Channel SK1N Read online

  Be my mirror...

  Crack me open.

  Show me the mind’s dark contents. Fuck me up. Pity me. Throw me crumbs, I do not care. Nail yourself to the cross of entertainment for me. Let me see that, let me worship at the shrine of glass.

  Nola felt weak. Her body swayed.

  On screen, the miniature cameras moved in, their gentle lenses searching the Dome’s interior space, finding Melissa once again. Finding flesh.

  Her forearm filled the screen.

  She had fashioned a tiny blade from a stone, and with this she was writing in perfect, precious, delicate letters of blood and dirt her message from before, her constant refrain:

  DADDY I H

  George Gold couldn't take his eyes off the picture, off the message as it appeared in letters, one by one.

  DADDY I HATE Y

  Nola touched his arm gently. ‘Don’t do it, George. Don't look at her.’

  ‘But she’s crying out, isn't she? Look now, please. She’s crying out for love.’

  ‘For your love?’

  Melissa was carefully slicing the difficult shape of the letter O. This was intercut with shots of the Dome from the outside, the same letters in crimson also forming on the exterior surface, large size, a flow and flux of pain.

  The Dome screamed in silence.

  George’s face set tight. ‘Of course for my love, what else? Look! I’m the subject matter of her essay. Nobody else. Me.’

  Nola felt faint. She said, ‘Nobody’s survived in there for more than five weeks, you know that. Most of them go crazy. That’s why the crowd gathers, it’s why we watch. We want the madness.’

  He nodded. ‘Melissa will do it, she’ll beat the record. Melissa will win.’

  ‘That’s what you hope?’

  ‘She’s my girl. My true brave little girl.’ George took a drink. ‘You should’ve seen her, Nola, in the weeks previous to this. Melissa would turn up unexpected at my door, drunk to the limits, screaming at me. Other times, I would come home and find her in the house already, just sitting there in silence, in shadows. Staring at me. Just...just staring. Hours would pass by. Once she was found wandering half naked in the street, demanding that people be her friend.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘So this...her entering the Dome, it’s a way forward, don’t you think. Tell me you think that?’

  Nola moved back a little.

  ‘Why don’t you go and see her, George? Speak to her. I’m sure they’d let you in.’

  No response. He could not take his eyes off the screen, where the ritual continued.

  A final letter. The message was now complete, as one on skin and screen and Dome:

  DADDY I HATE YOU

  George’s eyes closed. His face held itself tight. Nola could see his age, peeking out from beneath all the lift and stretch work he’d had done in the last few years.

  He smiled to himself and then looked up at her.

  ‘All I want,’ he murmured, ‘all I want is to reach down there through the screen, to take my daughter into my arms, to touch my palms against her head, one hand on each side, like this, you see?’

  Hands held in front of him, just far enough apart.

  ‘To press my fingers lightly against the implants where they glow, to feel the heat of those electrical stigmata, and to...and to send my own thoughts into her mind, to converse with her in this way, this gentle way.’

  He gazed at Nola, his eyes wet, aglow.

  ‘That’s all.’

  Nola spoke softly: ‘The people are waiting for Melissa to kill herself.’ She moved in close to him, tender now. ‘They want her to explode, to blow her mind open with one last cascade of thoughts and dreams. It’s what they really and most truly desire. You do know that?’

  Flicker...

  George hesitated. One hand dropped to the remote. His head shook, barely discernible.

  ‘Why? Why are you saying this?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  George turned to the screen. The broadcast image of his child blurred in his sight.

  Nola held her breath. Now she had to speak. To speak of herself

  Sweat on her body, feverskin.

  ‘I’m in trouble, George.’

  Silence. Then he coughed. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘It’s serious.’

  Looking now. Looking at Nola. Considering her face, its various aspects; her body shape, the language of her stance; her hands, the way they were held in front of her, folded across her stomach. It was a pose he had never seen her do before. Certainly, it was not one of her prescribed moves, not part of the official choreography. He would have to have words with someone. Another word to be added to the long list of words to be had with so many people; it was growing daily. It was threatening to pull him under, it was smothering him.

  He lit a big cigar, by way of compensation.

  ‘Is it the song, the music?’

  ‘It’s not the music.’

  ‘You’ve got talent, Nola. You can actually sing, which is more than most of my darlings can manage.’

  Nola didn’t respond.

  George just carried straight on: ‘The song’s good. It’s better than good. In fact, it’s probably too good. That’s the problem, see? It’s a flawed masterpiece of the new hyperpop culture. And as you know, the only good masterpiece is a flawed masterpiece.’

  ‘You really think it’s that great?’

  ‘Oh, for certain. It’s just that nobody knows it yet.’

  Nola laughed.

  ‘What then?’ George shook his head. ‘You need to write your own stuff, is that it? Walking along some crazy shit intellectual pathway, aiming random ditties at serious young men and women with artificial hang-ups.’

  Nola...silent. Staring.

  George at a loss.

  ‘So then. We do some variants. A pumped-up mix for the keep-fit classes. Something brutal for the clubs, another one for the floppy hair brigade. Break that market, work outwards from there. Get the Gays on side. Go into the schools. Tour the marginals. Maybe concoct a little scandal for the tabloids. All I’m asking, really, is that you stay loyal, stay true to the brand.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, George.’

  ‘You’re not saying anything. You’re just standing there.’

  ‘I want out.’

  George looked stricken.

  ‘Okay. Shit. Look. I’ll put my team on it, my best people. Hold all other projects. Kick it to hell and back. What do you say?’

  ‘No. It’s too late.’ Calm and clear and cool.

  George blew smoke.

  ‘Nola, you’re not looking too well. What’s wrong? Talk to Georgie.’

  Nola stared at him.

  George stared back.

  He had the strangest feeling just then, that Nola knew he was lying about the efforts they could make. The lie was there, exposed. It was part of the game, this make-believe: never to be talked about, never admitted. But now there was a crack in the wall and the two of them, creator and creation, peered at each other through it.

  George spoke softly. ‘Whatever pain you’re feeling now, believe me, there are people in place to help you.’

  Nola finished her drink.

  ‘There is no help.’ She came up close to her manager. ‘Stand up.’

  ‘What?’

  Her voice was cold. ‘Get to your feet.’

  ‘Jesus. I’m taken aback. More than somewhat, baby doll. Don’t talk to me like that-’

  ‘Get up, you fat fuck. Look at me.’

  George stood up.

  Nola examined his face. She studied him. ‘It’s right there in your eyes. You can’t hide it from me any longer. You wanted this to happen.’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘It’s the primitive attitude, isn’t it. Like you’re giving out the sacred tablets of music from on high and the people should be grateful.’

  ‘You think I’m like that, really?’

  ‘You need me to fail. It’s simple. You’re finished with me. Now yo
u’ll find yet other young woman. Or even a young man, this time. Maybe a beautiful hermaphrodite. Whatever turns you on. Some pliant teenager. An android, perfectly fashioned. That would be your ultimate dream.’

  ‘Granted to that.’

  ‘You think I’m through.’

  George shrugged.

  ‘I’m not through. I’m just starting.’ Nola moved over to the screen. ‘Watch me.’

  The Dome still showing. Melissa Gold at peace for now within her small, enclosed realm, hunched up, rocking gently.

  Gentle traces of snow blur on the transmission.

  Static fuzz.

  Nola felt the exact same patterns of interference inside her body, her nerves crackling.

  She spoke: ‘You made me, George. I know that. You took me up when I was nothing and you made me your own. You pushed me through the machine, transforming me. You changed me top to bottom: new hair, new expressions, new clothes. A new name, even. A new voice.’

  ‘Nothing more than I did for myself.’

  Nola looked at him.

  ‘It’s true. Sweetness, I came up from the worst possible start. We have to strip away, cut ourselves free from what we used to be, press eject. Remember all that, back at the mansion? Your first day of training. Lesson one. Making a life away from the rules, away from the numbers? All that? Well, I was younger than you, when I started out. Oh, talented for sure but ripe for some cheating management type. Got myself a bad deal, lost thousands on royalties. But you, baby. See now, you’ve got me. I’m here. I’m the King to your Queen.’

  Nola shook her head.

  ‘George, you’ve made me ill.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You’ve fucked me up, can’t you see that?’

  ‘Now look--’

  A strange wailing cry came from deep in Nola’s throat as she lashed out with her boot, kicking at the screen of the visionplex.

  Crackkck...

  Fragile. Still holding.

  George could not move in time. ‘Nola!’

  She drew back and kicked again.

  Krstttishhht!

  Glass crack. Sharded, web brittle.

  Cracked, broken.

  George grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her away.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Nola sucked in breath. Such sweet, cold-eyed defiance.

  ‘Watch me now.’

  She pulled up her shirt, showing herself.

  Showing the bruise,

  a flesh-bound monitor lodged there,

  larger now,

  filling the skin of her, stretched side to side of her abdomen, reaching upwards towards her chest.

  George stared at this in wonder.

  He felt faint. The world was opening up, he was being sucked in.

  His face burned in the glow.

  His lips curled upwards.

  Heart pounding.

  And he fell to his knees before the sight. He consumed greedily the image with his eyes, itching with need, seeing it clearly. Seeing, feeling...

  The moving image of a bird on Nola’s skin.

  A white dove it was. Well travelled, dirty of feather, blood speckled. The poor creature was trapped inside her stomach, that’s what it looked like.

  Flap, slow flap of wings.

  Slow blade of wings beating in time.

  Distant music.

  Solo violin, plaintive.

  Wingbeat.

  And once again, Nola picked up the buzz of broadcast, the sheer loving power of being watched, of being viewed. Her body pulsed with the sudden release of sweet chemicals. She felt her mind clicking through the pathways, through the echoes of breath and fire that licked and tickled the air.

  Ether flux.

  A sonic incarnation. Pictorial explosion.

  The chaos of life sent out to be received, by her, by Nola Blue alone, the aerial charmer.

  Here it is, people!

  Here and Now!

  Keep watching. Tune in.

  Dreams for sale.

  Don’t miss them!

  Nola was floating through warm pulses of electromagnetic energy, adrift in the haze of data. And what was once invisible to her and to all was now made plain and glorious: the air was alive, on fire with radiosonic drifts of colour and fuzz and crackle, way beyond the human spectrum.

  Sxtttkzsssssk!

  Blood-wired. She was scanning the air, pulling down signals from chaos, transforming them into sound and video on her skin. Feeling the surge.

  Taste of metal, tongue blur.

  Stttzzzzttt.

  Loving the edge of pain. Static charge.

  Zxkrtsssss.

  Transmission flesh. She was changing the channel of herself, finding the new programme that she wanted.

  Sound! Action! Vision!

  George stared at the bruise.

  He stared at the pale-skinned figure of his daughter as she rolled around on the floor of her sphere of confinement.

  Pleasure Dome. Live from the source.

  Right there on the body of Nola, on the belly.

  Georgie Boy viewed this.

  Right there. His daughter’s face. Close up on the skin, on the flesh-and-blood vision screen.

  Nola pulled up her sleeve, revealing her left forearm.

  Words were written there, blood words. They dripped red but could not be touched. George tried to: he put his fingers into the blood, feeling it to be dry, an image alone.

  It was the broadcast of a wound.

  DADDY I HATE YOU

  He was left searching for words.

  Finding one.

  Fuck

  -12-

  Live from the Pleasure Dome.

  Early evening lightfall.

  Shrouded in vision, encaged by images, folded in the curved membrane of dreams...Melissa confesses.

  I am alone.

  Alone now.

  Yes.

  Daddy...are you there?

  Are you there for me? Are you watching?

  Let me sing for you.

  La, la, la. La, la, la.

  I was once an angry child. Now I sit, meek and mild. Now I sing, sing my song.

  I was sitting in the main hall at school...

  Yes. In the main hall with all the other girls. Row upon row of us, all struggling to finish the exam paper on time.

  Oh, but I was doing well. I was a good student.

  I had plans. Dreams.

  I glanced up at the clock. There were twelve more minutes to go. The pen moved over the paper, writing easily.

  A world of knowledge, line by line by line...

  And then...and then suddenly I woke up.

  I can't explain it any other way.

  I could not write anymore. Not a single line. The pen fell to the desktop, and then to the floor. My hands gripped at the desk, one on each side.

  Like this.

  I held on, tightly.

  I had the feeling...it came out of nowhere...the feeling that if my fingers should open now, if my hands should slip, well then I was sure that I would in some way simply drift apart.

  Drift...apart.

  I could hear a noise in my head, a whistling sound, high pitched. And then...and then...

  And then...

  I don’t know, I’ve never been sure of the memory after that point. I do remember being sent home in disgrace, and you were there waiting for me. Daddy, you were so angry, so very angry, shouting at me, and I tried to explain, I really did, I tried to tell you about the feelings I was having, the strangeness of life taking me over.

  But you would not listen.

  You wouldn’t listen, Daddy.

  Well, it’s the same feeling. I have it now. In here, in this place. But more so, more dreadful.

  I do believe I’m going a little bit crazy.

  Yes, I know. That’s the whole point.

  I do know.

  I’m scared.

  Look at me.

  Things are happening. I can't work them
out. I’m seeing things. Shapes. Figures. When it gets dark outside and I lie here under the Dome, beneath the moon and the stars, and just before my eyes close, I see visions.

  Ghosts.

  I don't know what to call them.

  Shimmering bodies of light and heat.

  They crowd around the Dome, whispering to me.

  So many words.

  But I can never make out what they are saying.

  They yearn.

  Perhaps they have come to save me.

  Coming here into the Dome has made me realise: there is only one person whose gaze I truly need.

  Oh, it’s so weird. Here I am, talking to myself, well, to the camera, the microphone, to the globe, but really it’s just like I used to do when I was a child. Talking to the mirror. You used to make me stare at myself in the glass, do you remember? You told me to put on the make-up and the fancy outfits from the dressing-up box and to practise my poses. And you told me I would be famous one day, if I kept practising, kept spinning and smiling and laughing and making up songs and stories. Those were good times, weren’t they, daddy? We had fun. If only they could’ve lasted for ever, those days.

  I’m closing myself to all other faces but yours.

  I’m filled up with love for you.

  But sometimes I hate you.

  But the hate just turns back into love. How can I stop myself?

  I was too much of a bad spirit. I got that from you, of course, but it meant I could never be the perfect little girl you wanted me to be. And so you moved on to other girls, other young women. I had to stand there and watch and applaud and celebrate your success as you chose your new projects, your special ones. I watched you groom and polish and train them, and shape them to your will, creating your little fantasies, setting them loose into the world.