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ONE
"Leave Me Alone"
"I mean, once or twice I've heard people say to me that, you
know, Diana's out to destroy the monarchy...Why would I want to destroy
something that is my children's future?"
—Diana, Princess of Wales,
TV Interview,
November 1995
"Oh, cool! This—" With all his old enthusiasm, Shakey Mo bit into
his footlong. "—is what I call a hot dog." His bearded lips
winked with mustard, ketchup and gelatinous cucumber. "Things are looking
up."
Close enough, in the cramped confines of the Ford Flamefang Mk IV, to
suffer the worst of Mo's fallout, Jerry Cornelius still felt a surge of
affection for his little pard. Mo was back on form, an MK 55 on his hip
and righteous mayhem in his eyes. He was all relish again. Mounting the
ruins of the St John's Wood Wottaburger, their armoured half-track rounded
a tank-trap, bounced over a speed-bump and turned erratically into Abbey
Road. "Bugger." Mo's dog had gone all over the place.
"It's chaos out there."
Major Nye fixed a pale and amiable blue eye on the middle distance. Neat
grey hairs ran like furrows across his tanned old scalp. His sinewy body
had been so long in the sun it was half mummified. They were heading for
Hampstead where they hoped to liaise with some allies and carry on up
the M1 to liberate their holy relics in the name of their dead liege,
who had died reluctantly at Lavender Hill. The old soldier's steering
was light and flexible, but sometimes it threatened to overturn them.
Glancing back across his shoulder he voiced all their thoughts.
"This is going to be a good war, what?"
"At least we got a chance to lay some mines this time." Colonel Hira
brushed a scarlet crumb from his chocolate fatigues and adjusted his yellow
turban. Only Hira wore the official uniform of the UPS. The United Patriotic
Squadrons (of The Blessed Diana) (Armoured Vehicles Division) were famous
for their eccentric but influential style, their elaborate flags. "Those
Caroline bastards will think twice before taking their holidays in Dorset
again."
A saccharine tear graced Bishop Beesley's flurried cheek. Seemingly
independent, like toon characters, his fingers grazed at random over his
face. From time to time he drew the tips to his lips and tasted them.
"Surely this is no time for cynicism?" His wobbling mitre gave clerical
emphasis to his plea. "We are experiencing the influence of the world-will.
We are helpless before a massive new mythology being created around us
and of which we could almost be part. This is the race-mind expressing
itself." His massive jowls drooped with sincerity. "Can't we share a little
common sentiment?" He squeezed at his right eye to taste another tear.
"Our sweet patroness died for our right to plant those mines."
"And so her effing siblings could spray us with AIDS virus in the name
of preserving national unity." This was Mo's chief grievance. He was afraid
he would turn out positive and everyone would think he was an effing fudge-packer
like Jerry and the rest of them half-tuned pianos. "Don't go forgetting
that." He added, a little mysteriously: "Private money blows us up. Public
money patches us up. Only an idiot of a capitalist would want to change
that status quo. This is an old-fashioned civil-war. A class war."
Major Nye disagreed. "We're learning to live in a world without poles."
"Anti-semitic bastards." Mo frowned down at his weapon. "They deserved
all they got."
"Are we there yet?" The cramped cab was making Jerry claustrophobic.
"I think I'm going to be sick."
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