Channel Sk1n

 

 

Copyright © 2012 by Jeff Noon

Kindle Edition

Cover Art © 2012 by
Curtis Leon Fee

Ebook design by
Tim C. Taylor

All rights reserved

He did also bring a lantern with pictures in glass, to make strange things appear on a wall, very pretty.

-The Diary of Samuel Pepys, August 19, 1666

A mighty haze of mystic, magic rays
Is all about us in the blue.
And in sight and sound they trace
Living pictures out of space,
To bring a new wonder to you.

-Lyrics by James Dyrenforth, music by Kenneth Leslie-Smith. Song performed by Adele Dixon as part of the BBC’s first scheduled television broadcast, November 2, 1936

We no longer have roots, we have aerials.

-McKenzie Wark, 1994

From the News Channel

...Next month sees the launch of the Klein-Zecker broadcasting signal, which is expected to replace the standard digital signal in the majority of domestic receivers. The signal utilises the new Fractal Wave technology developed by Klein-Zecker Laboratories, and promises to bring Meta-Reality sound and vision into people’s homes. Industry chiefs are keen for the changeover to take place, hoping for increased revenues from advertisers and audience alike, revenue much needed in the current downturn. However, a few voices have spoken out against the signal, raising fears of saturation effects...

Nola walked down to the river.

A small village had formed itself along the bank. A line of ramshackle shops, a cafe, caravans, tents, a wooden hut where the cabbies waited for trade. People were sitting around in groups, drinking and smoking. A semi-legal phone centre flickered with red and yellow lights. Random messages drifted out from the store’s loudspeaker system, voice fragments plucked from twilight by the latest model of scanner.

I give too much of myself...

Good memories, a few bad...

That’s my trouble, see...I love too much...

Some new kind of game, man. That’s what we need...

She just kills me sometimes...

Soon, I promise. This weekend...

Are you still there? Hello?...

Anybody...

Nola crossed over the bridge.

A lone boat horn called, a bird cried in answer. The moon hung low above the water.

On the other side the city opened out and welcomed Nola in all its dirtblown beauty, its air of crowded loneliness. This is what she loved, this one line of latitude at this exact time, these slow minutes where the light gave way to darkness.
Now life begins.
The neon figures clinging to the walls and storefronts clicked on, their luminous bodies of gold and green decorated with images of next week’s big products.

People hurried along close by.

Eyes down, fixed to portapops, checking out the latest fashions, music gossip, stock prices. Fingers clicking and jabbing, hooked on digifix.

A couple of glances her way. Then eyes averted.

Nola was used to it.

Adverts for the Pleasure Dome shimmered from rooftops and windows.

Beep. Beep. Beep Beep Beep.

Her telebug jingled in her pocket, and she pictured the signal floating in towards her in tiny blue pulses. Her skin tingled. Lately now, she had become sensitive to such images, such feelings.

Transmission. Open to contact.

Definitely, she was plugging into something.

That’s why none of this made sense. There had to be some kind of mistake, some miscalculation.

Nola flicked the bug open, checking the screen.

Christina’s face greeted her with that certain look she had, that straight-line grimace. Wanting to know where Nola was, no doubt, saying how could you walk out like this, without your minder, you never know what might happen. Some such.

Nola gave it a shut-down. No words.

What could she say?

She stepped into a darkened shop doorway.

One day a week George came round to see her, a friendly visit, a drink and chat, with Christina in tandem. They talked of Nola’s wellbeing, general health, her place in the world, any reports from the public sphere. And then George would show her the latest projected sales figures. They’d scan the daily image counts together. And every week that special smile of his.

But something was different this time.

The twinkle still there of course, eyes darkly aglint, but tightened at the frown lines, held in place. And no figures presented. Not this time.

Nola dearest...

George’s voice. Soothing, comforting.

No need for panic.

But his eyes, his eyes. Direct contact. Then flicker.

We’re on top of this.

He was lying, Nola sensed it.

Everyone believes in you. The whole team.

Now this had been too much. She’d run from the news, out of the flat. All she wanted was to lose herself in the city, here, tonight, just walking along, a stroll in cool air and then a drink or two, some kind of release. That’s all. Just to find a haven somewhere, imagine, the way it used to be, finding a rundown club or a bar with normal people doing normal things. No entourage, no bodyguards, no reporters beaming on her, no glamacams, no zoom lenses. But just getting drunk and dancing and flirting madly and making the most of being alive with some little cash left in your pockets, enough, just enough to burn a pathway through the dark and slide down slow towards daylight maybe with a chosen man alongside, somebody known or unknown, still awake, still buzzing, watching the sun come up.

That would do it.

A car moved slowly along, windows fully open, music pounding forth, the sheer bass throb noise of it setting the streets alive. Across the way two people were dancing to the beat, limbs and flesh moving together, held tight.

Love. There it is. What it looks like. Feels like.

Lyrics clicked along inside Nola’s head:

I just wanna, I wanna

get to know you

I wanna (I just wanna)

really want to get to know you

the real you!

She couldn’t help herself from singing.

A passerby looked, nodded, smiled, that moment of awkward recognition. Nola nodded back, walked out, pulling her scarf across her mouth, turning herself into nobody. The mask in place.

You never know.

There are people out there who mean you harm. Stalkers and freaks, all those who latch onto public faces as their own property, who want to drain your fever, steal the heat, see what it’s made of.

Memories.

Management talk. The first month of the programme. Day sixteen, lesson five: Dealing with Fame. George in full flow.

You have two products:

Your image and your voice.

Sell them on your own terms.

Nola slipped into a private club in Soho, one of the few places she could visit and be assured of privacy. The room was designer dark, stale with perfume, sticky with spillage from overpriced cocktails. Here, usually, nobody cared about her. Everybody was either clawing their way up or clinging on desperately, on the way down. No questions asked.

She bought a drink the colour of bright cherries, and the sugary sweet alcohol hit her system almost immediately.

She drank it in two gulps.

Bliss.

So who the hell was that laughing at her? Behind her back, she could hear them sniggering.

Turn around...

Nobody.

Silent faces, eyes averted.

Nola ordered another drink, more of the same.

She was only twenty-three. Time yet, time to live. Belief ran through her non-stop, awake or asleep.

I just wanna

I wanna

get to

get to know you

I wanna (I just wanna)

really

(How the hell did it go now? Concentrate!)

I really want to get to know the REAL you.

All of you

I just wanna TOUCH you, just (wanna) touch you, the REAL you

I just wanna...

That was good, wasn’t it? Was that good?

How could she tell?

Words, words. They gave her these words to sing and she sang them. Body and soul, all that she had, lips pressed up close and warm to the microphone, that breathy whisper that everybody loved in her, that the critics picked up from the off, first single, that people copied on the streets, singing along in pubs, at parties, worldwide.

‘It’s all about the music, Nola. How the true people, the working people, sing their hearts out in songs of fantasy and loss and love. That’s how they live and move and breathe, in rhythm to music.’

Georgie Boy speaking again, of course, his whole philosophy taken on board.