First Contact is a multidimensional narrative connecting centuries, continents and sub/cultures, unravelling coincidences and conspiracies, computer viruses, and viruses which infect your mind. It details a kaleidoscope of revolutions and counter re...
MARGARET BUCHANAN OWNED A WALLPAPER STORE IN LAMBETH NORTH, SOUTH LONDON. Sahgal Bhosale produced some of her paper in Ghatkopar, east Mumbai. She also sold slipmats and windchimes. There used to be money in it, sometime.
<<It's a glorious design>> she was showing a leaf of marigolds to a customer one morning <<sans pareil, yeah. It's imported.>>
<<Yeah>> said the client, who was imported as well <<I've never been keen on floral.>> He skimmed through the display book passing every conceivable shade of magnolia, more abstract flowers like diamonds and rippled spheres. He closed the album. <<Have you got anything in an African style?>>
The shop was empty for a long time after that. In the middle of all that, relentless as a race riot, in stepped the grey overcoat and bowler hat archetype of Mr Jones.
He shook out his Kensington West umbrella over her Lambeth North floor and said as if he meant it: <<Disgusting weather.>>
<<You should have been here Monday>> Margaret countered. <<Glorious sunshine then.>>
Mr Jones paused to peruse a Rousseau wallprint which had been hanging there the last time he visited her. <<Let's get straight down to business, shall we>> he resumed rather stiffly. <<You've fallen behind rent twice now in the past six months. I can't support you forever you know.>>
Margaret did what she always did in periods of high anxiety: she polished the nearest surface space. <<Oh Mr Jones, I'm so sorry, I've been trying dreadfully hard. It's been so slow. It's doing my head in, believe me.>>
<<It hasn't been that easy for me either>> Mr Jones replied. The Rousseau print caught his eye again; steady, old boy he thought, principle... <<Can't you cut back or something?>>
<<The takings have been down 30 per cent all year. I've tried everything to stop it.>>
Mr Jones issued a final ultimatum. <<All right, you've got another week. But this is the last time, I've got my creditors too. I can't be dealing with it.>> He stole one last look at the print, tilted his hat and left.
Sometime later someone haggled for the print. <<Oh go on>> Margaret sighed <<20 pounds.>>
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MARGARET BUCHANAN LIVED ON THE sixth floor of the monumental Heygate Estate, Elephant and Castle. Leeroy Robinson lived directly below her on the fourth. He liked drugs, Jungle hardcore and the fortnightly girocheque which made it all possible. He was holding a party one night flaunting all three components, Leeroy aping about on the turntables and dribbling a joint, Jasmin Caracas eyeing him off from an idle corner. Easing panAfrica's Eye of the Tiger into Dark Sol's Event Horizon gently, then crunching them together to make a joke of it, <<This is a ruff toon, geezers>> he exclaimed. <<Man, this is ruffkut bizness!>>
He tabled a pouch full of speed. The night developed a similar texture: granular and vast. His hands blurred clockfast over the turntables, retrieving occasionally into his record box or Jasmin's ticking lap. He did some berserk MCing in the bedroom - <<Petal>> plucking them one by one <<the narcissus has strewn silver in the way of the bridal rose.>>
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