TRANSOM PHASE
SCHOOL SHOOTING STRENGTHENS CASE FOR GUNS, TRUMP TELLS NRA
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MOTHER WHO NUDGED CLIMATE PROTESTERS WITH RANGE ROVER BANNED FROM DRIVING
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"A society which punishes those who do not agree that it is perfect, can never, of course, progress. It will, however, grow increasingly aggressive even as it inevitably corrodes from within." Lobkowitz, Time and Meaning 1938 (Firing The Cathedral, Michael Moorcock)
Out of the sallow sodium glare of the pre-fab Kwik Save on London Road stumbled Jerry Cornelius, lost to his thoughts, mouth agape, vacant of gaze, nursing a heady cocktail of flu, hangover and withdrawal, to the crowd of onlookers gathered at the crossroads between The Peking Junction Take-Away and the former convent of The Poor Claires (soon to be a block of up-market student apartments). With a branded Kwik Save carrier bag in each quivering hand, a streaming nose, Jerry found himself kettled by the unexpected prossession of anti-Fascist protestors. He shuffled slippered-feet in place, waiting for the lights to change.
'Punched her right in the tits she did'
'It's these bleedin' Anti-Fahr... they're the real Nazis - and the NHSS!'
'State of 'em though... can't even tell oooze a bird an ooze a bloke veeze days... taint right vat.'
Jerry cursed himself. He had left the bedsit without his earpods again. Jerry fell apart in the absense of his music, elbowing his way through the crowd to cross the street amongst the marching youth, students, academics, Marxist rock musicians, pensioners. For a moment his hooded eyes met the blue-grey gaze of a handsome female protestor: She glared at him and then was gone. Jerry's heart fluttered, recognition, déjà vu adding to the contributing list of symptoms. Sweat began to bead his brow, his matted lank black hair, the inside of his ears. His nose began to stream, his hands to shake.
'I'm not political, I don't judge, but I wouldn't trust 'em wiv me kids.'
'I'd give 'er a right seein' too and no mistake. Once me pension comes through.'
'I've got the fear all the time now.'
Hurrying home, breathless he weaved his way through seedy trustafarians in identikit harem pants, benie hats and Lennon-framed spectacles; elaborately leather-clad Goths and well scrubbed upper-middle class Mods along Western Road; To the reassuring confines of the shabby York Road bedsit: His Base of Operations, his Time Centre, his Sanctuary. He jammed the door behind him with a collapsible walking stick, secured locks and chains, pulled the curtains into place and he was home at last.
With the reassuringly overplayed sounds of a Stiff Records compilation on the tiny Brixton Briefcase, Jerry checked the levels of grey water in the sinks, the light bulbs and the tiny shower cubicle. The toilet had begun flushing back into the bedsit's bathroom pipes round about the same time the shower in the room above his had begun emptying into his kitchen.
Behind smeared glass, there was two inches of redish brown water in the shower base. Water fizzled within the bulb when he turned on the overhead light. Jerry's neighbour, the heroin addict with the plumby accent began muttering through the papier mache wall: His repertoir of affected voices disturbed Jerry more than his drooling grey manic presence.
Jerry had taken to eating, sleeping and pottering about the place in closed-back headphones, at all times: If he could not quite hear the sounds of the encrouching madness, he would not quite succumb to it. He reached for his little black book - his diary of symptoms.
"Christ is smells like someone's died out there." The door fell off its hinges as Una Persson let herself in. "Oh let's have a little light in here eh Jerry?"
"This is how I like it!" Jerry was not entirely certain she was really here, until she pulled the curtains."Besides, someone did die out there - the man in the room next door OD'd a couple of nights back. So I can't go out now."
"Don't be childish... it's not good for you sitting up here in the dark..." The cramped studio was smothered in the fine icing sugar of decay, dead skin cells, the mucopurulent residue of finely sieved narcotics.
Paperbacks, cassette tapes and discarded baggies littered every available surface. It occurred to Una that her old bandmate was most happy when surrounded by his own garbage. The flimsy room was like a cuboid security blanket. "I don't think I can stay long... in here. Look Jerry, I'm putting some dates together, how are you fixed for this weekend?"
"I'm busy this weekend... got a lot on... I mustn't miss my programs."
"Oh come on Jerry... wouldn't you rather be back on the road again? I'm booking some proper gigs - I've got you a decent amp and everything."
"But there's something I want to watch..."
She noted the way he had indexed the tabloid TV guide beside the tiny black and white, highlighted shows on every page. His whole week planned out according to schedueled repeats, right wing reality rants, a documentary film about people who believed that the earth was flat, the Eastenders Ultra HD 4K widescreen super-max surround-sound omnibus.
"Things will be better once we've gotten rid of Corbyn..." Jerry muttered sing-song as he made a show of attempting to make an instant coffee for his guest.
"Corbyn's not the one in charge you fool."
"Can you imagine..."
"Oh for fuck's sake."
