PHI L I P A NOVEL WRITTEN BY MARK AERIAL WALLER HEMAN CHONG COSMIN COSTINAS ROSEMARY HEATHER FRANCIS MCKEE DAVID REINFURT STEVE RUSHTON & LEIF MAGNE TANGEN ∞ CURATED BY MAI ABU EL DAHAB
CON T E N T S1. Philip and Mary — Finn
2. Cassandra — Finn explains Crystal-Class
3. Philip and Grendels — Finn and Mary
4. Philip at the Moniac Bar — Philip gets a message from Barry
5. Cassandra outside Vanilla Wave — Mary and Finn at Vanilla Wave —Philip at Vanilla Wave — Philip witnesses Cassandra’s vision
6. Cassandra’s capture
7. Finn and Mary in the car—Francesco Grip
8. Philip wakes up in the middle of the revolution — Brifcor’s speech
9. Finn and Mary in the archive — Philip and his DH get through the barricades— Finn and Mary leave a message
10. Philip gets a message — Finn and Mary make their way to Grendels — Philip and
the fruice worker — Finn and Mary witness the flash
11. A fragment from the Gospel of Mary (circa 2040)
12. Philip reaches Grendels — Cassandra and Kristol
13. Finn’s conversation with Femke — Finn and Mary make their way to
Grendels — Philip in Grendels — Finn, Mary and Philip
14. Mary, Finn and Philip’s interview —
Finn in prison — Philip in the cell — Finn
and Dr Lee — Philip dreams of a battle
— Finn escapes
15. Philip finds Brifcor — Finn in the temple
— Philip and Mary join Finn
16. Finn meets Kristol — Philip and Mary resurface
17. Finn’s New Year’s Eve — Philip’s New Year’s Eve — Finn’s January 1
P A R T O N E
CHAPTER 1
Philip and Mary I visit Mary. As the door of the home creaks open I’m hit by the smell of digestive biscuits, piss, boiled vegetables and milky tea. The place is decorated with streamers; a string of cardboard reindeer led by Rudolf covers the window. I see Mary sitting over by the nativity scene made of empty cereal boxes. Above her hangs an arrangement of balloons, the centrepiece is organised in the predictable cock and balls configuration but most of the oldies in the home are beyond appreciating the wit of the gesture. It’s just after lunchtime and the head of the centre, Dr Gerry, is dressed as Santa, handing out pieces of Christmas cake. His costume is made of fruice, the fabric that deteriorates to nothing a few days after it’s taken out of its vacuum-sealed pack. The fruice Santa costume is one of the fruice Corporation’s new party products.
Nat King Cole’s smoky voice is crooning: “Chestnuts roasting on an open flame, Jack Frost nibbling at your toes...” Mary is sitting in the corner near the coffee table. She’s taking tea with the other oldsters and chatting to one of the real old people — an old lady with a back like a question mark swaying gently against her Zimmer frame. This home is mostly real oldies with maybe half a dozen youngoldies;
those poor bastards like Mary who
couldn’t afford the health insurance to
cover the age tax. Maybe there are also
some ex-cons here. I hear that the age
implant is the new solution to the problem
of prison overcrowding and a deterrent for
persistent offenders, but only those who are
beyond escaping in an electric wheelchair
are here. The politicians are already talking
about the most humane exit strategy, it’s
clear that over the next year or so new types
of facilities will have to be built. It’s been six
weeks since Mary missed the payment on
her health insurance and the implant kicked
in. Since then, my twin sister has gone
down fast. On seeing me her eyes flicker
with a combination of recognition and
curiosity, “Hello Dad?” she says, her eyes
brightening under a milky film.
Over the last few weeks I’ve learned to
adapt to the uncertain pace of the changes
in my sister, so I let her live with her
misrecognition — we’ve argued enough
over the years.
“How are you Mary? What have you
11
been up to?” I know it’s a forlorn question
but I also know from recent experience that
she’ll confabulate, by which I mean she’ll
piece particles of memory together into
a coherent narrative, into a new memory
which for her will be real. I don’t know if my
questions help, in fact I know they certainly
don’t, she’s pre-programmed to break
down sooner rather than later. I think again
that maybe I should just let her pass over
in silence.
“Oh...” she says and I can see in her
eyes a fleeting terror as the void of her
memory opens up. But very quickly, as
if the unseen hand has grabbed a strand
of sense connected to a network of
interchangeable instances in her life, her
face relaxes. She now has command over
the components of the deteriorating code
of her memory.
“I’ve been working. Terry got this big
order from the Middle East, so we’ve been
working hard restructuring the department,
it couldn’t have happened at a worse time,
what with the Easter holidays coming up
and all.”
Terry was the boss of the company that
laid her off three years ago.
I continue, “What are you doing for
Christmas?”
12
After another pause she replies “We’re
going away as usual...we’re expecting snow
so we’ll go sledging.”
“We” is Mary and Charlie, the man
Mary divorced six years ago.
The sound on the TV is off. It’s showing
an episode of Christmas Celebrity Gay
Island where the two remaining well
chiselled, well oiled, half naked Celebs are
singing together. Both of them are wearing
the Santa’s caps that checkout girls and
tabloid models wear. No, I’ll re-phrase that:
They’re not singing with each other, they’re
singing against each other, presenting
themselves against each other...a number
rolls across the screen.
“Last year we made a kind of slush
puppy with maple syrup and snow...”
I don’t know if this is a real memory
from a long dead Christmas or if Mary’s
making a fantasy of a perfect moment for
herself. But in a wider sense my sister’s
condition is not exceptional — maybe we’re
all making it up — and I’m certain, I AM
CERTAIN, that on another level someone
is making it up for us.
The song has changed. The PA is now
playing the Christmas hit of 2019, it’s
a Rapture song — every other song is a
Rapture song these days. This song is by
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a quartet called the Crystal Singers. Mary
rocks blissfully from side to side, taken
away on a tide of syrup...
A man and wife asleep in bed,
She hears a noise and turns her head,
he’s gone,
I wish we’d all been ready.
Two men walking up a hill,
One disappears and one’s left standing still,
I wish we’d all been ready.
...There’s no time to change your mind,
How could you have been so blind?
The Son has come and you’ve been
left behind.
A few years ago, when the obsession
with the Rapture first caught the public’s
imagination, Rapture songs tended to take
the form of rock anthems which heralded
doom and destruction, there was also a subgenre
of thrash metal Rapture songs which
grafted effortlessly into their aesthetics
of death and, of course, Rapturerap, but
since the summer the Rapture songs have
assumed a sad acquiescence — it’s almost
as if it’s already happened. Before Mary
moved to lalaland she thought putting
the fear of Christ into people was all part
of some grand conspiracy, which in a way
14
it is but only in a way. She was right to
suggest that the Rapture industry keeps
us all shitting bricks in a state of eternally
deferred terror, and that such a state suits
the powers that be, but she was wrong to
suggest that the Kristol Corporation are
doing everything in their power to bring the
Rapture about, or, to put it in Mary’s words,
fuck everyone else and kick the ladder away.
Mary started to take it too far after she
became one of a flock of sheep gathering
around a loopy seer named Cassandra.
Cassandra is a holy fool holed up in some
sort of community living on a leaking boat
down in the Philipville port, they even have
their own house band, the neopunks You
May Wish to Burn.
Cassandra’s doctrine preaches a rephasing
of the ages — we, this starry-eyed
nymph promises, will be the first children
born of a new age. This is why Mary and
I fell out. Mary’s increasingly tangled
conspiracy theories became a bone of
contention between her and me. Mary even
got my ex-girlfriend, Carol, into it. Mary
was always chewing Carol’s ears about the
Kristol Corporation. Before that Carol
and I were a unit — like fish and chips, ham
and eggs or chip and pin. This was until
Mary and Carol started to watch all those
15
bootleg files from Channel 23Ω together,
and to read the entrails that Cassandra
vomited out. So, towards the end, we
started to be more like chalk and cheese,
or maybe fish and pin. Eventually Carol
threw in her job as a systems analyst at the
megastore Grendels and joined the crew of
Cassandra’s ship of fools. But, so much
for her!
Mary suddenly starts to speak.
“A few weeks ago Philip fell off the
ladder while we were decorating the tree...”
This is a real memory, or perhaps I
should say it’s a memory that my sister
and I share. I did fall off a ladder about five
years ago. I was around every Christmas
back then, before things started to get
really fucked up. In my own memory one
Christmas slides into another. Christmas
time exists in an antechamber; it’s a nontime,
a dead connection.
Mary and I talk a little longer, in which
time I turn into Dad, Charlie and even
myself, then the nurse comes over to tell
Mary it’s time to take her medicine. Christ
knows what they put in that shit. Maybe it’s
snake water and they get the real stuff some
other way — maybe the agent is in the food
or the water supply, or maybe it connects
with the implant wirelessly.
16
I take the tram home. I pass another
Santa, this one weaves unsteadily on
the pavement, and he’s also dressed in
fruice. The elbows and knees have already
disappeared. The costume will be gone by
Boxing Day.
∞
Finn
Those were the Last Days. Of course there
have been so many false alarms that most
people only half believed anymore but
this time it was for real. The Crystal-Class
elite knew the timing, they have access
to Channel 23Ω after all and they have
been planning it since the 1950s, pacing
themselves, making their moves with
deliberation. Only a handful of random
watchers also grasped the magnitude of
what was about to happen and sadly I was
one of those idiots.
I wasn’t even watching that hard. I had
a tenuous rental agreement for a sleep pipe
on a farm in the Centro Historico, salvaged
from one of the old VA Tech drainage
operations. With a two-metre diameter
it was pretty roomy for me. There was a
sleeping bag, an ancient handheld and a
shelf of books at the back that I’d stolen
17
from work and nothing else. The other stuff
disappeared gradually after I gave up on the
civilisation crap.
I should explain. Most people consumed
maybe eight hours a day. I sucked it
in like there’s no tomorrow. Fourteen to
sixteen hours daily no problem, sometimes
eighteen — until my eyes watered so hard I
couldn’t focus anymore. Scavenging among
the street stalls that sell knock-off archives,
I had accumulated years of information
— things like the unedited image bank of
the Kennedy clan, the secret diaries of the
Dalai Lama, Tom Cruise’s home video
library including both suicide attempts and
a complete set of British CCTV recordings
from 2002–2015 (even the Westminster
and Windsor material). All of this, on top
of the current broadcasts — 500 worldwide
streams plus the flotsam and jetsam of
Web5.
Sometime in 2018, I was scanning
a series of rare broadcasts by mediums
in Poland. In the days after the fall of the
Soviet empire it was common to trail
news items with messages from the dead,
astrological data and supernatural forecasts
— maybe that all seemed as likely then as
real events. One broadcast was a message
from Edvard Kristol. The medium was an
18
old man swaying from side to side, eyes
closed, and an assistant was holding his
hand. He chanted and groaned, spat out
the odd guttural oddity and finally tuned
into a continuous flow of twisted English.
It wasn’t easy to decipher but buried deep
in its core there was a mention of Channel
23Ω, accompanied by a weird yelp from the
old man that I later translated as “Kristol.”
It took me another two months before
I found anything else on 23Ω and the
circumstances were spectacular. I was
leaving the St. Rafael Bernal Marketplace
beside the cathedral when I heard a faraway
scream above me and looked up in time
to see someone falling from the top of
one of the spires. The body seemed to be
floating earthwards for several seconds
before gravity jolted the image and a flailing
carcass plummeted into a mess of tents
and stalls.
I found out later she was called Femke
Hauk. The daughter of a prominent
Crystal-Class media presenter, Hauk
had vanished from her native Rotterdam
three days earlier and her whereabouts
remained unknown until her sudden dive
into the marketplace. While most of the
crowd gathered around the smashed body,
I followed the trajectory of a small silver
19
tube that spun away from her as she fell and
that had landed otherwise unnoticed on
the cobbles near the cloister. It was a neat
little Zettacaster and, liked I’d hoped, it
had some great intimate moments among
the usual tourist shots, bookmarks, films
and songs. It also had a series of broadcasts
from Channel 23Ω.
20
CHAPTER 2
Cassandra
Cassandra looks up, her last vision has
left her covered in salty sweat, her eyes
sting red and she tastes the salt around
her mouth, enjoying the return to the real,
enjoying the stinging of her eyes, the last
few moments of her life, she has seen what
is to come, and had felt the deep cut across
her throat and the penetration of her heart.
She’s shaking in fever and laughs with
the terror and the absurdity of facing fate.
Giant concrete pillars loom overhead as
the boat approaches the new bridge. They
bob about as they have done whenever she
comes back from a vision. An old alcoholic
guy has been sitting on a bench looking out
to the river, watching Cassandra in the boat
and shouting at her during the visions. His
visions are more earthly, full of self-pity and
confusion. She vomits over the side of the
boat, making a waterfall splash in the quiet
water, wipes her mouth, stumbles out to
the shore, collects herself and finds an inner
strength to move on towards the wooden
house, losing her footing, stumbling, but
fighting forward.
21
Piano music twinkles across the water:
I’ll be seeing you in all the familiar places,
All day through,
In that small café, the park across the way,
the children’s carousel, that chestnut tree,
the wishing well,
I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s
day, in everything that’s light and gay
I’ll always think of you that way,
I’ll find you in the morning sun and when
the night is new,
I’ll be looking at the moon but I’ll be
seeing you.
Cassandra brings herself up the steps
to the house, cat screams from foaming
mouths emanate from the house. She nods
to the figure standing in the dark behind the
door and slips inside. In the entrance hall
she picks up a red hood, she seems more
powerful, deliberate as she slips the hood
up over her head and adjusts it over the
shoulders of her polo neck, her eyes have
found a new life force within the eye slits,
the whites of her eyes gleam as she drifts
under the light from a bare bulb, she picks
up a dagger from the old wooden side table
and straps it around her waist. She looks
across the hall to another figure; Carol slips
22
an identical hood over her smiling face.
The two red hoods move forward
from the doorway and pass through to the
dance floor. Green lasers cut low overhead.
Rubber horror masks, fluffy feather masks,
painted faces, wigs and bandit-eye masks.
“Kristol,” whispers Cassandra.
∞
Finn explains Crystal-Class
The Crystal-Class had their origins in the
writings and teachings of Leo Strauss, a
German born Jewish philosopher, who
moved to America in the 1930s. Strauss
advocated a strenuous anti-materialist line
that eventually caught the imagination
of the nascent neo-cons in Washington.
Around the same time, the top generals in
the Israeli Defence Force also discovered
philosophy, adapting Deleuze and Guattari
to formulate their strategies of fractal
manoeuvring and formless rival entities.
Not long after they began to talk of walking
through walls and envisioning the outside
as inside, they began to graft a Zen samurai
framework into their approach (the monk
Takuan’s Unfettered Mind was a primary
influence) and shortly after the victories
of the 2013 campaign the Crystal-Class
23
warrior elite emerged across the main nodes
of the global economy.
And, just about the time I was
wallowing in a stew of tacky sitcoms and
Siberian holographic porn, the Crystal-
Class initiated Channel 23Ω, a unique
class-only stream that filtered the world’s
data. The Channel produced an austere and
pure flow of information, the only clean,
reliable source in a much-polluted world.
Naturally, it was reserved for the worthy.
Femke Hauk was carrying a series
from the Channel called Sever The Edge (it
was taken from Takuan’s text “Sever the
Edge Between Before and After”). Just five
twenty-minute episodes that detail plans to
forward the Rapture.
I should tell you more about myself
so that you will accept that my account is
true. You will have read about my illness
elsewhere. I’m not naïve — I know you
come to this text with a series of facts and
prejudices and among that data there will
be a record of my illness. But schizophrenia
does not prevent me from comprehending
reality — if anything I am more aware of its
tenuous nature, more sensitive to the gaps
and tears in its fabric.
I have a clear grasp of the facts. I know
for instance that my name is Finn. I know
24
that God exists. I can name every class of
robot from the first DH to the present (I
even wrote a monograph on the history of
robotic arms). Compared to some people
my faculties are sharp as a knife. Take my
friend Mary, since her age implant was
activated she’s been sliding rapidly into
senility. Her mind is in freefall. Compared
to her, I’m a model of consciousness. If
anything, my rationality can be a burden at
times, an obstacle to clear perception.
And yes, I believe we are surrounded
by the dead. That’s more mundane than it
sounds. There are no violent poltergeists
flinging chairs across rooms or horrific
Dementors bursting out of graves at
night to torture humanity. When we both
worked in the archives Mary came across an
anonymous text that stated:
We are served by organic ghosts who,
speaking and writing, pass through this our
new environment. Watching, wise, physical
ghosts from the full-life world, elements
of which have become for us invading
but agreeable splinters of a substance that
pulsates like a former heart.
I asked her what it meant and she
said, “It’s like the ancient theory of
25
guardian angels. People believed they were
accompanied by invisible agents of God
who could offer protection. But now, with a
clearer knowledge of strings we know that
they could be parallel entities in parallel
histories, only visible in the thinnest
regions of the membrane that separates us
from other worlds.”
“So they’re not really dead?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “But they’re dead to
us — we can’t touch them though we can
communicate through intense emotions or
heightened states of awareness.”
“Like drugs?” I asked hopefully.
Mary just laughed. “Yes, like drugs,” she
said. “You want some now?”
We used to get high on a regular basis
in the archive. It helped us process all that
information and it helped Mary forget
about her tax problems. We both knew that
by Christmas she would be a vegetable but
neither of us wanted to confront it.
26
CHAPTER 3
Philip and Grendels
I visit Mary. Today her gaze is fixed on the
TV. Occasionally she mutters inaudibly.
I’ll give her two days, tops. I assume my
trusty hard-arsed attitude and decide that
some retail therapy is in order. I head for
Grendels.
I walk through the post-Christmas
rush of the mall and pass the Monument
to the Fire-fighter. His strong legs span
the skyline of Philipville like a Colossus.
Below him a tableau of earnest men, women
and adoring children cast in concrete look
up to him with grateful devotion, all are
framed in the arc of the city that shelters
them. His axe is placed on his shoulder
with the base of the handle cupped in his
hand. The broad buckle of his fireman’s
belt frames the figure of Saint Philippe, one
sits inside the other like a homunculus, as
if in every cell of Philip, the Firefighting
saviour of Philipville, there dwells the Holy
Philippe, the saintly founder of Philipville.
Earlier I sent my DH Lindy2.4 ahead with
a shopping list. It’s standing in line at the
DH depot with a shopping bag. I press
27
my key ring and the DH cuts out of sleep
mode and follows me into Grendels. At the
entrance of Grendels shoppers are always
greeted by the latest DHs, the most current
being the DH Electra1.8, complete with
the latest couture from Francesco Grip, the
hottest fashion designer in Philipville.
Grendels is housed inside a huge open
glass structure within the mall.
Domestic Help! Models, or DH,
technology has been coming on in leaps
and bounds over the last few years. My DH
is still working pretty well, so I’m here to
dodge the built in dead connection.
We walk over to the information desk.
After some time, and after abating the press
of teenagers waving their Grendels gift
cards, a spotty kid in bottle-end glasses
receives us. One lens is covered by sticking
plaster in the latest 90s geek look — I read
somewhere they call it “Hacker Cool.” He’s
even affected the mid-Atlantic twang, like a
shit eating Nutty Professor.
“How can I be of service, S...S...Sir?”
I can’t tell him why I want the things
I’m getting, but why should he care? A few
years ago certain components of particular
models, including my own DH Lindy, were
wired with a slow acting fruice alloy so that
the dead connections can be precisely timed
28
by the manufacturer — this was all in line
with the “Just-In-Time” policy adopted
at the beginning of the changes. A while
back Barry, the bassist in You May Wish
to Burn, advised me that if I buy a Trimex
unit, I can dismantle it and use the fresh
fruice wires to renew my DH’s circuitry.
He even gave me the bootlegged file of DH
for Dummies that went off the market soon
after the fruice alloy was adopted by Kristol
Corporation. Although it’s technically
illegal everyone does it and will continue to
do so until the DH 5.5, the so called “deaddead
connection” model, comes on the
market in mid-January. If January occurs
that is, if we haven’t all been sent upstairs
like Kristol, Philipville’s economic and
religious factotum, is prophesying. Perhaps
the lucky ones will be gathered up in the
loving arms of our gentle, judging Jesus
— whisked off into a dimension beyond
time and space. But no one knows exactly
how discriminating God will be, He’s like
that, He likes to keep us guessing, so those
of us left behind will still have to get by
fumbling about in our routine, day-to-day,
humdrum, boring eternal damnation.
The geek hands me the part and
I charge it to my card. It’s not that
I’m sentimentally attached to my DH, or
29
perhaps I should say I could easily have
my sentimentality engineered into a new
DH — approximations of Carol that
simultaneously simulate and mock her: her
height, certain curves and dimensions, her
gait, her ant pose. It’s just I need to keep
a healthy amount of cash in my account
to avoid the age tax or any number of new
surcharges that will arise after the expected
Rapture: the costs of retraining personnel
for suddenly vacant job positions, the cost
of structural damage following fires and
plane crashes. But of course the Rapture is
already happening, Cassandra’s convulsive
episodes, her portent-laden ejaculations
speaking of a re-phasing of time, are just a
manifestation of our collective pathology.
Cassandra and the rest of the hair shirt
hysterics are just the erupting scab on the
skin of Philipville, she is the symptom of
our condition. We’re all in this together
guys, so kiss your arse goodbye and
climb into the basket that goes directly
to hell, prepare to get poked by medieval
beasties with fish heads and chicken’s legs
— they are in training even as we speak,
bench pressing around the bones of the
benighted, filing the blades of their torture
machines to an exquisite point, stirring the
molten lead and cackling and snorting with
30
greedy anticipation. The beginning of the
end happened years ago and we’ve been
living with the eternal end since we were
born. Double-dead connection.
I get a grip on myself — remember,
Philip, you are here to shop.
Here at Grendels it’s still possible to
purchase any of the older models. Along
Avenue 19 you can find some of the
antique DHs. Of the old DHs I’m most
nostalgic about the DH Pokerface7.6.
The Pokerface was manufactured because
people felt uncomfortable with the bland
rictus that spread across the faces of the
first DHs. The DH Pokerface series was
essentially a batch of DHs that have no
facial expression, just blank eyes like the
heads of galvanized steel nails.
Along Avenue 37, the models DH
Custard3.2 and DH Cupcake4.4 perform
their culinary skills in an endless succession
of kitchens and street kiosks. Avenue 28
features DH Stiletto6.8, a fetish-type
model, eternally wrapped in black rubber
suits and four-inch high heels, mincing
to the squeak of rubber against synthetic
skin. Avenue 8 is the play-den of animal
lovers, with DH Mimi6.6, one of the more
specialized DHs with the head of a cat, and
DH Rex4.5, with the head of a dog. The
31
genres of DHs are constantly expanding, as
with the ever-increasing sets of Situational
Laws, the first to cope with the mutating
tastes and demands of the public, to cope
with the increasing subversive usages of
the DHs.
Just last year there were 6,438 cases
of male citizens having to visit the DH
Technical Centre here at Grendels to
extract their penises from the throats of
the various DH models. Apparently, the
alkaline in semen causes the DHs to shut
down and reboot, a self-preservation
program that was written in the early
days, due to the large numbers of leaking
batteries in the older models.
∞
Finn and Mary
On Boxing Day I visited Mary. Her twin
brother Philip had just left and I stole some
of the grapes he’d brought her. She watched
me silently, her head bobbing up and down
to some invisible beat, some moonlight
music. I took out the handheld and showed
her the Sever the Edge series.
Mary watched intently for hours and
said nothing until the last programme
ended. Then she looked across the room,
32
ignoring me as she spoke: “Dead man!
Their future is your destination. Turn me
on. Scorch the hive, steal the honey, kill the
bees, You may wish to burn now!”
Suddenly she rose to her feet and ran
out of the room. I was stunned, a picture
of propriety with a grape poised before my
open mouth.
I jumped up and ran after her. She was
already halfway down the hall and heading
to her room. By the time I caught up with
her she was pulling on jeans and discarding
her nightdress, searching for a t-shirt and
grabbing her jacket.
“That’s not just the fucking
apocalypse!” she shouted and rushed out
towards the stairs. I hurried after her,
pushing past the nurses who attempted to
stop me. Mary was out on the street now,
running past a glowing but nearly empty
bar and heading into the darkness of a
wasteland across the road from the home.
I finally caught up with her again behind
an abandoned, burnt out tram. Our breath
formed fast, vanishing white clouds in the
cold night air. Mary circled me impatiently
while I regained my composure. “Too many
mushrooms, Finn, too many chocolate
bars....You’re out of shape.”
“The broadcasts,” she continued, “they
33
don’t just signal the Rapture. That might
happen, yes, but that’s up to God. The
Crystal-Class are planning beyond that
point. They know there’s only a chance
they’ll be taken — most of them are as
damned as we are, just by living in this
culture.” Mary leaned forward and grabbed
me by the shoulders. “They’re planning
out our future after Armageddon. It’s a
question of history. When two dimensions
come together in the Rapture, time
evaporates and we live in a continuous
present. No past, no future. That means no
government, andthey won’t let that happen.
There’s too much at stake for them.”
“So how do we stop them?” I asked.
“We need to find Cassandra. You’ve
seen her before — she visited the archive
looking for early Edvard Kristol clips. We
found some on YouTube for her.”
Across the waste ground I saw the few
remaining customers being evicted from
the bar. It was closing time. “The half crazy
one with green eyes? I fancied her like
mad...” I said, almost to myself.
“That’s the one,” replied Mary, “maybe
you’ll score this time.”
In the distance, the cathedral bell
tolled midnight. We set out for the street.
As soon as we found something worth
34
stealing I hotwired it, and we set off to find
Cassandra.
As we sped through Paradise
downtown, I turned and said, “How did
you do that?”
“What?” asked Mary.
“Jump up and escape from the old
people’s home?”
“Easy,” she replied. “It was a tax rebate.
I could feel it surge this morning but it took
all day for the ant-implants to power up
again. It was a long shot but my accountant
persuaded me to apply just before I was
wiped out. Apparently, the archive owes a
fortune in national insurance payments.”
35
CHAPTER 4
Philip at the Moniac Bar
I get home from the Mall and simulate
some sex with my DH. I shower and
pull some of the old wires tarnished with
fluicage out of her neck and replace them
with the new wires. I feel like I’m in the last
ever re-make of Frankenstein. I give a manic
laugh and make lightning sounds with my
mouth. After I’m sure the DH is in working
order, getting it to touch its nose and walk
in a straight line, I decide I need a drink.
In fact, because I know I will be mourning
the death of my only sibling soon, I need a
few...and then maybe a few more. I take a
tram to downtown Paradise and go to the
Moniac Bar. For the time of year the bar is
surprisingly silent. Maybe the regulars are
all at home repenting their sins to whatever
deity they think responsible for the coming
Rapture. In every shitty flat and sleep pipe
the penitent citizens of Philipville are
beating their miserable chests, wailing and
gnashing their teeth. Teeth gnashing, I have
noticed, is a singularly religious activity.
In this town you have to choose your
drinking partners carefully.
36
What’s your poison?
What’s your paranoia?
I drink a few shots and start to work
on my own deep misgivings about the
nature of reality. I’d like to confabulate a
grand conspiracy theory that goes beyond
conspiracy. I could sell the idea to some
half-arsed belief group, something like the
Flat-Earthers, whose need to believe is in
inverse proportion to their need to face the
shitty truth. I could be their supreme leader
— I take another shot of vodka and laugh
manically, and silently, of course.
Mary’s old friend Barry, the bassist
from the punk band You May Wish to
Burn, is sitting at the other end of the
bar. He lifts his tired head and nods in
my direction. It looks like he’s been here
for some time. I think of going over and
thanking him for the DH for Dummies,
but as he lays his head on the bar, his
cigarette burning painfully close to his
ochre fingers, I realise he’s not in the mood
for conversation. But who is? What do
agnostics at the End of Days have to talk
about? We are struck silent by the palpable
fear in the air; even those who don’t believe
in any of the sumptuous variety of ends
offered to them know that it’s only the
effect of fear that makes reality.
37
The gabba house revival band Mitim
are playing. I let the alcohol flow around
me and the fast music flow over me. I close
my eyes and think about my hangover cure
— eggs, orange juice and a detox pill big
enough to clear the system of an alcoholic
elephant.
I wake up as my head hits the bar and
spring like a jack-in-the-box to attention.
Through the bar window I see a woman
rush past the window. My God, it’s Mary!
I stand. I fall. I stand and fall again,
and then crawl quickly to the door. I stand
successfully after pulling myself up on the
U of the door handle. I push instead of pull.
I keep pushing, I fall back woozily, still
supported by the door handle, and the door
swings open. I fall to one knee and crawl up
the side of the door. I stagger out into the
cold. Mary is gone by now, of course.
I follow her, running like some badly
wired automata. A man rushes past me, past
a burned out tram at the end of the street.
I hear another, heavier foot fall behind me,
and a hand grabs my shoulder and brings
me down easily. I look up at the guy behind
the bar of the Moniac. He squares up
his stance like the Fire-fighter, colossal
above me.
“Sorry sir, I’m going to have to ask you
38
to pay your bill.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sho shorry...I fwort I
shaw my shishter.”
I roll over and try to find the pocket
with my wallet in it.
∞
Philip gets a message from Barry
I wake up fully clothed. It’s the middle of
the night, or maybe it’s early...I check the
clock — it’s two AM.
I somehow made it home.
God, my head!
God, my mouth!
I manage to crawl over to the cabinet
and take the goof-ball detox pill...I find
the key ring...press the button and the DH
boots up.
“Get me two boiled eggs and a glass
of orange juice...oh, and some toast. Two
slices.”
I fall back on to the pillow. I make a
promise to myself that I have no intention
of keeping, but I calculate that the promise
might just be earnest enough to get me into
the shower. I promise, never again.
After getting the DH to shovel the
food into me, I get up. When are we? Oh
yes, the 27th. We are now entering that
39
most ghostly part of the year, the dead
connection where the lost promises of the
past and the promises to be broken in the
future meet in a bottomless abyss. The
period between Christmas and New Year’s
Day is time’s very own anti-matter. But for
the seers this particular year is a threshold
to a new age. There will be signs blazing
across the heavens. The four horsemen back
projected onto the screen of the eternal
sky, the horrific iconography of every major
art movement from the icon painters to
the surrealists and beyond will be made
palpable. The fruit of your sins will turn
to dust in your mouths; your good works
will be as honey to your tongues. You
will kneel and you will pray, because I am
God. I am the supreme, the ultimate the
unequivocal Lord of Time...So, FUCK
OFF, LOSERS!
In the shower I contemplate getting the
DH to give me a hand job but think better
of it. The hot water hits my head and starts
a confabulation process in the synapses of
my brain. Did I see Mary last night, moving
like a springbok through Paradise? Or did
I dream her before I tried to run out of the
bar without paying? Or did I leave without
paying because I saw Mary?
The DH placed my clothes on the
40
bed. We’re so very Jeeves and Wooster
sometimes, her and me...I mean it and me.
I see I’ve had two messages while I
was in the shower. The first is from my
senile sister. Mary, before she went into
the home, arranged to filter and relay files
to me, these are bits of subversive crap
circulated by Cassandra and her salty pirate
crew. I patch it over to the screen and
order the DH to get me another orange
juice. It’s a lecture given way back when in
the days long before the Ban on History.
From the clothes the speaker is wearing
I’d place it in the 1970s: flowery shirt,
untidy hair falling over a scalloped collar.
He’s standing in some university lecture
hall. His talk is called The Rapture As a
Piece of Pseudepigraphy. He’s not such
a good communicator; his voice flat lines
in a monotone. He tells us that the idea of
the Rapture is new, or comparatively new.
Although the Book of Revelation speaks
of the great judgement of humanity, there
is no mention of the idea that the saved
will be beamed up to heaven leaving the
rest of us to stew in the damnation of our
own making.
The professor continues: “The
popularization of the term Rapture is
associated with the teaching of John Nelson
41
Darby and the rise of pre-millennialism
and dispensationalism in the United States
at the end of the 19th century. In 1908,
the doctrine of the Rapture was further
popularized by an evangelist named
William Eugene Blackstone, whose book,
Jesus Is Coming, sold more than one million
copies and was further popularized by its
inclusion in the Scofield Reference Bible in
1909.” This is all very interesting as far as
it goes, and I suppose we’re meant to draw
the conclusion that the Kristol Corporation
are using the idea as a tool to control the
masses. The Kristol Corporation’s story has
an emphatic end, and those of us left on the
earth will be like unemployed extras living
in the set of a film after the action has taken
place. But, come to think of it, Cassandra
suffers from a contrary form of delusion;
from what I can gather from the garbage
Mary and Carol told me about her, she’s
preaching the flipside of the Rapture.
I patch over the second message. It’s
from Barry the bassist. It’s an ad for a gig
for his neopunk band You May Wish To
Burn, the venue is a club called Vanilla
Wave down in the Paradise docks sector.
He’s voiced over the image of a half-naked
man giving a two-hand blowjob to a
microphone:
42
“Hi Philip, did I see you at the Moniac
earlier? I got really stotious, man. Don’t
think I’m not sociable or anything. And if
it wasn’t you then it’s OK as well...” Barry
gives himself a few seconds to reflect on
the stupidity of what he’s just said and then
continues. “Anyways, it would be great to
see you in the audience tonight. I better
tell you man, we’ve been writin’ a song for
Mary...I’ve got to tell you, man...there’s
not long...oh fuck, sorry, I’m still a bit...
Anyways, we’re still working on it but it’s
taking shape, the song’s called ‘Fucked
in the Brain for Cash.’ Anyways see you
there, comrade.”
Charming. A must for genuine music
lovers, and it certainly puts a rocket up the
arse of the Crystal Singers.
43
CHAPTER 5
Cassandra outside Vanilla Wave
Outside Vanilla Wave, a thin fruice worker
with arms down to his knees and dirty
trailing fingers wafts out from a doorway.
He lifts an arm to block Cassandra’s way,
a grimy thick nail pricks into her tightly
knit polo neck.
“Have you got a few Saphs? I am short
for transport, I must return to unit. You
don’t want me to disregard curfew, do
you?”
His fingernail traces up her body,
pressing uncomfortably into her neck.
She doesn’t flinch and stares into his
yellowing glazed eyes.
“Do not bother me with your pitiful
charades! The city is as good as won. Go
home, keep your cock in your pants for
tomorrow’s jamboree, sunshine.”
The fruicer’s hand flops down to the
pavement. He jerks his head from side to
side scanning the docks, then he shoves
Cassandra up against the red steel artists’
entrance, his charged breath shoots
Cassandra’s hair up like a frightened cat,
it spreads clinging over the steel surface.
44
“Are you police? I kill you. What you
know?”
She stares at him coolly, smiles and
looks in her bag for a sheet of Bounce fabric
softener, which apparently eliminates static
build up. She wipes her hair and face.
“I know a lot about the future. I am a
specialist.” Handing him the perforated
sheet of Bounce fabric softener, “Here, you
may need this.”
The fruicer glazes over, embarrassed
by her ridiculous gesture, flinches back and
jabs her in the cheek with a long finger,
penetrating the surface flesh, twisting his
dirty nail around and scraping back, she
catches his elbow and forces the weak
muscles away, dislocating his elbow like
a cheap chicken wing. Dancing Vanilla
Wave projections pick out his enfeebled
body writhing on the slimy pavement.
Cassandra steps over him, retrieves the
sheet of Bounce, wipes her scratched cheek
and passes through a line up of bowing
bodybuilders at the entrance to the club.
∞
Mary and Finn at Vanilla Wave
The first place we tried was Vanilla Wave.
Cassandra was inside, close to the stage
45
door with Barry the bassist. Cassandra was
wiping a spot of blood from her cheek with
a tissue. Barry introduced us to Overly
Israeli, a crazed socialite with burnt hair
implants and a carnivorous handbag. A
little knobbly-headed fruice punk was
handing out flyers and shoved one in my
hand. I glanced at it — “...this shithole with
its fucked up pachuco name of Paradise.
Passiondale would have been better. The
British always called their streets and
squares after killing fields and battles that
let the plebs know where they stood in the
scheme of things from the start off...” I
stopped reading and threw it away. Barry
was dragging Overly towards the band’s
dressing room and Cassandra was pushing
towards the mosh pit, picking her spot
before the gig kicked off.
They were playing classic tunes from
Fairuz and the Rahbani Brothers over the
PA so the band must be coming on soon.
Mary and I stood near the back where
there was more room and we ordered some
drinks. I had a Blue Fire Balloon but Mary
went for the hard stuff and had a double
Red Rivet, downing it in two gulps. “Good
for the synapses,” she explained and then
laughed maniacally, pretending her legs had
turned to jelly.
46
The crowd roared suddenly and
we turned to see Overly swaying at the
microphone, considerably more dishevelled
than she had been ten minutes earlier.
“Waaagh!!” she screamed, “Scorched crows
on a flaming branch, cutthroats at midnight,
you frigging guerrilla hearts in a plundered
temple, put your hands together for the
greatest band in ancient Palestine — You
May Wish to Burnnnnnn...!!!!” Everything
else was drowned by the clamour from
the floor as the musicians ran onstage and
plugged in.
“New song for you starved
motherfuckers” growled Spite, the lead
singer as they lurched into an electronic
maelstrom underpinned with an old Nablus
style psychobilly beat:
You fill my mind with trash
then you fuck me in the head for CASH
cash cash head fuck cash!
Mary was spinning wildly behind me,
the floor was bouncing up and down from
the impact of pogoing fans. I could see
Philip coming down the stairs of the club
and begin to wave. At the same time, out
of the corner of my eye, almost in slow
motion, I caught sight of the little fruice
47
punk. His pamphlets hung like a cloud
of shot feathers over his spasming body
and his head began to explode in a storm
of blood. Philip spotted Mary and was
frozen for a moment before rushing across,
causing the pogoing bodies to fly in every
direction. The fruice worker had fallen to
his knees, struggling to escape the welter
of boots flailing in his direction. Philip was
hugging Mary, jumping up and down and
screaming. The crowd surged backwards
and forwards with the impact of the fight in
its midst. The music seemed to speed up,
drums to the fore, pounding faster than the
boots sinking the fruice punk. Suddenly
everything screeched to a halt and all heads
turned to the stage. Cassandra stood there
in the central spotlight. Spite and the rest of
the band retreated to the darkness. A weird
howl filled the air, mixed with the moans
of the bloodied punk. And then we all saw
something we’d never forget...
∞
Philip at Vanilla Wave
After queuing for a while I the pin door
of the Vanilla Wave and pass through
a corridor of bodybuilding bouncers in
sleeveless t-shirts. The band is just starting
48
Mary’s song as I go down the stairs. I think
I see Mary’s friend Finn on the fringes of
the mosh pit and give a wave. Finn is the
sad loony loser who always had a soft spot
for Mary; he’s a librarian or something and
worked with Mary in the archive. The club
is rammed; retropunks mix with society
types in the swankiest Francesco Grip
clothes, small groups of fruice workers
scowl at the edges of the room. Fruice
workers seem to carry the contamination
of decay with them, disjointed and scabby,
dissolute and shabby. One gnomish punk
fruice worker hands me a flier. This one is
a particularly revolting specimen, in both
senses of the word. If the contents of the
flier are to be believed the fruice workers are
ready for rebellion and we, their “brothers
in their fight against oppression” should
join them in their struggle. It would seem
the fruice workers here are on an outreach
mission to like-minded people. I scan other
phrases “...by any means necessary...we
demand the justice WE deserve. We will
exact the judgement THEY deserve.”
The band have reached the point where
the psychobilly beat gives way to a tirade
teetering on the verge of collapse, Barry
unstraps his bass and beats it against the
amp, the drummer throws away his sticks
49
and beats the drum with his fists.
Fuck me in the head for cash.
You fill my mind with trash.
Your world is going to crash
if you fuck me in the head for cash.
Head fuck head fuck cash.
Fuckhead, fuckheadcrash!
As I make my way through the crowd
I see someone with her back to me who
looks like Mary. It seems I’m seeing her
everywhere these days. She turns her head
and her profile is backlit by the light from
the stage. It’s the same profile I’ve known
since the day we were both born. God, it
is Mary, it’s my Mary, young and alive,
vibrant and happy. No, stay cool it’s just a
trick of the stage lights, it can’t be...I move
closer, pushing through the crowd as the
music gathers in intensity.
The singer is screaming and has started
to improvise on the theme, “I Fucking hate
you, you fucking bastards. Cos you fucked
me in then heeeeeead!”
Mary opens her arms, her bright eyes
shining again, a smile across her face.
I take her into my arms and lift her from
the floor. I can hear her screaming with joy
as I swing her around. I feel the warmth
50
of her tears on my cheek. Oh, sis, sis, sis.
I let her down and can see she’s speaking
quickly. I could just make out the names
and the odd word. “Finn...home...tax
rebate...Car...Kristol...Help...Rapture...
Cassandra...re-phasing.”
As the band reach a crescendo, a fight
breaks out between some fruice workers
and some punks. The crowd backs away
from the flaying fists and flying glasses as
Mary and me are pushed apart.
∞
Philip witnesses Cassandra’s vision
Cassandra takes the stage and pulls her red
leather hood over her head. The room falls
silent, fruice workers and punks freeze in
the middle of punches, it’s almost as if the
flying glasses come to a stop in mid air.
The mob turns to face the stage. Cassandra
begins. At first it sounds to me like the sort
of abstract verbiage you might hear from
a batty fortune teller, a series of emotive
images that could apply to any time and
any place, but to the crowd, caught in some
mysterious paralysis of attention, every
word seemed to be laden with poignant
meaning. She is speaking of the time
to come, a new kind of time and as she
51
continues to speak a strange wave comes
over me. The sensation begins with her
voice, a soft cadence that seems to emanate
from another world, or perhaps from a
world to come. This affect then grows
within me like some sort of indefinable
emotion; the unfamiliarity of this takes my
breath away. I feel a joyful fear, a fearful
joy which I can only describe as a form of
spiritual light which for a moment, perhaps
a split second, tears a tiny hole in the screen
of reality, cutting through all the phony
projections, through all the dirt and lies to
reveal a timeless light...
Cassandra falls to the ground and her
closest aides and members of the band
rush forward and carry her towards the
stage door. Framed by the lights of the car
park illuminating the door I see a familiar
shape. It’s Carol, my long lost love. It’s
Carol, the woman who left me to follow
Cassandra. Maybe she’s seen me, she pulls
a red hood over her head. I see now that my
sister Mary is there too, leaning over the
whispering mouth of Cassandra. As the
body passes her, Carol takes Cassandra’s
limp hand, raises it to her lips and kisses
it. The crowd begin to wake from their
collective vision, whatever it was we saw,
we saw the same thing, some fleeting and
52
tantalising vision of a better future — we all
seem to understand that the time we inhabit
is not the only possible time. The fruice
workers and the punks separate, almost
apologetically. The PA is silent. I can only
hear a low astounded murmur and the
sound of broken plastic glasses crunching
under the feet of the crowd. The remaining
members of the band take the stage and
begin to play. I walk to the stage door. I
must talk to Carol and tell her that I now
understand that I got the situation wrong,
I should have listened. I rehearse the climax
of my apology — “Carol, it was me that was
out of phase.”
I see Cassandra being carried along the
edge of the dock; two massive titanium
black fruice refining ships are backlit by
the flames of the oil refinery. The portage
looks like a holy procession retrieving some
saintly figure from hell. They will go back
to their boat, maybe take off to another
harbour to take their message there,
starting in the most marginal sections of
society and spreading through the culture
of Philipville like a benevolent virus.
I hear the sound of police sirens in the
distance. I am behind the procession now
and Carol turns to look at me, she pushes
back her red hood. Carol keeps walking but
53
her pace doesn’t quicken.
Her hair is shorter now, arranged
in a bob around a face charged with
what I would like to think of as a distant
love. The sound of sirens comes closer.
Headlights appear ahead of us as two
personal transportation vehicles speed
towards us. The first swerves to an abrupt
halt, obscuring my view of Cassandra
and her followers, the second swerves to
block their path towards the boat. The
back doors swing open and a group of
armed men, Kristol Warriors in riot gear,
rush out and form a line ahead of me. I
move to the edge of the water and try to
see through the transparent riot shields. I
see a group of guards pushing Cassandra
and her followers to the ground, twisting
their hands behind their backs and cuffing
them with zip ties. With studied efficiency
the group are thrown into the back of the
vans, Cassandra and Carol into one and the
followers into the other. The phalanx of riot
police starts to move forward, taking one
step a second. I back off. I know the drill,
if I don’t run now I will be taken into the
carapace of this armoured beast. I turn and
run back to the club. I can hear the tramp of
the riot police speed up behind me. Soon
the charge will begin. I cut right and join
54
the mass streaming from the club. We are
now a swarm. I’m running next to the fruice
punk who was handing out leaflets earlier,
he cuts into an alley, because I figure this
guy knows a trick or two, I follow...He
runs with surprising speed and then jumps
to one side, the ground opens up and he
disappears. I hold my nose and dive feet
first after the fruice worker. I fall, snaking
through an aluminium tube and drop onto
an old mattress that explodes in a cloud of
dust. I look up to see the barrels of six guns
form a halo around my head. I see the faces
of six fruice workers, in various shades of
grey and green, and in various stages of
decomposition, staring indifferently at me.
“Shall we waste him, Brifcor?” says a
female worker.
Brifcor, the guy I was following, turns
his head to one side and considers my fate
for a few moments, which for me are a
few moments too long. He then lowers
his gun. The others follow suit. Brifcor
comes closer and breathes into my face,
“Get the fuck out of here, get as far away
as possible and as quickly as you possibly
can. Got that?”
I nod.
“You, my friend, are my good deed
for the day. You are the one that got away.
55
So when you say your prayers from now
on always end by saying: ‘And God bless
Uncle Brifcor.’” He raises his gun again,
and presses it against the socket of my left
eye, “What do you say?”
I try to swallow. My mouth is dry. In
a parched whisper I say “And God bless
Uncle Brifcor.”
He lowers his gun and the group turn
in unison as Brifcor leads them out of the
cellar. I turn over on the mattress and vomit
out my fear.
There’s three things I’ve got to do:
get out of here fast, find Finn and Mary,
and tell them that Cassandra has been
kidnapped.
56
CHAPTER 6
Cassandra’s capture
A plastic fire-fighter swings back and forth
from the rear-view mirror, smiling bright
eyed at the driver. The fire-fighter jumps
up and down each time the truck passes
over a pothole and the driver winces, one
arm is tied up in a makeshift sling. Directly
behind him, behind the corrugated white
steel divider, in the dark, is Cassandra.
She is lying face down on a stained musty
mattress; Carol sits slumped across her.
Upbeat jazz music wafts through from
the cab.
Jeepers creepers,
where d’you get those peepers?
Jeepers creepers,
where d’you get those eyes?
Cassandra opens her eyes and looks
around; aftershocks of her last phase linger
on. She feels the weight of Carol’s body
pressing down on her ribs, breathing is
difficult, a bar of yellow streetlight glides
over them. Toned muscles ripple over sabre
tattoos, a man with an orange sun-bed tan
57
pushes down onto her soft flesh. She feels
her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling
him closer to her, their bodies are getting
hotter as his pulsing cock forces into her
for the first time. Cassandra glides a hand
across to hold his massive balls, “Oh Kristol
you hunk, fuck me deep!” She pulls him
in further, barely able to accommodate as
her neck flushes rosy red. She relaxes and
releases a wave of wetness as he starts to
pump her. Phase alignment is not far off.
Clouds and grass surround them at the
Centre, a woodpecker taps furiously at the
nearby gate as Cassandra holds Kristol
down, gliding wet and smooth over his
pulsating member. The clouds caress them
and the city fills with pink runny gunk
as the sides of the truck come in and out
of focus.
Jolted forward, Carol awakes and yells
to Cassandra, “I can’t handle this! You’ve
got to help me! I’m getting too close! I can
feel time slip over me, you and Kristol. And
me, when am I going to phase with you?”
Cassandra smiles in deep reverie, still
flushed, she tilts her head to one side to
see Carol more clearly. “Carol my sweet,
you are everything to me, but Kristol is our
destination, be patient.”
The doors creak open, the first rays of
58
the morning sun flood into the dark van,
a crew of five men stand between them and
freedom. Their excited, hot-blooded bodies
give off little puffs of steam, condensing
in the cold air. Cassandra is pulled out
first, her ripped jumper frays open. A
curtain of freezing breath clouds the gap
between the women and their captors as
they are dragged out of the truck by their
tied wrists. The men glance at Cassandra’s
open breasts, but seem distracted, they are
nervous and look at each other, checking
their watches. The women are pushed up
the steps to a dark brown wooden house
with rough splintering timbers, Carol’s
left leg catches on the doorframe, causing a
large splinter to pass through her skin, she
doesn’t notice and moves through to the
intricately carpeted vestibule.
One of the guys calls from outside, “Get
in and lock the doors, it’s about to happen.”
Cassandra and Carol hold each other
tight as they pass through the corridor.
Mirrors are bolted to the walls like a shop
changing room. Cascades of reflections fall
away to the floor on either side. Cassandra,
smiling and carefree, runs her finger
along the mirror covering the length of
the hallway. As she walks she moves her
finger up and down, like a seismograph
59
needle. A thousand hands move up and
down following an arc, a wave trails behind
on the dusty surface, each second of her
history trails behind: the thrilling kiss with
Kristol, the lush grass at the Centre with
Carol, reflections back into the present,
her diamante brooch hangs down from her
fraying jumper, sparking dots of dancing
light shift forwards within the recursive
reflection, wave patterns intermingle in
a complex tangle as she strides forward
to the end curtain. Carol strengthens
her hold on Cassandra’s midriff, feeling
the soothing warmth of her confidence
and her wonderful soft silky skin. A shop
assistant DH pulls back the curtain, smiles
mockingly, “Does it fit? I think you will
find that our sixty-seven percent fruice
garments feel shockingly fresh in today’s
marketplace and are somewhat kinder to
the modern form.”
Cassandra pushes the Domestic Help!
aside, it murmurs, “Security...security,
we may have an issue...Department 12
sector 27.” There is no human overseer
to respond, the shop is deserted, and
mannequins’ legs protrude from beneath
black covers: one can only guess at the
horrific forms lying below. The guys push
the two through the shop. “What are you
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ladies trying to pull? Get your fancy tails
over here, no more smart stuff.” One of
the thugs zip ties their wrists together,
Cassandra restrains a giggle, allowing them
to be guided across the shop towards a row
of mannequins wearing grey suits, a retro
photograph of a “house” behind. They keep
the pace up, closing in on the dummies,
Carol tries to slow down but the herd
around her pushes on, frogmarching now,
towards the grey suits and the incredible
“house,” beautifully framed in laurels. Carol
wrestles with the guys, the group is moving
with fluid momentum like a car rolling
down a hill without breaks, right smash
bang into the dummies! As the guys at the
front trample the suited dummies, figures
topple sideways and the floor gently gives
way, threads dissolve and fray around them,
tickling their noses as they enter freefall
through the fading web. Bits of fluff get
caught in Cassandra’s hair during freefall
and she sneezes in delight: delight at feeling
Kristol push himself into her, at the power
she will feel when the two of them unite for
the first time.
61
CHAPTER 7
Finn and Mary in the car
Mary and I were in the car, parked in an
alley not far from the spike. We were trying
to make sense of what had happened at the
club. Cassandra’s vision had silenced the
crowd and the band never really recaptured
their momentum after she left the stage.
Mary managed to speak to her as she was
being carried off stage and asked her some
fast questions about Channel 23Ω, Kristol
and the Rapture, and then we got out of the
club and into the car.
I put the radio on and left the heat
running to fight the frost outside. It was
slow, old-timey music:
...when it sizzles.
I love Paris ev’ry moment
ev’ry moment of the year.
I love Paris.
Why,
Oh, why do I love Paris?
Because my love is near!
That song was like toast. Nina Simone
warmed us both and soon we were cosy
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enough to fall asleep. Mary’s head was lying
against my shoulder and when she started
to dream, she nestled into my chest and
I realised I loved her.
The radio woke us about two hours
later. Our muzak broadcast was interrupted
by a news bulletin and our toasted life
evaporated in the chill it brought. The first
report said there was a fruice spill at the
docks though no one appeared to be hurt
and damage was limited to a few harbourside
buildings. I scanned the stations while
Mary pulled herself together. It was her first
sleep, however brief, since the ant-implant
had activated, and she seemed groggy.
Vixen news said there had been a major
fruice catastrophe, a fruice refinery tanker
had crashed into the harbour with severe
damage as far as the centre of the Paradise
sector, there were definitely victims of the
accident but numbers weren’t confirmed
yet. YouTube was reporting eyewitness
accounts of fruice workers swarming ashore
and ransacking downtown, using the fruice
spillage as an advance force to wreak havoc
on the city. I used the handheld to convert
the radio for Channel 23Ω and heard the
old weird voice of Edvard Kristol.
“This morning we are a city awakened to
danger and called to defend freedom. You
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may be asking, why do they hate us? Well,”
he drawled, “they hate our freedoms — our
freedom of religion, our freedom of speech,
our freedom to vote and assemble and
disagree with each other.”
Mary was sitting up, wide-awake now.
“These terrorists kill not merely to
end lives, but to disrupt and end a way
of life. They stand against us, because we
stand in their way. But, my friends, we
will direct every resource at our command
— every means of diplomacy, every tool
of intelligence, every instrument of law
enforcement, every financial influence,
and every necessary weapon of war — to
the disruption and to the defeat of this
terror network.”
“What’s happening — who are these
terrorists?” I asked.
“There’s no terrorism, dummy,” said
Mary. “It’s a revolution.”
“Really?”
“Really. Check the screen.”
Mary took the handheld away from me
and quickly recalibrated it. The small screen
lit up with a continuous green flow of
information. “See, the fruicers are jamming.
They’re on the move.” She shrugged off any
doubts. “It’s definitely a revolution.”
“Why would they do that?” I said. “Even
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the fruicers must know there’s nothing they
can change. Even if the Rapture
wasn’t coming.”
Mary laughed and gave me a playful
dig in the ribs. “You’re so cute when you’re
stupid, Finn.”
“Then I must be very cute most of the
time...”
“Well, yes, dear. But it’s just that you
believe no one can make a difference. It’s all
those videos and all that crap news you’ve
consumed for years. You think history
happens to other people — you think you’re
just an onlooker.” She interrupted herself,
saying, “Start the car, Finn.”
“But,” she continued, “The fruicers
don’t have that disease. Remember that old
speech from the Bush years:
‘That’s not the way the world really
works anymore. We’re an empire now, and
when we act, we create our own reality.
And while you’re studying that reality
— judiciously, as you will — we’ll act again,
creating other new realities, which you can
study too, and that’s how things will sort
out. We’re history’s actors . . . and you, all of
you, will be left to just study what we do.’ ”
“Ok. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.”
It was chaos on the streets. Fire-fighters
65
were everywhere, attempting to clean
up the fruice, ferrying bodies out of the
affected zones and regrouping around their
trucks to talk tactics. Still, there were no
signs of a revolution.
“Where are the fruice workers? And
where are Kristol’s troops,” I asked.
Mary scanned the streets and pointed
over to a seemingly calm group of
buildings. “There,” she said, “Behind the
walls. Remember, the inside is the outside
and vice versa — they can move through the
city invisibly.”
Just as she said this the walls of the
street began to swell and stretch and then
exploded. Giant waves of dust billowed
over the scene and I grabbed Mary’s hand
so that we could make our way out of the
sudden darkness together.
The car was useless. The explosion
hadn’t just broken its windows, the whole
body of the machine was buckled and
stressed. We ran for the first few blocks
until we were too exhausted to keep going.
All of the streets were empty now but I
remembered Mary’s warning that the battle
might be taking place all around us.
“Do you remember the east side annex
to the archives?” Mary asked, leaning
against a waste bin to catch her breath. “We
66
could hide there — it’s an armoured shelter
and it’s only a store for 20th century music
so it’s not going to be high on anyone’s list
of priorities.”
I was impressed at how clearly she was
thinking. She should have been Crystal-
Class with a mind like that. I barely
scraped into existence at times while she
was always there figuring out events three
moves ahead. Her clarity would be vital as I
realised there would be no chance to return
to my sleep pipe and replenish my daily
medication. Reality would become a rare
commodity over the next few days.
∞
Francesco Grip
The girls in the dressing room are stripped
frantically by DH — Rackers5.4s and the
new outfits are sprayed on. The gossamer
forms cascade over the bodies of the
models. Delicate, web-like fabrics move
with mysterious grace over their shoulders,
gleaming with a shell-like i