by Jeff Noon
‘Celia? Don’t be scared—’
‘Arhhhhhhh!’ Celia screaming.
‘Bloody hell!’ This from Joe, blazing at the monster that crept cobwebbed from beneath the bed. He hit the light as fast as possible. ‘Daisy?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Daisy!’ Celia threw her arms round the woman. ‘You scared me.’
‘Didn’t mean to. What are you doing here?’
‘Same to you,’ said Joe.
‘We’ve run away, Daisy,’ said Celia. ‘Run away from the horrible house. Moving in with Mr Dopejack. Aren’t we, Joe?’
Joe smiled, slightly.
‘That might be a bit difficult,’ said Daisy.
The next five minutes were spent in deciphering Dopejack’s final message.
‘You see all those double “m”s in there, Daisy?’ asked Joe.
‘His fingers slipping…’
‘Mr Million, isn’t it?’ cried Celia.
‘Well done, squirt. Let Daisy get a few.’
‘Roman numeral for a thousand,’ said Daisy. ‘MM equals the year 2000.’
‘And one thousand times a thousand…’
‘Is a million. Mr Million!’ shouted Celia.
‘How did you know, squirt?’ asked Joe.
‘Anybody knows what a million is, and stop calling me squirt.’
‘But nobody knows who Mr Million is. DJ said he did. Is he telling us?’
‘I can’t see it,’ said Daisy. ‘He goes mad at the end. Looks like he fell onto the keyboard.’
(mmisjag mmgerad ammmisceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
‘MM is Jag,’ quoted Joe.
‘Who’s Jag?’ asked Celia.
‘Don’t know. MM is Jag. MM Gerad. Am. MM is…’
It was Daisy that broke it open. ‘Jagger, Adam! Isn’t it?’ Fairly screaming. ‘I know that name. Where…’
‘You got it. Adam Jagger. He was on the list, wasn’t he?’
That’s right. Max’s list of former pupils.’
‘So Dopejack reckons this Adam Jagger is Mr Million? How did he work that out? And where the hell is he?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Daisy. ‘Do you have the details on Jagger?’
‘Left them at Max’s.’
‘Can’t you remember anything?’
‘I’m trying to think, aren’t I? Give me room.’
‘Go get them.’
‘I’m not going back there.’
‘Why not?’ said Daisy. ‘Come on.’
‘No. I’ll ring Benny. He’ll bring them.’
Joe took out his mobile, dialled the number. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ he said to Celia. ‘I’ve only just run away.’
Celia giggled, as Joe got the ringing tone.
‘No answer.’
‘They’re in bed. Give them time.’
The phone just ringing on, into nowhere. Joe clicked it off.
‘We’ve got to go round,’ said Daisy.
Joe was resigning himself, when the phone rang anyway. Joe answered it. Listened. His face…falling…falling…
‘What is it, Joe?’ asked Daisy, Celia at her side, scared of his face.
Joe clicked off the connection, no words, just a look.
‘It was your father…’ he said.
‘My…what?’
‘From the hospital—’
‘Dad? Hospital? What—’
‘No. It’s…it’s Benny…’
Jazir had seen it happen live on the news. He was grounded to his room, just his television and a few tame blurbs for lover’s company. Saw the protest and the claims that Desmond Targett was a fake and that Nigel Zuze was the real Joker winner and that he’d now gone missing. The League of Zero were demanding his whereabouts from Mr Million, or at least evidence that he was safe. The dominoes rolled Chief Executive Crawl on screen, as head of PR. He gave a cheap, sincere speech about how temperatures were high because of the unusual circumstances, and that if people could only cool down, all things would be good. He was making counter-claims that Desmond Targett’s win had been recorded on all the official equipment. Bollocks, thought Jazir, searching for a pirate station. Got one, fuzzy but truthful. Saw the protesters being attacked by the blurbs, the police standing around like stale cowburgers at a vegecon. Watching the lone figure breaking through, some kind of madman hero figure? No, it was Benny. Fucking Sweet Benny Fenton! What was he doing, facing-off to that blurb like that? Gonna get himself…
Jazir got the flash, the splinter flash that led to…
…Inside the blurbs mad with them circling attack now move in sweep swoop none shall pass benny benny benny no what that knife do now none shall benny benny come back stupid sweet…
Jazir landed on his bed, eyes screaming for a fix as the room swivelled to a stop around his sick centre. His pet blurbs were crying out in panic at the connections felt. It was just a bad trip, let it be a bad trip. But the pirates had it all on film, live broadcast from the knife’s edge. Jazir holding the television, hand on each side, as though to crush it between as he watched an ambulance taking Benny away. He had to call Daisy. No phone in his room, confiscated. He had to get to the hospital. Door locked from the outside. A squirt of vaz? His father had ransacked his room, taking his computer, all his disks, gone mad at the rotting blurb carcasses (more trouble), thrown the whole lot out, the garlic plus his tubes of vaz (asking what this mess is now? Hair gel, Jaz’s reply). He knew Daisy had a tube, but that was for her own use.
He went to the window, opened it. Immediately, his pets flew outside, keen for air. Jazir the same. He stepped out onto the ledge and looked down. He’d done this before, hadn’t he? Wasn’t very far down, slightly painful, just avoid the wheelie bin this time. Simple.
He stepped off…
…and landed 10 yards away, gently lowered by the wings of a hundred blurbs. A taxi took him further, stunned and dizzy.
But Max and Jimmy reached the hospital first. Apparently Crawl had found identification in Benny’s jacket, plus his address. Not that Crawl needed any of this, but it was best to keep to the rules, especially with the cameras on him. He’d rung Hackle from the hospital, after he’d sorted everything out according to Mr Million’s instructions. One day he’d like to get to meet this Million guy, and shove his new job up his…
But the extra lovelies were more than extra lovely.
Hackle and Jimmy were kept waiting in a separate room, whilst Crawl gave them the speech: ‘The young man attempted to take his own life. It is most unfortunate he chose to do this in front of our establishment, but rest assured the AnnoDomino Company will do everything in its power, including any outstanding medical bills, but really…there’s very little chance…according to the doctors…’
Hackle grabbed the PR by the throat. ‘Let me fucking see him!’
‘Of course, Professor. He’s asked to see you, actually. Alone.’
Hackle went in. A nurse was fiddling with some equipment beside the bed, keeping guard on a bleep and sine wave. Benny was stretched out, covered in a sheet, his chest wrapped with bandages, a tube connecting him to the equipment. His eyes were closed.
Hackle looked at the nurse. She nodded to him, yes.
‘Benny…’
‘Joe?’
‘No. Max.’
‘Where’s Joe?’
‘They said you wanted to see me.’
‘Want Joe.’
‘He’s on his way. Jimmy rang him.’ The door opened behind him. Expecting Joe, Hackle turned to see. Only Executive Crawl, Mr Bonefucker, worried about his company’s precious image. Benny was reaching out for Hackle, making him turn back round…
‘Where’s Joe?’ Benny had his eyes open now.
‘Oh, Benny…’
‘Where is he?’
‘What happened, Benny?’
‘Had to.’
Hackle came close, sitting down. ‘Why?’
‘Had to. Made me.’
‘Who made you? Who? Your last words, saw them on television. I’m not doing it,
you said. Not doing what? Benny! Benny!’
‘Uhhh…’
Hackle realized he was shaking Benny by the shoulders. The nurse stepped closer to caution him. Hackle waved her away, but she wouldn’t go.
That’s OK, nurse,’ said Crawl, ‘I’ll deal with this.’
The nurse left. Hackle turned to Crawl.
‘What’s going on here?’
‘Your friend needs you. Please be kind, Mr Hackle.’
‘Get out of here.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Take your image and stuff it.’
Crawl smiled.
‘Joe…’
‘No. It’s Max. Max, remember?’
‘Joe…’
‘What is it?’
‘Come here.’
‘I’m here.’
‘Kiss me.’
Hackle turned to Crawl again, the man still smiling. What did he want, a photo of the kiss?
Hackle bent down and kissed Benny lightly on the forehead. Benny grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him down, making a groan. Benny’s lips were on Hackle’s neck…
‘Woh, careful…you’re…’
‘I love you, Joe. Sorry for this…’
‘There’s no need—’
Benny kissed Hackle’s neck, and then bit down firmly, just enough to break the surface. Hackle raised his hand to his neck, a sticky smear of blood. Embarrassed, he looked at Crawl, who was smiling, smiling and nodding.
‘Go ahead.’
‘What is it?’
A blurb was banging against the window. Hackle started to feel the change. Against his wishes, why were his hands moving, stroking Benny now, real love, unembarrassed. His hands, gently, around Benny’s fragile neck, gently squeezing…
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Hackle,’ whispered Crawl, close now, watching the operation. ‘He’s already gone.’
The wave a flat line, the bleep a drone.
Hackle lay on top of Benny’s body for a few seconds, slowly came up. There was a commotion going on outside the ward, cries. Seconds later the door burst open, broken by Joe and followed by Jazir. Joe pushed Hackle off the body roughly, not caring about hurt, not caring…just…
Dark time in Hackle House. Jazir was in charge, now that Joe had become empty. Sad to see, the once cool-without-caring Joe Crocus sitting on his and Benny’s bed, heavy head in wet hands, make-up smudged. Jazir, so hopeless at this kind of stuff, keeping quiet, planning…
The plan was to get what Joe needed, collect Daisy’s father, then get out of there, go join Daisy and Celia back in Dopejack’s house. Jazir wanting to get there so badly, knowing he couldn’t go back home now, runaway for real.
‘You got what you wanted, Joe?’
‘What…’
‘Joe…I know this is bad…’
‘Right…yes…’
Joe pulled himself up, searched in a drawer for some papers and disks. These were put in a carrier bag. The last thing…Joe looking at the volume of Mathematica Magica. Bedside reading, lover’s treatise and manual of spells. A gift for Benny, never touched. Not now. Joe slipped the book into the bag.
‘That’s it.’
Downstairs they went, into the study, where Hackle and Jimmy were arguing. Hackle didn’t want Jimmy to go, that was evident; as Jazir came in he was saying stuff about the maze being open now, more open than ever before. Jimmy wasn’t having any of it.
‘I belong to my daughter, that’s all.’
‘You ready, Jimmy?’ Joe asked.
Just a nod in reply.
‘Joe…’ began Hackle. ‘Please…’
‘Shut up.’ Said so calmly, you wouldn’t have thought…‘I blame you entirely for Benny’s death.’
That’s it. They left Hackle, Maximus Hackle, alone in his big old house of echoes and the ghost of echoes.
At Dopejack’s there was still no sign of the DJ, so they more or less took the place over, assigning bedrooms. Daisy and Jazir getting their own room! Their own bed! (Dope’s old room.) Worth all the mad fathers in the world, that was.
How long they would be allowed to stay there, the five remnants of the Dark Fractals, they could not know. Long enough for one more game?
They decided between them; Monday morning, Jimmy Love would be sent out to purchase the bones, five of them, one for each. If that didn’t work, they would quit playing for ever.
Jazir had the papers off Joe. Details in there of Adam Jagger (Six-Five). Last known address: a small street in small town, Stalybridge, Manchester. (A phone call answered by an angry woman with screaming kids in the background; ‘No-one here of that name, honey—get down, Gary, before I…’) Last known occupation: insurance clerk. (No longer employed here, sorry. Left in 1989. No idea where, sorry.) Current whereabouts: unknown.
‘Mystery man,’ said Jazir.
‘We need to get DJ’s computer running,’ said Daisy. ‘Can’t you unerase or something.’
‘Tried it. Whoever wiped it was good. Dopejack was better, getting that message in the puzzle, but I’m worse than both of them. Tried everything.’
‘There must be some connection. Something that got DJ going.’
Jazir shrugged.
For the days of that week, the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, they were almost like a family, a dysfunctional one granted, but that’s OK, that’s normal. Jazir and Daisy spending time in the room, trying to get the computer working, studying Hackle’s papers for clues, planning what would happen after the game, making love. Sometimes Daisy would come out, carrying her box of dominoes. She would play gentle games with her father, in which he beat her quite easily, as always, but always with a lesson in the loss. They talked of nothing but strategy. Celia was happier now, even when remembering Eddie, even though they still refused to let her out, telling stories about officials and squatting rights and bad guys on the streets of Whalley Range. She had all five bones tight in two small hands the whole time, squeezing and praying to win. It was for Eddie, she told herself, and the big escape. Joe kept to his room mostly, usually locked in. Occasional cries, sometimes laughter even. Nobody disturbed him, nobody dared.
Family life, waiting for the bailiff’s knock (or Jazir’s father finding them, whichever was worse).
Thursday was funeral day. Three people were buried. Two of them shared the same grave, unmarked, and far from any cemetery. One was a shaven-headed lout with a Nazi tattoo on his cock, the other a punk virgin with green spikes of hair. There were no mourners, only a pair of domino diggers and Executive Crawl presiding. He spat on the grave and felt his wallet.
Benny’s farewell was taking place in his beloved Southern Cemetery. The AnnoDomino Co. had offered to pay all the costs. Joe had told them to get stuffed, this was his pleasure. It was nice; quiet, nothing fancy. Joe was there alone, having told Jazir and Daisy to stay with Celia. Benny’s mother and father turned up. Joe had never met them before. He introduced himself, called himself a friend, a deep friend. As the dirt started, he ripped some pages out of the Mathematica Magica, which he let flutter down. He was whispering some ancient text, the numbers and equations of eternal return, when some scrawled lettering touched his eyes. The torn-out flyleaf…these words…
Joe, no more biting…
Close all channels: connect to zero.
Loadsa loving,
Benny X
Joe shook his head and cleared his eyes. Benny must have written this before he left, before he…
He folded the page, put it in his pocket. How low was Benny, to reverse Joe’s own motto against him like that? Joe threw the rest of the book down on the coffin as the soil came.
There was another graveside ritual that day, but none would have seen it. Perhaps Jimmy alone could have envisioned it, but his mind was elsewhere, on the bottle and his daughter and his new chance at life.
To see this grave, we travel to Hackle’s house, and underground. We see Hackle walking around the maze, wired up to a bank of computers that flash and tumble alive with the
nymphomation as he makes the circles happen. We see him laugh with passion as he comes alive to the nymphomation, as he follows the expert mappings of his cursor blurb, Horny George. All his life, Hackle realizes, has been leading to this. To become what you dream. Inside his body, the skeleton of the Joker Bone. Around which gibbers the dumbfuck knowledge of Nigel Zuze, full of hatred and bile. Mixed with this, the vinyl and computers of DJ Dopejack, full of hacking techniques. Also, the sweet genetics of Sweet Benny Fenton, full of sex and love. Mix this with Hackle’s own knowledge of the numbers and how they multiply, and let the whole thing simmer in its own blurb-juice for days. Hackle could feel the power growing, the breeding patterns, possible offspring, new disciplines.
Nymphomation running wild.
Possibilities: The Equations of Fascist DNA; The Physics of Love; The Numbers of Genes in the Fascist Love Machine; Maze Techniques Leading to Logarithm Foreplay; How to Kill Orgasms; How to Measure the Weight of Hatred; How to Map the Map of the Map of the Map; Multiplex Calculation and Zero Penetration of the Genes of the Fourth Dimension; The Probability of Mr Million; Fractal Dreaming; Bile Mechanics and its Application to Negro Murder; Black Hacking and How to Square Root the Hardware Fascist Blurb Map; CPU DNA LoZ DF 0-0 RAM DJing; The Vinyl Gene Number Love Map (to the Nth Degree); Blurb Masturbation; Domino Dancing; Bone Truth; The Beats-Per-Minute of Map Death.
As the computer stored the new knowledge on a billion switches; sex in binary code. Sex in Hackle’s head.
Hackle was calm as all this raged inside him; he was even in control of the Benny and Zuze inside, and their constant bickering in black and white. Nothing must come between him and the centre of the maze, where Mr Million waited. Not like Nigel with his brute attack; not like Dopejack with his fearful frenzy; not like Benny with his doubt and self-sacrifice; only like Hackle, Maximus Hackle, with his calmly collected knowledge of the game about to be played. He was supposed to kill the others first, but that was easily fought against. Million had met his match.
Certain esoteric texts had been looked at. One, entitled Sealing the Maze, the Theseus Equation, was especially consulted. He was fixated now upon Mr Million’s face in the pathways, in the play of shadow and light, the fractal shapes of the blurb-icons, constantly out of reach. The face must be a disguise, because it wasn’t the one he expected. Behind that mask, surely…