‘Yes?’
‘Can you leave me now, please. I need to get dressed.’
He stubbed out the cigarette.
‘Where are you going?’ He stepped towards her once more. ‘Where can you go? Is there anybody, truly, who can understand you?’ He stared at her. She turned away. He leaned in, speaking softly. ‘When I saw you tonight, Nola, through that doorway. When I saw your skin. Oh...the glory of it. It’s like your body was on fire, with pictures, sounds. With energy.’
She could not look away now. ‘What am I?’ she asked.
His reply, a whisper: ‘Some kind of messed-up beauty.’ Eyes locked on hers. ‘Some kind of fucked-up beauty, beyond measure.’
Tremble glow of flesh.
Sudden image flow across her face...
Video film of the night sky. Stars, the moon, the brief flash of a comet.
Now. The face itself. Becoming new, changing.
Gone. Bare skin once more.
‘Oh my. That was...’ He could hardly find the words. ‘That was amazing.’
Nola asked: ‘Why me, though? Why?’
‘I don’t know. You’ve been chosen.’
‘But why choose me?’
‘It’s about being receptive, open to all channels.’
Nola shook her head, sighed.
The young man stepped back a little. ‘You’re not the only one suffering from this.’
Nola looked at him.
‘There are others. A few more, scattered across the globe. Russia, Thailand, Mexico. So...you’re not alone. Not entirely. And there will be more of your kind, as the months progress.’
‘My kind?’
Nola felt strangely charmed by this thought, by this idea of others out there, other beings aglow with the same flow and static charge of images. If she could only find one of them, one or more of them, join hands with them, surely that would calm her.
‘How do you know this?’ she asked.
‘From the ether. I was hacking channels one night. I had the wavecomp tuned to ghost frequencies, picking up broadcasts from around the world, semi-legal stations sending out messages, knowledge, the kind that governments try to keep secret.’
Nola felt the spark of flickering life, the gaps between signals. Pictures forming and moving beneath her skin, seeking transmission. ‘You’re a conspiracy theorist?’ she asked.
‘I guess I was. But now the truth sits here in front of me.’
‘Carry on.’
‘And then I found this strange programme. It was hidden between two other stations, hardly there at all, a wash of static. I could hear voices seeking to be heard from within the noise.’
Nola recognised the effect.
‘It was a site I’d never come across before. I magnified and isolated the wave as best I could, until the voices came clearer.’
‘They were in English?’
‘All different languages. Some completely unknown to me. Others more familiar. English, French, German.’ He smiled. ‘And that’s where I first heard about the parasite signal.’
‘What is that?’
‘Do you remember the Klein-Zecker changeover?’
‘Yes. Vaguely. The new broadcasting signal?’
‘That’s the one. It started earlier this year. An infinite amount of data packed into a fractal wave. Well, the parasite signal seems to be an unforeseen side effect of the new technology. Of course, everybody’s in denial about this.’
‘What does it do, this...parasite?’
‘It’s a viral infection taking over human flesh. But a virus not of any known organic nature. One made from the ether, itself.’
Nola shook her head. ‘I’d call you mad.’
‘You would have, a few days ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d feel the same. But now...’
They stared at each other. Nola saw something in his eyes, something she had not seen for a while.
And she looked at him properly for the first time.
Maybe a little older than she first thought.
Black messy hair falling over his brow, his deep-set eyes.
Eyes that drew her towards them, darkness within.
Redblood mouth,
pale skin that hardly saw daylight.
A face of contrasts, interesting.
I could almost...
She switched herself off from the feelings.
‘What else did you find out?’
The young man hesitated. ‘Well...’
‘Please, tell me.’
‘They never last long, those infected. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Nola nodded. The man held her gaze.
‘Of course, you might be different. The parasite signal is still in genesis, still forming. Who knows what it will turn into, when it finds the optimum host.’
Somebody walked along the corridor, outside: slow tipsy footsteps moving past the closed door.
The young man sat on the bed, a suitable distance from Nola. ‘We have flooded ourselves with the media in all its many forms. Our minds are now open to signals. We have become aerials.’
Nola closed her eyes briefly.
Triggers. Click, clicking in her head.
This guy knew something of her.
She made a smile and the man edged closer. ‘Now the signal starts to contaminate us directly, Nola. Flesh is analogue, and within your body the broadcast melts directly into the human form.’
She looked away. ‘I’m sick.’
‘This isn’t an illness. This is a change in the world’s zeitgeist.’
‘All this is supposed to make me feel good?’
‘Not that. But something. It means something, don’t you see?’
‘It means pain. Loneliness.’
The young man nodded. For a moment he was silent, and then: ‘My name’s Joe. Joseph Palmer.’
‘Good. That’s good to know.’
‘Nola, let me see you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘This is something I’ve only heard about, only dreamt about.’
‘I’m not a freak show.’
Joe’s hand reached out. Nola flinched. ‘No. Don’t touch me. Please.’
‘I was just looking for the ON switch.’
Nola groaned.
‘That was a joke, by the way.’
‘I know. It’s just that...’
She hesitated.
‘What?’ Joe asked. ‘It just happens?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Not lately. I’ve been gaining control.’
‘I’ve heard about that effect. It’s been mentioned. People can learn.’
Nola turned to face him directly. ‘Joe?’
‘What is it?’
‘Is this...do you know, is this contagious?’
‘I believe it is. But you have to get close.’ His voice was hushed, warming. ‘Real close.’
He placed his hands on her shoulders, close to the neck on each side. Waiting for the spark.
Quietly: ‘Show me.’
Nola closed her eyes.
His fingers stroked her hair where it hung down one side of her face, and then the face itself, gently, feeling the heat that lay just beneath the skin, the pictures and sounds waiting to seep through the pores. The tingle as the images formed, as they melted together, separated, formed again into new shapes, not seen as yet, not alive, not broadcast, only concepts, promises, ideas, raw data in the bodymix.
His hand rested on her face, barely moving, just the fingertips lightly caressing. He started to speak. ‘I’ve lost my way, Nola.’
Her eyes came slowly open.
‘I’ve lost my way. My soul has seeped away into my day job. All I have left is what I can see in front of me, what I listen to. What I touch.’
And Nola saw in his gaze her own disease returned. She was the poison oracle, he was the monitor. And then her body started to respond and to speak softly of its own desires. A child’s voice rose from her skin like a cloud telling a story, a tale
of the drifting moon lost at sea and the ship made of beeswax that lugged the moon home again.
Colours melted on her face, forming the ship, the lonely moon, the young boy who smiled at its return.
Joe Palmer trembled as he saw this. He could hardly believe that he was so close to the source, his hand moving on down her face now, gentle across her lips - moist, red - down her chin to her neck.
Fingers, decoding,
witnessing.
He leant in close and breathed on her.
He breathed...
Pictures rippled under the motion of air,
and shimmered,
settled once more as he moved on,
fingers across her breasts,
under the bed sheet, around her stomach
softly drawn,
a scratch of nail
sending the images aflame,
dancing.
Nola shivered,
The bed sheet fell away.
Skin channels blurred over to new stations,
programmes travelled through her
caressing her skin as Joe caressed her now,
now, lips barely touching hers,
then...
touching,
(ah)
converging, parting,
so that pictures dazzled and hummed on her flesh
fading and rising under the fingertips,
and finally to kiss:
Contact...
Real lips on broadcast lips, on real lips,
on broadcast lips.
His body...
wiry, covered in scars both old and new,
self-inflicted.
Her body glowing with stolen beauty,
skinpixels dissolving
making images:
Tigers prowling in bright electric colours
sunlight on a wall
children playing a game
gardens, skyscrapers, waves, sunsets
subatomic structures
pages from a dictionary flicking over
snowfall.
Nola’s skin glistening,
chromatophores alive with pictures:
Shining cities
flame-lit midnight villages
townships crammed with human life
jungle vines
purple flowers
mathematical symbols
a sudden cloud of perfume from a spray bottle
burning clocks
film star profiles
dragonflies, their wings of bronze,
silver,
electric blue.
Flesh on flesh in close-up,
the cusp of love
where curves meet and part...
two wounds caressing each other
across a shared membrane.
Teardrops, both filmed, and real.
The soft wet glimmers
of other people’s bodies
moving through Nola,
famous bodies
unknown bodies
naked, male and female
all forming on her skin, covering her
all
all caressing.
She was feeling the noise,
tasting pictures,
touching aromas with the scent of sight:
Lost in Telaesthesia.
Nola’s eyes fluttered and closed.
Now only darkness.
Now the sounds painted her skull:
whisperings, tintinnabulation
tiny bells ringing, murmurings
echoes
remnants of a jingle
glimmers of noise
Something cold and warm crawling along
at the far edge of her skin,
at the duskedge of skin
rising up her body of light and colour and heat
subsuming her,
making her the fragile ethercast
scattered from the myriad stars to earth:
Stars to earth...
The myriad midnight stars calling the earth...
Calling
...
Conclusion;
There is none.
Climax;
None.
Only the slow emergence of new possibilities
that teeter and fall
and rise again
in waves of sound and vision
and even as the body fades
the body sings...
Images float above the skin
Stars whisper and sing in the airwaves
the moon blurs, softens
skin softens
vision whispers
skin whispers.
Skin blurs, soft
images of stars on skin
the night sky on her skin, the dark
blurs of light where the stars
shimmer
fallen
falling to rest here
on her skin,
iridescent
hushed...
-17-
Nola dozed in the man’s arms and dreamed.
The dreams were but the flickers of vision programmes in her head. She imagined her tongue. She could feel the heat of it, the heavy flesh pink and wet, saturated with images of a rain shower, of books and panthers, trees and glitter,
of tears on a young girl’s face
illuminated
spark, spark, FLASH:
Nola’s tongue wet with electric buzztaste,
electric life.
Hours ticking away.
Silver glow through the window, gentle over her body, half uncovered on the bed as night passed away to early morning. Her skin settled to quieter broadcasts: waves on the shore, the roll of fog, sun sparkle.
Slow, slowing...
Still she slept, dreaming on.
Dreaming...
She saw Melissa’s body, her shape.
Melissa Gold. The young woman seen clearer, reaching out from the screen towards Nola with such anguish on her face, it was painful to behold. Nola mirrored her every movement, reaching out herself in dreamlife,
further, closer.
Through the glass of the Dome, through the screen.
Until the hands met, until the fingers intertwined.
Until their eyes clicked on each others,
deep and dark.
(Hands, red...red...)
Melissa’s grip tightened. Something passed between them, Nola could feel it, a light, a fire.
Flicker.
Something nagged. Static charge.
Melissa sliding away. Distant.
Near.
Distant.
Unreachable now../..>
*//..,>
Spark,,,*/
../.(+,,,crackle of
skull..,’/>..fuse..),//>...
../*/ <.>
Nola turned and turned in her dreaming sleep.
Seeing...glimpsing...
Hands red with blood. What? Why this?
Fingers
flowing. Red.
No...
Melissa’s hands. Smeared.
Red.
Melissa with her little blade of stone and wire, cutting herself.
Slicing herself, her stomach.
Clearly seen in the dream.
Melissa. No. Don’t...please...
So clearly...painful, clear. The knife working with care, with precision held against the pain, shallow cuts in the belly’s flesh.
Design work.
What are you doing? Stop. Please don’t...
Nola’s voice, her dreaming voice unheard.
Stop now...
( sklikc )
A tiny noise. The soft click and hum of a camera.
Nola stirred.
Dreaming...ah yes...good...only dreaming...
Blue flash.
A tiny black lens opening in the darkened room.
!fzzkzzzzztzk!
stealing light and colour from her skin.
Nola moaned and cried out.
She awoke.
/> ...
Hotel room, dark.
Then a flash of yellow light, soft, spreading
Fading.
Her eyes were bleary, half closed, but she could see the young man standing there, Joe Palmer, this temporary lover, someone to cling to in the dark. But now he stood apart, his face half hidden by shadow and by the shining glamacam that he held, his body immobile but for the one finger pressing over and over, activating the shutter, collecting all that Nola had to give, all of her various outpourings, her body aglow with the channels of the night.
He moved in close on the mouth, her lips painted with flecks of colour, tiny pictures, moving figures. Lips that moved, yet barely. Whispers.
Joe. Joe, don’t. Stop now.
‘It’s all right.’ Distant reply. Joe’s voice. ‘I just want to...I want to keep you for later.’ A quiet voice. ‘To look over you, when you’re gone. Your beauty. To watch you again.’
Stop. Stop now.
Camera click.
‘Only for me,’ he whispered. ‘For my use alone, I promise.’
Nola groaned.
Her stomach flamed.
The slow cut and stab of a blade, slowly, carefully—
Nola felt it. The dream still present in some way.
How can that be?
She felt clearly the pain of the blade and when she looked down, moving aside the bed sheet, down to her naked flesh she saw there:
Blood.
Blood on her skin, her belly, her hands
Scratches:
A series of them curving round, making a shape.
Tiny little cuts
The blood dripping from each one,
stark red.
Nola’s heart jumped, her breath
stopped.
She looked down in a slow daze at the wound.
A crude design of a human eye looked back at her from the flesh. Lids, eyeball, widened pupil, a few lashes.
A tear.
Nola’s mind was split in two:
One half seeing the blood for what it was, a mere film of the wounds captured from broadcast waves.
Her hand moving through the wave of signals
her fingers dry
unsliced themselves
unbloodied
but filmed with blood.
The other side of her mind feeling the torment
imagining the act;
the knife peeling flesh
again
again.
The knife
Point of contact—
The slow painful determination
Skkrssskttt...
Nola cried, reaching out for Joe.
The camera flashed
soft
yellow.
‘Joe,’ she said, ‘Joseph, turn on the screen.’
‘What?’
Turn it on.
He did so. Putting down the camera, moving to the small set attached to the wall by a swinging metal arm.