Doorman at the Slithy Tove was a fat white rabbit. He had a blood-flecked head protruding from beer-stained neck fur and a large pocket watch in his big white mittens. The big hand was pointing to twelve, the little hand pointing to three. That's three o'clock in the morning of the night just begun.
Two door whores were trying to blag their way in without a coding symbol. Rabbit was dealing them grief. I flashed my laminated access-all-areas after-gig party passcode, formed to the shape of a small and cute puppy dog half-cut with a human baby, dappled in fur; overleaf, a photo of Dingo Tush, naked but for his (authorised) autograph. Around the edge of the pass ran the slogan - Dingo Tush. Barking for Britain Tour. Presented by Das Uberdog Enterprises.
Rabbit bouncer scanned my pass and then looked up into my eyes. It was a hard stare. "I was the Dingo's DJ tonight, partner," I told him. He was suitably enamoured; he let me pass.
I pushed through the slithy portals, through the hole in the earth, along the shelves of jam, all the way through the corridor of hanging-on liggerettes, straight to the crush.
Must have been five hundred people in there, that small space; friends, lovers, enemies, husbands, wives, second cousins, groupies, agents, roadies, managers, fur dressers, bone-buriers, flea pickers, glitter dogs and litter men, DJ's, VJ's, SJ's, mothers, smothers, ex-lovers, record pushers. All the entourage of Dingo Tush, dancing around the handbag Vurt transmitted from the roof-beams, and then more spilling out into the Fetish Garden, under a streetlamp moon, still dancing.
I walked into the crush, and was driven up, and lost, plugged in straight off, with a whiff of Bliss. You just can't get away from it. The love is clinging. Well, when it's breathed in direct, through the air conditioning, I mean, what chance do you have? I took a deep mouthful, felt high as a paper plane. Man, that was good Bliss Wind. I took another gulp, full lungful this time, head was spinning and I loved everybody in the crush all of a sudden. Caressed my way to the bar and ordered a glass of Fetish. The dark spicy afternotes hit my palette, causing sparks, and I was floating, hot. Slithy Tove system was playing The Ace of Bones. Original pressing by Dingo Tush, but this was the hard (hard!) remix, cooked up by Acid Lassie, and it was dancing the crush to a frenzy. I turned around, leaning my back against the bar, just to view the scenes better. I was gazing into a dub mirror. That's the kind where you only get the best bits looking back at you. It was that splendid mix of Bliss and Fetish, dogmusic and crush-dancing; makes you feel like a star in your own system.
I swigged another gulp of Fetish, relished it, breathed deep of the Bliss scent, then turned on, full on, to the crowd and the crush, and just drenched myself in it. Christ, I needed release!
There was a balcony up above, and I had the sudden clear thought that I would like to be up there, looking down on the herd. So I pushed off from the bar, holding my glass tightly, and entered the maelstrom, squeezing through tight gaps between dancers. Some were dressed in black, some in purple, some in vinyl, some in feathers, some in rainbows, some in bare flesh, some in fur, some in smoke and herb, some in tatters, some in splatters. The rest in pin-stripe. All the colours were present. Sweat was dripping off me already, as I entered a small circle of feather sharers, and as I passed they gave me a quick tickle to the throat, just a little one, so I only caught a glimpse of moon-flecked meadows as I flew over them, flapping my thunderwings, chasing the prey. Gang was on Thunderwings, and its sweet feel stayed with me as I moved on, forcing a path towards the stairs. Thunderwings helped me through the crush, and up the stairs. Felt like I was flying those stairs. Up to the balcony, where the world lay waiting.
That was my first Vurt in eighteen days, since the night we took out that fat cop, and it felt like coming home, that tasty. Maybe I was weakening. It didn't seem so bad to be weakening.
Life on the balcony was quieter. Not so tight. There were chairs, and people talking to each other at tables, and food. And food! Hadn't eaten in a week! Seemed like. But first I had to look down, to see that crush from the heights. And as I looked down a last few fragments of Thunderwings made it feel like I was flying over the dancing; dogs and shadows, robo and Vurt, all getting mixed up in Bliss.
There was the Beetle, back down from his bass trip, still shaking some but playing the crowd like a robopro, taking feathers from chance acquaintances. So I looked around for Mandy. Couldn't see no Mandy. But there were Tristan and Suze, holding their mutual hair aloft, as they moved through the brood. Christ! There was that shadowgirl, what was her name? She'd tried to beat us up in Bottletown. Nimbus! And look, there was Scribble, taking a feather into his mouth. No! No way! I was here, up on the balcony, not down there! I wasn't down there! I was fighting for control, trying hard to place myself.
I watched myself vanish, into the crowd, into the smoke. And that was better. To be the only one again, to be in one piece again. I just didn't need that hassle.
There was Mandy now. I'd spotted her. She was pressed up inside the crush and some chancer was tickling a feather against her lips, no doubt a Pornovurt, hoping for a turn on. Try a Blood-vurt, my man. More chance of a show then. I guess the guy didn't pass go, because the next thing he was all bunched up, clutching his balls, going down in the crush. Not many come up from down there. Mandy scooped up the feather anyway. Shit! That girl! She'd be a fine sight to wake up to, all ready for the day's adventure.
Just then a voice spoke to me, from up close, from the left side, but I was certain nobody was there. So I turned and there he was… this gentleman. No other word for him. The gentleman was dressed in knowledge and suffering. And a pea-green three-piece suit of tweed, with leather epaulettes. His face was guarded by a full beard and moustache, which kind of made up for his receding hair. What he had left was tied back in some kind of complex knot that hung over one shoulder, like a mutant topology. His eyes were totally yellow, soft and languid. They stirred the very worst memories. Lips full and red, and when they parted to speak, well, it seemed like he was speaking direct, direct to my soul.
"Yes. That girl would be worthwhile," he said, like he'd glimpsed all my secrets. His voice was a deep brogue, and it raised memories in me, feelings I couldn't place, like I'd heard it before, but hadn't paid enough attention to it.
"That's right," he said, "You haven't been paying attention to me."
I hadn't said anything! Shit! This was just like with Bridget.
"Are you a Sleeper?" I asked.
"Kind of, but nothing like Bridget."
"What?"
"You're looking for Desdemona. Am I right, Scribble?" He knew my name.
"You know a way -"
"And Bridget, of course. You'd like to find Bridget. Only trouble; you're worried that the Thing is more important to you than Bridget is. Because of the swapback for the sister. And this makes you feel guilty."
"Who are you?" I demanded.
He took a sip of red wine from his glass.
"Let's get something to eat." And then he turned away. I turned to follow, but sometime during my turning the gentleman had vanished. I was looking all around, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He just didn't exist any more. And it made an emptiness in my heart, the kind you just don't need to feel.
I turned back to the crush below. Dingo Tush had made an entrance. He was moving through the crowd, receiving the adulation. His fur was fingered and stroked by hundreds of loving hands, and the crush changed its geometry around him. Everybody was lost, except for the centre piece, the Dingo mandog. And over in the darkest corner, far below, a body of smoke was forming. I caught just a glimpse of it, before it smoothed away, into the crush world. But it sure made me jump, and I didn't know why.
I was feeling so empty inside, and food was all I could turn to. The table was sagging under the weight of dishes. It was a spread of joy; my mouth was dripping. There were the tiny wings of larks, stewed in pig's blood. There were the ink sacs of squids, leaking onto a bed of palms. There were the eggs of the wren, griddled over charcoal, with a saffron marinade. And there were the encrusted eyes of virgin lambs, smothered in dark filaments of horse bread, deep fried in shadow oil. Overseeing the feast was the Slithy Tove head-chef, with his long Vazzed-back hair and his sunken cheeks flecked with stubble. And something about his eyes, some bad need in there.
"Tuck in, Crewcut," he said to me. "Relish it"
"I will," I replied, filling my mouth with the succulence. "Hey, this is good!"
"Just tell 'em that Barnie made it. Barnie the Chef. Remember that?"
"Will do," I said, between mouthfuls.
And then Beetle was beside me, building a plateful.
"Nice grub, Scribb?" he asked.
"Sure it is," I said. "Barnie the Chef made it."
Barnie the chef gave me a smile.
"Seen much of Murdoch these days, Scribble?" the Beetle asked.
"I'm keeping low."
"Oh sure. Playing to a full house of dog turds at the Limbic club. That's real low, baby."
"I've got to make a living, Bee."
"Hey, we did that bitch cop good, didn't we?"
"Yeah."
"You should've let me finish her."
"They'd send somebody else."
"I know that. But the pleasure would've been intense. Hey, by the way, Scribb, cheers for the bass ride. That was some fucker-trip! Oh boy!"
"Beetle?"
"What?"
"Don't throw Mandy away."
"What?"
He was losing it again.
"She's your ticket."
"Yeah… well… I'm moving on from that girl. She's gone cold on me. She won't take the feathers any more. Not the ones I want her to take."
"I'm worried about you, Beetle."
He looked at me then, just for a moment, but it was wonderful. One of those old hard-core Beetle stares. Then the feathers set back in, took control, and the triple glaze descended, slithering over his vision.
"You're taking it too much, Bee," I said. "Too much Wormer."
I thought he was going to bawl me out, but he was too busy looking over my shoulder. That hard Beetle light came back into his eyes. "Tristan! My man! And Suze in tow!" he shouted, greeting the pair as they ascended.
"Beetle… listen to me…"
But the guy was gone, pushing aside a frail young diner, walking a jagged line towards the hair-locked couple. I watched as he embraced Suze, and then Tristan, stroking their locks with his long, Vaz-covered fingers. The crusty couple were stroking him back, in turn, and all I could do was watch; totally missing the scene. Suze smiled at me; it was a deep smile, way deep, and again I felt her going inside of me, caressing the whole body with one look. What did that woman have, that no other woman had, apart from Desdemona? The world was spinning around. Fetish and the Bliss, and the dancing; all of them getting to me. I turned away from the love, took a turning step backwards, away from Beetle, into empty space. The Gentleman was waiting for me there, with his three-piece pea-green suit and his wisdom.
"Don't let him get to you, Scribble," he said.
"Tell me your name?" I asked.
"You know who I am."
"Yes," I told him. "I know you." But from where?
"That's enough for now," he answered, reading my thoughts.
"Is the Thing still alive?" I asked.
"Still alive. So is Bridget."
And again, something about his voice got to me.
"How come you know all this?"
"Because I'm watching the world go by."
"Where is the Thing?"
"I think you should work that out for yourself."
"Tell me!"
He was looking at me. Yellow eyes. That look of deep recognition you only get once in a while. His gaze was golden and all the bad memories, the losses, they started to drift away. I was falling, seriously falling for this man. But I didn't know why, except it was like falling for a long lost friend, that you'd never met before. He started to speak, but then his eyes flickered away, to the right, over my shoulder.
I turned around, and there were the Beetle and Tristan, hugging each other.
Except that Tristan had no time for Beetle, no time at all. Instead he was staring, deep and pointed, straight into the eyes of the Gentleman. No one else could see him. I realised that then. Only me and Tristan. We were joined by this, but how to fathom it?
"What's happening?" I asked, and his eyes turned back to mine, full of pain and suffering.
"It's like this, Scribble," he said. "You've got the poison. It's inside you."
"The snake bite?" I asked.
"I don't know how you got it. Some have got it. Most haven't. Those that do, they should use it. You're not using it."
"I'm confused."
"So was I. Your age. One day you find it. One day you realise. The world slips into place. You'll get there."
"Like how?" I demanded, only to see the Gentleman doing that slipping away trick again.
"Scribble! Come here!" Beetle's voice breaking into my trance. "Scribble. Let's chat." He'd given up on Tristan, and homed in on me once more. His eyes were dancing behind the drugged-up glaze. "Scribble, something to tell you." His voice was way deep, still dragging some remnants of the bass injection. "Listen to me!" he shouted, clutching my arms tight.,
"Well say it."
"Scribble… I… I want to… just to…" The Beetle looked around then, all nervous and fearful, and this was rare enough to cause me to stare back hard at him. He couldn't give my stare back
He couldn't give it back! Beetle couldn't look at me! Not without flinching. Wonders of the world!
"Just say it." My voice was hard, not caring. Told you I was losing it.
He forced his eyes to mine, and then said, "I've got something for you." He pulled his baccy box from his pocket and place it in my hands.
"Can't take it," I whispered. "Can't…"
"It's for you."
Beetle had carried his drugs in this old Black Cherry Rough Shag tin box, from the days of our time at Droylsden State, high school for unachievers. Within its closed-up darkness he had carried Jammers and Vaz, Fluff and Shadows, Feathers and Haze, all the things he could lay his hands upon. Contained within, all of his dreams. His treasure box.
"I can't take this, Bee."
"Open it up,"he said.
Box opened with a satisfying click, and a nice feel in the hands, and I expected to find a real mess in there, a jungle of dark drugs. Instead a single feather lay on a bed of cotton wool.
"Bee!"
Feather was a deep blue-black, with a sheen of pink. I picked it up with shaking fingers, loving the way it fluttered in my hands, like the dream-bird was still using it, flying the Vurt waves.
"Bee!"
I turned it over to read the white label.
Tapewormer.
"Bee!"
I realised I was just saying his name; saying nothing, too shocked to think.
"You know I can't go back, Bee."
"I've been up to my eyes in it, lately," he said. "Couldn't stop using it."
"What's it like?"
I was crumbling under those hints of yesterday.
"It's a jewel Vurt, Scribble. But I was getting hooked. Just couldn't stop reworming that tape. Makes everything beautiful. But you know me, I can't stand getting hooked, well, not to single pleasures."
"I don't know if I…"
"Des is in there," he said, pointing to the feather. "Well, you know, kind of."
"And here's me trying to give up."
"It's just for… just for…"
Guy couldn't say it.
"I know," I said."Old times. Stash Riders."
"Right."
And he turned away, back to his old self. He made his way back to the food bench, telling Barnie the Chef he was a cool genius, in the kitchen of the gods.
Forgiveness.
It was forgiveness the Beetle was asking for, and my heart melted.
"You don't need that," said the brogue voice.
"I do," I answered, to the shadow that was forming. "You just don't know why."
"I know the secrets," said the Gentleman, back again.
"I need this!"
"You need the gift. But not the Vurt.",
"And why not?"
"You've got the Vurt inside you," he said.,
"What do you mean?"
"You don't need feathers. You could tune in. Direct. This has happened already, yes?"
"Yes."
Don't know why I said that!
"You've been there. Slipping in and out," he said.
"It's getting worse," I told him, again not knowing why, except that things had been going strange for me lately; lots of little slips, in and out of states. So that I didn't know what people were saying to me. And this feeling inside, like the world wasn't solid, it was an edge. It felt just the same when I was getting the Haunting. This isn't all there is. The edge was scary and I was living on it. No, not living on the edge, I was living inside the edge!
"Young man, the edge is real, and you don't know how close you are."
"To what?"
"To the step. It's not getting worse; it's getting better."
"You think so?"
"To where you lie. Your place, your proper place. The dream world, featherless."
"I like it here on Earth."
"Desdemona is waiting for you."
"What?" Oh Jesus!
"She's waiting. Take a look."
And the Gentleman led me gently to the balcony, where I gazed down upon the crowd, and there was Desdemona, waiting there, in the middle of the crush, perfectly still, her yellow blouse flecked with blood, and her face scarred and cracked. Sister was beckoning to me, from the dance floor, her two arms outstretched, urging.
"Desdemona," I said.
"That's her," said the Gentleman. "She's waiting."
I turned back to him, but already he was shivering, dissolving. "Tell me who you are?" I demanded.
"Don't let the Viper get you," he replied. "Be careful. Be very, very careful. Keep it clean. Right under the rim. You know I never lie."
"Just wait…"
But his eyes were over my shoulder once again, and I turned around to see Beetle and Suze hugging each other, but Tristan just looking, straight on, right into the eyes of the Gentleman. It was the look of love, that kind of doomed love that never leaves you alone.
"Tristan will tell you who I am," the stranger said.
"Cat? Game Cat?" I said, turning back to the voice, but the voice was gone. Cat was gone.
That feeling again, that emptiness.
I peered over the balcony, searching for Desdemona. There she was, covered in smoke and blood, drifting away, into the smoke and the blood. And I couldn't help her. I couldn't fucking help her! Her scarred face misting over, dissolving, like the dreams of love, into the crowd, into the Vurt.
Losing her.
Losing.
Things we want the most, things that slip away.
And then I was taking the stairs, three at a time, dodging the rung-dancers, heading down to the floor and the fading sister. I was pushing into the crush, but they were welded tight by now. I think I threw some poor wraith aside as I squeezed through. The world was closing up and I ran straight into the arms of Bridget.
Bridget!
That smoky shape I had seen on the outskirts, from above; now she was in my hands and the smoke was rising from her skin, way beyond what I was used to, and her eyes were shadow-flecked and knowledgeable. She pushed away from me, back into the arms of her dancing partner, a handsome boy with curly brown hair.
"Bridget!" I called out.
"No," the shadowgirl answered, and maybe it wasn't her. Maybe I was dreaming.
"You're just dreaming," the voice in my head was saying. But it was Bridget's voice in there. She was thinking to me, through the Shadow waves, looking like the ghost of yesterday. I caught just a glimpse of recognition in her eyes, and then she was gone, fading away in a wave of smoke.
And a new face of scars taking her place, amongst the crush. Face of Murdoch. Shecop. Dog-torn. Penetrating. Real.
Moving through the crowd, like a demon.
Where do you run, when the bad girl comes? Maybe you run home to Mummy. Maybe you run towards your lover. Or maybe, like me, you've got a Beetle in your life; somebody powerful, even if he was just this moment thick-bodied from the overuse of cheap Tapewormer feathers.
I took the stairs, three at a time, not caring about the cries of the crush, running into the arms of the main Rider. The Vurtglaze slipped from the Beetle's eyes, as I screamed the bad news at him. It was a sunblind being opened to a bright day, wonderful to watch, and he popped a couple of Jammers, already on the move. He pushed me through the crush, kicking some dancers over, just to make a way.
"Beetle! What about Mandy?" I said in the rush.
But his mind was on another trip, the jam was kicking in, and his eyes were scanning the pack for a way out.
"We can't leave her, Beetle!"
"Kid can hack it." A quick breath, and then, "There's gotta be a back way."
We were cutting through the pack, as they made way under the threat of the Beetle's curse and the jammed-up energy in his fists. I heard a shout from below - "Out of the way! Police!" Some such. You ever seen a cop trying to cut through a dancing crush of semi-legals? I guess that Murdoch was having some problems down there. So suck on it, shecop! I was right up against the food tables now, and Barnie the Chef was giving me a bright stare. "You liked my food, didn't you, Crew?" I told him that he was the King of the Feast, and that the angels were dining out on his takeaways. He pointed us to a back door. "This way, Crew-cut," he answered. "Relish it."
And we were clattering down a shining steel ladder of hard rungs, a fire-escape to heaven. Me and the Beetle, on a ride together, old-days style. Felt like flying, and I guess I still had some Thunderwings in me. Then we were down on the back streets and running for sweet life.
I'm not telling this very well. I'm asking for your trust on this one. Here I am, surrounded by wine bottles and mannequins, salt cellars and golf clubs, car engines and pub signs. There are a thousand things in this room, and I am just one of them, the light is shining through my windows, stuttered by bars of iron, and I'm trying to get this down with a cracked-up genuine antique word processor, the kind they just don't make any more, trying to find the words.
Sometimes we get the words wrong.
Sometimes we get the words wrong!
Believe me on this one. And trust me, if you can. I'm doing my best to tell it true. It just gets real hard sometimes…
The very strangest thing about that night of running was this: that I could picture the Beetle better than myself. I didn't know where I was. But the Beetle was always, all of the time, very clear to me. I was following his movements through a clear-sighted glass, watching him burn a way down the darkness.
Me, myself, I was the Beetle's shadow, just hanging on to his flame, running through a black alley, back of the Slithy Tove restaurant. Something weighty and hard was banging around inside my jacket pocket but I didn't connect to that just then. I could feel a crowd running with me, but I didn't know who they were. Maybe I was still on Thunderwings, but that thin tickle should have long dissolved, into the blood stream. So what was I on?
What was I on?
Felt like the night was surrendering to me, filling me up with its pictures.
I was getting glimpses of everything.
I was Vurt-high, running through a dark space, with some crowd behind me, with nothing in my mouth, no feather in my mouth.
Cop sirens were sounding off, making bad music.
Whistles blowing.
The howling of a generator, as it pumped hard power to a set of arc lights.
Shadowcops shining down.
Feet clattering. Real human feet clattering over concrete.
Didn't know where I was.
Coming up hard against a brick wall, and turning away, and there was the Murdoch, scarred-up face glaring at me.
Dancers, former dancers, panicking behind me, in a crush, in a little crush, and then scattering. And me left there alone, facing the Murdoch's scars.
"I've got you." The shecop's voice was hard from the chase, and the gun in her hand was crackling with shiny new life, like it had living bullets in the chambers.
I reached into my pocket without thinking, my fingers closing on Murdoch's old gun, the one I had stolen from the pad floor. But I had little knowledge of such things, and when Murdoch told me to drop it, I dropped it. It made a dead sound as it fell to the concrete, like I'd cut myself off from release but Murdoch's gun was well aimed and true. "What's it gonna be, kid?" she offered. "Dirty or clean?"
Murdoch's gun was the only thing in my life, the only thing worth living for. It gets like that sometimes, with instruments of death.
"What's it gonna be?"
Murdoch's gun was a raging hard-on, pointing straight at me, straight to the heart. There was just a glint of sun coming up, over a rooftop, and a dark mist forming to her right. Other cops were moving into position. I could hear screams and cheers as people were brought down, or people were escaping. I could feel the Beetle's presence, way up close, but I couldn't see him anywhere.
"Best to come clean," Murdoch said. The mist behind her right shoulder solidified into a twisting shape.
I knew that face, that shape.
Shaka! The blown apart shadowcop.
His smoking body was a mess of fumes, and his face was a grimace of smoke. He was waving in and out of existence, as his new-fangled box of tricks struggled to shine his broken body into the real world, so that it could lick there, feeding on secrets. They'd patched him up somewhat, but his beams were still strong and hot, and he fired them at me, somewhere towards me; I could feel them burning the brickwork just to one side of my head. "He's mine, Shaka!" shouted Murdoch.
And wasn't it just my fate, to be the prize in a shooting contest, between the real and its shadow.
Murdoch asked her gun barrel to focus, and I could hear the whirring, as it found my centre, fixing hot bullets upon the heart, that soft target.
"Turn around slowly," Murdoch said. "Towards the wall. No surprises. I don't like surprises."
Sure.
So I'm turning to the wall, just in the very act of turning, when I sense Beetle nearby. That's how it was. I could just sense him!
The Beetle steps out of the shadows, holding his gun aloft, like an offering.
Murdoch had seen that gun before and now here she was, once again, on the dirty end. You could tell she wasn't too keen on it. Same with the Shaka. He'd taken punishment from it; now here he was, once again, on the dirty end.
Made me feel good; just to be free, for once, of the dirty end.
Shaka was flickering on and off, his shot memory banks struggling against his mechanisms. His box of tricks was being held by some new dumbfuck partner, who was obviously way out of cool; he was shaking, and the aerial box was shaking with him. Shaka was doing his best to keep his beams in line. You could tell from his half-lit face that humans left him kind of cold at this precise moment.
Murdoch was sweating; fluid was running down the claw marks in her face.
At the junction of Wilbraham Road and some poor bugger's driveway, rested the mobile kennel van of Dingo Tush and his pack of canine players. Hey, hey, we're the Warewolves, painted on the side. Next to it I could see Tristan and Suze, their hair a strong river flowing with moonlight Suze had the two robo-hounds on a double leash. The dogs were almost as tall as she was and baying for cop-blood.
I was dancing. That twitching dance that only the truly scared-to-fuck can manage. But my mind was like a stranger, a cold hearted stranger with a gun in his hands. That was the Beetle. Mandy came up behind him, her eyes darting from point to point, as she made out how the twin guns were poised; one on my heart, the other on a shecop's head.
Moon was still, full, and voiceless.
I'm taking this one moment at a time, step by step, because it's difficult, and because it's so important.
Murdoch spoke up. "You're going down for the murder of a police officer, Beetle."
"So take me," the Beetle answered, just like that. Beautiful. Murdoch let the sweat droplets roll down her face, down her arms, down her fingers, to the trigger on the gun. It was slippery. The whole thing was slippery.
"Give me inpho, Shaka," she asked.
Shaka obeyed, firing a thin shaking beam, straight to the gun in Beetle's hands. "IT"S A GUN, MURDOCH," he replied.
"For fuck's sake, Shaka!"
SORRY MA'AM.
I guess we caught that Shadow real good.
Thin beam travelling once again; Beetle just letting it happen, like he knew somehow, what was about to happen.
FOUR BULLETS LEFT, beamed the Shadowcop.
"You taking a chance, Murdoch?" asked the Beetle.
"Well, I guess so," she answered.
Somebody was gonna get killed, hurt, or arrested.
Maybe it was me. Most probably it was me.
Some things just seem bound.
This is how we lost Desdemona, and found the Thing. Yes, time to tell it.
Sister and brother flying down through a feather's embraces. Into the Voodoo world. To land softly in a garden of bliss, walled in by ancient stones, surrounded by colours and perfume, a jungle of flowers. Bright yellow birds were singing bright yellow songs, from the trees that were growing, visibly, even whilst we walked. Deep in the countryside, an English garden…
"It's lovely, Scribble!" announced Desdemona. And indeed it was; everything you could wish for. Desdemona took my hand, and then my mouth, filling me up with kisses. The garden was playing with our senses, making them into a tapestry. The flowers were pollen-heavy, and so was I. I took Desdemona into my arms, letting her fall, gently, to the floor of petals, me following her down, into the petals.
Her cunt was pressed against my cock, and the world was beautiful.
I've done this already, I thought, maybe this is the Haunting? Maybe I'm inside the Vurt just now? But I dismissed that thought real easy, so I couldn't have been, could I?
Could I?
Then I slipped inside of her, the sister, feeling the walled garden close in to caress my penis, until the sap rose to the top, and the garden was flooded. The air was heavy with pollen; the whole world was copying itself, over and over, through the act of sex. And we were enfolded in the system, sucking where the bee sucks.
We were being watched.
I rolled off Desdemona's slick body, onto the ground, feeling the earth clutching at me, like it wanted to feel my seed. I was sinking, and a hooded figure was standing some five feet away, watching, just watching.
I lifted myself up, just to get a better look, only to find myself sinking into the figure's gaze. Like being eaten.
The figure was draped in purple robes, head to foot, hooded, so that only the eyes showed. Yellow eyes. Twin suns, glistening with knowledge. "Your names, please?" the figure said. It was a woman's voice. I nudged at Des, and she sat up, straight away, no fear. There was no fear involved.
"My name is Desdemona," she said.
"My name is Scribble," I said. It was the most natural thing, no problems.
"Thank you," said the figure. "Welcome to English Voodoo. Do you know why you're here?"
"We do not," I answered. I could not lie.
"You have come for knowledge," the figure said. "There will be pleasure. Because knowledge is sexy. There will also be pain. Because knowledge is torture. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes," answered Des. "We understand."
Did we?
"Good. Join us." The figure said this, moving her arms, to indicate the garden. Other figures were appearing, moving in from the distance, like images growing on a photographic plate, taking on life. They were all hooded and covered the same, head to foot, so that you could not distinguish between them. Only the yellow eyes peering out from beneath the dark cowls. Desdemona and I stood up then, to be on the same level with the figures. "We are the keepers of the garden," they said, all at the same time, but I was just getting the messages, no words, just thoughts. What are these creatures?
Birds were twittering in the trees, and one of the gardeners called out in a small bird-like whistle. A yellow bird, a canary, flew down into his hands. He stroked it carefully, until the bird was happy. Then he gently plucked a feather out of its plumage. It was a yellow feather, and he held it up for all to see. It was a small and gentle golden feather, kissed by the English sun. It really got to me. Looked like a dream. The figure opened his hand to let the bird fly free. Then he raised the yellow feather to his lips, darkened by the hood. He sucked it in, and then was gone, sinking into the earth, into a hole that opened up, and then closed again, as the figure disappeared beneath the soil. Flowers bloomed again over the space, growing in super motion. The golden feather was left there, floating in the air, free of all restraints. The next figure plucked it from the air, stroked it in, then was gone, sinking. The feather floating. The next figure took it up, stroked it. Gone. The next figure took the feather. Stroked it. Gone. The feather still floating. And so on, until only the initial figure remained.
"Where are they going?" Desdemona asked.
"To the past, the bad past, in search of knowledge," the figure answered. She had the feather in her hands, and she was offering it to Des. "Why don't you try it?" the figure said.
Desdemona hesitated for a second, and then took the yellow feather into her hands. She held it against her lips. "What will it do?" she asked.
"The past is waiting," the figure answered. "You can go there, and change it. That way knowledge lies."
Desdemona placed the feather between her lips.
"Des…" My voice calling to her, in the garden. "It might be dangerous…"
"Yes, it is," said the figure. "It's a Yellow feather."
"It's a Yellow feather, Scribb!" Des replied. "Haven't you always wanted to take one of those?"
"Yes, but…"
"How many chances do you get?" my sister asked.
"Not many."
"You get one chance," she said. "And this is ours. Let's do it."
"Des…"
"It is not for the weak," the figure said, but the sister already had the feather between her lips. Desdemona turned to face me.
"I want to go there, Scribble," she said. "I want you to come with me. Will you come?"
"Please don't go, Des."
Did no good.
Desdemona pushed the golden feather in deep, to the limits. Her eyes flashed yellow, just the once, and then the ground was opening up beneath her feet, and weeds were pulling at her, yellow weeds, spiked with thorns. Desdemona was screaming; "Scribble!!!!" But what could I do? The tendrils were wrapping themselves around my sister's limbs, drawing blood from a hundred places, as the spikes pierced her skin. This wasn't the easy passage the other figures had achieved; they hadn't gone down screaming. It was going wrong, the day was going wrong!
What could I do?
The sister was being pulled down by the yellow weeds; creepers and thorns clutching tight on her body, dragging her down to the world beneath the soil.
"Knowledge is torture," the figure said. "Didn't I tell you that?"
I was running towards Desdemona, trying my best to reach her.
The flowers won.
They dragged her down into the soil, until only her hair was left, her beautiful hair, and then even that was gone, strangled by the weeds, until only the weeds were left, the blonde flowers. They grew over where she had buried herself, smothering the space in a second.
The figure had the feather in her hands, and she was offering it to me.
"Go fuck yourself!"
My words.
"Very well," the figure said. "You are too weak. Maybe one day…" And with that she pushed the feather into her own mouth. Her eyes flashing more golden than the sun on a hot day, and I was alone, in the garden, the English garden.
The feather floated for a moment, and then started to fall. I reached out for it.
I reached out for it.
A yellow bird flew down, a blur of speed, caught the feather in her beak, and then was gone, flying back to feather some nest.
And who will feather my nest, now?
The garden was empty.
I stayed there for two, three hours, I don't know. A long time.
And then I jerked out.
How can I forgive myself? Why did Desdemona leave me? All the hours I have spent wondering this. What had I done wrong? Wasn't I enough for her? What else did she want?
Some things are just bound.
This was how we lost Desdemona. And how I came to wake up, smothered by a Thing from Vurt, some heavy shit.
Exchange rates.
Some heavy losses.
Murdoch slowly swung her gun away from me, towards the real threat. Twin guns now, both of them pointed towards each other, mirrored in the same need. Beetle and Murdoch.
I heard the moon howl.
Dingo Tush was in the area. His jaws were split wide so that the inside was visible, slavering. He was calling up dogs from all over the Fallowfield, howling at the moon. Felt like the moon was howling.
I could hear the dogs responding.
The Dingo van came open and a pack of hybrids shot loose, charging the concrete with their claws. I guess Murdoch got some visions of the Karli Dog just then, and she didn't fancy a repeat play of the last pad debacle. The gun reared up in her hands as it spat smoke. Then the noise of it. Then the bullet reaching out for a new home.
The Beetle answered her.
More or less the same time. Not quite the same time.
One gun fired.
And then the other.
One gun was later than the other.
Listen carefully. This is the secret of how to live: fire your gun before somebody else does.
The Beetle reeled back from the bullet.
His shoulder exploded. It was a warm flower opening on his flesh. I got flecked with some Beetle blood, across the cheeks.
There was a siren ringing in my head, behind my closed-up eyes, and the howling of wolves, as the dog pack ran riot.
There were bullets, suddenly, flying everywhere. I had a high pitch inside of me, a high-pitched screaming, like some woman had caught a stray shot.
Wonder who that was, caught that bad gift?,
Hope it wasn't Mandy. Hope it wasn't…
And I felt myself being lifted up, lifted up above everything. Above the world of rain. Above the world with its screamings and its sirens. And all of its pain, dripping away, like the last few raindrops, into a small quiet pool of sunlight.
Where was I going? And who was taking me?
I'm walking through the leafy lane of a small town. Children are playing on the green. The postman whistles a jaunty melody. Mothers hang washing on lines, birds sing from leafy sundrenched trees. I walk towards the post office. Its sign calls it Pleasureville Post Office. And I know where I am now. I'm in Pleasureville, a low-level blue Vurt, nothing special, totally legal, been there before, years before, when such things excited me. But never like this.
Never like this. Not without a feather. I was just there! Totally there. With no pain, no anxiety, no hassles. Smelt like sweetness.
I was walking the quiet lanes of Pleasureville, only the tiny laughter of kids to trouble me. No trouble. I can handle that. And the whistle of the postman, and the singing of the birds. No trouble. I can handle that.
And the knowledge that I was there, that I knew I was there, in the Vurt, and that another world was waiting for me, if I so wished; a world of pain. I could pull out any time. Or stay here forever.
That's forever.
Which is a vicious temptation.
There is a dream out there, of a nation's second rise; when the dragon is slain and the good queen awakens from her coma-sleep, to a land capable of giving breath to her. The followers of ENGLISH VOODOO worship the new queen. The queen is the keeper of our dreams. Through her portals you can see a paradise of change, where trees are green, birds do sing, and the trains run on time. Also, lots of sex; that special kind, with a delicious English thump. The Voodoo is a Knowledge Feather. It leads to other worlds. It cannot be bought, only given. You wanna go down there? Into the English Voodoo? Fine. And beyond? Fine, very fine. Just take precautions. That wet trip is a demon-path of bliss and pain, equal amounts. Be careful. Be very, very careful. Those sugar walls will squeeze you to the bone. Cat knows. Cat has been there. And lived. Just. You want to see the scars?
Well yes, I guess you do.
Status: black, with sexy pink, and with glints of yellow. It's got some doors in it, through to the Yellow worlds. Step softly, traveller, don't get yourself swapped.
Not unless you want to be.
The first time that I came down, I came down into a dog world. Smelt bad, real bad after the sweet, feathery aromas of Pleasureville.
There was a dog face looming over me; mixed in there, amongst the fur and the jaws, were some bare traces of the human lineaments. This only made it worse, the shock of seeing that face, one of the many heads of Cerberus, leaning right over me, and that breath, that stench on my face.
They tell me that I screamed then.
Maybe I did.
I was too busy getting out of there, out of my head.
The Pleasure postman greeted me with a cheery hello.
"Anything for me today, Postie?"
"Just the one, Mr Scribble," he replied, handing me a letter. I opened the sun-golden envelope, and pulled out a birthday card. The card was the brightest yellow I had ever seen. The words Happy Birthday were written in a dark and clotted red hand across the yellow.
I opened the card to find out whose birthday it was.
The second time I came down, I was in a travelling kennel of mad dogs. The stench was still there, ten times worse, but at least the dog face had left me alone.
I was pressed against the rear doors, like I'd been the last to get in the van. There were no windows, but I could feel us moving, at some speed, some law-breaking speed along a bumpy path. Felt like a well jammed-up Beetle was at the wheel, the old style, and I was glad for that.
I raised myself up on a pair of skinless elbows. How did that happen? I really thought the police had got me, and I expected to see Murdoch there, grinning, surrounded by her dumbfuck cronies.
All I got was the fleshy hindquarters of dogs. There are times in life when this is all you get. They were tight-pressed in that small space, maybe seven or eight of them, difficult to tell, what with the van lights broken and the mishmash of their bodies. All of them had bits of dog mixed in there, and bits of human, only in varying degrees, and they were crowded and pressed over some other forms.
What the fuck was under there?
Then I saw Beetle's face through a gap in the fur.
But surely, the Beetle was driving the van?;
I was getting bits and pieces of the story then, coming back to me through the pain and confusion. Beetle's face, that sudden glimpse of him, was full of suffering, and my heart jumped.
Jumped.
Jumped.
Beetle had been hit…
I couldn't…
Couldn't…
Looked like they were licking him!
Then his face was covered by the closing fur once again and I saw Mandy for the first time. She was crouched against the van wall, holding on to nothing, just like the old days.
Old days! Three weeks ago!
"Mandy…" I whispered, my voice drifting.
She turned to me slowly. She turned her wet and beautiful eyes towards me, and I saw the hurt in there, way beyond the dream.
That's when Tristan screamed. From the dogs. From the middle of all those canines, those half humans. What were they doing back there? And why was Tristan screaming, like he'd been hurt, hurt real bad. It was the worst scream of all time.
Then I remembered the stray bullet, and that maybe someone had been caught by it. And maybe that someone was Tristan.
It was. But not in that way.
Then Mandy reached out to me. In her hands she held a scrap of clothing. It was a black cloth, made dirty by some other substance, some kind of dark fluid.
Blood.
Beetle's blood. And that was a piece of his favourite jacket, the black cord jacket, with the six buttons up the sleeves, and the double vents, and the tailored waist.
Mandy's hands were smeared with Vaz and blood. Like she'd been stroking his black clotted hair.
But it was the cloth that held me. There amidst the blood and the dirt hung a lump of glitter. It was hard and slightly rounded, flickering green and violet, with a long tongue of gold protruding. The thing was fastened to the cloth with a tarnished brass pin and I knew it then for what it was.
Snakehead.
Dreamsnake trophy.
He cut that fucker off!
That was too much. Had to get out of there.
I opened up a birthday card in Pleasureville. The sun was overhead, birds were singing, kids playing. The Postman was already whistling along the road to the next letterbox. Felt like a holiday, like a birthday. But whose birthday? I opened the card and read the message scrawled there in blood-thick ink.
I could hear her voice calling, through the ink:
"Happy birthday, Scribb! Bet you never realised, uh? You were always forgetting. Me, I'll never forget. Sorry I couldn't get my present to you, but will this do? Until we get back together? Don't stop looking, Scribb. I'm still waiting. We'll be together one day. Promise? Your loving sister, Des."
There were tears in my eyes. Must have been the first ever tears in Pleasureville. Nobody cries there. I wanted to keep the card so I reached into my pocket for something to exchange, to leave behind.
I pulled out Beetle's baccy box. I clicked it open and pulled out the Tapewormer feather. This I shoved back into my pocket. Then I closed the box and laid it down on a nearby streetbench.
I looked up at a cherry tree. Its berries were ripe and bulbous under the eternal sunshine, and just then Pleasure started to stick in my throat, like a jagged chicken bone so I went back down again, pulling the jerkout cord.
The third time I came down, I came down to the breakfast table. I was back in my new flat, shovelling a bowl of JFK flakes down my throat. I came down with the spoon halfway in my mouth and the crispness of the flakes against the coldness of the milk made me feel like a king, like life was actually worth something, worth getting up for. That good, those flakes.
Twinkle's eyes were looking at me, from the other side of the table. "Happy birthday, Scribb," she said.
"How did you know that?" I asked.
"Beetle told me."
"Beetle!"
"Calm down, partner," she said. But I was on my feet anyway, the cereal bowl tipping over and spilling its milk all over the tablecloth.
"Where is he?" I demanded, everything coming back. I was back in the alley for a second, hearing the gunshots, listening to the dogs howling, seeing Beetle's shoulder explode, feeling the wall scraping my elbows away, as I fell… as I fell…
"Where the fuck is he?!"
I was screaming, and it wasn't very dignified.
Well listen; fuck dignity. Fuck dignity to death.
"He's in your room," Twinkle said.
"What's he doing in there?"
"He wants you."
This is a love story. You got that already?
Took me a long while to realise; all those presents that I was getting.
How many people have you had that are willing to lose something, just so that you can carry on for a little while?
Count them.
That low, uh?
Listen, I'm an expert on this.
I went into my bedroom, and found the Beetle there. Mandy was with him. She was sitting beside the bed, on an old wicker chair, painted green. It wasn't my paint; I'd moved into these Whalley Range rooms only three weeks ago, on the run from the cops, and the Riders. Here we find ourselves.
I loved that chair.
Beetle lay in the bed. That old damp and tattered bed with its mattress full of bugs, and its springs all loose and rusted.
How I loved that bed. Its short respite.
The Beetle was lying in my bed with his eyes closed, a feather stuck halfway down his throat.
"What's he on, Mandy?" I asked.
"Tapewormer. What else?" She sounded well pissed off. "All he does these days is ride that feather back. It gets kind of boring, Scribble… for a way-ahead girl."
Yeah, I guess it does.
I pulled back gently, on the sheets, revealing the wound. His shoulder was a sprawling mess, but the strips of flesh were held together and bandaged with some kind of web. Looked like a nest of dog fur. The blood was congealing behind there. Some kind of healing, maybe. My eyes were wet. I could barely look.
"What is that stuff on him?"
"Dog people put it there," said Mandy. "Said it would help."
I looked close. His wound was tight-bound with strands of fur, crisscrossing, making a hold against the blood flow. The fur was glued in place with dog spit. Made me feel nauseous, except that it was saving him. Well, I could only hope so.
"Why are they doing this, Mandy?" I asked. "Why are the dogs helping him? He hates the dogs!"
Mandy just shrugged.
I looked deeper into the Beetle's wound and saw tiny snakes moving there, a rainbow of worms, baby snakes. They took me back some way, like the maggots we bought by the handful, Bee and I, when we were just two kids planning a fishing trip. It made me pull back.
"Christ, Bee…".
He made no sound.
I turned to the new girl. "Mandy? What is that?"
"Where?"
"In his wound…"
She was leaning in.
There's nothing there, Scribble. What's wrong?"
And when I looked back the wound was clean, under its bed of fur.
"Beetle… Beetle…"
My voice was searching, and I guess the Beetle must have picked up on it, down in the darkness, because he was mumbling words around the feather. They came out clogged by the Vurt, so I pulled that feather out, jerking him away from the dream. Just like he used to do with me, when I went in alone. The play was shifting, and I knew how bad it felt, to have your dream dragged from your mouth.
He came back to us with a slow rising, as though he was used by now to being dragged back, maybe by Mandy, as though he was riding the feathers real easy these days.
"What is it, my man?" he drawled.
I managed an answer, but it came out awkward.
"Is there no end to the trouble, Bee?" I asked, with a breaking voice.
"No end… Scribble…" replied the Beetle, slovenly, from the depths of his pain. His eyes weren't even open. "Not since the schoolyard. Remember that?"
His eyes were slitted, crusted, just a glimpse of eyeball showing through, between the twin layers of bloated skin.
"I remember, Bee. You used to bully me something rotten."
"Aye. Good days. Good days…" He was drifting off again.
"Beetle!"
His eyes flicked open, halfway, pushing apart the lids. "How's Murdoch, Scribb," he asked. "Is she dead yet?"
"I don't know," I answered.
"Maybe she is. Maybe we finished her."
"No, not yet," said Mandy. "I didn't see that."
"What did you see?" I asked.
"That was some bad theatre, back there."
"What are you after, Mandy?" I asked.
"What's it to you?" she answered.
"It's everything."
"Don't give up the fight, Scribble," said the voice. It was the Beetle's voice.
"How could I?" I replied.
"Keep on finding them. The Brid and the Sister. And the Thing. Don't give up on me."
"Bridget was in the Slithy Tove," I told him.
"What do you mean?"
"Bridget was in the Slithy Tove. I saw her there."
I was expecting him to say I was going off the edge someway, that I was feeling the pull too much, the pull of Tapewormer. Which is like willing the past into life.
Guy should know. He was the one hooked.
Except I got an entirely different answer.
"Talk to the Dingo about this."
"What's that, Bee?" I said, puzzled. "The Dingo? Does he -"
"Yes."
"What?"
"He might know something."
"Brid's still alive?"
"Maybe she is. I caught something in the van. They thought I was out of it." He smiled. It was a painful smile. "You know me, Scribb. Down, but never out." "I just want to give in, Bee. It's too much for me."
"Is life like that?" the Beetle asked.
"I don't think I'm up to it," I replied, hating every word but knowing each one to be true.
"Tristan needs your help, Scribb."
"Tristan does?"
Somebody caught a stray bullet.
"Help the man."
Then his eyes closed. His lips closed. The Beetle was sleeping, and it was my time to leave.
I stroked the Tapewormer back into his mouth, gentle-like. Well, why not? Guy can only take so much. I was watching his face smile at the fake memories.
"This is a neat piece," announced Mandy. And when I turned to her, she had Beetle's gun in both hands, lining it up to the shadow clock on the far wall. "Neat. See the way it self-focuses?" So I watched the chambers of the gun slide and whirr, locking on.
"You know about guns, Mandy?"
"Some. The Bee told me loads. We going into action soon, Scribb?" Now she was rubbing some Vaz from the Beetle's bedside jar into the firing mechanism.
"Soon. We move in the early morning."
"I'm glad for that."
"I didn't think you were that bothered about Des."
"I'm bothered about you, Scribb."
"That right?"
She put the gun back down on the bedside cabinet, and then looked over at the Beetle. He was smiling, so let him smile some more. "I've been thinking some crazy things, Scribble," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Like how you got me in here, in the Riders. You really sold it to me."
"You want to get out?"
"What?"
"I can see that. Things have turned bad. You wanna go, just go."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Scribble…"
"Just say so."
"This is the most fun I've ever had."
Fun?
"I'm not getting the picture, Mandy. What are you saying?"
"I know I was just here to stand in for your sister. But that's okay. I've been worse things. All the times I've been looking for something… something better than me… you know what I'm saying?"
"Kind of."
"Just this kind of constant search for a man… a man who's tougher than me. I never met him of course. So when you introduced me to the Bee… well… you know the feeling?"
I knew it.
"It's the same with you and Des, I guess?" she asked.
This girl was getting to me, and I didn't like it too much.
"You don't have to answer," Mandy told me. And then she turned back to look at the Beetle. He was still smiling, and the colours of his wound were vibrant and shocking. "I hate to see him like this. All that energy going to waste. Look at him! He's almost laughing. It just makes me sad. A man like that… living in the past. Tapewormer sucks. I'm not the past… I'm the future. Do you understand me, Scribble?"
I nodded.
"I think I want to kill Murdoch." She had the gun in her hands again, and the threat looked so sexy… it was an immense pity that I just wasn't up there, in the toughness stakes, far enough for this soldier.
"Is that bad?" she asked.
"No. No it's not. It's real."
"I don't want to lose him. Not ever."
Her eyes were getting wet, so I took her into my arms. "No way will that happen. Believe me."
Dingo Tush was waiting for me in the corridor.
He'd just come out of Twinkle's room, and he had Karli the robodog in his arms. The bitch was flopping upside down in his half-human paws. Karli's tongue was loose and sloppy, and a constant low pitched whine was falling out from her jaws. Dingo's face was caught in the blue light cast from a small table lamp; those famous cheeks and muzzle sculptured and lit to perfection. He looked so very beautiful, and often I had thought, in those early days; if only I could have just that bit of dog in me. Then I would be truly beautiful, and the women would love me.
Not to be. Only human. Still clinging to the hope of being only human.
"Karli's pretty upset," whispered Dingo.
"She's just a dog."
Oh shit! Silly thing to say!
"I will forgive that slight indiscretion."
"Beetle told me you might know about Brid and the Thing. Where they are."
"Why should I know that?"
"I'm just following the Beetle. What do you know?"
"I know a good record when I hear one. What do you think I know? I'm a pop star, for fuck's sake. And if you don't mind, I have an all-nighter to get to."
"I don't know who to believe."
"I think you should learn some manners when talking to a Dog-star. One who has just saved the life of your friend. A somewhat small life, if I may add."
"You best not be lying, Dingo."
"Ooh! Big. Tough." He gives me his famous smile, the one with all the teeth on show.
Holy shit!
"I would have you for breakfast, dear boy."
I opened the door to Twinkle's bedroom. Tristan was sitting on the bed. In his arms lay Suze, his one love.
Their hair lay all around like a wake.
It was matted.
Blood-matted.
Tristan looked up at my entrance. His eyes were a pair of wet diamonds.
"Can you help me?" he said.
"What's happening?" I asked.
"Suze," he said, was all that he said
Somebody caught a stray bullet.
"Suze got hit?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. It was that simple, that deadly.
"Bad?"
Tristan didn't answer. Instead he reached out his hand towards me, offering a pair of scissors. "I want you to do this," he said.
I looked down at the body of Suze, held there, upon his lap, unbreathing. I wanted my voice to come easy, but my mouth was scorched and the words came out like smoke. "Tristan… do you… is that right?" I didn't know what to say.
"Just cut this for me, will you?!" His eyes were glaring. "Don't keep me waiting!"
"I don't think I can do it, Trist."
"Nobody else will."
Tristan's eyes…
So I took the scissors in my trembling hands. There are only two parts of the body that don't feel pain. One is the hair, the other is the nails. Both are made out of Keratin, a fibrous sulphur-containing protein. It occurs in the outer layer of the skin and in the hair, nails, feathers, hooves, etc. From the Greek keras, meaning horn, meaning that which can be cut without tears.
Let me tell you about that. I have seen the tears at the cutting. Karli slipped through the gap in the left-open door. I had a rope of thick hair in my fingers. It went on forever, between Tristan and Suze, and then back again. That hair was living. Nano germs were calling out for mercy. I swear that they were. I could hear this screaming in my brain. Well then, friends, I guess you never felt anything like this before?
I worked the scissors through a severe angle, slicing the droid-locks. It took some kind of strength to do it, and I was kind of proud. And it took some time. Because the hair was thick and clogged up with debris; spent matches, jewels, hairgrips, dog fur. And that just in three weeks since the last washing. I pocketed one of the hairgrips. Why? A voice told me to do it. Which voice? The one that never stops.
That droid hair was so thick it was like cutting through the night.
Until, eventually, I separated them, Tristan from Suze. Karli the robobitch was licking at the face of the corpse, tying to wake her.
Nothing would wake her.
I'd come down from Pleasureville two, or maybe three o'clock in the afternoon. I'd attended the sickbed of my best and worst friend. I'd cut some hair. Cut two people in half. You know, just one of those days. Now I was tired, so tired and I just wanted to sleep, even though I knew we should be moving on, out of there, because the cops have got your number, Scribble, and you're maybe on a death list. Murdoch's list.
So guess what, Murdoch? You're on mine.
All this added up and I shouldn't even have been thinking about lying down on that couch, fully clothed. My eyes closing, heavy with the world, thinking about how this story started; Mandy coming out of that all-night Vurt-U-Want, dodging dogs and cops.
Christ! I was playing it back already.
I got up suddenly, startling Karli, who was playing with Twinkle. "Fetch me some paper, kidder," I said, whilst searching my pockets for a pen. I had some debris from the trip in there, and I placed them all out on the table top. My birthday card. The Tapewormer feather that Beetle had given me. The fool card. Put that down as well. Took a long stare down at the collection.
My mind was like a stranger.
Twinkle put an old school exercise book down on the table, and then reached for the birthday card. "Aw! Scribb! You got a birthday card! Who's it off. Let's see -"
I caught her with a hard slap to the face.
Shit…
She backed off, holding her cheek, her eyes dribbling.
Oh Christ… shouldn't have done that… what was happening to me…
"Mister Scribble…" Twinkle's voice.
Did my best to ignore what I'd just done, picked up the pen, opened the book, and then scribbled down some words, the first I had written in weeks. And I remember thinking, that if I ever get out of this with body and soul still connected, well then I was going to tell the whole story, and this is how it would start:
Mandy came out of the all-night Vurt-U-Want, clutching a bag of goodies.
Okay, so this is twenty years later, and I'm only just getting round to it.
I closed the book, put down the pen, picked up the birthday cad, read Desdemona's message, put down the card, picked up the feather, and the tarot card. I was moving like some cheap made-in-Taiwan robo.
I went back to the couch, lay down, the feather in one hand, fool's card in the other. Twinkle's voice, "Mister Scribble…"
I didn't look.
"What're you doing?"
"Going in."
I took one last look at the fool's card; the young man stepping it lightly towards the abyss, all his world wrapped up in a shoulder sack, his dog snapping at his heels, trying to stop his fall. I'm getting the picture, dead Suze. Cheers for the card. So you thought that I was a fool? Very well. I'll act like one. I'll be what you wanted, Suze.
"Can I come? Can I?" pleaded Twinkle.
"This is private," I said to her, and then sucked the feather in real deep, down to the shaft. I know my times and my places. And this was a time to get out. Out of that time, out of that place.
The Tapewormer feather was halfway down my throat and I could feel the waves approaching over the music's swelling main theme, intercut with the credits. But then the waves were moving backwards, taking the music with them, so I was getting the fade, and then the hit of each note, and I was in there somewhere, losing the sense of trouble, the sense of now. I was being inverted.
Mandy came out of the all-night Vurt-U-Want, clutching a bag of goodies.
That's fine. It's just that sometimes we want to change things a little. We want things to be better. How they should've been.
That's no crime?
That's just a moment of stupidity. That's all.
I mean who hasn't, at some time, wanted this? To feel the fade before the hit?
I gave the feather one last push and then I was gone, wave deep, swimming the surf back home, as the main theme and the credits dropped away…
Desdemona came out of the all-night Vurt-U-Want, clutching a bag of goodies. There was no trouble, a nice clean pick-up. Des is an expert and we love her for that.
We rode the stash back to the flat, the fearless four of us; Beetle and Bridget, Desdemona and I. The Beetle was up front, the van pilot, Vaz-smeared for extra performance. I was on the left side wheel housing, Brid was on the right. She was fast asleep, so what's new? Desdemona was sitting between us, slightly forward, with the treasure sack in her lap. It was a smooth road.
"What's in the bag, sister?" I asked her.
"Beauties," she replied. "A Yellow." Her voice sent a shiver through me.
Just like…
"Let's have a look," I said.
Desdemona pulled out a feather, a pure and golden flight path.
"Oh wow!"
"What is it, Scribble?" shouted the Beetle, from the pilot's seat. "Did she do good?"
"Oh Christ! Did she!"
"What's she got, Scribb? Ask her for me."
"What you got there, sweet sister?"
She was moving the sun feather in her hands, gazing at it tike the relic of a god.
Which it was.
A sun god.
Light shards thrown off the passing streetlamps, changed to black by the van's mirrored windows, found themselves caught, for a second, upon the feather's one million flights. Then they were reflected, in fractals of gold, bouncing off the sides of the van like ricochets from the sun.
When Desdemona spoke - with her face so pretty in the feather light - her voice was inlaid with gold, and burnished to a fuck-me-please shine.
Just like… just like she's…
"Takshaka Yellow," she said, all quiet like.
There was a suck of breath as we all breathed it in, all those perfumes, those pleasures to come.
"Takshaka?" I said, unbelieving.
"Takshaka fucking Yellow!" screamed the Beetle, letting the wheel slip for a second. I felt the van careen over to the pavement, and then the jolt as it took the curb at speed. For a second or two we were travelling in chaos. Then the Beetle popped a Cortex jammer, and grabbed the wheel like a murderer his gun. So we were back on the track, the road, the King's highway, with a vengeance.
"Beetle! You shouldn't be doing that!"
"Tell me why, little man?!" he screamed. And then; "Awooooooh!!!!! Let's rock!" And he drove that van into a let's all go out in a blaze of yellow glory.
"Because this is supposed to be perfect, Bee," I answered. "That's why."
"Fuck perfect! Let's ride this sucker!"
Bridget was still fast in sleep. Desdemona was foreplaying the feather, getting it on strong.
"This is my trip, Beetle!" I said. "Let me ride it."
Why was I saying this? It wasn't just me. I wanted the group with me.
"Nobody goes alone, Scribb," he replied. "Nobody goes in alone."
"This is private!"
This is private?
I was getting voices. Outside voices. Where the fuck were they from? And in my hands I found a pasteboard card, the image of a young man, a sack of things on his shoulder, a barking dog at his heels, the edge of a cliff beckoning.
Where did I get that from?
"This is beautiful," whispered Desdemona. Takshaka Yellow. The marinade of God." Her voice was saffron-rich. "You read the Cat on this one, Scribb?"
"Kind of," I answered
"Utanka was a young student…" Desdemona started.
"What's she saying, Scribb?" shouted the Beetle. "I can't hear her properly!"
"She's telling us a story, Bee."
"Woh! What story?!"
"Story of Takshaka."
"Woh! Keep telling it!" the Beetle screamed, jamming that van through the Curry Paths. All the scents of India assailed us, as we rode that jasmine chute. Desdemona was talking with a saffron tongue, and I wanted to kiss my sister's voice, because it was so very beautiful. She told us the story of young Utanka, the Asian student. He travelled into the realm of snakes in order to steal back the earrings of the queen. The king of England had forged these jewels out of the most precious ore, as a birthday gift to his beautiful wife. Utanka had been given the task of carrying the earrings to the queen. Unfortunately, upon the way to the royal bedchamber, the earrings were stolen by Takshaka, the king of the snakes, who was as long as a river, a violet and green river. His bite was deadly to human flesh, carrying poisonous dreams along the veins until the mind was polluted with violence.
Takshaka carried the jewels down into his kingdom, the world of the Nagas, the dreamsnakes.
"What happens next, Des?" I asked her.
"Your mission, Scribble Utanka, should you wish to accept it, is to journey through into the jasmine valley of the dreamsnakes, armed only with a ball hammer, some snakeweed juice, and a forked branch, and to retrieve those earrings. Do you accept this task, oh great warrior, Scribble Utanka?"
"I'm not sure…"
The rest of the Riders were laughing by now, but I was taking it straight.
"Just do it, brother," said Desdemona.
"I don't think I can," I replied. "The Cat says that you can die in a Yellow… for real."
Then she leaned over to kiss me.
Sister kissed me and I felt some petals falling on me, inside the van, falling, falling, inside my head, from some unimagined Vurt.
Flowers were falling.
Jasmine flowers were falling, as I sipped at God's juices, riding this chariot towards Takshaka, with the best set of lips in town locked tight to mine, her tongue going in, like a feather it was. That good.
Don't let me lose her.
What?
What did I just think?
"Let's ride this beauty," chanted the Beetle, so I didn't get a chance to question my doubts. We rolled the beauty into port, a Rusholme Garden port, behind the flats, each of us listening to the rust deposits settling, for a few moments, as we contemplated the pleasures to come, the saffron-drenched pleasures.
Rust was falling.
Drenched pleasures. These would be mine tonight, in all of their various guises.
Beetle broke the mood, "Let's do it! Inside!" he shouted, snatching the feather out of Desdemona's hand. "Let's do it! Let's do the Yellow! Come on!"
We made an easy, snakeless flight up the stairways, into the pad, which welcomed us with a show of lights. Now Brid was slumped on the settee, slow-gazing at a three week old copy of the Game Cat. Beetle was standing by the window, stroking the saffron feather. He charged up the flights real good with Vaz, and then he fed it to our mouths, each of our mouths in turn, finishing with his own last of all.
I felt the opening credits roll and then the pad went morphic and my last thought was; this is beautiful and I want more of it, I want it forever. Then the Yellow kicked in…
The fearless famous four of us are swimming in this lake of spices, getting ourselves marinaded, getting ourselves painted in yellow.
It surely is the sweetest colour. It was giving us flavours, flavours of the feast to come. Things we'd never tasted.
The living room was amber lit, with flowers of gold falling off the wallpaper, so many thousands of them that they made a carpet of petals on the floor. There was a hole in the carpet. And although we all knew that falling through a yellow door was bad, still we fell through it anyway. !!!!!WARNING!!!!!
Shit! What was that?
I was walking through a palace of gold, my three companions at my side. In my hands, a ball hammer drenched in snakeweed, only known antidote to the dreamsnake bite. The other three were loaded up the same, and we were warriors in, bad world, and I felt full up of hunger and blood.
Everything was shining yellow, shining with the smell of saffron, in the world of the Nagas.
Game Cat tells us that the Nagas are a fabulous race of snakes. They are powerful and dangerous and usually appear in the form of ordinary snakes, but sometimes as mythic giants, long twisting forms of violet and green. Sometimes they turn into human shapes, just to fool us. The king of the Nagas is called Takshaka. Sometimes the Nagas get caught in the human world, and this makes them very angry, because they cannot stand the light of our world. We call these exiles the dreamsnakes. !!!!!WARNING!!!!!
What was that? I was getting voices. Maybe I was getting the Haunting?
Please, my Lord, don't let this be a Vurt. Let this pleasure be real.
Having entered the limitless world of the dreaming snakes, we found it to be full of admirable establishments for games, both large and small, and crowded with hundreds of porticoes, turrets, palaces, and temples.
All this beauty; not a snake to be seen. Only their soft slitherings in the yellow shadows, invisible. My left ankle was tingling, like it had a message for me, a message I had long since forgotten.
WARNING. YOU ARE NOW INSIDE A METAVURT.
"Did you hear that? Anyone?" I asked.
"Hear what?" said Desdemona.
"That voice."
"Heard nothing."
"Come on, you two," said the Beetle. "Less of the billy-cooing. Let's hammer some snakes!"
We stalked that gilded world, with our weapons of steel and weed, and our fear and our sweat. Bridget started to sing her song, a tingling hymn of praise to the unseen Naga snakes. They were smothered in pride by the song from Brid's lips. But they would not return the earrings, and the snakes remained in the shadows, entwining.
A jasmine powder was dropping on us, from the palace's ceiling, but I was getting voices…
WARNING! YOU ARE NOW IN A METAVURT, RUNG TWO. THIS IS EXTREMELY UNWISE, AND SHOULD BE VACATED FORTHWITH. THANK YOU. THIS HAS BEEN A PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING.
"You heard that," I said. "Didn't you?"
"What's up, love?" asked Des.
"That voice! Listen to it! Can't you hear it! We're in a Metavurt!"
"Don't be silly now."
And as she said it, she held my hand in her own. Her fingers were soft and long, with sharpened nails, that dug in, just slightly, just enough.
"Okay, lovebirds. Enough words," announced the Beetle. "Here come the fuckers!"
And the snakes came, unravelling from the shadows, from the golden shadows, all violets and greens, giving a shine to the world, a poisonous shine. They were coming in hundreds, but so tightly knotted, it would take more than a human span to count them.
I tried to run. I think I tried to run.
But something held me back; this could only be perfect.
Takshaka the King rose up, his great head all mutilated and bleeding. He seemed to be made out of smoke, not flesh, a snake of smoke.
YOU ARE REALLY GETTING ON MY WICK! PLEASE VACATE THIS META-LEVEL IMMEDIATELY.
Beetle let loose the first blow, swinging his ball hammer down in a hard graph, the muscles in his arms standing out like plague swellings. The head of a young snake caught the blow, and then cracked open, so that the weed could get through, dripping sap into the system, until the snake split apart, and there was snake juice everywhere, all over the warriors. But it looked so good, that splatter, we all just had to join in, bringing hammers down on the heads of snakes, dodging the fangs, revelling in the juice that was pouring over us, like a marinade of rain.
We hit that first line of snakes like a flesh hammer, and it all seemed so easy, so very easy for a Yellow, so maybe Yellows aren't all they're cracked up to be. Or maybe I was dreaming all this. Maybe I getting the Haunting again, seeing the dirt through the glass.
No matter.
Some dreamsnakes died that night, let me tell you.
Of course we did well, we did good, we did it like warriors, like heroes. We didn't get Takshaka, King Snake, but we hammered some bad fucker cronies. And we got those earrings back, and delivered.
The Beetle was draped all over with snakeskin, layers of it, stuff he had flayed with his own hands. He had a snakehead pinned to his jacket, a personal souvenir of the victory.
"That was some theatre, Des!" he said. "Thanks for finding it."
"No trouble, Bee," my sister answered.
We were all slumped out; Brid fast asleep on the couch, me in my favourite armchair, Desdemona on the rug by the fire. Only the Beetle was lively; he was pacing the room like a jammed-up panther, looking for something to eat.
"I feel like squeezing the juice some more," he said. "Come on, Bridget. Time for bed." She rose up to follow him, and the door closed behind them with a soft sound.
Desdemona and I, all alone then, against the world.
"You wanna go to bed?" I asked her, copying Beetle.
"Yes please," she answered. And my pulse sang.
This is just like she's never been away.
We fell into each other's arms, under the sheets, with a warm breath blowing from the open windows, like an English balm.
Just like she's never…
And afterwards - as we lay stomach to back, my right hand on her breasts, my left scrunched up against her neck, my right leg draped over her legs, my left tucked up neat against her thighs, her breathing moving to mine like a twin clock - a man came into our room.
Desdemona was fast asleep, and so was I, but I could feel him there, in the darkened air, like a taste on the mouth long after the feast has gone.
"Young man," the ghost said. "I am most disappointed in your conduct."
My eyes wouldn't open; I was locked in fear.
"No doubt you have an excuse," the darkness said.
"Desdemona…" I asked. Or tried to ask. Or thought that I might have asked. Or didn't ask. No matter, Desdemona just slept right on through anyway.
"Open your eyes, young man, when you're looking at me."
Something made me do it, some outside force.
My father was looking down at me, from the foot of the bed.
Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh Christ!
I couldn't seem to move. Why can't I move?
Stay calm. Can't be. Can't be.
Not my father. Just some older man.
Father wouldn't have just stood there watching his children in bed. No. He would have pounded me. Not out of any common decency, no, but out of jealousy; having bedded his daughter a few times anyway, along with all the cuttings to her - "Be careful," the man said.
I knew that voice.
I was sitting upright now, the sheets caught up around me. Desdemona stirred beside me, but did not awake.
"Who are you?"
"Be careful. Be very, very careful."
"Game Cat?"
"Indeed. You remember me."
"I've never seen you before."
"Why, we met only this morning. At a rather sleazy affair I'm afraid."
"Leave me alone."
I was coming down from the fear by now, and getting pictures; me standing on the balcony, looking down; the man standing beside me No! I wasn't having that! This morning I was sleeping next to Desdemona, this very bed.
"You know that Tapewormer is a young boy's feather?"
"Tapewormer?"
"Presumably you have heard of it?"
"Of course, it's a -"
"You're in it now."
"No. This is -"
"Young man, you are in the Vurt. Listen to me. This is the Game Cat speaking. When am I ever wrong?"
I looked over at Desdemona. She was peaceful. She was there. "Cat! Tell me I'm not in Vurt," I pleaded.
The Cat just smiled.
"Please! I'm not on Vurt. Please! This is for real."
"Don't fight it, kittling. You just did a Yellow. You just did Takshaka. Think about it."
"So?"
"That was a Tapewormer Yellow. Has to be. You'd be dead otherwise. Yellows do not come that easy."
"Please!" I was hugging Desdemona in her deep sleep. "I don't know what you're talking about! You're not talking about me! Desdemona is here! She's here!"
"Did you not get the voices?"
"I…"
"You know that you did. Inside Takshaka. The voices warning you about going Meta. That was the Sniffing General speaking."
"Who?"
"The General's in charge of the layers. You made him very, very angry. You heard him, didn't you?"
"Yes. But -"
"And the others - the Stash Riders, is it? How very quaint - they didn't hear the voice. I wonder why?"
"Because they…" But I was feeling it bad.
"Because you are indulging in Tapewormer. Alone. The others are just figments. Nothing is real."
I couldn't take it any more. I was trying to get up, struggling with the wet sheets. "Get out of my house!" I screamed, but the Cat just laughed. He pushed me back easily, with one finger. I collapsed back onto the bed, beside Des. She still hadn't woken, and I suppose I should have seen it by now.
The Game Cat was looking down at me. His face had turned cold.
"You ever heard of Curious Yellow?" he asked.
"What? No… I… vaguely…"
"It means nothing to you?"
"Isn't it some high-level Vurt. A yellow feather? Why? Should it mean something?"
The Cat sighed, wearily. "Let me tell you about Curious Yellow. It's a sucker fuck, my kittling. A testing ground, if you like. A rites of passage game. It's painful. We are at this moment inside Tapewormer. It's makes the past beautiful. It takes out all the bad stuff. Exaggerates the good. Curious Yellow is the exact opposite. It makes the past into a nightmare, and then strands you there, with no hope of release. Only knowledge will get you out. Listen, I've been there. It takes all you've got."
"So?"
That's where your sister is. Curious Yellow. Trapped there. Suffering. Dying. And you, young man, are spending your time in wanker feathers like this one, making believe that she is safe. That disgusts me."
This speech had finished me. It felt like I was being told some ultimate truth; I knew it to be true. And yet it went against the world I was living in.
Maybe I just wanted to deny it.
"Am I getting through?" the Cat said.
"You're confusing me."
"I had to do this, Scribble. Tapewormer is not the way. I need you out there."
"Where?"
"The real world. You'll be pulling out soon. And when you do… all this will make sense. I have something to ask of you. Will you look after my brother for me? No, don't protest. His name is Tristan. In this version of the world you never meet, but in reality you do. We are… well… we're not very close. Not these days. He has just suffered a great, great loss. I would like to offer some condolences… alas, it is not to be. He needs help, Scribble. Would you do this for me? No, no, don't say anything. Just remember these words. Consider this a dream - it may be easier that way - and that soon you will awake. Do you understand?" "Almost."
"Good. Let Sirius guide you."
Game Cat reached inside his jacket and pulled out a feather. It was a silver feather. "Do you have anything to give me?" he asked.
I shook my head. The feather was holding me, the way the lights were dancing in it.
"That card will do." He was looking over at our bedside table. The strange card was lying there, the one with the fool and the dog. "Give me that."
I gave it to him and he placed the feather in my hands. It rested in my palm like a sliver of the moon.
"Do you know what it is?"
"It's a Silver. An Operator feather. I…"
"I know. It gets to you, doesn't it?"
"Never seen one before. It's very beautiful."
"It's name is Sniffing General. The General is a Doorgod. Perhaps one of the most powerful. Be very careful, when dealing with him. You may find need of him one day."
"Where did you get it?"
"Hobart gave it to me."
I was so shocked, I almost dropped the Silver.
"You've met Hobart?!"
"Sniffing General is Hobart's servant."
Everybody knew about Hobart, but nobody knew anything. Just the hundreds of rumours that surrounded the name: Hobart invented Vurt. Hobart is alive, Hobart is dead. Hobart is a man, a woman, a child, an alien. Some have called her Queen Hobart, and they have worshipped her. To others Hobart is a dream or a myth, or just a good story that somebody made up, so good that it stuck around, became truth. Nobody knew anything.
"What is Hobart, Cat?" I asked. But his eyes were far away, his mouth set into a tight line.
"Some Viper is coming in the system, Scribble. I'm getting it. Bad messages. I really don't need this, young man. This is your fuck up! This is what you get when you go Meta. We're getting some leakage from Takshaka Yellow. May I advise a jerkout?"
"Wait! Game Cat! What's happening?"
"It's all yours, Scribble. It's your show."
There was a noise coming from beyond the door.
"Game Cat!!!"
He'd vanished.
Oh Christ! What was that?
There was a light shining under the bedroom door, and I knew that I'd turned all the lights out before following Desdemona to bed. It was a green and violet light, and I could smell saffron in the air as drifts of smoke found their way in through cracks.
I turned to wake Desdemona.
She had slipped away from me, unseen.
I was alone. Everything was slipping away; the room, the world, the love.
I was in a Vurt, haunted.
That terrible sadness.
Takshaka exploded through the door, a great rush of colours and mists, writhing around the room, even as the room started to fade and I was pulling out…
Come on! Do it!
Couldn't find the way out.
King Snake wove his long body around the room, almost like he was showing off. His head was three feet across, with a cruel mouth split by two spear-like fangs. There was a knowing look in his unblinking eyes, like he was laughing at me. And something else there; something that stirred a bad memory for me; I knew that look! From the real world - Come on, you bastard! Let me out of here!
I was working the jerkout switch but getting nowhere, stuck between worlds, knowing in my mind exactly what I was, even whilst my body clung to the Vurt.
And somebody calling my name…
Takshaka opened his mouth wide to show off the bloated poison sac at the back of his throat.
"Scribble!" That voice.
Help me. Voice, help me. Takshaka closed his mouth slightly until I could see his eyes again and catch the look that was there - Shadowcop!
"Scribble! Come out! Please!" The voice calling to me. Twinkle's voice!
King of the Snakes soaring down at me - Do it now, do the jerkout! Do it!
"Scriiiii - Intense wrenching somewhere in the body and I was - - iiiiiible!"
– falling onto the settee as though from miles away.
Shaking, shaking. Twinkle was shaking me. "Scribble? Stop it!"
"What? Huh! Christ! Hurts -"
"I've got you now. Calm down!" Twinkle holding me tight as I held on to the real world, like it was my mother, holding me back from the dream.
Tapewormer.
It was all just Tapewormer. All the kisses and caresses of Desdemona, they were all just false dreams, a poor boy's dreams.
Desdemona was still captured and this was reality.
I was stretched out full length on an old settee, in a rented room in Whalley Range, and Karli the robobitch was licking my face, and Twinkle was bending over me. "Are you alright, Mister Scribble?" she asked.
Couldn't answer. Didn't know if I was or not.
She forced something into my hands. "It's from the Beetle. He can't use it any more. Not with his bad arm."
I bought my hand up to my face. The Beetle's gun in my hand.
"He says to tell you… happy birthday."
Beetle had given me this?
"And from me," Twinkle said, slowly, like it was hard work. And then I remembered hitting her.
"I'm sorry for hitting you, Twink. Stuff was getting to me."
"I can see that." And she could. Girl was growing.
I weighted the gun in my palm, feeling its power. Opened it up, saw three bullets left there. Mine to use. This time, I won't drop you in panic or fear.
In my other hand, a silver feather lay waiting. Sniffing General. Doorgod. Key to the Cat.
"Scribble! You brought back a Silver!" cried Twinkle. "Well done!"
Well done?
Well then… yes… well done, well fucking done! I was coming through!
It's all yours, Scribble. It's your show. Let Sirius guide you. And I knew exactly what he meant. The dog star.
I'm coming after you, all my lost ones.