The Spencer Inheritance

TWO
"Our grief is so deep..."

"...when people are dying they're much more open and more vulnerable, and much more real than other people. And I appreciate that."

—As above.

THE CONVOY managed to get as far as Swiss Cottage before a half-dozen of the latest 10x10 extrasampled Morris Wolverines came surfing over the rubble towards them.

The hulls of the pocket landcruisers shone like pewter. The style leaders in all sides of the conflict, their streamlining was pure 1940s futurist. Their firepower, from the single pointed muzzle of a Niecke 45O LS, was the classiest ordnance available. Those laser-shells could go up your arse and take out a particular pile if they wanted to. It was just that kind of aggressive precision styling which people were looking for these days.

"But can it last, Mr C?" Shakey Mo was taking the opportunity to retouch some of their burned paint. The fresh cerise against the camouflage gave the car the look of a drunk in the last stages of cirrhosis. Mo ignored the approaching squadron until almost the final moment. Then, nonchalant, he swung into his gunnery perch, pulled the safety lid down behind him, settled himself into the orange innertube he used to ease his lower back, flipped a few toggles, swung his twin Lewis's from side to side with the heel of his hand to check their readiness, pushed up the sights, tested the belts, and put his thumbs to the firing button. A precise and antique burst. The rubble between their Ford and the rank of savvy Morrises suddenly erupted and clouds billowed. A wall of debris rose for at least twenty feet and then began to settle in simple geometric patterns.

"Here's some we laid earlier, pards!"

Mo began to cackle and shriek.

Following this precedent, ash rained across Kelmscott and all the Morris memorials. Ancient PreRaphaelites were torn apart for scrap, their bones ground for colour, their blood feeding the sand. It became the fashion to dig up poets and painters and own a piece of them. No grave was safe. Everyone now knew that such gorgeous paint was wasted in the cement of heritage. Heritage parks.

"Cementaries?" Jerry did his best with his associations. Why was it wrong to resist their well-meaning intentions?

What secrets could they possibly learn? Nothing which would embarrass me, of course, for I am dead. But secrets of the fields and hedges, eh? Yes, I've found them. It's easy with my eyes. Or was. Secrets in old stones, weakened by the carving of their own runes and the casting of dissipate magic. Desolate churches standing on cold ground which once raced with energy. Why is there such a cooling of this deconsecrated earth? Has the ether been leeched of its goodness by swaggering corporate capital, easing and wheezing its fat bodies through the corridors of privilege, the ratholes of power. Help me, help me, help me. Are you incapable of ordinary human emotion?

Or has that been simulated, too? Or stimulated you by its very nearness. Yet somewhere I can still hear your despairing leitmotifs. Messages addressed to limbo. Your yearning for oblivion. You sang such lovely, unrepeatable songs. You sank such puritan hopes.

But you were never held to account.

Blameless,

you were blemished

only
in the minds
of the impure
Of the impure, I said,
but not the unworthy.

For this is Babylon,

where we live.

Babylon,

where we live.

This is Babylon, said

mr big.

What, mr b?
Did you speak?
Only inside, these days,

mrs c,

for I am dead and my
loyalties are to the dead
I no longer have desire
to commune with the living

Only you
mrs c.
Only good
old mrs
c.

Murdering the opposition:

It is a last
resort.
He came up
that morning
He said
From Scunthorpe
or was it Skegness.
You know, don't
you?
The last resort.

Don't blame me:

You're on
your own
in this one
I said
Nobody
calls on
me
for a report.

Oh, good lord.

Sweet lord.
Let me go.

There's work to be done, yet:

You don't know
the meaning
of pain,
she looked over my head
she looked over my head
the whole time she spoke
Her eyes and voice were
in the distance.
You may never know it,
she said.
You could die
and never know it.
And that's my prayer.

Loud enough for you, Jerry?

Loud enough?
She asked.
There's an aesthetic
in loudness itself.
Or so we think.
Can you hear me, Jerry?
Jerry?

An anaesthetic?

he said.

Oh, this turning multiverse

is in reverse

And whirling chaos sounds

familiar patterns

in the shifting

round

Yet still,

they take the essence from
our common ground
They take our public
spirit
from
our common ground.

We become subject

to chills and bronchial
seizures

Now we are paying that price

Given that prize
Severed those ties
Those hampering

second thoughts

Those night rides

down to where

the conscience still pipes
a piccolo
still finds a little resonance
among the ailing reeds.
Some unrooted truth

left to die

down there.
Can you hear it?
Loyal to the end.
Loyal to your well-being.
Wanting nothing else.
Can you hear it? Still piping a
hopeful note
or two.
All for you.

"You must be
fucking
desperate,"
she said.


TWO "Our grief is so deep..." "...when people are dying they're much more open and more vulnerable, and much more real than other people. And I appreciate that." —As above. THE CONVOY managed to get as far as Swiss Cottage before a half-dozen of the latest 10x10 extrasampled Morris Wolverines came surfing over the rubble towards them. The hulls of the pocket landcruisers shone like pewter. The style leaders in all sides of the conflict, their streamlining was pure 1940s futurist. Their firepower, from the single pointed muzzle of a Niecke 45O LS, was the classiest ordnance available. Those laser-shells could go up your arse and take out a particular pile if they wanted to. It was just that kind of aggressive precision styling which people were looking for these days. "But can it last, Mr C?" Shakey Mo was taking the opportunity to retouch some of their burned paint. The fresh cerise against the camouflage gave the car the look of a drunk in the last stages of cirrhosis. Mo ignored the approaching squadron until almost the final moment. Then, nonchalant, he swung into his gunnery perch, pulled the safety lid down behind him, settled himself into the orange innertube he used to ease his lower back, flipped a few toggles, swung his twin Lewis's from side to side with the heel of his hand to check their readiness, pushed up the sights, tested the belts, and put his thumbs to the firing button. A precise and antique burst. The rubble between their Ford and the rank of savvy Morrises suddenly erupted and clouds billowed. A wall of debris rose for at least twenty feet and then began to settle in simple geometric patterns. "Here's some we laid earlier, pards!" Mo began to cackle and shriek. Following this precedent, ash rained across Kelmscott and all the Morris memorials. Ancient PreRaphaelites were torn apart for scrap, their bones ground for colour, their blood feeding the sand. It became the fashion to dig up poets and painters and own a piece of them. No grave was safe. Everyone now knew that such gorgeous paint was wasted in the cement of heritage. Heritage parks. "Cementaries?" Jerry did his best with his associations. Why was it wrong to resist their well-meaning intentions? What secrets could they possibly learn? Nothing which would embarrass me, of course, for I am dead. But secrets of the fields and hedges, eh? Yes, I've found them. It's easy with my eyes. Or was. Secrets in old stones, weakened by the carving of their own runes and the casting of dissipate magic. Desolate churches standing on cold ground which once raced with energy. Why is there such a cooling of this deconsecrated earth? Has the ether been leeched of its goodness by swaggering corporate capital, easing and wheezing its fat bodies through the corridors of privilege, the ratholes of power. Help me, help me, help me. Are you incapable of ordinary human emotion? Or has that been simulated, too? Or stimulated you by its very nearness. Yet somewhere I can still hear your despairing leitmotifs. Messages addressed to limbo. Your yearning for oblivion. You sang such lovely, unrepeatable songs. You sank such puritan hopes. But you were never held to account. Blameless, you were blemished only in the minds of the impure Of the impure, I said, but not the unworthy. For this is Babylon, where we live. Babylon, where we live. This is Babylon, said mr big. What, mr b? Did you speak? Only inside, these days, mrs c, for I am dead and my loyalties are to the dead I no longer have desire to commune with the living Only you mrs c. Only good old mrs c. Murdering the opposition: It is a last resort. He came up that morning He said From Scunthorpe or was it Skegness. You know, don't you? The last resort. Don't blame me: You're on your own in this one I said Nobody calls on me for a report. Oh, good lord. Sweet lord. Let me go. There's work to be done, yet: You don't know the meaning of pain, she looked over my head she looked over my head the whole time she spoke Her eyes and voice were in the distance. You may never know it, she said. You could die and never know it. And that's my prayer. Loud enough for you, Jerry? Loud enough? She asked. There's an aesthetic in loudness itself. Or so we think. Can you hear me, Jerry? Jerry? An anaesthetic? he said. Oh, this turning multiverse is in reverse And whirling chaos sounds familiar patterns in the shifting round Yet still, they take the essence from our common ground They take our public spirit from our common ground. We become subject to chills and bronchial seizures Now we are paying that price Given that prize Severed those ties Those hampering second thoughts Those night rides down to where the conscience still pipes a piccolo still finds a little resonance among the ailing reeds. Some unrooted truth left to die down there. Can you hear it? Loyal to the end. Loyal to your well-being. Wanting nothing else. Can you hear it? Still piping a hopeful note or two. All for you. "You must be fucking desperate," she said.

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TWO "Our grief is so deep..."

TWO
"Our grief is so deep..."