Channel Sk1n Read Online Free Page A

for the river.
    Night gathered itself into the darkest hour, tilted over, and then began the long
    measured
    fade
    towards dawn.
    Nola barely stirred. She moaned once or twice, dreaming perhaps.
    Dreaming that something moved just beneath her skin, some strange small creature of light and sound.
    Sszzzztzs
    Infection took place.
    And still the screen flickered
    with image.

-3-
     
     
     
    The struggle towards waking.
    Lights flickering...on and off...
    A voice...
    Breathing...
    A woman’s voice...
    But not hers...not her own...
    Ahhh...must try to...find the way now...
    Finally, the voice stopped.
    Nola’s eyes came open.
    Head throbbing, painful.
    She pressed hard at her face to re-engage with herself, with her own body, but all she could truly summon up was a feeling of being hollow inside.
    Nola was lying there in the semi-gloom.
    Her tongue moved around her mouth; again, the taste of burnt metal. And that buzzing noise inside her head, a steady drone.
    Her left forearm ached, the skin tinged red.
    She felt strangely unattached, as though she might slowly float away from the couch and hover above it without any means of support.
    Dreams. Half remembered.
    Catch them...
    The lights stuttering. A woman talking: What the hell was that? Then darkness. And then?
    No. They drifted away.
    Traces. Pictures.
    Smoke.
    Vanished.
    Her eyes opened and closed.
    The screen made a noise, a crackling sound. Nola looked towards the visionplex.
    It was still on, still playing.
    The voices she had heard in her sleep were coming from there, from the set. The woman still talking, a man answering now. Two characters. Two angry, loving characters in a drama, that was all, heard from dreamland.
    But which channel? Which programme? She could not make it out properly. The figures blurred.
    Too much drink last night. Too much.
    She wasn’t used to it.
    Yes, she must’ve stumbled in drunk and fallen asleep right here in front of the wall screen, like this, fully clothed, leaving the visionplex on all night. It was not the way she did things, not usually.
    Nola focussed.
    The people faded on the screen.
    Silence now.
    No pictures. No words.
    What was wrong?
    And yet, bending closer...
    The faint hum of electrostatic.
    Fizzle, fizszle...
    The noise in Nola’s head sounded like two wires, like two hot stripped-bare wires reaching out towards connection.
    Fzzttztzstz...
    Nola stared at the blank grey screen, transfixed.
    She watched and listened. Seeing, hearing...
    Flashes of static, snowdrifts.
    Random noise bursts.
    Fzzxtsststss!
    Shapes. Shapes in the grey.
    Figures?
    Half seen glimpses.
    And her own face in reflection.
    One more character.
    Nola didn't know what to do. She felt bound to the screen for some reason. It was claiming her eyes, craving attention even now, with only a powdery static fuzz in place.
    In the flickers, find yourself...
    Nola rubbed at her temples.
    Time?
    Wristwatch. Blur. Eye squint. Tighten...
    5:05
    She looked at the window.
    Dark still. But a glint of sunlight maybe.
    Early yet. Maybe there was time to climb into bed, to get some proper sleep before Christina came round. Maybe that was the best option. A lot of work to do today.
    The screen made a noise. It changed colour, brightening, filled now with wavering lines: light grey, cream, grey blue, violet, yellow. Nothing could be seen as yet, not properly, but within these shapes, noises were heard: scuffling sounds, hurried nervous footsteps, voices now.
    Somebody whispering, fearful.
    Nola listened closely, inching forward.
    Are you there? Are you still there?
    Nobody answered.
    The sound of breaking glass.
    A human cry.
    Ahhh...
    Weeping.
    Nola leaned forward.
    The screen blossomed into light. Images.
    The programme.
    A family sitting around a dinner table. The man and the woman as before, but delineated now, given types to play: a father and mother, two children with them.
    The youngest of them, the daughter...crying.
    Some kind of soap opera, or personal drama.