Modem Times 2.0 - Michael Moorcock [3]
Using a Mackintosh chair she’d found, Miss Brunner had built a blaze in the ornamental grate. Smoke and cinders were blowing everywhere. “There’s nothing like a fire on Christmas morning.” She drew back the heavy Morris curtains. There was a touch of grey in the black sky. Somewhere a motor grunted and shuffled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I think it’s dead.”
Carefully, Jerry peeled the scotch tape from the box. The number in big letters was beside a picture of the gun itself: BM-152A. He reached in and drew out a ziplock full of heavy clips. “Oh, God! Ammo included.” His eyes were touched with silver. “I don’t deserve friends like you.”
“Shall we get started?” Miss Brunner smoothed the skirt of her tweed two-piece, indicating the three identical Gent’s Royal Albert bicycles she’d brought up from the basement. “We’re running out of time.”
“Back to good old sixty-two.” Mo smacked his lips. “Even earlier, if we pedal fast enough. OK, me old mucker. Strap that thing on and let’s go go go!”
They wheeled their bikes out through the side door of the V&A into Exhibition Road. White flakes settled on the shoulders of Jerry’s black car coat. He knew yet another thrill of delight. “Snow!”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Ash.”
With a certain sadness Jerry swung the Banning on his back then threw his leg over the saddle. He was happy to be leaving the future.
2. WHEN DID SUNNIS START FIGHTING SHIITES?
Scanning your brain while you watch horror movies might hold the key to making them even more frightening. The findings could reshape the way scary movies—perhaps all movies—are filmed.
—Popular Science, June 2010
THE HOLIDAYS OVER, Jerry Cornelius stepped off the Darfur jet and set his watch for 1962. Time to go home. At least this wouldn’t be as hairy as last time. He’d had a close shave on the plane. His head was altogether smoother now.
Shakey Mo and Major Nye met him at the checkout. Shakey rattled his new keys. “Where to, chief?” He was already getting into character.
Major Nye wasn’t comfortable with the Hummer. It was ostentatious and far too strange for the times. He might as well be driving a Model T, he got so much attention.
“I hate it,” said Jerry. “And not in a good way.”
Resignedly, Major Nye let Mo take the Westway exit. “A military vehicle should be just that. A civilian vehicle should besuitable for civilian roads. This is a kind of jeep, what?” He had never liked jeeps for some reason. Even Land Rovers weren’t his cup of tea. He had enjoyed the old Duesenberg or the green Lagonda. To disguise his disapproval he sang fragments of his favourite music hall songs. “A little of what you fancy does you good … My old man said follow the van … Don’t you think my dress is a little bit, just a little bit, not too much of it … With a pair of opera glasses, you could see to Hackney Marshes, if it wasn’t for the houses in between … “
“So how was the genocide, boss?” Mo was well pleased, as if the years of isolation had never been. He patted his big Mark 8 on the seat beside him and rearranged the ammo pods. “Going well?”
“A bit disappointing.” Jerry looked out at grey London roofs. He smiled, remembering his mum. All he needed was a touch of drizzle.
“Heaven, I’m in heaven …” began Major Nye, shifting into Fred Astaire. “Oh Bugger!” Mo started inching into the new Shepherds Bush turn-off. The major would be glad to see this American heap returned to the garage so he could start dusting off the yellow Commer as soon as Mr. Trux came back from his holidays. Thank god it was only rented. Mo, of course, had wanted to buy one. Over in the next century Karl Lagerfeld was selling his. A sure sign the vehicles were out of fashion. They drove between the dull brick piles of the Notting Dale housing estates whose architecture was designed to soak up all the city’s misery and reflect it. Major Nye glanced at Jerry. With his ‘60s car coat and knitted white scarf, his shaven head, Jerry resembled a released French convict, some