what shape they're in, too, of course.'

  They left Tintagel behind and had soon reached the yacht. Una was surprised by the freshness of the air. The whole of England must be stinking of rot, she thought. Jerry helped her to climb the rope ladder up the white side. At the rail Shaky Mo Collier, clutching a huge sub-machine gun which dripped oil down his costume, awaited her. 'Glad to have you aboard. Captain Persson,' he said. She winked back at him. The little man still resembled a decadent Eskimo, his movements were still nervous, and excitement still burned in his eyes. He was the only one of the ship's company who sported a weapon.

  Una was relieved now that she stood on the deck. She recognized a number of faces but could not name them. She looked around for her best friend.

  'Catherine won't be with us on this shift.' Jerry spoke confidently. His spirits had improved considerably since their last encounter. He gave her hope as he put his arm around her, kissing her firmly on the forehead. 'But I expect we can find her, if you're keen. You're not looking well, Una.'

  'I'm a bit tired,' she said. 'Were you hunting for me, then?'

  'It was obvious
you'd gone to pieces. How about the boyfriend?'

  'Craven wants to escape. I couldn't leave him.'

  'A bit clinging, is he?'

  'You know what they're like.' She felt no guilt.

  Craven lurched into earshot, swearing. He had lost his footing.

  'Frank?' said Una.

  'Below. Sulking as usual. He misses his mother.' Jerry watched his men swing the longboat aboard and fix it in its davits. 'Do you remember this yacht? I've probably had it cleaned up a bit since you last saw it. It's fitted with my latest engines.'

  Una looked back towards England. 'I shouldn't really have left it in that mess.'

  'Well, it wasn't just your fault, you know. Everybody had a hand in it.'

  'How many of the others are still in there?'

  'Just a handful. They'll make their own way out.'

  ‘I didn't.'

  ‘They're not in such lousy shape.'

  'Where are we going?' Craven demanded. 'Why is everyone being so bloody mysterious?'

  'Because it's a mystery tour.' Jerry always adapted his jokes to his audience. 'Take it easy, Mr Craven. Just enjoy your holiday. It'll be over soon enough. What mysteries would you like to experience today?'

  'Easy,' Una warned Jerry carelessly, 'I still have certain responsibilities.'

  Jerry refused to listen. 'You're on holiday, too, Una. You can forget all about your responsibilities and relax for a while. I'm in charge. You'll find quite a lot of your old wardrobe in your cabin. Have a bath. There's a comfortable deckchair waiting for you as soon as you've changed.'

  'What about me?' said Craven. 'Can I change, too?'

  Jerry looked him over.

  'I doubt it,' he said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  In which Catherine Cornelius bids farewell to ancient glories

  ‘Few people,' said Constant, stroking Catherine's cheek as he moved his pawn, 'understand the trials and responsibilities of the committed sadist.' He pinched her ear-lobe in his nails.