The Best of Michael Moorcock Page 3

  “Pervert! You and your proliferating clones.”

  “Clones?” Miss Brunner licked her lips. “Are they edible?” She adjusted her powder-blue two-piece.

  “They’re not clones, they’re versions. When you dash about the multiverse, this sort of thing happens. I prefer to shrink. But denser, you rip holes; drag things in. Nobody sees the universe next door because it’s too big or too small. Fractional, of course, in multiversal terms. Problem is, bits of one universe get sucked into another. They’re all so close. Déjà vu . . . ?”

  “Carry on like this, young man,” Major Nye straightened his cap, “and you’ll cause the end of matter. You’ll have your chaos, all right!” Feelings hurt, he made for the basement door.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Miss Brunner repaired her face. “Why aren’t your clones—”

  “Duplicates.”

  “Why aren’t they too big or too small to see?”

  “That’s the whole trick.” Jerry preened. Now in sync, his rippling duplicates followed his every move. “Getting us all to the same scale. Expansion and compression. Your atoms only change mass, maintaining identity. See, we’re either too huge to perceive the next universe or we’re so massively tiny we merely pass through it without noticing it. Either way you can’t see ’em. Until I use this little gadget.”

  With a disapproving pout, she clicked across the parquet.

  “You change your mass relative to theirs, or vice versa, and they become visible. At first you feel a bit queasy, but you get used to it.” Picking up the small black box from the table, he showed her the display, the triggers. “Have a go. It’s easy. Everything’s digitalised.”

  “Certainly not. I have enough trouble controlling my own world.”

  “But this gives you millions of alternatives. Immortality of sorts. Admittedly, the nearest billion or so are boringly alike. But most people, like you, love repetition . . .”

  “Rot! Utter dissipation! Double Deutsch, I call it!” Grumpily, Major Nye closed the door. Through the bars they saw him climb area steps, pushing aside three more Jerrys staring at one another in some confusion.

  Upstairs the front door opened.

  “Oh, blimey!” Dismayed, Jerry peered around for a hiding place. “Mum’s back early.”

  “You’ll have some explaining to do.” Frank smirked.

  But Jerry was already fiddling with his box and wires. As Mrs. Cornelius waddled into the room, exuding a delicious smell of greasy fish, Jerry shrank into a corner, his duplicates following. Everyone stared after him.

  “Fairyland again!” Miss Brunner was contemptuous.

  “The major said Jerry ’ad a message. Where’s ’e gorn?” Mrs. Cornelius lifted huge blue suspicious eyes. A plump hand carried chips from her newspaper to her mouth.

  “Climbing the bloody beanstalk, as usual.” Defeated, Frank faded.

  Mrs. C. roared.

  A Dead Singer (1974)

  One of Jerry Cornelius’s most stalwart companions, throughout his many adventures, is Shakey Mo Collier.

  In 1974, Mo got his own story, originally published in an anthology, Factions (Michael Joseph), edited by Giles Gordon and Alex Hamilton. In “A Dead Singer” he is (amongst other things) an ex-roadie for rock bands including the Deep Fix, the name of Moorcock’s own band.

  In memory, among others, of Smiling Mike and John the Bog

  1

  “It’s not the speed, Jimi,” said Shakey Mo, “it’s the H you got to look out for.”

  Jimi was amused. “Well, it never did me much good.”

  “It didn’t do you no harm in the long run.” Mo laughed. He could hardly hold on to the steering wheel.

  The big Mercedes camper took another badly lit bend. It was raining hard against the windscreen. He switched on the lamps. With his left hand he fumbled a cartridge from the case on the floor beside him and slotted it into the stereo. The heavy, driving drumming and moody synthesisers of Hawkwind’s latest album made Mo feel much better. “That’s the stuff for energy,” said Mo.

  Jimi leaned back. Relaxed, he nodded. The music filled the camper.

  Mo kept getting speed hallucinations on the road ahead. Armies marched across his path; Nazis set up road blocks; scampering children chased balls; big fires suddenly started and ghouls appeared and disappeared. He had a bad time controlling himself enough to keep on driving through it all. The images were familiar and he wasn’t freaked out by them. He was content to be driving for Jimi. Since his comeback (or resurrection as Mo privately called it) Jimi hadn’t touched a guitar or sung a note, preferring to listen to other people’s music. He was taking a long while to recover from what had happened to him in Ladbroke Grove. Only recently his colour had started to return and he was still wearing the white silk shirt and jeans in which he’d been dressed when Mo first saw him, standing casually on the cowling of the Imperial Airways flying boat as it taxied towards the landing stage on Derwent Water. What a summer that had been, thought Mo. Beautiful.

  The tape began to go round for the second time. Mo touched the stud to switch tracks, then thought better of it. He turned the stereo off altogether.

  “Nice one.” Jimi was looking thoughtful again. He was almost asleep as he lay stretched out over the bench seat, his hooded eyes fixed on the black road.

  “It’s got to build up again soon,” said Mo. “It can’t last, can it? I mean, everything’s so dead. Where’s the energy going to come from, Jimi?”

  “It’s where it keeps going to that bothers me, man. You know?”

  “I guess you’re right.” Mo didn’t understand.

  But Jimi had to be right.

  Jimi had known what he was doing, even when he died. Eric Burden had gone on TV to say so. “Jimi knew it was time to go,” he’d said. It was like that with the records and performances. Some of them hadn’t seemed to be as tight as others; some of them were even a bit rambling. Hard to turn on to. But Jimi had known what he was doing. You had to have faith in him.

  Mo felt the weight of his responsibilities. He was a good roadie, but there were better roadies than him. More together people who could be trusted with a big secret. Jimi hadn’t spelled it out but it was obvious he felt that the world wasn’t yet ready for his return. But why hadn’t Jimi chosen one of the really ace roadies? Everything had to be prepared for the big gig. Maybe at Shea Stadium or the Albert Hall or the Paris Olympia? Anyway, some classic venue. Or at a festival? A special festival celebrating the resurrection. Woodstock or Glastonbury. Probably something new altogether, some new holy place. India, maybe? Jimi would say when the time came. After Jimi had contacted him and told him where to be picked up, Mo had soon stopped asking questions. With all his old gentleness, Jimi had turned the questions aside. He had been kind, but it was clear he hadn’t wanted to answer.

  Mo respected that.

  The only really painful request Jimi had made was that Mo stop playing his old records, including “Hey, Joe” the first single. Previously there hadn’t been a day when Mo hadn’t put something of Jimi’s on. In his room in Lancaster Road, in the truck when he was roading for Light and later the Deep Fix, even when he’d gone to the House during his short-lived conversion to Scientology he’d been able to plug his earbead into his cassette recorder for an hour or so. While Jimi’s physical presence made up for a lot and stopped the worst of the withdrawal symptoms, it was still difficult. No amount of mandrax, speed or booze could counter his need for the music and, consequently, the shakes were getting just a little bit worse each day. Mo sometimes felt that he was paying some kind of price for Jimi’s trust in him. That was good karma so he didn’t mind. He was used to the shakes anyway. You could get used to anything. He looked at his sinewy, tattooed arms stretched before him, the hands gripping the steering wheel. The world snake was wriggling again. Black, red and green, it coiled slowly down his skin, round his wrist and began to inch towards his elbow. He fixed his eyes back on the road.

  2

  Jimi had
fallen into a deep sleep. He lay along the seat behind Mo, his head resting on the empty guitar case. He was breathing heavily, almost as if something were pressing down on his chest.

  The sky ahead was wide and pink. In the distance was a line of blue hills. Mo was tired. He could feel the old paranoia creeping in. He took a fresh joint from the ledge and lit it, but he knew that dope wouldn’t do a lot of good. He needed a couple of hours of sleep himself.

  Without waking Jimi, Mo pulled the truck into the side of the road, near a wide, shallow river full of flat, white limestone rocks. He opened his door and climbed slowly to the grass. He wasn’t sure where they were; maybe somewhere in Yorkshire. There were hills all around. It was a mild autumn morning but Mo felt cold. He clambered down to the bank and knelt there, cupping his hands in the clear water, sucking up the river. He stretched out and put his tattered straw hat over his face. It was a very heavy scene at the moment. Maybe that was why it was taking Jimi so long to get it together.

  Mo felt much better when he woke up. It must have been noon. The sun was hot on his skin. He took a deep breath of the rich air and cautiously removed his hat from his face. The black Mercedes camper with its chrome trimming was still on the grass near the road. Mo’s mouth felt dry. He had another drink of water and rose, shaking the silver drops from his brown fingers. He trudged slowly to the truck, pulled back the door and looked over the edge of the driver’s seat. Jimi wasn’t there, but sounds came from behind the partition. Mo climbed across the two seats and slid open the connecting door. Jimi sat on one of the beds. He had erected the table and was drawing in a big red notebook. His smile was remote as Mo entered.

  “Sleep good?” he asked.

  Mo nodded. “I needed it.”

  “Sure,” said Jimi. “Maybe I ought to do a little driving.”

  “It’s okay. Unless you want to make better time.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get some breakfast,” said Mo. “Are you hungry?”

  Jimi shook his head. All through the summer, since he had left the flying boat and got into the truck beside Mo, Jimi appeared to have eaten nothing. Mo cooked himself some sausages and beans on the little Calor stove, opening the back door so that the smell wouldn’t fill the camper. “I might go for a swim,” he said as he brought his plate to the table and sat as far away from Jimi as possible, so as not to disturb him.

  “Okay,” said Jimi, absorbed in his drawing.

  “What you doing? Looks like a comic strip. I’m really into comics.”

  Jimi shrugged. “Just doodling, man. You know.”

  Mo finished his food. “I’ll get some comics next time we stop on the motorway. Some of the new ones are really far out, you know.”

  “Yeah?” Jimi’s smile was sardonic.

  “Really far out. Cosmic wars, time warps. All the usual stuff but different, you know. Better. Bigger. More spectacular. Sensational, man. Oh, you want to see them. I’ll get some.”

  “Too much,” said Jimi distantly but it was obvious he hadn’t been listening. He closed the notebook and sat back against the vinyl cushions, folding his arms across his white silk chest. As if it occurred to him that he might have hurt Mo’s feelings, he added: “Yeah, I used to be into comics a lot. You seen the Jap kind? Big fat books. Oh, man—they are really far out. Kids burning. Rape. All that stuff.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, man!”

  “Yeah?” Mo laughed hesitantly.

  “Right!” Jimi went to the door, placing a hand either side of the frame and looking into the day. “Where are we, Mo? It’s a little like Pennsylvania. The Delaware Valley. Ever been there?”

  “Never been to the States.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Somewhere in Yorkshire, I think. Probably north of Leeds. That could be the Lake District over there.”

  “Is that where I came through?”

  “Derwent Water.”

  “Well, well.” Jimi chuckled.

  Jimi was livelier today. Maybe it was taking him time to store up all the energy he’d need when he finally decided to reveal himself to the world. Their driving had been completely at random. Jimi had let Mo decide where to go. They had been all over Wales, the Peaks, the West Country, most parts of the Home Counties, everywhere except London. Jimi had been reluctant to go to London. It was obvious why. Bad memories. Mo had been into town a few times, leaving the Mercedes and Jimi in a suburban lay-by and walking and hitching into London to get his mandies and his speed. When he could he scored some coke. He liked to get behind a snort or two once in a while. In Finch’s on the corner of Portobello Road he’d wanted to tell his old mates about Jimi, but Jimi had said to keep quiet about it, so when people had asked him what he was doing, where he was living these days, he’d had to give vague answers. There was no problem about money. Jimi didn’t have any but Mo had got a lot selling the white Dodge convertible. The Deep Fix had given it to him after they’d stopped going on the road. And there was a big bag of dope in the truck, too. Enough to last two people for months, though Jimi didn’t seem to have any taste for that, either.

  Jimi came back into the gloom of the truck. “What d’you say we get on the road again?”

  Mo took his plate, knife and fork down to the river, washed them and stashed them back in the locker. He got into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The Wankel engine started at once. The Mercedes pulled smoothly away, still heading north, bumping off the grass and back onto the asphalt. They were on a narrow road suitable only for one-way traffic, but there was nobody behind them and nobody ahead of them until they left this road and turned onto the A65, making for Kendal.

  “You don’t mind the Lake District?” Mo asked.

  “Suits me,” said Jimi. “I’m the mad Gull Warrior, man.” He smiled. “Maybe we should make for the ocean?”

  “It’s not far from here.” Mo pointed west. “Morecambe Bay?”

  3

  The cliff tops were covered in turf as smooth as a fairway. Below them the sea sighed. Jimi and Mo were in good spirits, looning around like kids.

  In the distance, round the curve of the bay, were the towers and funfairs and penny arcades of Morecambe, but here it was deserted and still, apart from the occasional cry of a gull.

  Mo laughed, then cried out nervously as Jimi danced so near to the cliff edge it seemed he’d fall over.

  “Take it easy, Jimi.”

  “Shit, man. They can’t kill me.”

  He had a broad, euphoric smile on his face and he looked really healthy. “They can’t kill Jimi, man!”

  Mo remembered him on stage. In total command. Moving through the strobes, his big guitar stuck out in front of him, pointing at each individual member of the audience, making each kid feel that he was in personal touch with Jimi.

  “Right!” Mo began to giggle.

  Jimi hovered on the edge, still flapping his outstretched arms. “I’m the boy they boogie to. Oh, man! There ain’t nothing they can do to me!”

  “Right!”

  Jimi came zooming round and flung himself down on the turf next to Mo. He was panting. He was grinning. “It’s coming back, Mo. All fresh and new.”

  Mo nodded, still giggling.

  “I just know it’s there, man.”

  Mo looked up. The gulls were everywhere. They were screaming. They took on the aspect of an audience. He hated them. They were so thick in the sky now.

  “Don’t let them fucking feathers stick in your throat,” said Mo, suddenly sullen. He got up and returned to the truck.

  “Mo. What’s the matter with you, man?”

  Jimi was concerned as ever, but that only brought Mo down more. It was Jimi’s kindness which had killed him the first time. He’d been polite to everyone. He couldn’t help it. Really hung-up people had got off on him. And they’d drained Jimi dry.

  “They’ll get you again, man,” said Mo. “I know they will. Every time. There isn’t a thing you can do about it. No matter how much energy you build up, you
know, they’ll still suck it out of you and moan for more. They want your blood, man. They want your sperm and your bones and your flesh, man. They’ll take you, man. They’ll eat you up again.”

  “No. I’ll—no, not this time.”

  “Sure.” Mo sneered.

  “Man, are you trying to bring me down?”

  Mo began to twitch. “No. But . . .”

  “Don’t worry, man, okay?” Jimi’s voice was soft and assured.

  “I can’t put it into words, Jimi. It’s this, sort of, premonition, you know.”

  “What good did words ever do for anybody?” Jimi laughed his old, deep laugh. “You are crazy, Mo. Come on, let’s get back in the truck. Where do you want to head for?”

  But Mo couldn’t reply. He sat at the steering wheel and stared through the windscreen at the sea and the gulls.

  Jimi was conciliatory. “Look, Mo, I’ll be cool about it, right? I’ll take it easy, or maybe you think I don’t need you?”

  Mo didn’t know why he was so down all of a sudden.

  “Mo, you stay with me, wherever I go,” said Jimi.

  4

  Outside Carlisle they saw a hitch-hiker, a young guy who looked really wasted. He was leaning on a signpost. He had enough energy to raise his hand. Mo thought they should stop for him. Jimi said: “If you want to,” and went into the back of the truck, closing the door as Mo pulled in for the hitch-hiker.

  Mo said: “Where you going?”

  The hitch-hiker said: “What about Fort William, man?”

  Mo said: “Get in.”

  The hitch-hiker said his name was Chris. “You with a band, man?” He glanced round the cabin at the old stickers and the stereo, at Mo’s tattoos, his faded face-paint, his Cawthorn T-shirt, his beaded jacket, his worn jeans with washed-out patches on them, the leather cowboy boots which Mo had bought at the Emperor of Wyoming in Notting Hill Gate last year.

  “Used to road for the Deep Fix,” said Mo.

  The hitch-hiker’s eyes were sunken and the sockets were red. His thick black hair was long and hung down to his pale face. He wore a torn Wrangler denim shirt, a dirty white Levi jacket and both legs of his jeans had holes in the knees. He had moccasins on his feet. He was nervous and eager.