Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail!

by Gary Phillips

  “All the old targets.” Mr Bug’s representative lit a fresh cigarette and put it to his tube. “Still, what new ones are there?”

  The driver pressed the horn.

  EMI Unlimited Edition

  Mo leaned on the gates of Buckingham Palace and dragged the book from his inside pocket.

  The book was called The Nature of the Catastrophe. He opened it up. All the pages were blank. He was getting used to this sort of thing.

  “Oh, there you are!” Mitzi came running over from St James’s Park. “We thought we’d lost you.”

  “I don’t trust you, Mitzi. You’re with them again.”

  “Why not join us?”

  “What for?”

  “There’s safety in numbers.”

  “So you say.”

  “Anyway,” said Mitzi, “you shouldn’t be hanging about here, should you? Everyone’s getting very security conscious. They might arrest you. Or shoot you. SAS and that.”

  “Everything else has been arrested, by the look of it.”

  “I’m worried about you, Mo.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “We can help you.”

  “That didn’t work the last time.”

  Army trucks were coming down the Mall. Garbled voices called through loudspeakers mounted on the tops of the trucks.

  Mo decided to follow Mitzi round the corner into Buckingham Palace Road. She took his hand. “Coming along then?”

  “No,” he said. “I think I’ll catch a train from Victoria.”

  CLAIM SIX: LETS GO WITH LABOUR

  STEVE JONES: Twenty. Born in London. Lives in a one-room cold-water-only studio in Soho where the band rehearses. Ex-approved school. He was the lead singer with the Sex Pistols before he took up the guitar.

  He has the reputation of being a man of a few words. But his sound intuition and low boredom threshold makes him great fun to be with. He’s always looking for action. Of the four he probably had the most difficult childhood. His real father was a boxer whom he never knew. He never got on with his stepfather and since the family lived in one room only, this led to a very fraught home environment. The first record he remembers being impressed by was Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze”. He always wanted to play electric guitar.

  —Virgin Publicity, 1977

  “Delusions of grandeur will get you a very long way in this world.” Martin Bormann leafed through his cut-price deletions. “You just missed him, I’m afraid.”

  Una Persson handed him the album she’d selected. “I’ll have this, then. Do you know the times of the planes to New York?”

  Bormann looked at his watch. “There’s one in an hour. You’d better hurry. It could be the last.”

  God Save the Short and Stupid

  “Ain’t she fuckin’ radiant, though?” Mrs C. studied the blue and white picture on her jubilee mug before putting it to her lips. “Thassa nice cuppa tea, Frank. Wotcher want?”

  “Jerry.” Frank was furtive. “Mum, I haven’t got much more margin. Have you seen him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “At work. ’E watched ther picture four times.”

  “Why?”

  “I fink ’e wanted a rest. ’E was asleep through most of ’em.”

  “When he left, did he say where he was going?”

  “’E said ’e ’ad a few jobs ter do. Somefink abart pushin’ a boat aht?”

  Frank remained puzzled. “That’s all?”

  “I fink so.” She puckered her brows. “You know what ’e’s like. Yer carn’t fuckin’ understand all o’ wot ’e says.”

  “Was he with anybody?”

  “I dunno. Maybe wiv that bloke in a kilt. Like in ther film.”

  Frank dropped his cup into the saucer. “God almighty.”

  “I didn’t catch ’is name,” said Mrs Cornelius.

  Sod the Sex Pistols

  From where he stood on the Embankment, near the cannon, Mo could see the half-inflated airship tied to one of the spikes of Tower Bridge. Either the Assassin was stranded, or he was becoming more catholic in his targets.

  As he climbed up the steps to the bridge, he thought he saw a flash of tartan darting down the other side. He hesitated, not sure which lead to follow. It had to be “Flash” Gordon.

  “Oh, bugger!”

  The last of the Musician-Assassins, clambered unsteadily down his steel ladder, a Smith and Wesson Magnum held by its trigger guard in his teeth.

  “You look a lot better,” said Mo.

  “Feeling it, squire.” Jerry dusted off his black car coat and smoothed his hair. “I’ve been eating better and getting more exercise. What’s the time? My watch has stopped.”

  Mo didn’t know.

  “It doesn’t matter, really. We’ll be all right. Come on.” The Assassin took Mo’s arm.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I had a nasty moment last night,” said the Assassin obliviously. “Somebody must have tried to slip some disco tapes into my feeder. Nearly blew my circuits. I think they’re trying to get rid of me.” He strode rapidly in the direction of Butler’s Wharf on the South side of the bridge.

  “Where are we going?”

  “1977.”

  “What?”

  “Nineteen bloody seventy seven, Mo. We’ve got a bloody gig to do. And this time you’re going to do it properly.”

  Abolishing the Future

  Miss Brunner was white with rage. “What on earth possessed you, Frank?”

  A dozen dogs growled and grumbled as Frank tried to untangle their leads. “I had nowhere else to bring them. And I need them.”

  Bishop Beesley crouched in his corner munching handfuls of Poppets. “This is a very small bunker, Mr Cornelius.”

  “I’ve worked out what my brother’s up to. He’s made a tunnel into 1977.”

  “Oh, no.” Miss Brunner began to punch spastically at her terminal. “That was why he was doing all that stuff with record companies. To get the energy he needed.”

  Frank nodded. The dogs began to pant. “We’re going to have to follow him. He’s got that little wanker Collier with him and maybe the rest of them, I’m not sure.”

  Bishop Beesley clambered to his feet “What are his plans?”

  “To create an alternative, obviously. If he succeeds it means curtains for everything we’ve worked for.”

  Miss Brunner was grim. “We managed to abort it last time. We can do it again.”

  Frank stroked the head of the nearest Doberman. “This could be the end of authority as we know it.”

  “Aren’t you being a trifle apocalyptic, Mr Cornelius?” Bishop Beesley reached a plump hand for the Walnut Whips on the steel table. “I mean, what can he do with a couple of guitars and a drum kit?”

  “You don’t know him.” Frank unbuttoned his collar. “He’s reverting to type, just when it seemed he was getting more respectable at last.”

  “He’s fooled us before,” said Miss Brunner. “And we should have known better.” Her hands were urgent now, as she fed in her programme. “1977 could have been a turning point.”

  The cryptik began to give her a printout. She grew whiter than ever. “Oh, Jesus. It’s worse than we thought.”

  “What?” Frank’s arm was yanked by a sudden movement of his dogs.

  “I think he’s trying to abolish the Future altogether. He’s going for some kind of permanent Present.”

  “He can’t do it.” Bishop Beesley licked his fingers. “Can he?”

  “With help,” said Miss Brunner, “he could.”

  “How can a few illiterate and talentless rock and rollers be of any use?”

  “It’s what they represent,” she said. “There’s no getting away from it, gentlemen. He’s playing for the highest stakes.”

  “Can we stop him?” asked the Bishop.

  “We’re under strength. Half our usual allies are in stasis.”

  “W
hat will wake them up?”

  “The Last Trump,” said Frank, He was panting now, in unison with his dogs.

  Living In the Past

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” said Mo, not for the first time.

  Jerry was hurrying through the corridors of the vast warehouse. It had become very cold.

  “I told you. I never know what I’m doing. I have to play it by ear. But I’ve got a shifter tunnel and I’ve got a fix and I’m bloody sure we can make it. After that it’s up to all of us.”

  “To do what?”

  “The Jubilee gig, of course.”

  “But we’ve done it.”

  “You’ve tried it, you mean. Just think of that as a rehearsal.”

  “I wish I’d never got in touch with you.”

  “Well, you did.” The Assassin was humming to himself. It seemed to be some sort of Walt Disney song.

  Mo tried to pull back. “I’m fed up with it all. I just want … “

  “Satisfaction squire.” Cornelius glowed. “And I’m going to give you your chance.”

  “All I wanted was the booze and the birds,” said Mo weakly. “I was enjoying myself. We all were.”

  “And so you shall again, my son.” The Musician-Assassin turned a crazed eye on his old comrade. “Better than ever.”

  The walls of the warehouse began to quiver. A silver mist engulfed them. From somewhere in the distance came the muffled sound of bells.

  “We’re through!” The Assassin cackled.

  He burst open a rotting door and they stood on the slime of a disused wharf. Beside the wharf was a large white schooner with a black flag waving on its topmast. The schooner seemed to be deserted. On the poop deck a drum kit had been set up and Mo noticed PA all over the boat.

  The Assassin paused, checking his wrist. “My watch’s working again. That’s good. We made it. The others should be along in a minute.”

  “That equipment looks expensive.”

  “It’s the best there is,” said the Assassin confidently. “Megawatt upon megawatt, my son. Enough sound to shake the foundations of society to bits! Ho, ho, ho!”

  “Will Malcolm be here with the money?” asked Mo.

  “You won’t need money if this works,” said the Assassin.

  “I haven’t had any wages in months.” Mo set a wary foot on the gangplank.

  “There are bigger things at stake,” said the last of the Musician-Assassins. “More important things.”

  “That’s what they always seem to wind up saying.”

  The white schooner rocked in the water. The Assassin began to hurry about the decks, checking the sound system, following cables, adjusting mikes.

  “Power,” he said. “Power.”

  “Wages,” said Mo. “Wages.”

  But he was already becoming infected. He could feel it in his veins.

  Glory Daze

  “Hurry up, bishop.” Miss Brunner was being dragged along by four of Frank’s dogs. She had her Remington under her arm.

  Frank was in the lead with six more dogs. The bishop, with two, rolled in the rear. It was dawn and Goldhawk Road was deserted apart from some red, white and blue bunting.

  “If you ask me” said Mitzi catching up with her dad, “he’s using all this for his own mad ends. All we wanted was a bit of publicity. Are you sure this is 1977?”

  “Miss Brunner is never wrong about things like that. She’s an expert on the Past. That’s why I trust her.” Bishop Beesley set his mitre straight on his head with an expert prod of his crook. “She stands for all the decent values.” He wheezed a little. “You haven’t got a Tootsie Roll on you, or anything I suppose?”

  They had reached Shepherds Bush. On the green people were beginning to set up marquees and stalls. Pictures of QEII were everywhere.

  Miss Brunner paused, hauling at the leads. “This could have achieved what the Festival of Britain was meant to achieve. A restoration of confidence.”

  “In what?” asked Mitzi innocently.

  “Don’t be cynical, dear.”

  They took the road to Hammersmith.

  “It’s just your interpretation I’m beginning to worry about,” said Mitzi.

  The Management Fantasy

  Everyone was on board. Nobody seemed absolutely certain why they were here. The assassin was checking his rocket launchers and grenade-throwers, which lined the rails of the main deck.

  “Hello, Sid,” said Lemmy. “You’re not looking well.”

  Sid plucked at his bass. John cast a suspicious eye about the schooner. “Ever get the feeling you’re being trapped?”

  “Used,” said Muggy with relish, “in a game of which we have no understanding.”

  Automatically Mo was tuning up. “Has anybody seen Harrison?” He thought he’d spotted a flutter of moleskin on the yardarm.

  The schooner was full of musicians now, most of them dead.

  “Raise the anchor!” cried the Assassin.

  The band faltered for a moment, astonished at its own magnificent volume. The sound swelled and swelled, drowning the noise of the rocket launchers as Jerry took out first the bridge and then the White Tower. Stones crumbled. The whole embankment was coming down. Hundreds of sightseers were falling into the water, clutching at their ears.

  Overhead, police helicopters developed metal fatigue and dropped like wounded bees.

  On board the schooner everyone was cheering up no end.

  Mrs Cornelius lifted her frock and began a knees up. “This is a bit o’ fun, innit?”

  Soon everyone was pogoing.

  The Assassin ran from launcher to launcher, from thrower to thrower, whispering and giggling to himself. On both sides of the river buildings were exploding and burning.

  “No future! No future!” sang Jimi.

  London had never seemed brighter.

  The schooner gathered speed. Down went Blackfriars Bridge. Down went Fleet Street. Down went the Law Courts. Down went the Savoy Hotel.

  It wasn’t World War Three, but it was better than nothing.

  Number One in the Capital Hit Parade

  Miss Brunner, Bishop Beesley and Frank Cornelius had managed to get through the crowds and reach Charing Cross. With the dogs gnashing and leaping, they stood in the middle of Hungerford Bridge, watching the devastation.

  The schooner had dropped anchor in the middle of the river and the sound-waves were successfully driving back the variable-geometry Tornados as they attacked in close formation, trying to loose Skyflashes and Sidewinders into the sonic barrier.

  “You have to fight fire with fire,” said Miss Brunner. “Come on. We still have a chance of making it to the Festival Hall.”

  They hurried on.

  Mitzi let them go. She clambered over the railing of the bridge and dropped with a soft splash into the river. Then she struck out for the ship.

  Behind her, the dogs had begun to howl.

  The water had caught fire by the time she reached the side and was hauled aboard by the Assassin himself. He was glowing with health now. “What’s Miss B up to?”

  “Festival Hall,” Mitzi wiped a greasy cheek. “They’re going to try to broadcast a counter-offensive. Abba. Mike Oldfield. Rick Wakeman. Leonard Cohen. You name it.”

  The Assassin became alarmed for a moment “I’ll have to boost the power.”

  “No future! No future! No future!”

  From over on the South Bank the first sounds were getting through.

  “They’re fighting dirty.” Jerry was shocked. “That’s the Eurovision Song Contest as I live and breathe. Look to your powder, Mitzi.”

  He gave the National Theatre a broadside.

  Concrete blew apart. But the counter-offensive went on.

  “We’re never going to make it to the Houses of Parliament at this rate,” said the Assassin. “Keep playing.”

  It had grown dark. The fires burned everywhere. The volume rose and rose.

  The schooner began to rock. Planes and helicopt
ers wheeled overhead, hoping for a loophole in the defences.

  “God Save The Queen!” sang the Sex Pistols.

  “God Save The Queen!” sang the choir of what was left of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Mrs Cornelius leaned to shout into Mitzi’s ear. “This is great, innit? Just like ther fuckin’ blitz.”

  Another broadside took out the National Film Theatre. Celluloid crackled smartly.

  The schooner creaked and swayed.

  The Assassin had begun to look worried. They were being hit from all sides by Radio 2.

  “Suzanne takes you to the kerbside

  and she helps you cross the street,

  Sits beside you in the restaurant,

  tells you what there is to eat

  And she combs your hair and cleans your trousers

  leads you down to smell the flowers

  And fills out all your forms for you

  And reads to you for hours …

  Yes, she makes a perfect buddy for the blind … “ sang Jerry.

  Slowly, through the flames and the smoke, the schooner was making it under the bridge and heading for Vauxhall. There was still a chance.

  CLAIM SEVEN: MAGGIE PROMISES VICTORIAN FUTURE

  Malcolm first thought about the film when the group was banned. The idea was if they couldn’t be seen playing, that they could be seen in a film. That was probably just after they got thrown off A&M in Spring ’77.

  Obviously with “God Save the Queen” and the kind of global attraction that the whole episode had, he began to think more seriously about it and he approached Russ Meyer in early Summer ’77 and he went out to Hollywood and talked to him …

  I think (Meyer) intended it to be a Russ Meyer film using the Sex Pistols, whereas Malcolm obviously intended it to be a Sex Pistols film using Russ Meyer. So there was a basic conflict from the start. He thought it would be the film that would crown his career … Meyer thought Malcolm was a mad Communist anti-American lunatic and he was demanding more money because the thing looked risky. Meyer was very, very angry when it fell through. Kept referring to Malcolm as Hitler. “Sue Hitler’s ass” and all this stuff.