- 2 - [03 Aug 2003|03:20am] [ music | Ladytron - Evil ] I necked a dexidrene and watched the morning fester. Jarrow wanted me to come into his office to talk the job over. Having to talk to Jarrow in person is almost the worst part, as he has possibly the most punchable face I've ever seen. It was getting hot outside. I dug out an old pair of combat pants I picked up from one of the US Army clearance sales, years and years ago. White and black and grey, urban camouflage, baggy and lightweight - probably what the well-dressed soldier was wearing when shooting city-gooks a decade back. Black and silver streetsocks, with the rubberised soles. A sleeveless black t-shirt I got given last year by a nullpunkt band from Hamburg called Biss. The only shades I could find were some crappy plastic CamoCam things I got on the way out of Narita Airport, first time I was in Japan. They have little cameras in the back of the headstrap that pick up what's behind you and stream it on the shades lenses, so it looks like you have two big round holes in your head. But it was these or a sunlight headache, and I was in shitty enough condition as it was. I caught myself in the tall old mirror standing next to the TV for a moment. It looked like I'd lost some more weight, which probably wasn't good. My hair looked thinner. Little swatch of grey hairs just over my right ear. There was a time where I could fake being pretty; in club lighting, in the flourescent lamp that used to be by the bed, under a streetlight past midnight. I'm not pretty any more. Bollocks to shaving, I said. Never show Jarrow any respect. I chose the t-shirt for a reason. London was getting sweaty. The south of England is humid, now. Some people call it The Chinese Sweat, since it's possibly Chinese heavy industry that's keeping carbon emissions high. But they're not as high as they were, and, you know, you're not going to want to talk to the sort of arsehole who says something like Chinese Sweat anyway. I lit a cigarette to keep the wasps away and moved out of my front door into the muggy street. I walked down Greek Street, past clouds of fresh piripiri aroma, heading into the knot of Soho with a double espresso in my left hand. As the sound of Soho life got louder, I reflexively pressed the first two fingers of my right hand into the base of my right thumb. The microphones opened up. The camera panes lit. Feedback points flexed. Just walking down the road, I was broadcasting my city. The only place I ever really wanted to record. Listen. London calling. * * * * * Jarrow's office was a fucking hovel two floors above a used book store on the other side of Cambridge Circus. The floor below him was a knocking-shop for two Russian prostitutes who were younger than some of my socks. The floor above him was the home base of Mad Toni Spiteri Enterprises, Tony Spiteri being the fabled mob enforcer who somehow only got away with a five-year stretch inside despite openly admitting to placing explosives up people's arses. He revelled in the nickname Mad Toni. I have a copy of his book, signed by him. The dedication reads: best wishes, Mad Toni Spiteri. Jarrow was right in the middle. I always liked the idea; hookers on the bottom, lunatics on the top, the British Secret Intelligence Service right in the middle. I shut the gear off. The main MI6 building is still over in Vauxhall Cross, but apparently they never based everything there. Decentralisation. People like Jarrow are squirreled away all over London. Because who's going to think to look under every rock in the city for intelligence activity when thousands of people troop in and out of the building in Vauxhall Cross every day? I slid into the building's side doorway, acutely aware that anyone watching would think I was going up to see the Russian girls. I liked to tell myself that I'm not so far gone that I'd "stoop" to using hookers. But really I was lying to myself. Which was something I'd gotten very good at. Jarrow's little office smelled of tea and wanking. Paperwork was piled badly over thick little Swedish porn magazines on the big old wooden desk. Smashed tissues filled a small green plastic waste basket. His suit was older than telephones and slept in more than his bed. Jarrow had a surreally large chin, little beady eyes and a grey sort of old-bloke's-mullet that he slicked back with bat guano. He looked up at me, showed me teeth the colour of his paper basket, and creaked back in his office chair. "If it isn't the listener, only a fucking hour late. Have you switched off all that shit in your body, son?" The only other chair in the room was a plastic seat I think he stole from a hospital waiting room. I snatched it up and sat in front of him. My computer, rolled up and stuffed in the long thigh pocket in the trousers, rubbed against my leg. I wanted to switch it on. Even now, I don't enjoy being unplugged. And those were the rules in Jarrow's office. No listening, and no net connection running. "I'm quiet. What was that bollocks on the phone about America? I've been up all night and I'm really in no mood, Jarrow." Jarrow took ten seconds to study me. "No. You've taken an amphetamine, for a start. Never come to me on drugs again. I don't like it and I won't have it. But: beggars can't be choosers, and we would like to sponsor another of your little listening trips." "To America." "To America, yes." It hung between us for a minute. I was too edgy to give it two. "There are maybe four million people alive and healthy in America, Jarrow. And antivenom or not, I heard there's ten million people there who are Bitten. People don't travel out of America, and there's not a huge bloody queue of people wanting to travel in to America. So what do you need a listener for?" Jarrow steepled his callused fingers. "Because a stable citystate has emerged in America. And they're producing antivenom. "It's been ten years since The Bite, and finally one area of America is starting to come back. We need a listener in there to document the new society, to give us a basis for understanding it. "If for no other reason than to decide if we're going to let it live." (c) Warren Ellis 2003

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