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  ‘I really don’t understand people, right?’ she whined, ‘I mean, it’s their world, too, right?’

  Later on eight people turned up and the banner fell down. It was hung up behind the band, a big picture of a skeleton in a US steel helmet.

  ‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it,’ Karen said as she hung it back up. ‘Jill did it. If only more people could see it I’m sure they would understand better what we’re trying to say.’

  Finally Karen started the bopping. She did this after spending half an hour wandering round saying, ‘Why aren’t people bopping? God, people are so boring.’

  Four people danced, and watching them CD could scarcely keep his dinner down. He himself was no great dancer, but at least, he thought, I have the decency not to flaunt it.

  CD considered ageing hippy dancing to be one of the most embarrassing forms of movement in the world. The problem is that the people involved see it as a form of self-expression rather than as a jolly thing to do. They believe this so strongly that they feel honour-bound to express themselves even when there is nothing to express — which is always. The result is that they hop slowly about the dance floor gyrating and waving their arms with an expression of concentration and delight on their faces. Matched only in intensity by the horror on the faces of anyone unfortunate enough to witness the revolting display.

  None the less, as CD stood behind the bar sipping a beer, for some reason he conceived a horrid little desire to try and get a bit of a feel-up off the one in the middle whom he knew to be called Karen.

  Maybe it was divine intervention because, of course, if he hadn’t made his move he would never have got involved in the painting expedition, he would never have found himself in court for vandalism, and so he would not have met Rachel. God works in mysterious ways.

  16: COURT

  The judge fined him a hundred and fifty bucks plus costs. This was an unexpectedly harsh blow. CD had reckoned on maybe seventy-five. Perhaps it was the tie. If you want a judge to like you, don’t wear a picture of a filleted whale carcass to court. On the other hand, maybe it was CD suggesting that the judge should not come crying to him when he got nuked to bollocks and beyond. Maybe it was a combination of the two, plus the shades and the trousers and the boots. Some people would call CD plucky; most people would call him an utter pratt — either way he was undeniably prone to displays of pointless bravado which always made everything worse.

  Whatever it was, the fine was a lot. Too much for CD who was, as always, terminally short of cash. He tried a desperate plea in mitigation. If all else fails, tell the truth…

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, trying to look honest, ‘the truth of the matter is, I agree with you, painting symbols on the road was a pointless act of vandalism. But, can I level with you, your Highness?’ CD attempted to make his tone ingratiatingly man to mannish. ‘There was this chick, right? and she’s a bit of a peace freak and I wanted to impress her so I could well…do the business, right? Anyway…’

  CD’s fine was increased to two hundred and fifty.

  17: FALLING IN LOVE WITH RACHEL

  Rachel was up for a driving offence. She had some highly credible ancient old car, bright red with white-wall tyres, jacked-up rear suspension and reflecting glass on all the windows except the front one. It was a car that almost seemed to be pleading with the cops: ‘pull me over, I must be doing something wrong.’

  On this occasion it was thirty kilometres over the limit in a built-up area, plus a baldish offside rear tyre. Three demerits on a licence that was already feeling the strain. Mind you, it would have been worse had Rachel not made careful preparations.

  Rachel was most striking to look at, a natural red-head with pale skin that led her to wear huge hats for eleven months of the year. It wasn’t that she was particularly beautiful but she was vivacious, and those men that did fancy her fancied her a lot. Rachel was an all or nothing type of girl in her looks, her opinions and her car.

  She had come to court in a smart two-piece suit borrowed from her mother. Her hair was an elaborate coiffure and she carried a brief-case. The whole ensemble was designed to suggest a serious-minded, conservative young woman for whom driving was essential. She looked like Margaret Thatcher and it clearly worked because she got off pretty lightly. On hearing her sentence Rachel thanked the judge and took her wig off. This wasn’t to show off but because it was ninety in the shade. However, not surprisingly the judge totally did his nut and considered doing her for contempt. Reason returned when he caught the amused eye of the journo from the Carlo Times. He decided he could do without wigs becoming the basis for another debate on civil liberties. Like all judges, secretly this one wished he had lived in some earlier age. He just bet Judge Jeffries didn’t have to deal with some cub hack plastering ‘COME OFF IT JEFF, WHY DON’T YA!’ across the front of two thousand advertising freebies. You couldn’t win any more, thought the judge. What was the betting this little bitch could come up with some damn religion where wigs were compulsory for women up on driving offences.

  Rachel walked free.

  Situated just behind the court was a pub called the Dancing Cockatoo. This pub has a jolly sign which inevitably led the Aussies, with their natural wit, to call it the Pissed Parrot. It was here that most of the ne’er-do-wells, shop-lifters, peace freaks and prostitutes found themselves after their encounters with the fearful majesty of the law.

  And it was to the Pissed Parrot that CD had gone to drown his sorrows and to wonder where he was going to raise two hundred and fifty bucks. Shortly after which, Rachel entered and ordered a gin and tonic. She was wondering about getting a less flamboyant car. Both of them had gone to court alone, neither of them needed their hands holding, and there they sat, alone.

  Except that within the space of a casual glance CD was no longer alone. He was with Rachel, far away from the Pissed Parrot, walking hand-in-hand, laughing in the rain, having their first ever row about something silly and then making up in a variety of interesting positions and locations and then not being able to remember what the row had been about in the first place. He fancied this girl like mad, he fancied her purely and spiritually. This girl clearly oozed with character, intelligence and…lots of other things like that. This, CD knew, was what had captured his heart so suddenly. Obviously he desperately wanted to root her as well but, CD assured himself, that wasn’t the only thing.

  He had to make a move. Never would such a conversation opener exist again. They were fellow lags, joined by that invisible fellowship that unites the criminal fraternity. Comrades, forced together against a hostile world. Normally when you go up to a strange girl and try to start up a conversation, reflected CD, it’s bloody obvious that you’re making a play for them. But this was different. This time he had the perfect opener, plus endless opportunities for idle chatter, casually getting to know each other through their shared experiences under the majesty of the law. One thing CD was certain of, he resolved to be himself (whatever he thought that was). His recent experience of pretending to be a committed peace-nik had led him to near financial ruin and he hadn’t even got a root. CD determined that this time there would be no lying or deceit, she would have to accept him for what he was.

  ‘So you got done for trying to ban the bomb,’ said Rachel from across the pub, ‘I think that’s really great.’

  ‘What? Oh yeah.’ CD replied, ‘I’m a pretty committed peace-nik.’ He was nothing if not adaptable.

  Rachel was interested. ‘I’ve been wondering about all that stuff myself,’ she said. ‘I used to go out with an American sailor, he was OK but his mates were real dags. Totally war obsessed.’

  ‘Yeah well, maybe it’s not their fault, it’s all indoctrination isn’t it?’ said CD magnanimously. ‘No way!’ replied Rachel. ‘People have to make their own decisions.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s true too,’ conceded CD hurriedly.

  ‘That’s why I think what you did was good,’ said Rachel, ‘You have to decide what you’re into, and go
for it…‘ This had always been Rachel’s way. During her brief punk phase she had dyed her beautiful red hair mauve and her father had cried. She hadn’t even wanted to do it much but what was the point of being a punk if you didn’t dye your hair? CD’s crime interested Rachel because it was self- expression for a purpose. For a long time she had been uncomfortably aware that she was wasting her time and that she didn’t really care about anything. She was interested in someone who did.

  CD, sadly, was, to coin a phrase, interested in one thing and he was desperately trying to think of a good line to edge him towards it…‘By the way, my name’s CD. You look fantastic in that suit.’ As he said it he knew it was a mistake. This girl was into peace, she was a thinker, he couldn’t blagg her with cheap flattery. He might just as well have marched straight up and asked her to sleep with him.

  ‘Sorry, what a stupid thing to say. I might just as well have marched right up and asked you to sleep with me.’ What was he saying! If the suit line was a mistake, this was a disaster! Seldom had a chat-up situation been so ineptly handled. CD had to recoup the situation. Quickly he reminded himself that he was cool. He reminded himself that he was, after all, wearing cowboy boots with metal tips, pretend torn trousers and shades — a combination little short of sexual dynamite. He had started badly but all he needed to do was to stay cool and let his trousers do the talking.

  ‘OK it’s like this, I have just taken a pretty heavy rap for defending world peace and I’m confused. Now if you don’t let me start again, swearing that you have forgotten all that has passed between us so far, I’m going to kill myself. The choice is yours.’

  ‘It’s a free country,’ she said.

  ‘Got her!!’ thought CD, ‘torn jeans, they can’t resist it.’

  18: MORE DINNER IN LOS ANGELES

  As Sly took his seat his sense of satisfaction had not left him, how could it? Now he was really at the very centre of everything that mattered. He had been accepted, accepted as a colleague — a colleague in a great conspiracy. But what was the plan? Sly had no idea for what secret and shadowy purpose the group had come together. Certainly to make money; colossal, unimaginable, utterly meaningless sums of money, of that he was certain. They were there to make money.

  He was wrong.

  But he had to wait to find out. For these slavering corporate predators prided themselves on being civilized. Business must wait until after dinner.

  There were no menus at ‘California Dreaming’. You ordered what you wanted. Sly, in a mood of jolly bravado, ordered swan. It had always intrigued him that in England apparently only royalty are allowed to eat swan. On this very special night Sly felt like a king himself and reckoned he deserved a slab of Her Maj’s exclusive tucker.

  The maitre d’ — a svelte figure who gracefully exuded that peculiarly Californian air of superiority that made one embarrassed that one was not oneself a homosexual — accepted Sly’s order with a rather deflating matter-of-factness. His manner suggested that he rarely took orders for anything but swan. That tiny flick of his eyebrows seemed to say ‘if just one more person asks me for swan I shall go and work for Col. Saunders.’

  It’s a strange thing about waiters, because while Sly could happily have faced down a corporate takeover bid from Ghengis Khan, that one bloke’s offhand acceptance of his magnificent self-indulgence made Sly feel like a piece of shit.

  In the kitchen, the maitre d’ hastily consulted with the cook. They decided against pigeon because there was a good chance he’d recognize it. The same reason ruled out grouse. Eventually the chef had a brain-wave and slaughtered the cat. Poor Tiddles yielded a goodish portion of tough, light brown meat which the chef pan-fried in garlic butter and mushrooms. A lady guest in the public section of the restaurant had arrived in a beautiful coat layered with hundreds of ostrich feathers. A couple of these discreetly pruned, plus a duck’s beak, completed the picture and Sly was duly served his swan.

  ‘To tell you the truth it tastes worse than a dead cat,’ said Sly in reply to the polite enquiry from his neighbour.

  As it happened, the talk about the table was far too interesting for Sly to worry overmuch about what he was eating. Conversation normally bored Sly, he always felt like he knew what people were going to say. This made him very irritating to talk to as he never let anyone finish a sentence. He would normally say ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah’ at machine gun speed within five seconds of anybody saying anything. This, of course, meant that Sly never learnt anything. If somebody were to shout at Sly, ‘Sly, the building we are standing in is on fire’ Sly would probably say, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah’ and burn to death.

  That evening, however, Sly did not feel his usual need to forcibly stamp his personality on the gathering. He did not do his normal thing of wriggling with discomfort until he was able to prise open an opportunity to say something wry, witty, pithy or tough, just to show everyone what an impressive bloke he was. For instance, he never felt happy at major political dinners until he had contradicted the Prime Minister. It didn’t matter what he said, just as long as he scored a point. His proudest moment to date had come at a dinner party in Canberra, when the Prime Minister, commenting on the primitive Australian economy, had said: ‘Us Aussies are still riding on the sheep’s back.’

  Quick as a flash Sly responded, ‘You stick it in what you like Bob, just leaves more birds for the rest of us.’ This had got a huge laugh and firmly established in Sly’s mind the idea that he should go into politics. He was, in his own opinion, a top-class racon-fucking-teur.

  But that night at ‘California Dreaming’ Sly was definitely prepared to sit quiet and listen. After all, these were not politicos — vain little scumbags with a small talent for middle management. The men Sly was facing (for there were no women at the dinner) were men of real power: power that would last. What did they want? What were they doing dining together? When would he learn of the great plan, whatever it might be? Perhaps the unofficial chair of the evening sensed Sly’s tension for, as the coffee came round, he made the introductions.

  19: ATTILA THE HAMBURGER SALESMAN

  Gentlemen, few of you have had the opportunity to meet our Australian friend socially,’ said the fat, affable American who had recently sold his eighty billionth hamburger. ‘Although,’ he added chuckling, ‘he’s burnt a few of your asses in the futures market.’

  Sly flushed with pride, it is very rare that the mega-rich receive genuine praise. If you crap on people for a living you can’t really expect a great many heart-felt tributes to come your way. So it was particularly gratifying that this important and brilliant man should treat him with such friendly esteem.

  And Tex Slampacker was a brilliant man. His insight into the human soul had made his hamburger marketing uncannily successful. He had elevated the manipulation of people through retail outlets into an art form. It was said of Slampacker that he could sell shit if he wanted to, which was, of course, exactly what he did.

  His outlets are the same all across the world, identical in every detail. Frontier forts of an occupying army riding rough-shod over the myriad ancient cultures that they have colonized; sneering at the quirky individualism of their subject races; laughing at those who waste time considering choice and variety when they could be making money. From the deepest depths of Islam to the heart of Christendom, the Slampacker invasion is complete. Napoleon couldn’t hold Moscow but Slampacker could and did.

  Richard the Lionheart was halted long before he saw the gates of Jerusalem; Slampacker just walked right in without a fight. Life-styles and customs that had stood for centuries, fiercely resisting the attempts of foreign powers to subvert them, had fallen to Slampacker in a decade.

  Tex Slampacker knew no French (except of course the words franc and centime) but had he known any, the phrase vive la difference would have completely mystified him.

  20: COMING TO THE POINT

  Let me fill Mr Moorcock in on our principal concerns at this point in time, gentlemen,’ said the burger
king, ‘because, as you are all well aware, the day is fast approaching when action must be taken and we are very much hoping that Mr Moorcock will be joining us in our endeavours.’ As Tex Slampacker rose to speak Sly felt an incredible expectant thrill. More than ever now, the enormous potential of the evening hit him. Here he was amongst the very biggest players in the world, the Yanks, the Japs, the Arabs…Clearly something was afoot and he, Sly Moorcock, the Aussie street kid made good, was to be a part of it. Countless billions must be involved, the power and influence that sort of money represented was mind-boggling. It must be global, that was obvious thought Sly feverishly as Slampacker wiped his brow. God knew what…What the hell were they planning to do…? Buy the Society Union, maybe that was it!! Christ this lot could afford it, and make it pay.

  Suddenly Sly was sweating. Brief-cases and computer terminals had appeared on the table. Shadowy figures materialized from nowhere to guard the doors…The situation was colossal, the potential for profit beyond computation…Slampacker, the first man ever to make a million dollars in under five seconds was addressing them all for his benefit! The utter strangeness of the situation almost enveloped Sly. All these predators, all these mavericks, men dedicated to personal and individual gain, joined together in one room! Conspiring! What could it possibly be about?

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Slampacker. ‘Fourteen individual species of butterfly have become extinct since this meal began.’

  There was a significant pause during which Sly tried to work out what he presumed was some tortuous Yankee metaphor. It wasn’t. Sly could scarcely believe his ears but Slampacker, a gung-ho, hard as nails mega-cynic, began to talk like some kind of damn hippy. He spoke of the ozone layer. He spoke of the greenhouse effect. He dwelt at great, and what Sly considered unnecessary, length on the various types of waste that are floating about in the world’s water system. He seemed particularly concerned about trees. Slampacker, a man whose never-ending need for beef pasture had made him responsible for cutting down more trees than all the shipbuilders, furniture-makers and carpenters in history put together, spoke with dull passion on the subject of the destruction of the forests.