Mother London by Michael Moorcock

Author:Michael Moorcock [Moorcock, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473213265
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2016-06-30T04:00:00+00:00

He sang as usual to hold the unwelcome voices and thoughts at bay. At least here he could not see as much of the sky and its population. He raised the beautiful lamp and played warm light upon the nose cone. There was a notch clearly designed to take an instrument. He put down the lamp and opened the toolbox, removing a screwdriver. Fixing it into the cone for leverage he tried to turn it. From within the casing came a vicious hiss, the kind a disturbed viper might make. To Mr Kiss the sound was evil, but he ignored its warning and pushed again.

The cone grated and turned, further mangling the dead dog’s body beneath it, for Tommy’s corpse was still proving helpful, offering just enough room between nose and ground for Mr Kiss to work. Bit by bit he continued to loosen the nose, screwing it deeper into the dog’s body until it was clear he could not continue. Getting to his feet, the bomb still grumbling behind him, he went back to the cottage to find some clothes line, two chairs, a set of straps. Everything he wanted was in one of the kitchen cupboards. The light from the lamp filled the kitchen and he looked around him for a second admiring the crowded neatness, the comfort of the place. He became determined that it should not be destroyed.

Outside he was sure he could smell cordite mixed with the stink of urine, faeces and Tommy’s bloody flesh. With the rope, straps and chairs he rigged a harness from which he could suspend the main mass of the bomb to stop it dropping through what remained of the roof. Hauling on the clothes line he gradually raised the bomb a little higher. Though still attached to the casing the nose was now unscrewed some six inches. As it swung up the bomb hissed again, a far more violent warning, and something within it began to click rapidly, like a telephone being dialled. Suppressing an urgent need to vomit, Mr Kiss picked up the ear-trumpet and placed it carefully against the casing. He could hear machinery whirring and grinding like the innards of a clock about to strike. While he had no idea what was actually happening he knew he must act as quickly as possible.

Again he attempted to achieve some kind of rapport with the thing’s crude brain, but if the bomb were sentient at all it was not in that section. First he whistled a few bars and then he began to sing again:

‘I wish I was in the land of cotton,

folks down there are not forgotten,

Look away, look away, look away Dixieland…’

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