excerpt
“I’d watch him if I were you, Mr. Beards,” muttered Meatloaf the Younger,
“in his heart he thinks he’s a star, but he’s chaos on legs if you ask me.”
I told them about the Original Sins, Vinyl Conspiracy, Hrothgar’s Feast
and Dungor Lord of the Tidal Flats, one of the very few new albums we kept in
stock at the Great British Time Machine. I offered to quote personnels and
release dates. “He was a key figure in the counter-culture,” I insisted. “You
can’t take that away from him.”
“You called it a culture, Beards? Buying your clothes at jumble sales?”
It’s pouring with rain, so I’m confined to the day-room. I’ve decided to maintain
silence while Beddowes is complaining about the disgusting state of the
lavatories and Eamonn is praying to obscure Italian saints, praying that his
days here in Purgatory are numbered exactly . . . “Only six hundred and
sixty-six days,” he mutters, kneeling behind a burst sofa, “. . . only six hundred
and sixty-six, please, Dear Lord . . .”
As ever the TV movie is deafening, a streaky re-run of When Worlds Collide,
but at least the tidal waves and collapsing skyscrapers are keeping Tanya quietly
mesmerised on her beanbag. There are no chunky young men dancing on
the screen so she will not, alas, flaunt her neat body, her pointed breasts
remain invisible; and I must not in my avowed asceticism be disturbed by
desire for a snooty little anorexic even she has long dark hair. I must not let this
tractile sex-force blast me out of trajectory, I must stay on course for the sake
of the Akashic Record, for Lucas’ sake.
And Wolfbane might just understand. Quiet, Beddowes, you gibbering
anal pedant. Stop Eamonn praying, please God. “Blessed St.Ignatius, Blessed
St.Joseph of Cupertino . . .” The titles to the end of the world roll on. ‘Special
effects by George Pal, a Paramount Picture.’ Get the colliding worlds out of
my head, instantly.
For this could be the last time. Last chance to set down the facts leading up
to the visions. A chance to tune Wolfbane in to my secret wavelengths. And
there’s always, always a chance my first and last forgotten son might look over
my shoulder. Listen, Lucas, wherever you’re going, listen up hard. I have had
(?) testimony of a WORLD BEYOND (?) And I have lost it. That is the story
of my life.
Libros Libertad 