Idleness and misery had closed over their heads. Their careers were on hold. The Rock and Roll Reich made few demands on the Adjuvants now that Fergal and the Celtics were in the ascendant; and the Zen Self project had deserted them. They couldn’t hang out at the Insanitude, because Fergal or his minions would be there. They couldn’t go and lean on Rox for support because, because. They had money, enough for whatever treats this sixth winter of the Crisis could provide, but they hadn’t the heart for dissipation. There was nothing to do but mourn for Ax and Sage, and sit in their naked rooms watching daytime tv.
One afternoon, like too many other afternoons, Chip lay on the gel-bed. Verlaine sat crosslegged on a fat sideboard that had belonged to Roxane’s grandmother. The Second Chamber was on the box, they were jeering at it listlessly. In their curtainless windows Cézanne iterations blanked out a dark December day.
‘It’s classic,’ said Chip. ‘First the romantic violent phase, that was the Deconstruction Tour. Then the internecine struggle, the power structures re-form, and the revolution gets taken over by a new set of suits identical to the old set. Except totally unaccountable, different buzzwords, and they now have a taste for blood. Fucking horrible, fucking predictable.’
‘It was never our revolution,’ said Verlaine. ‘We only tried to make it better.’
‘Fat chance. The world is too strong. We fought the law, and the law won.’
Fiorinda’s appeasement was successful, to an extent. The Volunteer Initiative was still going, and the hedgeschools; and a raft of Ax and David’s legislation. But they weren’t in the mood to look on the bright side.
‘Were we killed at some point without noticing? Is this Hell?’
‘I wonder what he’s got on her,’ sighed Verlaine, gazing wearily at the screen.
‘That’s no secret. She’s giving Fergal sexual favours and consort status, because he’s threatened her with bloody civil war in the Counterculture, if not all of England, if she refuses to play.’
They contemplated, miserably silent.
‘I wish we could get something on him,’ said Chip. ‘Something slow and painful.’ Silence again for a moment, then he began in a different tone, ‘Pippin, what if we could? What if we could discredit the bastard? Like we did Pigsty, remember? Find out something that even the Celtics won’t take. I don’t know what, but I bet he has shit we can stir—’
‘He doesn’t. The Intelligence Services did a job on Kearney, after Spitall’s farm, and came up empty, and Ax trusted their results. He’s just a hardened oldschool radical rockstar who lied to us and got away with it because radical can mean totally opposite things.’
‘Yeah, English Intelligence, yeah, but…but that was then. In the full flush of data quarantine. Things are a lot squishier now. I betcha if we hack around a little we can get to stuff that the spooks couldn’t reach. We wouldn’t need a plan. Just start by finding out anything we can about Fergal Kearney—’
They were desperate for action.
Verlaine got down from the sideboard. ‘Merry, I believe you’re right. The young queen is in durance vile, we must rescue her. It’s a secret mission. This might be dangerous, and we must not get caught. We will be risking our lives.’
A pause for thought.
‘Let’s do it,’ said Chip.
Fiorinda had a new double life. She was still nominally Mr Dictator’s deputy, she was still managing the Volunteer Initiative. The Second Chamber Group planned to make her Ceremonial Head of State. Rufus seemed to like that idea, and he was indifferent to the charity work. But now, instead of being a rockstar in her spare time, her job was being Fergal’s girlfriend. When his friends and associates gathered in the upper room at Rivermead, on the long winter evenings, Fiorinda was their hostess. She saw documents and overheard conversations that made the most hair-raising rumours from the Floods Conference a reality. Sometimes she was able to use her knowledge: tipping off the police (reliable police, people she trusted) over ritualist venues, getting threatened people out of the way of trouble, securing food supplies before they could be destroyed by the Gaia-wants-us-to-commit-suicide fanatics. Sometimes she intervened directly.
Rufus didn’t seem to care. He liked to indulge her over trifles. Fergal’s friends never appeared to put two and two together…and this had puzzled her considerably until she’d realised that Fergal’s inner circle knew the bizarre truth. They knew that Fergal Kearney was really Rufus O’Niall, occupying another man’s body, and they weren’t going to tell him his girlfriend was a security risk.
They wouldn’t say boo to him.
Sometimes she played the piano. Sometimes Rufus/Fergal called her to sit at his feet so he could fondle girl-flesh while he dominated the conversation. Most often she sat with her sewing (she was not expected to offer the drinks and canapés; there were servants for that). Watching and listening. And as she watched him, the rock-lord among his courtiers, she began to hope.
Rufus wanted England. He wanted his daughter-bride on the throne beside him, public ritual sacrifices of the unfit, a populace stripped of the ‘freedoms’ and ‘civil rights’ of modern civilisation; and an end to the masquerade. He was tired of occupying Fergal Kearney. He wanted to possess England, and possess Fiorinda, in his own shape.
He had prepared the ground. He expected the Second Chamber Group to deliver the goods, and Fiorinda saw it dawning on him that they wouldn’t do it. Not at the pace he wanted. The Rock and Roll Reich was holding up, holding on, and Rufus wasn’t prepared to wait.
Benny Preminder, a frequent visitor at Rivermead, had been working for Rufus for years, of course. Benny must have been turned long ago, and it was galling, if she’d cared, to realise how easily the Triumvirate had been fooled. Slimy little Benny Preminder leads a charmed life—
But that phase was over. Now Benny was like the thrusting manager who has introduced the terrific new star to the corporate backers, and begins to regret it. The Celtics were telling Rufus he could go global. (Fiorinda could not discover how they planned to use Rufus’s magic: maybe they hadn’t yet worked it out) He very interested in their proposals. Meanwhile, on the England deal he was getting restive, he was starting to feel double-crossed.
Benny can’t hold him, she thought. He’s a rockstar.
She had a triple life. The third life happened between the sheets, and involved a dead man’s body with carrion breath. But the less said about that the better.
Every moment an embattled island. I am going to win.
Fiorinda’s gran, who had known it was Rufus all along, dosed her with potions and ointments intended to restore her fertility, and told her the Pharoahs of Eygpt always used to marry their daughters. Fiorinda didn’t bother trying to get Gran see the enormity of what she was doing. Talking to Gran about morality just made you feel as if you were going nuts. Rufus was unconcerned. She had no idea what he could do. Maybe he could reverse the sterilisation right now if he felt like it. But she was glad she’d held out, when Ax and Sage had been trying to get her to go to the whitecoats.
At least she could hope there was one less horror to contemplate.
In the earliest days of spring Fiorinda started to have yet another life. It happened in a small room in the North Wing of the Insanitude, called the Fire Room; it involved Fiorinda and a young woman called ‘Lurch’, in the US, talking to each other (one pad key) in lines of type. She was anxious about this world, because secret resistance to the Fergal Régime was a situation she’d been trying very hard to avoid. But she loved it. Now there are two people, talking to each other directly, who actively, positively believe Ax Preston is alive.
The winter passed. April came and the Rock and Roll Reich,, though battered, was standing: but the broad beans in Fiorinda’s courtyard garden weren’t doing so well. Slugs delighted in the damp nooks in Topsy’s Barcelona Cathedral walls. They got up very early, in prime commuting distance from snack heaven.
Fiorinda moved doggedly along the rows, plucking slimy bodies with her b
are hands; dumping them in a pot of vinegar. Silver and Pearl were impressed, but prefered to stick to more civilised means of slaughter. The morning was rain-washed, the sunlight weak and cool, the leaves so green. Bless, thought Fiorinda, a word that came to her often now and she didn’t know why. Bless the beans, I suppose. Bless you, beans. Flourish so I can eat you…a slight contradiction there, but never mind.
Her troops were getting restive. The Fergal Régime encroached and Fiorinda’s story that she was keeping the faith by appeasement was wearing thin. But she was winning. Rufus was sick of the masquerade; and Fergal’s poisoned body (she thought) was failing. She wasn’t sure whether this last was a good or a bad thing; but she felt it was good. He’ll quit. He will take me with him, of course, but he will leave my friends alive and well, and he will leave England in peace, because he’s going to honour his bargain. Not from pity, fuck no, but because he wants a willing sacrifice. That’s magic—
‘What a slug likes best to eat,’ muttered Silver, squatting on one of the mosaic paths, dealing summary justice with a lump of brick, ‘is dead slug—’
‘Hey, have you filled the beer traps?’
‘In a minute,’ said Silver. ‘I’m making a cordon sanitaire.’
‘You’re making a filthy mess.’ Fiorinda raised her head and saw the pert cones of Silver’s infant breasts pushing at the fabric of her smock. I’ll have to say goodbye to my handmaidens, she thought sadly. I’m going to have to forbid them to come near me.
‘Where did Pearl get to?’
Silver looked guilty. The courtyard had several exits. One of them led, via a cute little artsy-crafty stair, directly to Fiorinda’s rooms. She never let them go up there. Naturally it was from this door that Pearl appeared, hiding something under her cardigan when she found Fiorinda staring at her.
‘What’s that you’ve got, Pearl?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Give.’
Pearl reluctantly handed over a tired-looking, lumpy packet of mottled green paper. Fiorinda saw at once what it was, and her blood ran cold. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a charm,’ whimpered Pearl, cowed by the blaze of Fiorinda’s eyes. ‘Silver hid it under your bed. T-to collect sex energy. She made me fetch it.’
‘It was ages and ages ago,’ whined Silver, equally scared. They were utterly forbidden to enter that bedroom now. ‘W-when it was Sage and Ax—’
‘You stupid little fucks! Fucking idiots! Get out! Get out of here, fuck off, go!’
She ran with the packet to the water-closet toilet on the colonnade that led to the old hospitality benders, where the Wing children lived with their mother; tore it up frantically and dumped it. Whoosh. That’s the way to do it. Her stomach turned. Clinging slime on her fingers. Dead slugs.
She pitched her face over the bowl and chucked and chucked. Oh God.
Head in her hands, she leant against the wall. Not much longer. He’ll take me to his private island. He’ll try to make me join him in his devil’s bargain, and this time Ax and Sage won’t be there. I’ll refuse, I’ll resist. I’ll be torn to pieces, and then Rufus will do whatever the hell the Celtics want him to do: and there will be no one who can stop him.
I can’t help that. I have no answer.
One step at a time. One step at a time. I’m winning this round, but the endgame could be sticky. I must remember he’s humouring me. The only power I have over him is that I know the way his mind works… I must get the most vulnerable people out of his sight, because this ‘bargain’ might not hold to the very end. She’d despatched all three Heads to Wales, to concentrate on their daft mission at Caer Siddi. Rufus never shown any interest in Ax’s band, but she’d had Allie fix up a tour of the Highlands for the Chosen, to be on the safe side. That dealt with the Preston brothers and Milly, and Ax’s mum was going along to babysit little Albi. I must get Mary Williams and Marlon sorted, Doug too. Her stomach heaved again; she tipped herself over the bowl and vomited bile and water. Someone was knocking urgently on the door. Fiorinda hauled herself to her feet and opened it.
It was Anne-Marie. ‘Are you okay? The girls came back in a state and—’
‘I’m okay.’
Fiorinda crawled back to the toilet, which she didn’t feel safe to leave. Anne-Marie bent over her.
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘Fuck, no.’
AM took her hand and squeezed it. ‘They told me. I know why you were so upset. I know what he’s got on you, love,’ she whispered, black Chinese eyes shining with tears, Scouse accent abrasive. ‘I’ve always known, becoz I’m one too, you know. But no one will ever get it out of us.’
Anne-Marie claimed she had minor psychic powers. The law against witchcraft was not Fiorinda’s biggest worry, but this was careless talk and she wasn’t going to encourage it. ‘Dunno what you’re talking about,’ she mumbled, sticking her head back in the toilet.
Chip and Verlaine, moving with extreme caution and covering their traces meticulously, hit paydirt. They’d traced Fergal to a very superior rehab clinic in Sweden, where he’d stayed after he’d parted from the Playboys. They’d hacked into the records and read about Fergal’s drug habits; his sorry medical history. They’d found notes on his liver and his lungs and his lymph nodes, of which they understood not a word. But they had also found brain scans—which after their Zen Self experience, they could read like print. These scans were rather amazing. They showed severe damage to both the hippocampi, vital engines of memory transcription and recall. More than damage. It looked as if those two little deep-buried organs had been burned out with a hot wire.
‘He’s dead,’ said Chip, wonderingly. ‘He’s the living dead.’
‘Let’s translate the Swedish, see what the whitecoats have to say.’
The whitecoats proved equivocal. The scans were described as anomalous, no further comment. Fergal Kearney had checked himself out soon after they were taken. No fowarding address, no aftercare appointments. Chip screwed up his face in bemusement. ‘If these scans are Fergal Kearney, our man isn’t. Someone whose brain looks like this would have no memory. He couldn’t function.’
‘Hm. I wonder who paid his bills? It’s a very classy joint.’
They couldn’t get anywhere on that issue. The Swedish hospital took far better care of its financial than its medical records. They sat on the bare floor of their décor-impoverished environment, pulling faces, trying to figure it out.
Paydirt that makes no sense.
‘Someone who gets his memory fried out of his head, deliberately—’
‘Why the fuck would anyone do that?’
On the morning of the Mayday concert, Fiorinda visited Reading Site Boneyard. So few years, but already this corner of a field, sown with wildflowers, strewn with strange hippy memorials, had softened and grown old. Here’s Tom Okopie’s memorial, his name and his dates and the Greek word AΓAΠΈ… Which means love. Tom, who fucked me when I was fourteen and he was eighteen, and some would think he took advantage, but I didn’t. So long, Tom. Freedom to flail. Here’s Martina Wyatt, the Countercultural Think Tank’s Riot Grrrl, who died on Massacre Night. So long, Marty. She supposed she must add Ax Preston and Sage Pender to the list, sexual partners she would never see or touch again. But I can go on loving them. Whatever Rufus does, the memory of my dead will be with me; and I will know that I won my fight.
So I will be okay. Somehow, I will be all right.
The arena was thronged as she wandered through it. Why don’t they stay away? Because they’ve forgotten everything Ax tried to tell them, thought Fiorinda. They can’t see any difference between us and the fucking Celtics. It’s all the Counterculture, isn’t it? It’s all green-is-good, wild-and-free, rock-and-roll. Ah well, it just goes to show. People actively prefer the crappy junk food.
Bless. Little thirteen-year-old boy, bug-eyed, mud to the armpits, must have slept in a binbag out in the rain last night. Bless. Evil-tempered woman that sells tofu salad wraps that taste of ammonia. Bles
s, naked woman with stupid expression… She reached Rupert the White Van Man’s van, Anansi’s Jamaica Kitchen, and bought a cup of dandelion and chicory ‘coffee’ with a hefty slug of cognac. Rupert didn’t want her to pay, but she pleaded with him and he took her money, for old time’s sake. Rastaman, there’s more grey in your dreads than the first day I met you. But your smile is still wonderful. Bless you, Rupert.
She had no idea what this ‘bless’ business meant. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been doing it. Most likely it was just a nervous tick. But if he can curse, maybe I can bless. It’s worth a try. If there is justice in heaven…
Unfortunately, all the evidence we have says no.
She saw DARK coming towards her. They’d come down from Teesside a week ago: she’d been rehearsing with them. She was hoping she would not fuck up too badly on stage this afternoon. But hey, what if I do? It surely won’t be the first time. Though it might be the last.
Not everybody at Reading hated the takeover, but enough did to make the atmosphere backstage of Main Stage poisonous. The Second Chamber Group had decided to turn Mayday into a political rally, with public speakers dominating the bands. Green lords and ladies were swanning around, very pleased with themselves: infuriatingly delighted to be hanging out with the Few. Benny Preminder looked particularly happy. Here he was in the inner sanctum, and not a thing the rockstars could do.
The old guard, the rockstars themselves, were keeping themselves to themselves, as far as they dared. Fiorinda sat with DARK—Cafren Free, Fil Slattery, Gauri Mostel, Charm Dudley and Harry Child. Rob Nelson and Dilip Krishnachandran were with Anne-Marie’s helpmate, Smelly Hugh: who was recounting a puzzling cartoon he’d seen in Weal.
‘Fucked if I know what it meant. You know those tigers Fergal shot? Male and female. Big cat and a littler cat, right? Well, in this cartoon, it’s like, the tigers are Sage and Fiorinda, and Fergal is protecting Ax, so he kills them.’
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