Falling Out of Cars [Hardcover]

Praise for "Automated Alice":
" Borges crossed with Philip Larkin on acid." -- "Arena"
" Captures Carroll's style effortlessly... . A weird Alice with a contemporary edge." -- "Mail on Sunday"

In a world overflowing with images, how can you tell who you really are? Marlene Moore wasn't even sure why she accepted the job, except that it gave her the chance to just get in her car and drive. To escape, to keep moving, to maybe find a destination for herself. Now she is journeying around England, a land that turns stranger and more dreamlike, the further she travels. Slowly, day by day, Marlene is falling prey to a sickness, a disease that seems to change the world around her. And the job itself turns out to be far weirder, and more dangerous, than she ever imagined. A road novel like no other, FALLING OUT OF CARS explores a country, and a psyche, falling off the edge of reality.

Marlene Moore wasn't even sure why she accepted the job, except that it gave her the chance to just get in her car and drive. To escape, to keep moving, to maybe find a destination for herself. Now she's journeying around England, a land that turns stranger and more dreamlike, the further she travels. Slowly, day by day, Marlene is falling prey to a sickness, a disease that seems to change the world around her. And the job itself turns out to be far weirder, and more dangerous, than she ever imagined.

A road novel like no other, Falling Out of Cars explores a country, and a psyche, falling off the edge of reality.

Acknowledged as one of the most exciting new authors today, Jeff Noon is the author of five novels: VURT, POLLEN, AUTOMATED ALICE, NYMPHOMATION, and NEEDLE IN THE GROOVE; and a collection of short stories, PIXEL JUICE. He won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1995.

Transmission
Where do you come from?
And where are you going?
Reception

>>
It was bad last night. Very bad. The worst yet. There were too many of them, a family, and all of them crazed. We had to leave empty-handed. Henderson took a knock to the skull. She’s blaming me. Finally, we holed up in a bed and breakfast outside the city. A dark and nasty place it was, with people stumbling up and down the corridors all night long, moaning, lamenting. Difficult to sleep. Blood in the toilet bowl, shit on the walls. All the mirrors, and even the screen of the television, all covered over with black paint. But it was cheap, and safe. No questions asked, even at the three of us wanting to share the one tiny room.And then a late start this morning, and many miles yet to cover. Another job. What good will it bring us? I feel confused, dispirited, after last night. We all do. Nobody’s talking.
>>
We made a stop for lunch. The best we could find was a mobile kitchen parked in a lay-by, a few tables set out around it. The food was OK. Afterwards, we took our medicine. Peacock said that we had to keep it sweet from now on, no matter what might happen. He’s got a thing about rules. Henderson made a face.
A young kid wandered over from the next table. She was six or seven years old, with dirty brown hair, and a slightly dazed look in her eyes. She asked me if I wanted to play with her doll. I pulled the little string, as directed, and the doll spoke to me in a sick, miserable drawl. Not a single word could be heard properly, but the girl was delighted, as though the toy had declared its undying love. She jumped up and down, squealing.
And then, watching the girl laugh, and listening to the broken voice, I felt a pain steal up on me, this sudden cold yearning. My heart closed up against it, but too late, far too late. What can I do?
Where can I go?
>>
Hours of travelling. No real problems, until we saw the roadblock ahead. Police lights whirled and fluttered in the soft twilight. Intrigue, danger, lives lost or being lost. The crying of a siren. Cars were being channelled into a single lane, a uniformed officer giving us hand signals as we passed along.
I looked at him through the side window.
He was young, nervous, his white-gloved hands moving themselves through a series of repeated patterns, one for each vehicle. It should have been simple enough; an order to pull over, to let the ambulance through. Instead, it looked as though some complex ritual was being performed, or else aprimitive tribal dance. The officer’s mouth was covered by a surgical mask.
His two hands becoming tender, caressing the air, and turned towards me directly. A lover’s hands. But still, I couldn’t make any sense of the shapes he was making.
I would have to be careful.
We moved along the line of cars, slowly now, towards the trouble. A large articulated truck had fallen over onto its side. It must have come from the opposite direction, driven at speed to break through the central barrier, and then to climb halfway up the steep grassy incline. I imagined the vehicle teetering at this highest point, and then falling, and sliding down to where it now rested, jack-knifed, the long container on the slope of grass, the driver’s cabin blocking a good part of the motorway.
‘Close your window,’ said Peacock.
‘Why?’
‘That’s what they want.’
Police officers moved around the site. The day was only just touched with darkness, but they were already setting up asmall floodlight, or trying to. The light was pulsing to a strange rhythm; shining brightly for a second, and then dying, fading, coming bright again, over and over. And thenthe beam swung upwards suddenly, into the sky. The purple sky, the first of the stars.
Cold blue Venus had only just arisen.
And now, the crashed lorry reared above us; it looked enormous from this close up, like the side of a house. An angry noise started, sparks flew through the air. A fireman was holding the blade of a cutting device against the one exposed door of the cabin. Nearby, the ambulance crew was standing ready, with their medical kits and stretcher.
The poor driver trapped inside there, dead or alive. What had gone wrong?
We had ground to a halt in the line, near enough to see that one part of the lorry had spilled its contents onto the road. Wooden boxes lay scattered about, glass sparkled from the tarmac. A cloud of dust hung in the air. My head was swimming with the detail of it all. There was too much to take in, too much information. I felt the noise taking me over.
The beam of light circled around, and the crackle of sparks was caught in its pathway; a cascade flower, in violet and gold, bloomed behind my eyelids. There was a smell of burning. A dry metallic taste filled my mouth. My ears were buzzing.
The sound of the blade.
‘What the fuck?’
It was Henderson, speaking to me. She had twisted round in the passenger seat. Her face, with its tangled mass of hair, was painted with colour as the floodlight bathed the car.
‘Marlene?’
The voice was slurred, and too distant. The light swung away from us, but now the trail of sparks appeared to dance around the car’s interior.