Ian R. Macleod - Snodgrass.pdf - Ian R. Macleod - margozap

Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod

infinity plus - sf,

fantasy and horror

fiction

infinity

plus

fiction non-

other stuff a to z

Snodgrass

a novelette by Ian R Ma cLe od

Foreword

Which is more fascinating, success or failure? You can supply your

own answer, but I think we all have a voyeuristic horror about lives

gone wrong, not least us writers, who probably lie down with failure

as our bedfellows and dream-mates at least as often as do double

glazing salesmen - and rock stars.

Which is where the idea for 'Snodgrass' probably came from. I've

always been fascinated by those characters who leave bands after

some row in the back of the Transit just before the band becomes

famous. And why not John Lennon? Why not, indeed. Like most

great bands, the Beatles were always a hair's breadth away from

imploding.

I've never been a big Lennon fan, although only an idiot would deny

his great talent. In this story, however, he was cypher for all kinds

of music and art and dreamy ambition, and for all kinds of failure.

The music I was listening to as I wrote 'Snodgrass' was actually

mostly Starless and Bible Black by King Crimson, another fine-but-

imploding band, and the most eagle-eyed reader may even detect a

few lost scraps of lyric. But if you're a rock star of any kind, or a

even a double glazing salesman, I hope you find something relevant

and entertaining in what follows.

Snodgrass

I 've got me whole life worked out. Today, give up smoking. Tomorrow,

quit drinking. The day after, give up smoking again.

It's morning. Light me cig. Pick the fluff off me feet. Drag the curtain

file:///G|/rah/Ian%20R.%20Macleod%20-%20Snodgrass.htm (1 of 30) [2/17/2004 10:32:55 AM]

Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod

back, and the night's left everything in the same mess outside. Bin sacks

by the kitchen door that Cal never gets around to taking out front. The

garden jungleland gone brown with autumn. Houses this way and that,

terraces queuing for something that'll never happen.

It's early. Daren't look at the clock. The stair carpet works greasegrit

between me toes. Downstairs in the freezing kitchen, pull the cupboard

where the handle's dropped off.

"Hey, Mother Hubbard," I shout up the stairs to Cal. "Why no fucking

cornflakes?"

The lav flushes. Cal lumbers down in a grey nightie. "What's all this about

cornflakes? Since when do you have breakfast, John?"

"Since John got a job."

"You? A job?"

"I wouldn't piss yer around about this, Cal."

"You owe me four weeks rent," she says. "Plus I don't know how much for

bog roll and soap. Then there's the TV licence."

"Don't tell me yer buy a TV licence."

"I don't, but I'm the householder. It's me who'd get sent to gaol."

"Every Wednesday, I'll visit yer," I say, rummaging in the bread bin.

"What's this job anyway?"

"I told yer on Saturday when you and Kevin came back from the chinese.

Must have been too pissed to notice." I hold up a stiff green slice of

Mighty White. "Think this is edible?"

"Eat it and find out. And stop calling Steve Kevin. He's upstairs asleep

right at this moment."

"Well there's a surprise. Rip Van and his tiny Winkle."

file:///G|/rah/Ian%20R.%20Macleod%20-%20Snodgrass.htm (2 of 30) [2/17/2004 10:32:55 AM]

Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that. You know what Steve's like if

you give him an excuse."

"Yeah, but at least I don't have to sleep with him."

Cal sits down to watch me struggle through breakfast. Before Kevin, it

was another Kevin, and a million other Kevins before that, all with grazed

knuckles from the way they walk. Cal says she needs the protection even

if it means the odd bruise.

I paste freckled marge over ye Mighty White. It tastes just like the

doormat, and I should know.

"Why don't yer tell our Kev to stuff it?" I say.

She smiles and leans forward.

"Snuggle up to Doctor Winston here," I wheedle.

"You'd be too old to look after me with the clients, John," she says, as

though I'm being serious. Which I am.

"For what I'd charge to let them prod yer, Cal, yer wouldn't have any

clients. Onassis couldn't afford yer."

"Onassis is dead, unless you mean the woman." She stands up, turning

away, shaking the knots from her hair. She stares out of the window over

the mess in the sink. Cal hates to talk about her work. "It's past eight,

John," she says without looking at any clock. It's a knack she has. "Hadn't

you better get ready for this job?"

Y eah, ye job. The people at the Jobbie are always on the look out for

something fresh for Doctor Winston. They think of him as a challenge.

Miss Nikki was behind ye spit-splattered perspex last week. She's an old

hand -- been there for at least three months.

"Name's Doctor Winston O'Boogie," I drooled, doing me hunchback when

I reached the front of ye queue.

file:///G|/rah/Ian%20R.%20Macleod%20-%20Snodgrass.htm (3 of 30) [2/17/2004 10:32:55 AM]

Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod

"We've got something for you, Mister Lennon," she says. They always call

yer Mister or Sir here, just like the fucking police. "How would you like to

work in a Government Department?"

"Well, wow," I say, letting the hunchback slip. "You mean like a spy?"

That makes her smile. I hate it when they don't smile.

She passes me ye chit. Name, age, address. Skills, qualifications -- none.

That bit always kills me. Stapled to it we have details of something

clerical.

"It's a new scheme, Mr Lennon," Nikki says. "The Government is

committed to helping the long-term unemployed. You can start Monday."

So here's Doctor Winston O'Boogie at the bus stop in the weird morning

light. I've got on me best jacket, socks that match, even remembered me

glasses so I can see what's happening. Cars are crawling. Men in suits are

tapping fingers on the steering wheel as they groove to Katie Boyle. None

of them live around here -- they're all from Solihull -- and this is just a

place to complain about the traffic. And Monday's a drag cos daughter

Celia has to back the Mini off the drive and be a darling and shift

Mummy's Citroen too so yer poor hard working Dad can get to the Sierra.

The bus into town lumbers up. The driver looks at me like I'm a freak

when I don't know ye exact fare. Up on the top deck where there's No

standing, No spitting, No ball games, I get me a window seat and light me

a ciggy. I love it up here, looking down on the world, into people's

bedroom windows. Always have. Me and me mate Pete used to drive the

bus from the top front seat all the way from Menlove Avenue to Quarry

Bank School. I remember the rows of semis, trees that used to brush like

sea on shingle over the roof of the bus. Everything in Speke was

Snodgrass of course, what with valve radios on the sideboard and the

Daily Excess, but Snodgrass was different in them days. It was like

watching a play, waiting for someone to forget their lines. Mimi used to

tell me that anyone who said they were middle class probably wasn't. You

knew just by checking whether they had one of them blocks that look like

Kendal Mint Cake hooked around the rim of the loo. It was all tea and

biscuits then, and Mind dear, your slip's showing. You knew where you

were, what you were fighting.

The bus crawls. We're up in the clouds here, the fumes on the pavement

file:///G|/rah/Ian%20R.%20Macleod%20-%20Snodgrass.htm (4 of 30) [2/17/2004 10:32:55 AM]

Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod

like dry ice at a big concert. Oh, yeah. I mean, Doctor Winston may be

nifty fifty with his whole death to look forward to but he knows what he's

saying. Cal sometimes works at the NEC when she gets too proud to do

the real business. Hands out leaflets and wiggles her ass. She got me a

ticket last year to see Simply Red and we went together and she put on her

best dress that looked just great and didn't show too much and I was proud

to be with her, even if I did feel like her Dad. Of course, the music was

warmed-over shit. It always is. I hate the way that red-haired guy sings.

She tried to get me to see Cliff too, but Doctor Winston has his pride.

Everywhere is empty round here, knocked down and boarded up, postered

over. There's a group called SideKick playing at Digbeth. And

waddayouknow, the Beatles are playing this very evening at the NEC. The

Greatest Hits Tour, it says here on ye corrugated fence. I mean, Fab Gear

Man. Give It Bloody Foive. Macca and Stu and George and Ringo, and

obviously the solo careers are up the kazoo again. Like, wow.

The bus dumps me in the middle of Brum. The office is just off Cherry

Street. I stagger meself by finding it right away, me letter from the Jobbie

in me hot little hand. I show it to a geezer in uniform, and he sends me up

to the fifth floor. The whole place is new. It smells of formaldehyde -- that

stuff we used to pickle the spiders in at school. Me share the lift with ye

office bimbo. Oh, after, you .

Doctor Winston does his iceberg cruise through the openplan. So this is

what Monday morning really looks like.

Into an office at the far end. Smells of coffee. Snodgrass has got a filter

machine bubbling away. A teapot ready for the afternoon.

"Mister Lennon."

We shake hands across the desk. "Mister Snodgrass."

Snodgrass cracks a smile. "There must have been some mistake down in

General Admin. My name's Fenn. But everyone calls me Allen."

"Oh yeah. And why's that?" A voice inside that sounds like Mimi says

Stop this behaviour John . She's right, of course. Doctor Winston needs the

job, the money. Snodgrass tells me to sit down. I fumble for a ciggy and

try to loosen up.

file:///G|/rah/Ian%20R.%20Macleod%20-%20Snodgrass.htm (5 of 30) [2/17/2004 10:32:55 AM]

Ian R. Macleod - Snodgrass.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: