The Condition of Muzak

by Michael Moorcock

  The Bedford responded with a little extra speed. Major Nye smiled. “The last lot of bombing didn’t improve matters for us. There’s scarcely a stretch of road left that hasn’t been—” The lorry began to bump over potholes. “That’s nothing compared to the destruction closer to London. Still, we’ll be able to skirt London, that’s one consolation.” The rain crackled on the roof. In spite of the major’s words, Jerry felt considerably safer in his company than he had felt for a very long time, particularly when he began to hum ‘The Ballad of Sexual Dependency’ from The Threepenny Opera. The smell of petrol in the cab gradually became less noticeable and Jerry reached into his Norfolk for the ancient packet of Black Cats. He offered one to Major Nye. “No thanks, old chap. Roll my own. I say, you wouldn’t mind rolling one for me, would you?” He reached for a Rizla tin on the ledge above the dashboard and handed it to Jerry who tried to remember how to use the rolling machine, balancing it on his knees, putting paper, tobacco and filter into the rubber pad, licking the sticky edge of the paper, closing the lid and producing a fairly reasonable-looking cigarette. With some pride he gave the result to the major who looked at it a little critically. “Thanks, old chap. Thicker than my usuals, but still… Want one?”

  “I’ll stick to these,” said Jerry. With his steel Dunhill, almost a match to the one he had left in the jeep, he lit the major’s and then his own.

  “Bloody rain,” said the major. “You mustn’t mind me. I’ve got awful habits. My wife says so. Swear all the time. India, I suppose.”

  There was silence for a while until they had gone through Camelford, witnessed by the suspicious eyes of the residents, and were on a road heading for Taunton and the M. Whereupon, Major Nye, to Jerry’s amazement, suddenly began to sing in a slight mellow voice: “Moonlight becomes you. It goes with your hair. Did anyone ever tell you how pom-pom ta-tee.” He seemed unaware of his audience, peering placidly through the sheets of rain as the lorry bravely bucked along. “I’ll see you again, whenever spring comes through again—through again? Something like that. Da da da dee-dee da-dum. In those old familiar places, with those old familiar traaaaa-taaaa…” He went through a dozen song fragments in less than four minutes, like a malfunctioning jukebox. “You’re the cream in my coffee, I’m the milk in your tea.” He finished his cigarette and wound down the window sufficiently to throw the butt away. “If you knew Peggy Sue…” Then he seemed to remember Jerry. He opened the glove compartment to take out a large newspaper-wrapped packet. “Sandwich, old boy? Cheese and tomato probably, worst luck. Help yourself. There’s far too many for me. The old ulcer. I can’t eat much at a sitting. Little but often, that’s the motto. Tuck in.”

  Jerry pulled away the paper and removed a sandwich. He relaxed in his seat, scarcely paying any attention even when three or four bright explosions lit the evening skyline to the east.

  Major Nye did not seem particularly troubled, either, but regarded the explosions rather as confirmation of his earlier forebodings. “There you are,” he said. “That’s what the Americans have left us to handle.”

  “A bastard,” said Jerry.

  “The least of it,” said Major Nye.

  8. THE GIRL NEXT DOOR COULD BE A WITCH

  There was no doubt about it, thought Jerry, there had once been a time when he had been able to call at least a little of the play. Nowadays even the smallest decisions had been taken out of his hands. He yawned, searching the grey road ahead for black patches that would indicate shell holes. He didn’t really care, because his interests were becoming increasingly private as time went, if not on, then at least backwards and forwards. Major Nye was still singing. “Them good ol’ boys drinkin’ whiskey an’ rye…” Perhaps it did have something to do with his losing faith in rock music. The best performers had either died, decayed or fractured, leaving behind them a vocabulary of musical ideas, lyrical techniques and subject matter, styles and body languages which had never been given the opportunity to mature but had, instead, been aped by the very world of Showbiz against which they had originally revolted. And everything else was just the same—a load of oily entrepreneurs with their hair a little longer, their clothes occasionally a little easier on the eyes, their language an eager combination of professional slang and adman quasi-technical. It forced you, whether you liked it or not, into a classical stance, to long for a world when fiction really was stranger than truth because there were no films, television, magazines, newspapers to prove differently, to find consolation in the great Romantics of those far-off hazy days—Schoenberg, Ives and Messiaen—to hang in a sticky web of conflicting freedoms, finding an acceptable discipline only in Art, and if you were not an artist then the only alternative, as in Mo’s case, was a nihilistic war against the sole injustice you could identify, the tyranny of Time and the human condition…

  Once again Major Nye rescued him from this sentimental reverie. “Here we are, old chap.”

  Jerry looked up, recognising tranquil Grasmere lake on his left, the gigantic mock Gothic hotel which had sheltered so many ecstatic old ladies from Minnesota before rocket-fire had blown its roof away. Major Nye steered the Bedford carefully off the road to the right and into a small macadamised car park surrounded by a stone wall. A twisted sign read Car Park For Wordsworth’s Cottage Only. Dove Cottage was to Jerry’s right. As Major Nye switched off the engine and sighed with relief someone appeared at the gate and walked round into the car park: a tall man of about the same age as Major Nye but with a self-conscious dignity that was just a little Teutonic. He wore an old-fashioned grey three-piece suit and had a daffodil in his lapel. He was settling a grey homburg on his distinguished patrician head, knocking the ash from a cigarette which he smoked in a six-inch holder, cupped in the Russian manner between thumb and fingers.

  Lost in a cavern of self-pity, Jerry remained in the cab when Major Nye had walked through the drizzle to shake hands with the newcomer. “Am I glad to see you, old boy. We’ve been travelling the best part of two days—rained the whole time. Nearly missed the petrol dump outside Coventry. I’m afraid my passenger’s become a little depressed. Is your phone working? I’d like to tell my wife we’ve arrived safe and sound.”

  “There are no lines, I fear.” The man in grey spoke softly. He had a pleasant foreign accent. “But your daughter is here.”

  “Splendid.” Major Nye gestured to Jerry. “Time to disembark, Colonel Cornelius.”

  Jerry roused himself. It was quite possible that the petrol fumes were affecting him. He felt the need of a pick-me-up. A Jimi Hendrix track or a few minutes of Moses und Aron would be enough to do the trick; but he had lost hope. He did his best to put on a more cheerful face, opening his door, sliding to the ground, stretching his legs and arms as he approached the pair. The rain fell on his unprotected head. He had left his hat in the cab.

  “I am Prinz Lobkowitz.” The handsome man stared hard into Jerry’s face. “You know me?”

  “No,” said Jerry. “Do you know me?” He could have ridden for ever in Major Nye’s company. He was resentful that the journey was over.

  “Oh, it’s probably just a touch of déjà vu,” said Prinz Lobkowitz. “Come.” He led the way up the crazy-paving path and into the cottage. “I think Elizabeth has the kettle on.”

  The cottage had not been used as anything but a museum for some time. The uncarpeted rooms were full of glass cases and miscellaneous objects marked ‘Probably Wordsworth’s stick’ and ‘The kind of pen Wordsworth would have used’. Most of the genuine things had been sold off to the occupying troops years before. In a room at the back of the cottage was an ordinary table with a blue-and-white chintz cloth, a gas-stove on which boiled a large iron kettle, a gas-fire in the grate. Two women sat at the table, looking up as the three men entered.

  Major Nye smiled. “Hello, young Bess.” He embraced his rather plump and pretty daughter who wore a multicoloured Afghan dress and who accepted the embrace with a degree of condescension.

  “This is my friend Una,�
�� said Elizabeth Nye. “Una Persson.”

  “I think I’ve heard of you, my dear. How do you do?”

  “How do you do?” said Una Persson.

  Jerry was not sure he had ever seen a more beautiful woman. She wore a black trench coat and beneath it a long suède riding skirt, black knee-length boots, a white polo-neck sweater. There was a cartridge belt around her waist and attached to it a holster for a large revolver. She shook hands with Major Nye and then with Jerry, giving them both a small but friendly smile. Her short chestnut hair fell into her eyes as she sat down again. She brushed it back with a long hand.

  “I expect you’ve a good idea why we contacted you, colonel,” said Prinz Lobkowitz, sitting close to Miss Persson, “but we ought to fill you in about the Scottish position as soon as possible. They’ll be coming through for you shortly.”

  “Aha,” said Jerry, looking for the radio.

  Elizabeth Nye got up to pour hot water into a teapot. “Just what I could do with,” said Major Nye, rubbing his knotted hands together near the gas-fire. “This is Calor gas, I suppose, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” His daughter laughed. She took the pot to the table and put it down amongst the mugs and the milk and sugar already there. “Who likes it weak?”

  “I’d better have it weak,” said Major Nye. “Thanks, girly.” He accepted the mug.

  “As strong as it comes,” said Jerry. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my memory.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Prinz Lobkowitz had responded to his first statement. “Eh?”

  “My memory,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, sod it.” Impatient air hissed from Miss Persson’s clenched teeth. “He must be the most unreliable medium we’ve used. Every bloody time we need him he cops out—goes and loses his memory again.”

  “Sorry.” Jerry was anxious to placate this lovely woman. “My mind’s been taken up with my sister, you see. She’s all I have.”

  Una Persson’s expression softened. With her own hands she gave him a mug of tea. “Sugar?”

  “Not for me. Just milk.”

  She poured a little milk into the mug.

  “I don’t know what I can do for you, really. I’m a fast learner though. In some things, anyway.” Jerry smiled at her, accepting the tea.

  “It’s not for us,” said Prinz Lobkowitz. “It’s the Scots. We promised them you could advise them. None of us has any experience in physics. Not yet. Not in a practical sense, at any rate.”

  “I’ve put all that sort of thing behind me,” said Jerry.

  Una Persson stood up and went to the window.

  “I thought religion might help, you see,” he continued. “If I redefined things in supernatural terms. It can sometimes work. In the short run.”

  He looked to them for confirmation and saw only bafflement.

  “You’d better dredge up whatever you can,” said Una Persson. “They’ve arrived.”

  The five people crowded to the window, staring through the trees and the ruins out towards the lake. In the centre of the lake was a small island, hilly and wooded. Hovering over the island was a bulky hull. On its tail-fins was painted the blue cross of St Andrew. The ship’s entire outer skin was covered in the brilliant scarlet sett of the McMahon clan.

  “Why me?” said Jerry miserably.

  “Just your bad luck, I’m afraid,” said Prinz Lobkowitz. “We’re hoping that Scotland will hold, you see. Everything else is disintegrating rapidly.”

  “Politics?” Jerry became wary. “Is this some sort of manipulation?”

  Major Nye patted Jerry on the back.

  “Cheer up, old chap. It won’t be for long, after all.”

  “I thought I was regressing, but this—Christ!” He let them push him towards the door.

  “In the meantime,” said Una Persson suddenly, a little brisk sympathy in her tone, “we’ll be helping you look for Catherine. How’s that?”

  Jerry spread his hands. “Out?”

  9. A BICENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. THE 1976 GUNS & AMMO ANNUAL. IT’S ALL NEW … IT’S INFORMATIVE … IT’S AUTHORITATIVE … START YOUR “BICENTENNIAL” CELEBRATION TODAY!

  Dodging and weaving as usual Jerry slithered down the mound of refuse, his kilt left behind him like a forgotten fleece where it had snagged on the barbed wire and pulled free. Below him was what remained of the road and, on the other side, the ruins of the Convent of the Poor Clares. He was relieved to see that the row of houses on the south side of Blenheim Crescent, although boarded up, had escaped any major damage. He had jumped ship as the James Durie lost height over what had been the Mitcham Golf Course, had made it as far as the Bangladeshi ghetto in Tooting, where, under the hastily invented pseudonym ‘Secundra Dass’, he had been accepted and passed on through Brixton and as far as Pimlico before the chain had broken and he had found himself alone. From Pimlico he had to cross the desolation of Knightsbridge before he was in sight of home. Knightsbridge was the most notorious of all quarters, its inhabitants so vicious that they were feared even by the infamous denizens of Mayfair. Moreover Jerry in his kilt and turban had had the odds stacked as high against him as was possible, short of having a wooden leg as well. He had been fortunate in retaining his claymore and kris and with these weapons had been able to score himself a serviceable Lee-Enfield from a tall and muscular young lady in a silk headscarf and a necklace of black human ears.

  Now, in grubby underpants, his legs running with cuts and half-healed gashes, the .303 cocked, he reached the convent, drawn towards the blasted chapel by the faint strains of Buddy Holly singing… my heart grows cold and old… on a tiny cassette machine. It was a signal. The song faded and became ‘You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away’. It could not be a trap. He relaxed by a fraction and put the rifle under his arm so that he could stoop and pull up his socks which had slipped down inside his stolen wellington boots (another prize from the lady in the headscarf). A shadow moved behind a mock Gothic window. The music stopped. Jerry raised his rifle and advanced. Pieces of broken plaster stirred as Sebastian Auchinek, in a neat set of fatigues, a Browning automatic in his inexperienced fist, broke cover, his free hand held palm outwards without much hope. His large brown eyes were wary, antagonistic, ready, as ever, for compromise. Instantly the Dixie Cups began to sing ‘Chapel of Love’.

  “You’re looking pale, Mr Cornelius. You’ve lost your usual camouflage, eh? What’s the matter—is the famous survival instinct shot at last?”

  “I can’t help the opinions people hold of me,” said Jerry. “Your message came through days ago. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

  “Don’t give it a thought. There’s not an awful lot of danger around at the moment. It’s as quiet as the grave. Almost rural in some respects.” He sounded wistful.

  “It always was,” said Jerry. “Enervating, isn’t it, conventional warfare?”

  “You’re not fooling me, my son. I’m hip to any Pied Piper tricks.” Auchinek holstered his Browning. “I’m acting on behalf of Miss Persson. As her agent. She asked me to do this.”

  “Still in the promotion business, then?” Jerry followed the Jew into the shadows of the chapel and found a seat on the cold ugly marble of the altar. “What sort of acts are going down with the London public at the moment?” He began to shiver. “You couldn’t lend me a costume, could you?”

  Auchinek was pleased with the situation. “Sorry,” he said casually, “all the props are gone.”

  “You could lend me your guerrilla suit. You won’t win the girl by making a monkey of yourself, king. Apeing her’s not going to help the state of the Empire. Aaah!” Jerry opened his mouth and screeched with laughter, displaying his broken, piebald teeth.

  “And you’ll never get away with that material.” Auchinek shook his head. “Not these days. Tastes are changing. The public wants sophisticated romantic comedy. You’re offering them amateurish street theatre. Things have come a long way since the mummer’s plays. It won’t do, Mr Cornelius.”
r />   Jerry scratched his neck. “So it is an audition, after all?”

  “Of sorts. I can help you. There might be room for a brother and sister act in our final programme.” He studied Jerry’s eyes and seemed satisfied by the reaction he received. Jerry got down from the altar. Sebastian Auchinek turned over the tape to its reverse side. I believe in yesterday sang Paul McCartney, his voice finding an echo in what remained of the roof. With a sudden burst of malicious energy Auchinek flung the player against the wall. It smashed at once and there was silence. “I’m Miss Persson’s manager, as you know, but I do sometimes handle other people…”

  “You don’t have to tell me. Are you talking about Catherine?”

  “I am. My spell in the USAF…”

  “I don’t want to know about your introduction to black magic…”

  “… proved useful in that I was able to acquire certain rights…”

  “I told you…”

  “… and in turn come to possession…”

  “You’re not listening. Your religious convictions are your own. All I want to know—”

  “… of a number of flies—files—pertaining to the activities of informants operating in this area.”

  “Narks? Stoolies? Squealers?”

  “One of whom was a friend of yours, I believe. Gordon Gavin.”

  “Flash Gordon.”

  “I was able to interview him, just before the big pullout. He knew the whereabouts of your sister. She’s still here.”

  “She can’t be. I moved her, didn’t I? I had her—I had her—that’s what I can’t remember. But I was sure…”

  “Only the surface suffered much. The underground sections are still almost entirely intact and functioning. Why, there’s a rumour that some of these tunnels go all the way to Lapland.”

  “So she was under my nose before, before, before…” Jerry’s head was aching badly. “Have you got her safe?”