From: ccaajmf@ucl.ac.uk (John Franks)
Subject: Who knows...
Date: 23 Jul 92 12:10:59 GMT


Not sure about this. I usually compose letters more slowly than I wrote this,
to be honest, but I'd be interested in any reaction to it. It isn't great,
and it's not at all original. The most frustrating  thing is the end of that
first paragraph - just can't get it quite right.

------


She sat by the window, listening to Genesis, Phil Collins singing about
some guy mistakenly taken for a prophet. The old sounds were comforting,
somehow. The song faded into "Your Own Special Way". She'd once seen a
very old book about Genesis,  with loads of still pictures of them, actual
photographs reproduced on paper, with Mike Rutherford - the guitarist -
sitting there, naked except for the Guitar in his lap, composing it. Wow,
she thought, I wouldn't sit like that for any length of time, what if some
weirdo decided to break in?

   The room was a grey colour, not just the walls, but all of it, except for
her black cyberspace deck, and the red armchair she'd dragged off a dump
& brought up in the lift a couple of years ago. The only other furniture
were a couple of cupboards, one with small holes that a friend told her
would spread; "wood-worm", or something. The table her deck sat on was
covered with coffee-cups, and the remains of drugs & syringes. She reached into
the pocket of her leather coat - an old one, like everything she had except
the deck - and pulled out a syringe in a plastic moulded packet.

                           --
Some days, things just never got going, Mandy reflected, wandering toward the
Chat. Bit out of fashion these days, the hum of biz a little toned down,
but she still went there; developing a reputation was dangerous for a cowboy,
she speculated, as the door swung open, but she didn't care. Five years, she'd
been good, the money still came to her, but there was no more to do. Nowhere
to go. The idea of growing old here wasn't nice, she'd probably end up raped
and killed in some alley, and the prospect didn't seem good. Rather some
corporation out for revenge quietly finish her than that. At least it would
be quick. Quicker, she corrected herself.


   The chat was busy, but she caught Ratz' eye, and his pink prosthetic
wined as he picked up a glass and filled it with brandy. He came over, she
slipped a note over the bar, "keep the change," as she picked up the glass.
"I think Herr Martins is looking for you." He motioned to a table in one
of the side booths, and he was there, talking to some bimbo with a low-cut
dress, who she didn't recognize; hope she's one of Lonny's, she thought,
remembering what happened to the last girl invaded his turf. Not while she
was in the Chat', of course, but while the pair were doing their stuff,
so the story went. Shame, the girl was quite nice; could've gone for her
myself, Mandy thought, wondering how long it was since she'd last had
someone, and remembering one of Lonny's better girls, a couple of weeks
back. The girl followed her around for an evening, chatting to guys but
never quite making an offer, and Mandy'd finally talked to her; they'd
spent the night in a coffin, and it was good. The whores liked going with
women, even the male ones. Less risk. She didn't go for the male ones,
herself. Not that she didn't enjoy having a man, just that she'd tried it
once and he'd wanted to go up her ass. After he asked, she didn't want
him inside her at all, didn't want him even with the rubber between them.
She paid him and spent eight hours in 'space, watching a midwestern bank
and charting its data moves. She'd managed to divert a couple of
thousand dollars to an  anonymous account, in the end, but it was probably
still there; the ice she'd've needed to get through to lay her hands on
it was just too heavy, and the money was nothing.

   "I don't believe we've met." She talked to the girl; ignored Martins' look.
He motioned the girl away, and she took her place, only then looking into the
dark, tired eyes. "Hello Mandy. Wanted to see you." He reached in his pocket,
and her right hand tightened round the grip of the pistol in hers. He
didn't notice, apparently, pulling out a deck cartridge, and sliding it across
the table. Unlabelled, like most of the ones she used. "What is it?"
    "From the weirdos. Supposed to attract ghosts."
    "Come on Gary, I don't handle that kind of crap," she said, but didn't
push the cartridge back.
    "Twenty thousand to try it and record the result."
    "Fifty."
    "Twenty five's the top." He handed over a credit chip, the figure $25000
materialising on its black surface as she pocketed it, picked up the
cartridge, slipping it in the pocket with her gun, and downed the brandy
she'd been cradling in one, savouring the burning. Somehow, the old stuff
was always best; you never got sensations like that with the modern
drugs.
     "Wish I could say it was a pleasure," he said to her back, and she
ignored him; he always had to finish everything; always the last word. Once,
it irritated her; not now. Once, she'd've got the fifty thou'.


The transition was abrupt, as she was torn out of the "real" world, into the
'space. Something made her think of her father, as she slipped the
cartridge in.
      And a man was there. He stood in front of her, in the room. Not her room,
but another; equally anonymous. "Hello Mandy." She was momentarily unable to
reply.



John Franks, ccaajmf@ucl.ac.uk or jmf14@phx.cam.ac.uk to readers in Cambridge.
     "And a thousand slimy things
      Lived on; and so did I."    - Coleridge