Midnight. Closedown. Stepping out of the house, locking the door behind me. Alone. The streets of Whalley Range shimmering to a dark haze. Some few streetlamps still functioning, most of them long dead. The warm clammy air hung like a Sunday's curse over the town, full up with the smell of rain. It sure was building up to a comedown. This was going to be the longest Sunday of my life.
Let's do it!
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a tube of Vaz, looking up and down the street, searching out a potential victim. I saw one some twelve cars away, a nice bright Ford Transit, parked half on, half off the pavement. I started to walk towards it, thinking; come on you bastard, you Game Cat, give me some knowledge! Let me know how it feels! I was seeking out a Vurt along the way, something to jump into, featherless.
If I could just manage it…
By the second car along I was trying for Crash Master. Did no good. Couldn't reach it. Too high to reach, too black. By the fourth car I was trying for Jumpstarter. No use. Too far to go.
Shit to fuck! What was I doing?
I didn't have a license, or anything. Beetle had given me some lessons, during which he'd cursed like a demon, grabbing at the wheel, and here I was, hoping to pull a Taking Without Owner's Consent.
I drew up close to the Transit.
I put my hand on the door handle and called up Baby Racer. Baby Racer was a real low-down theatre, a learner's Vurt. Should've gotten right on in there.
Easy.
Left ankle was twitching. Felt like the wound down there, seemed like miles away, maybe it was opening, and I could feel the Vurt in my veins, the blood in waves, chopping, just inches away from my fingertips.
Couldn't reach it. Tried hard. Just couldn't.
The waves were going out, back to the sea. I was left up dry, human dry, with a beautiful blue and white Transit sitting right there on the curb and nothing to show for it. Felt like the rain should start, and right now, and on me, just on me.
That bad.
We had to carry the Beetle down the stairs, just like the old alien days, me on one end, Mandy on the other. Mandy was on the feet. I kept dropping him of course, or so Mandy kept telling me.
"What are you on, Scribble?" she asked.
"I'm on the head," I answered. "What are you on?"
"Very funny."
"Yeah. Fucking hilarious!" shouted the Beetle. "Just get me down easy."
Behind us were Twinkle and Karli. Behind them Tristan, carrying the body of Suze, her long strands of hair falling free at last, from the lover's knot. He had some bad things in his brain, you could see them moving, just behind the eyes. I had to turn away from it, back to where the Beetle was making a sad call, "Keep a fucking grip, you two! I am the wounded warrior and I deserve your respect."
"Beetle, actually I think you can walk now."
"The fuck I can walk! I'm a registered invalid."
"It's your shoulder, Bee…" I said, dropping him.
"Youch!"
"… not your knees."
Beetle's head was resting awkwardly between two steps. "Actually, Scribb darling," he said, looking up at me, with the light of his face falling into shadow. "I'm feeling pretty bad. Something's happening. My shoulder… shit…"
When I looked down into those black eyes, it felt just like the old feeling, like I was being dragged into the darkness by him.
"You got a car for us, didn't you, Scribble?" he drawled out, on a whisper of breath.
"Yeah. Sure," I lied. "Got a beauty."
Just that I couldn't get inside it, couldn't start it up, couldn't drive it. Apart from that… the world is rosy.
I looked over to Tristan. Maybe I could ask him to drive? Then I saw the weight he was carrying, the weight of lost love, and I gave him the miss on that.
"Carry me, carry me," sang the Beetle. So we carried him. Those last few steps, and then out the door, into the hot streets. The van was there, ten cars away, just waiting.
"I can't see no van, Scribb," said the Beetle. We had laid him out on the pavement, and the rest of the group were standing around, all of them looking at me. As though I was the warrior. Shit, man, maybe I just can't handle this.
"You got somewhere for the Suze to lie?" asked Tristan. His face was dripping sweat in the night, from the weight, from the tenderness.
"I got somewhere."
"He ain't got fuck all!" hissed the Beetle. "Babe is a failure! I'll tell you something, Tristan. Kid sure ain't no Stash Rider."
"Well fuck you, Bee!" I answered back.
"Who's in charge around here?" he asked.
"I am."
With that I took off up the street, towards the van.
"Oh good," I could hear him calling after me. "I'm glad somebody is."
His words were stinging me as I moved through the waves of heat. My shadow was gathered by one streetlamp, and passed on into the burnt out darkness of another.
I was full up with hate. Hate for the Bee. Hate for the job. Hate for the loss and the failure. Hate for failing Desdemona, and Bridget, and the Thing, and all the others that were waiting, those that I had yet to fail, but would surely do so, when the crack came around.
That was when I felt it. The flash. Sudden image. Me riding in a stolen Merc, doing a wheel twist around a corner, not giving a shit, putting deliberate dents in the posh parked cars.
I was in Baby Racer.
I was right on in there! Driving!
Totally feathered up, living on the dub side.
The hatred had fired me, jump-started me.
I Vazzed open the van hood, disconnected the alarm system. How the fuck did I do that? Cut one wire, spliced it to another, poured some Vaz from the tube into the door lock, slipped into the van. I reached into my pocket for the hairgrip of Suze's, dipped it in the Vaz, fed it to the starter. It worked smoothly and suddenly I was in control, full up on knowledge, shifting those pedals like a young kid on a bad estate. Felt like bliss as I turned the wheel, steering the van out of the gap, no scratches, driving back to the team on a smear of Vaz, my head singing with it.
I opened up the back door, the same smooth way, and Twinkle and the dog were the first on board, first cargo. I lodged Beetle's head on the floor rim, then stepped into the back myself helping to pull his limp shape inside, Mandy steering the rudder of his legs. She climbed in after him. Beetle made some noises during all this, but I had the shades down. I was climbing back out when Mandy called me over. "Scribble? The Beetle…"
"What is it?" I asked.
"His wound. Look…" The worms were glowing there, and turning into colours. All the colours you could name. "What's happening to him?" Mandy asked.
"Never mind the Beetle just now. You know we've got some work to do."
In other words… I just didn't know.
"What's wrong with you people?" cried the Beetle. "I'm feeling top notch! I'm on the case! Just a little pain, is all!"
I climbed back out of the van, to where Tristan was waiting, Suze in his arms.
"How you doing, Tristan?" I asked.
He just turned those steel-driven eyes onto me, and I saw the answer there. A bad answer.
"We're doing it, okay?" I told him.
He kept staring.
"You know what she wants," I said.
He nodded.
We worked her gentle body into the van; it was like some kind of ceremony. Tristan followed her, stepping high, but sluggish. They were all in.
Good.
First phase over.
I closed one door, reached for the other. "Keep the faith." That's what I said, don't know why, just said it
Keep the faith.
I closed the darkness on them and walked around to the driver's door. I climbed in the cab. Reached up, for the Vurt. Come on down. Felt it coming down, the flood of knowledge, Baby Racer knowledge. My hands were turning the hairgrip key, working the clutch, feet on the pedals, wishing for a start.
Vurt came flooding down.
"Yahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" My voice screaming.
Baby Racer.
The engine caught. Gunned it.
"Be careful, Scribb," called Twinkle from the back, trying out her best Game Cat impression. Sounded nothing like him, but never mind that.
Be careful. Be very, very careful.
"Fuck careful!" I shouted, driving.
Driving!
My hands were instruments of Vurt.
I parked the van some few feet away from the original space, where the old van, the Stashmobile, had found her last resting place. Heavy tires crunching glass as we came to rest
I heard the back door opening.
Seconds later Tristan appeared at my window. I wound it down, letting his sad-eyed face come close. "I'm gonna sort some things out," he said.
"Yeah. Sure," I replied. "You alright?"
"I'm fine. Fine."
"You don't look it man."
"Just keep looking after Suze."
"It's done."
Then he was away, striding out, into the darkness. I watched him disappear into the stairwell. A kind of loneliness closed in, all around me.
I switched off the engine. The Vurt dropped away to a whisper, but still there, on the edge, just waiting.
I could hear the whimpering of Karli Dog. Maybe she was licking the wounds of Suze. The dead wounds.
I didn't look back. Couldn't afford to.
All around, the shimmering dark towers of Bottletown were calling to me.
"Can I get out the van, Mister Scribble?" asked Twinkle, from the darkness.
"No. No, stay in the van,"
I heard Mandy bringing some comfort to the youngster.
Through the windscreen I watched Bottletown going to bed. Light by light. All along the crescents lights were going out, one by one. Seemed like some kind of mystic code was being played out there, on the high-rises, until only the fat moon was left glistening.
"Are we doing anything, Scribble?" asked the Beetle, from the back.
"Sure, Bee," I answered. "We're doing the daily crossword. Now everybody shut the fuck up."
Everybody shut the fuck up. Even the Beetle.
We were waiting on something, each of us, in the moments before the rain.
Tristan had been gone half an hour.
What the fuck was he doing up there?
The first wet spots hit the screen. Big hot coins of it, splattering the glass.
"Where is he?" asked Mandy.
"He's coming," I answered. "Stay cool, gang."
Not believing a word.
I could see shadows moving, along the lines of glass.
"What the fuck's going on, man?!" screamed the Beetle. "What the fuck is going on out there?"
"I'm in control, Beetle."
"Well fucking show it, man! I'm getting impatient. And my fucking shoulder is killing me!"
"The dogs looked after you."
"It's worse than that."
Didn't know what to say.
The rain was falling hard now. I stepped out of the van, away from the voices, and the rain felt so good against my skin, I just wanted to shout out loud.
Tristan had been gone three quarters of an hour.
I walked over to where the first van had been fired.
The ground was well crushed with glass.
I was looking for clues, but could find none. Just a spill of oil on the tarmac, capturing rainbows.
But that was ages ago, the fire, and surely this fresh oil slick was from some other vehicle, some more recent crash, and anyway, maybe the Brid and the Thing were dead already, and I was just playing a pair of deuces. Maybe that's all I ever get to play in this hand?
Tufts of dog fur were caught on the shards of glass, and something had painted the words Das Uberdog on the pavement.
My feet were getting cut.
My ankle was aching again, so I rolled up my jean leg to see the wound dripping, like those tiny holes were reopening.
Tristan still wasn't back yet.
I could hear Beetle crying out in pain from the back of the van, but I just paid him no mind. Shades down. Other problems.
The black rain was dripping from my eyelids, into my line of sight, forming a beaded curtain. I hear a noise over to my right and I turn to see a man walking towards me. At first I think he's a bad guy, he looks that mean. Then I see the dogs coming, two of them, leashed to one of his hands. Over one shoulder he carries a shotgun, over the other a canvas bag. In his other hand a spade. And as the stranger approaches other details fall into place: the smears of paint on his face, in stripes: the look in his eyes, a look of pure momentum, like an animal.
He takes those last few steps, the ones that bring us near to each other, the difficult steps. I see then his bald head shining in the moonlight, jabs of colour here and there, bits of blood it looks like. "Tristan?" I ask. "That you?"
The stranger doesn't answer me.
"What you done, man? Where's the hair?"
"Shaved it."
The two dogs were straining to be set free, howling towards the moon, feeling their blood pulled in waves by its gravity.
That's drastic action," I say. "I guess you needed to do that?"
Tristan's not looking at the moon. He's not looking at the stars, or at the flats, or at the van. Tristan's looking at me. I'm his sole intention.
"You know what I want, Scribble," he says.
Yeah. What we all want A glass of Fetish. Clean drugs. Good friends. A hot partner. All that.
Something more.
A squaring of the tides.
Sneak preview. I'm getting word of a new theatre. Hasn't got a name yet. Working title is Bootleg Dreams. I've met the hero figure. His name is Scratch, and he tells a well wicked story. The names have been changed, to protect the guilty. This is how it starts: Wendy comes out of the all-night Vurt-U-Want, clutching a bag of goodies. You're a member of this gang of young hip malcontents. They call themselves the CRASH DRIVERS, so that's what I'm calling this new feather trip. The hero's name is Scratch, and this is one yellow shining journey. Golden yellow. Boy, have you got problems! First off your sister, Shona, has been caught in Metaland, swapped for a lump of lard alien. Your job is to get this Shona back to base Earth. Of course that's virtually impossible; nobody's managed it before. Still you can't stop trying anyway, because of the deep love. Then there's the fact that the evil shecop Moloch is after you. For putting scratches in her face, no less. Your best friend, The Weevil, isn't helping, with his constant desire for the gutter. He wants to drag you right down next to him, keep you there, in the dirtiness. It's a hard life, and most probably you're going to die in this crazy Yellow. Be very, very careful. This ride is not for the weak. It's a psycho. A bit like real life.
Well maybe not quite that bad.
Some bad things buried out on the moors. Some good things as well, some innocent things. Some things that didn't want to get buried. Some that did. Some that got buried by accident, by snowfall or rockfall or soil slippage. Some that buried themselves, wanting the darkness to fall over their all-seeing eyes.
Plenty get buried there, out on the moors. It's where you go, when you come from Manchester, and you want to bury, get buried, or be buried.
On the way through the night, we talked about the wound. The way it was turning, spiralling out from its point of entry, coming in colours like a rainbow, crumbling at the edges in paisley shapes.
"I'm on a spree!" said the Beetle. "Stop complaining."
"It's not getting better, Bee," I heard Mandy say back, but some change was coming over the man, and it was making him ramble.
"I don't want it to get better!" he shouted. "I like it like this. Hey, Scribb! You seen my new colours?"
"Sure, Bee. Looking good."
I had to chance random glances now and then, along some straight path of road. And then back to the wheel.
The air outside was dark pitch, flittering with passing shapes, like grey ghosts; trees, houses, signals. And it was a good job I was feathered up to the Racer, because that meant that somebody else was holding the van, some expert, some young kid expert.
At least the rain had stopped. Stopped some time in the night, leaving the roads wet, slippery.
I took another glance back, and the colours were glowing, spreading out from Beetle's shoulder, taking charge of him, reaching almost to his elbow on one side, to the back of his neck on the other. Mandy was cradling his head in her palms. The dark air of the van suffused into a soft aura around his body.
I turned back to the road and the driving.
Didn't really know where we were going, just knew we were getting there.
Baby Racer.
"I do think it's bad, Bee," Tristan was saying. "Extremely."
"Shit! Don't scare me, man," Beetle replied. "It feels good. The pain's drifting away. You get that, Trist? No fucking pain! Listen to me!"
We were listening.
"You know what that means?" said Tristan, quietly, almost like he didn't want the Beetle to hear.
I was waiting for the Beetle's reply.
Took an age to come, and it was quiet, like the shadow of a voice, "Not me… I'm pure… tell me I'm pure…" You could feel the hurt in there, as the Beetle's mind played against the wound, but I didn't look back. No way. Just kept my eyes blacked out to everything but the road ahead, losing myself in the darkness and the Vurt and the driving.
Please, somebody, take me away from this. Give me a straight road, a well-lit road, a sign-posted road, anything but this wounded road.
Tristan pushed through the gap, and settled into the passenger seat. He had the shotgun in his lap and the bag over his shoulder, and he was holding on to both of them real tight, like he was scared of losing them. From the back I could hear the dogs whimpering over the dead Suze.
We let some darkness pass, out beyond the lamps now, deep country.
"It's a Mandel Bullet," he whispered, keeping it secret.
"I was trying not to think that," I replied.
"Murdoch's got him."
Jesus! Does it have to be like this?
"No one escapes it," Tristan said. "Once bitten, that worm just keeps on growing, spreading, multiplying. You can't stop it. No way. He's going fractal." Sounded final, like an official result in Vurtball, beamed in from the judge's bench. "It's a slow death," Tristan added.
"Don't say that," I whispered back "Please. Don't say that."
No use. Just no use.
I was driving through the night, listening to Beetle's laughter, as the worm took over.
"There's no antidote, Scribb," said Tristan.
No answer. No antidote.
Beetle was doomed.
I guess he knew that anyway, being the Beetle, being au fait with everything. That's the twister; you might know all the details of Mandel bullets, still didn't stop you enjoying the trip as they killed you. Mandel Bullets were designed to take advantage of the near miss, the wounding shot. If at first you don't succeed, put a parasite in there. Let that parasite suck the last remnants of life away, crumbling the skin into fragments. Each bullet contained a fractal virus. It takes maybe five seconds for the program to unload, direct to the cell walls. With twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most, the entire metabolism has been taken over. You're dead. And how. The deepest cut was that those last twenty-four hours of your life were going to be the best you'd ever lived, as the fractals lit up like a rainbow, giving you visions of glory, and that was why the Beetle was singing now, his mind taken over, singing the praises of life.
Even in the midst of death, singing praises…
"You've been talking to my brother," Tristan said, calling me down from my thoughts. I took my eyes off the road for a second. Baby Racer kept his eyes there for me.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I saw you there, at the Slithy Tove."
The Game Cat? You saw him?"
"Oh yes. I can see him. When Geoffrey wants me to see, that is."
"Geoffrey?"
"Yeah. His real name. The Cat's best kept secret. Call him Geoffrey next time. He'll most probably kill you." I could hear Tristan laughing as I clenched my hands around the wheel rim, driving on air, dark air. "Did he mention that I was his brother?"
"Yes. I didn't believe it at first. But I've seen him since, in the Tapewormer."
"What did you talk about?"
"He said that he felt for you. That he -"
Tristan exploded. "That man should stay out of my life!" His voice was driven by fire. "That fucker only brings grief!"
"Sure, sure… whatever, Trist…" I said, cooling it down some.
We drove forward in silence for a few minutes.
"You want to talk?" I asked. Tristan turned his face to the side window, watching the black fields go by. "About how come you lost each other?"
When he spoke, it was coming from the depths, and he couldn't stand to look at me. "He went too far."
"What's that mean?"
"He went too far for me. So far, I couldn't follow. You got that?"
"I got it."
Got nothing at all. Except that Tristan wanted to talk about Game Cat, about Beetle, anything to stop the thoughts of Suze.
The lost love.
"You've got some dog in you, haven't you?" I said.
"Just a trace. Enough to know."
"You ever made love to one?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"You ever made love to a dog, Trist?" I asked.
"Years ago," he answered. "But then I found the Suze, and nothing else came near."
I knew that feeling.
Then he went all quiet on me, as he lit up a Haze joint, wreathing himself in honey smoke. Then he said this to me, "Suze was expecting."
At first I thought he was saying that Suze expected to die, but then I got the real story. "Christ! Trist!" I said. "A baby? You had a baby on the way?"
"Listen to me," he stated. "I'm alive for one thing."
"You're going after Murdoch?"
"I don't have to, Scribble. She's coming after you."
"What's in the bag, Trist?"
"My hair."
Figures.
"You got bit by a snake, yeah?" he asked.
"I got bit."
"So you got some Vurt in you?"
"So they say."
"Geoffrey told you?"
"The Cat says lots of things," I answered. "I don't know how much to believe."
"Believe everything. He's been all the way."
"Meaning?"
"Geoffrey took a bite too. From a snake."
"He's got some heavy Vurt in him, no argument."
"Wasn't just any ordinary snake bit him."
"No?"
"Not at all."
"Tell me about it."
Tristan turned back to the window, so I let the van drift on easy, secure in Baby Racer's arms. A night bird flew across the headlights; a sudden vision of life, moving on black wings. "It happened years ago," Tristan said, his voice coming on like a slow recording. "When we were both young, me younger than him, but both of us hooked on the feathers. Couldn't stop taking them. You know that now I'm totally opposed to it, but there's a reason for that."
"Geoffrey's the reason?"
"He was into it more than I was. But I was looking up to him so much, I couldn't stop following. He would go out on bad journeys, down to the low life, buying up the blackest Vurts he could find. One day he found a Yellow. Our first Yellow." Tristan paused for a moment. "He paid heavily for it."
"I thought you couldn't buy them?"
"Depends what you pay with."
I let that settle in my mind. Depends what you pay with.
"I was scared of the feather," Tristan continued. "We carried it back home, and Geoffrey was so excited. Our parents were asleep by then, so we had the room to ourselves. I was young and in awe of my brother, so I took the feather with him. But I was scared, so scared."
"Which feather was it?"
"Takshaka. You know, where the dreamsnakes come from?"
I didn't reply, my eyes on the road.
"You ever done Takshaka, Scribble?" he asked.
"Yeah. I've done it."
"Really?"
"No. Not really. Only in the Tapewormer. I went Meta."
"That's nothing. That's just a joke Yellow. Takshaka kills. It's famous for it. I was scared but we went in anyway. Geoffrey got bitten. Not by any normal snake. Oh no, not my brother. Takshaka himself, the king of the snakes, sank two fangs into his arm."
"That should've killed him."
"Geoffrey took it on board… worshipped the wound. Fed it on bones and flesh. I think he fell in love with the poison inside him, and it fell in love with him. Maybe one in a thousand is capable of this. The Game Cat talks about it one time, in the magazine." I caught on to the change of name. "He says that some flesh is sacred to the Vurt; it can live with it. It's like a kind of marriage. So he says. Whatever… my brother got addicted then. Craving more. Having once tasted… well, you know how it is."
"I know."
"He was seeking out more and more dangerous feathers. I think he went too far. I had to fight back."
"What did he find?" I asked.
"It was too much for me, Scribble. What my brother was doing… I had to take measures."
"What happened?"
"He found Curious Yellow."
Oh Christ!
The van skidded on a wet bend and I could feel paintwork being peeled off, as the struts of a fence clawed into us. Seconds of my life went by in a rush as I clamped down on the wheel, spinning it. Did no use. I was totally alone and human. Human! The passengers from the back were calling out and cursing me, and then the dogs joined in, all three of them. Sounded like a zoo on wheels. I could see the trees sliding near as we hit a rock, or something, and then this big oak trunk in the headlights, dancing, straight in front of us. Seemed like the whole world was screaming, me with it, and the Beetle singing along from behind, his colours exploding. But then the Vurt came down, hard! and the wheel seemed to know where to go under my fingers until I was rolling once again, cool and easy does it, over the black roads.
"Nice driving, Scribble," Tristan said.
I was taking in massive breaths of air, feeling the sweat all over my skin. Mandy was calling me all the bad names she could think of. Twinkle was adding some of her own. The Bee was still singing, and the dogs were whimpering along with all three of them.
"Christ, Tristan… don't do that!" I could hardly get the words out, but Tristan had sat through it all, like he was stone cold, set on a fixed path.
"So we did the Curious," he was saying, but it took some yards of easy driving before I could really get my grip on what he was saying.
"Was this inside English Voodoo?" I asked.
"Yes. He forced me into doing it."
"What happened?" Knowing full well…
Tristan's slow, sad voice; "I came down alone."
"Curious got him?"
"I think he let it. You know what I'm saying, Scribb? I think he wanted to stay there. It was the worst thing I'd ever experienced, but for Geoffrey, with all that Vurt in him anyway, from Takshaka… I think he preferred it there. He felt… I don't know how to put this… he felt at home. Something like that."
"What's Curious like?" I needed to know.
"It's the past, your past… but magnified, all the bad things magnified. The good things vanish."
"How did you get out?"
"The Cat threw me out. He was glowing with power, messing with the feathers, even in the pain."
"Why do people want to do this?" I asked. "Go through all that pain?"
"Because they're crazy. They think it's going to bring them knowledge. It's like rites of passage, all that crap. All that Queen Hobart rubbish."
"What is Hobart?"
"Don't get involved, Scribb. Some crazy religion, that's all. They think Vurt's more than it is, you know? Like it's some higher way, or something. It's not. Vurt is just collective dreamings. That's all. Christ! Isn't that enough for them?"
Tristan went quiet again.
I let him be for a while, but something was nagging at me, something he'd said. "The Cat was taken into Vurt?" I asked. Tristan nodded. "But you said that you'd come down alone? If the Cat was swapped… he must have been swapped… that's how it works… exchange rates… there's no escaping…"
I think he knew what I was going for, but he took his time in answering.
"I came round in our living room. No, I wasn't alone."
I waited.
There was a woman beside me, well, a girl actually. Because this was years ago. She was embracing me so tightly, and I was doing the same to her, and we were shaking you know, from the trip. I was still feeling the pain, and I think she was feeling the same. The pain of being forced through, from the dream, to the world. It's painful. But her embrace was powerful, and I gave back the same. She was lovely. That was years ago. I…"
His voice faded, to silence. And then I got a memory, of a woman who had got right inside me. Who had known everything about me. Who had eyes of gold…
"This was Suze?" I said.
Tristan nodded.
Suze was a Vurt being! An alien, just like the Thing, but one thousand times more beautiful. "Didn't you try for a swapback?" I asked.
"I didn't want to."
"Why not?"
"This woman meant too much to me. More than my brother did. Can you see that, Scribble? Can you? Suze was the best piece of luck a man could ever wish for. And out of all that pain, we made a love. I vowed never to lose her. Not for one day"
I saw the strands of hair locking them together.
"I could not let her go. Just in case the Vurt claimed her back. Do you see that? Not for one second would she leave my sight. I thought it would work. I really thought it would…" There was a catch in his voice, and I kept my eyes on the road. I don't think he wanted me looking at him. But I could feel him pulling himself together, sitting up straight in the seat, hugging his little bag of hair, before speaking again; "It was the real world that got her."
I did look over then. Tristan was crying. "Oh God, Scribble! What am I going to do?" he broke down. "Suze…"
There are no words to add. You can't help that kind of pain. You can only make it worse. Or bury it.
We had left the trees behind, and the night opened up, into a black expanse of moorland. Even the skies were crying now, a dark fall of tears against the windscreen.
"This is the place," Tristan said.
It was a shallow grave. Because that was all that Tristan could manage, scraping away with his thin shovel, against the layers of dirt.
All around our circle, shadows were dancing.
The rain was turning the earth into mud, and Tristan was struggling. I'd tried to help, we all had, but Tristan had pushed us away.
We watched as he lowered Suze into the shallow grave. Then he opened the bag, and took out the thick tresses of his hair. He let them fall into the earth, so that they landed softly on her body. He took a small wooden box from the bag, and placed this also with the body.
Tristan mumbling his words of farewell, over the grave, the falling soil that he was shovelling back into the ground.
Ashes to ashes. Hair to hair.
The trio of dogs howled into the night, howling for the lost mistress.
All of us gathered around the grave, silent, our minds full up of want.
Tristan had the two grown up dogs on a double lead. I could see his fingers starting to slip.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
His fingers were loosening, one by one.
"I'm letting them go," Tristan answered.
"We may need them."
"No. No, not at all. We're doing this alone, Suze wants it like this."
"I'm keeping Karli," says Twinkle.
Tristan nodded.
So I'm watching the two dogs disappearing into the darkness. Twinkle comes up close to me, fingers tight on Karli's collar, pulling her back from the urge.
The young bitch was yelping, wanting release.
"Stay, good girl. Stay!" whispered Twinkle, but the dog wasn't taking it too well.
Tristan's shaved head was splattered with raindrops, but his eyes were dry, focused, tight. I could feel the need coming off him.
The bad need.
(SUFFERING FROM)
The dancing crowd-crush could just fuck off.
That look on Dingo's face, when he realised.
Just fuck off you dancing fools, because I was there, with both hands around the grip, two sweaty hands; one finger, dry, on the trigger.
Dingo didn't even know yet. Didn't even know yet that a gun was pointing at him.
The Tushdog fans were dancing. I had squeezed my way amongst them, into the pit, close to the stage, covered in sweat and dogbreath. It was bad, but close enough to see his eyes as he sang, and that was all I wanted.
I just wanted to see his eyes as he saw me there.
Then he caught a glimpse of metal from the crowd.
You ever looked down the barrel of a gun? Into the dark fluttering that waits there, the bullet in the chamber waiting there, waiting for the flash of powder which will set it free, waiting there?
You ever been on the wrong end of a gun?
Feels like a tunnel is about to open up, and you're going to get sucked in, and there's nothing you can do about it. There's just nothing that you can do.
Dogmusic spluttering to a close. The Dingo hooked on the thing in my hands.
"You know what I'm after, Dingo?" I called.
The crowd were sensing me now, and they were moving back, forming a circle, scared, feeling the funk. Felt good!
Dingo Tush the superdog, the high barking king of dogpop. Well just take a look, loyal fans; see how he shakes now.
It felt good and bad to be doing this. Good because of the power trip, bad because of the betrayal, betrayal of a saviour.
Some bad things you've got to do, just to speed up the life, in the face of death.
"You know what I want," I said, louder this time.
Above Dingo's head a sad mirrorball spun, flinging out lines of light like a broken halo.
It was just gone five in the morning. Dingo Tush was playing an all-nighter at the Fleshpot, a lowlife dogtruckers' stopover, down by the canal side, storming through a rush of music; big hits, planet samples, cover versions; all done up in hardware beats. But now the music stops.
Now the music fucking stops, dogstar!
Dingo tried to move.
I held the gun steady but inside I was sweating heaven out from my pores, thinking, Shit! I've never fired a gun before. Please, Lord, don't let me hurt anybody!
"Don't move, dogman!" I screamed. "You know what I'm looking for."
Dingo's eyes were darting to and fro, looking for escape routes. And then he latched onto some movement out in the crowd, and his fangs broke through as he smiled.
I didn't dare risk even a sideways glance, but I guess someone had called the bouncers and now they were moving in. So it was comforting to find Tristan at my side, his shotgun primed and heavy, and then Twinkle moving up close, her little hands straining on Karli's lead. Karli was a brutal handsome devil by now, and she did us proud; a fine show of daggered teeth and foaming jaw slush. And then Mandy pushed through the crowd, leading the Beetle by the hand. His colours shone out, loud and proud from his spreading wound. It was the best light show the Fleshpotters had ever seen and they couldn't help but dance under its radiance.
I guess the bouncers saw the way it was going. Nobody was bothering us.
The crowd were showing a suitable hush. Somebody screamed, then went quiet, sudden like, as though somebody else had jabbed her in the ribs. It was a suitable hush and I was pleased with that. I was pleased with the effect I was having. It felt like release. "What do you want?" asked Dingo Tush. His voice was stretched, halfway between dog and human. Whichever; he was well scared in both modes.
"You know what, dogfucker," I shouted.
Maybe he didn't like the use of that bad word. Maybe he didn't like the way my gun was rock steady upon his face. Maybe he didn't like me betraying him like this. Maybe he didn't like the look in my eyes.
Well, neither did I. But it was there, so let's fuck it to hell.
"You can't fire that thing, baby," he said. Somebody from the crowd shouted, "Right on!" and then they all joined in, mocking my incompetence, like this was just some mad part of the show, the latest Dingo Tush gimmick; mock assassination attempts. They were calling out to me:
"Go to it, dude!"
"Fire that fucker!"
"Let's see it!";
"Kid's a loser!"
"Baby can't fire."
Other such stuff, and the Dingo was urging them on, goading them into mocking me. And something came down then, into my blood stream, filling my head with knowledge; how to load, clean, aim, fire, and kill with a pistol.
With a black jolt I was in Gun Stroker; a well-black feather, but featherless.
"Guy can't cut it!" said a crowd voice.
There was a burst of light coming out of my hands, and then the crash of air, as the bullet escaped my grip. I thought the sun had blown itself apart. It was just the mirrorball exploding above Dingo's head, a rain of glass falling down upon his bristling fur. "What are you after?" he shouted.
"Brid and the Thing."
"How would I know?"
"Dogfucker," I said, "Tell me where."
I could see a few seconds of resistance in his eyes, as he contemplated his denial. But I had the gun, and he didn't. I guess it makes some kind of difference.
"Cosmic Debris."
"No games, Dingo. The address."
"That's the lot, pure boy."
I pulled on the trigger.
Just a little, mind. Just a tiny Gun Stroker squeeze; enough to activate the red firing light. Enough to get the crowd gasping and the Dingo to start screaming; and to end the screaming with a blurted out message, the address.
I eased the trigger back into safety mode; the red light fading to cool mode.
"I would have told you anyway," shouted the Dogstar.
"Just to make sure, Dingo."
Just to make sure.
Because I already knew where Cosmic Debris was. I'd been there. I'd shopped there. We'd bought that old worm-hive settee from there.
Now we were going back. In search of some smoke-damaged shadowgirl and a second-hand Thing-from-Outer-Space.
"Stash Riders! Out of here!"
I was kind of loving this.
Outside, into the swirl…
Sunday mornings, starting at five a.m., they have this car boot sale at the Fleshpot canal site, down by the Old Trafford docks. That early all the illegal dealers turn up, selling off cheap feathers and Haze. Along with various domestic items. The sale was in full swing as we rushed out of the truckers' club. People were crowding the shore, looking for bargains. It was a crash of faces and noise. Cars were pulled up, tightly packed. Whole families were out in force, buying and selling. Felt like I was staring into a kaleidoscope, searching for a single crystal. Colours were swirling. Shouts and banter from all angles were calling to me, as I led the Stash Riders through the crush, back towards the van.
I pushed some people aside but it didn't take too much effort. What with The Beetle's colours, and Tristan's shotgun, and Karli's teeth and Karli's growl, I guess we made a pretty picture. The crowd made a clear path for us, over towards where the van was parked.
I was heading for the back door, ready to let the crew in, but I was getting this bad feeling, like there was something wrong with the number-plate, or something wrong with my eyes. I couldn't fathom it. Something wrong. I was staring at the number plate, and the numbers were flickering. Like they were living numbers. Couldn't work it out.
Then I got it.
Shadowcop!
There was a beam of inpho firing onto the number-plate. I looked around and there was the Shaka, working his mechanisms.
What now, big leader man?
"Stash Riders!" I was calling. "Let's move!"
I was running through the crowd, away from the van, forcing a path. People yelling out at me, but I wasn't listening, just running on. Twinkle and Karli close behind, could feel them. And the Beetle's colours leading the way.
Where was Tristan now?
Never mind that.
Didn't know where to run to.
Except that the sun was glinting on the water somewhere, beyond where all those boats were moored.
That's where I led the Riders, not even knowing why.
There were sirens playing in the morning air.
Cop sirens.
Dozens of boats were tied up along the bank; the floating families selling off stuff, just to make a small life. Some were selling food from barbecue boats. Some were selling love, the downmarket version; cheap sluts and rabid studs on deck. And a boat of flowers; a floating garden.
I was looking all ways, searching for a way out. Cop sirens were playing my all-time least favourite tune.
I caught a broken shadow dancing along the edge of my vision. I turned to get that image fixed. There was the Shaka, floating over the market, with the shecop Murdoch close behind, gun in hand.
Man, I was getting some serious Vipers in my system.
They were parting the crowd swirl by force and daring, and the look on Murdoch's face was pure, and raging; like she was aiming for a big thrill.
"Crewcut!" said this voice, from over by the boats. "This way! Relish it!"
I turned back to the water.
"Crew baby! This way!"
I was searching for the voice, the needling voice in the boat-stack. Then my eyes were following the sound to its likely source, finding the sign on the mast-head: "Food O'Juniper. Chef Barnie."
I ran towards the boat, dragging the posse on.
Chef Barnie was on deck, waving us aboard. A young girl child was standing next to him, her fingers working the lines loose. "This way, Crewcut. This way!"
We clambered onto the swaying vessel, and I was almost certain I had brought everybody with me. Twinkle? Yes. Karli with her? Yes. Mandy? Yes. Tristan?
Tristan? You there, my friend?
Seems not.
It seems that it is not to be.
The young girl cut the line.
"Wait!" I called.
But called it late, way too late.
And as we were drifting away, I watched the Tristan stepping out from the crowd, his gun lodged in his arms, firm and solid.
"Tristan!" I screamed. Guy took no notice. He had the shecop in his sights, and he wanted payment, payment for the loss.
Tristan let loose that shotgun.
It made a pretty flame in the morning's light
Car booters were screaming and running.
A pile of house trash exploded on a makeshift trestle table as the bullet hit. Murdoch dived behind the body of a family saloon, away from the fire. Other cops were coming in. Tristan was jigging the gun mechanism, readying for another shot. Too late. Too slow.
I was catching all of this from the widening water.
Too late. Too late and too slow. The both of us.
The cops were grabbing hold of Tristan, wrestling him to the floor, holding him down. Barnie was putting some water between us and the trouble. Now the cops were beating down on Tristan with hot spikes.
All I could do was watch.
I turned my eyes away. Barnie was there, at the helm, wheel in hand, turning it upstream. I studied his perfect facebones for a full minute. "Where are you taking us, Chef?" I asked.
"Home," he answered.
Home? Where's that then?
And the river was a vein of blood under the sun.
Eyes opening to a flicker.
Colours, shapes of faces, people laughing.
The television was on.
I'm sitting in a deep velvet armchair, in the corner of a small living room, watching through half-open eyes. The television was a matt black model, with chrome trim. A real collector's item.
The kids down on the rug were screaming with joy. The dog's tail wagging.
Noel Edmonds was on the television. With his whirlpool of hair, and that cheeky grin, he was asking questions of a happy family. Every time they got a question wrong, a rude noise sounded, and this bright red pointer moved closer to the symbol of a pile of sick. Above the family rested a giant bucket. It was steaming. Below the bucket, in large blue and red letters, were the words Noel's Spew Tank. Even when the television family got a question wrong, still they laughed and giggled. Down on the rug the three kids and the dog were laughing along. The dog laughed by wagging her tail. I was laughing as well. My god! I hadn't seen this since my childhood. What was happening?
I opened my eyes fully then, trying to take it all in. This room, this house, this wallpaper of flowers, and the people who were gathered there. It was all so familiar, like a memory. Like I'd been here before.
The oldest kid was a teenager. Her name was Mandy. The dog was called Karli, and the second girl was called Twinkle. I didn't know the name of the youngest kid. And I suddenly got this picture; they've never seen this before! Never seen the hair of Noel, the cigar of Saville, the magic of Daniels.
The living room door opened and Barnie came into the room. He was followed by a woman. She was carrying a tray of food, and Barnie had a bottle of wine and some glasses. The woman's hair was green, emerald green, and it reached down to her fifth vertebrae; it stirred up some feelings in me. Like I'd known her before, and very closely. Couldn't place it. She put the tray down for me, on a small glass coffee table. The food went with the room. Plates of meat and fish, spiced vegetables, crispy salads, ginger and garlic pastes, fruit and nuts, crumbling cheeses, apple pie with a cinnamon custard.
"You awake now, Crewcut?" Barnie asked.
"Yes. I…"
"You were out cold. All of you were. When's the last time you slept?"
"Slept…" I couldn't remember. "What time is it?"
The woman answered. "Half two."
I jerked upright then, out of the chair's soft embraces. "Half two! Is that afternoon or morning?"
The woman laughed.
"It's the afternoon, Scribb. You dumbo!" This from the older kid on the floor, whose name was Mandy.
"You want to dig into that food, Crew?" asked Barnie.
I did. It was ages since I'd eaten.
"Where's Beetle?" I asked.
"Beetle's in the bedroom," Barnie told me. "This is our home, and this is my wife… Lucinda." The woman smiled. Her mouth was wide and opulent. "And this is our child, Crystal." At these words from Barnie, the young girl pulled her face from the screen for a second, to give me a smile.
I started on the good food, feeling it ease my need. I could feel food dribbling down my chin, and I suppose I must have looked a little bit of a mess. "I can't stay here," I mumbled through a big mouthful. "I'm in a hurry." Some oil was dripping off my chin. I had to get back to Brid and the Thing. That was all that counted. But I didn't even know where I was.
"You fell asleep in the chair, Crew," Barnie said. "We didn't like to distrub you."
"This is our home," Lucinda added. "You are most welcome."
"Have I seen you before?" I asked her.
"Oh, most probably." She smiled again. She had a perfect face. So did Barnie. The child also. They were all smiles. The room where they lived was a hive of comfort. The paintings on the wall told the same story; half naked women coyly glancing, horses leaping the waves, swans gliding down rivers of gold, big-eyed puppy dogs chewing on stolen slippers. The room was drenched in age-old colours.
Just then the television family got one too many questions wrong, and Noel's Spew Tank started to fall. It covered them in gunge, and they loved it. The audience roared their approval. The kids on the rug following suit.
And it suddenly came to me that not even I had done this before; never seen Noel, Saville, or Daniels. All this is way before my time. I'd just seen the reruns. So what was going down? And why was I going down with it?
Dj Vurt.
That's the name of the feeling you get sometimes, in Vurt, when you've done this one already, but you're in the Vurt anyway, remember? And you're thinking it's real. So a loop is made in the head, and it becomes a kind of Haunting. Memories of your previous trips start to play on the feather dreams, shifting them out of phase, like a feedback wave. Maybe this was the answer. I'm in a Vurt, getting a real cool Haunting.
"It's not a real television," Barnie said. "It's just pre-recorded tapes."
"This isn't real," I shouted. "It's just not real!"
"That's right," he answered, as though proud of it, before lifting up his arm to me, and with the other hand he peeled off a section of the flesh, showing me the workings underneath.
"This is what I am," he said.
I was looking into this hole in his skin, gazing into a pool of wet plastic; the nanogerms popping along the veins of his blood, the synthetic bones flexing as he lowered and raised his arm for me. "This is what I am," he said again, slow this time, with a hint of sadness, like he'd left something behind, something human.
Robo! Barnie was a robo. A robochef!
"Inside of here," he said, tapping his tight skull, "are all the best recipes of all the best chefs on this world. I am their depository."
As though in response to this, the young child, Crystal, ripped some flesh off the back of her neck. It was almost like she was playing, it meant that much to her.
"This is Roboville, Crew," Barnie said. "I think the pure call it Toytown, isn't that right?"
"Don't let Barnie scare you," Lucinda was saying, but it was too late for all that. I was almost retching.
The roboman took a step towards me. "Isn't it funny?" he said. "The way that the pure react to robo? You'd think we were dirty or something, given their reaction." I didn't know about that, only that I had to get some distance between us, back to where Shadow and Thing were waiting.
"Tell me the way out of here," I asked. "Got something to do."
"Don't think that's possible," said Barnie. "Beetle's in a bad way."
"He isn't that pure," Lucinda said. Was she referring to me, or to the Beetle?
And I saw myself in a boat on the water, watching the shore, useless gun in hand, watching Tristan getting dragged down by the cops, heading for the station. Where they turn the screws on your feelings, until you can't feel any more. It wasn't a Vurt. It wasn't a dream. The world was real, and my eyes were wet from it.
Oh for a little less Vaz in my life, and a touch of glue. Maybe then I could stick hold tight of somebody.
The kids were laughing out loud at the television family's misfortune and I didn't know what was real any more.
There were chains and handcuffs arranged along the walls of the bedroom. A collection of whips lay spread out on a bedside cabinet.
Beetle was strapped to the bed, with six strong tethers. He was flat on his back, and the colours were pouring out of his skin in blades of light. Seemed like half his body was taken over by now, alive with fractals.
"Scribble! My babe!" he said. "Good to see you up and about. You gonna loosen these ties a little? I feel like walking some."
"I guess not." The virus was getting to his mind now, making him feel like a super hero. "It's for your own good, Bee. Don't want you jumping off tall buildings."
"Yeah! That's me. The Shining Man. That Barnie did a real good job. Hey, maybe he's a bondage freak! You seen his wife, Scribb?"
"I saw her."
"That is one sexy player! Remember that one?"
"Remember what?"
"Shit, babe, you don't recall that one? How could you forget that dream? Maybe you're all shrivelled up. I read that happened, sometimes, you didn't use it enough."
"Do you know what's happening, Beetle?" I asked.
"Happening? The world's happening. And I am a major player. And if you don't undo these ropes, Scribble… I'm just going to flow right under them anyway. I'm floating, babe! You cotton me?"
Yeah. I got it.
"I know the final score, kid," he continued, his voice changing, becoming quiet, serious. "That shecop bitch really laid one on me. I guess this is cheerio time. Shit, babe, but I feel good! That's the twister."
"It does that to you," I said, just as quiet. And his colours were burning on my face. My tears were warm as they trickled down my skin, evaporating in the glare.
"I know it, Scribb. But you know what else? I feel like going out and stealing back shadowgirl and the alien. I feel like going out strong. In a blaze. You got that?"
"Coming soon, the Beetle," I whispered. "Coming real soon."
He kind of nodded then, like he wasn't really there. "Don't lose Mandy," he said, at last.
"I won't." His fingers were hot as I clenched my hand around them, feeling the colours shifting freely, back and forth between us.
But I kept my hand there anyway, taking the heat.
Which was like taking hold of spectrums.
I wash away the dirt of days, dry my skin, and take a long stare at what I look like these days. My face coming back at me, reflected in a bathroom mirror.
I peel back the lids and skin of my left eye. I move closer to the mirror, directly under the sink light. I stare into my own eyes, looking for clues.
"Found anything?" The soft honey voice from behind my shoulder. I spin around, almost banging into her. Her body was close to mine, and again I felt that memory conning back. I was trying to pin it down, explain it, but the best I could manage made it into a memory of something that had never happened. "Don't you like us?" the voice said.
"I like you," I replied, chancing a look into her eyes, expecting a steely metal glint. Instead an intense human gaze met mine.
"I'm not robo, you know?" she said. "Did you get that?"
"I can see that."
"That Twinkle's a nice kid. Maybe you should find a good women, and settle down some. With the kid in tow. That wouldn't be a bad life."
"What's the story with Barnie?" I asked.
"He's a good man."
"I know that."
"He cut one finger off when he was young, just peeling the veg. The cafe paid for a replacement, put some nano-plastic in there. The kid got hooked. It happens. You get some plastic in you, you just want some more. This is what Barnie tells me. Some more of that strength. Because that's what it is. Strength. The strength to persist. Don't you ever feel like giving up, Scribble?"
"I feel it. Sometimes."
"Get some robo in you. All that drops away then. So they say."
"I'm in a Vurt now? Is that right?" I asked.
"No. This is real."
"How can I trust you? It feels like a Vurt."
"That's because of what I've got inside."
"Which is?"
"Can't you feel anything?"
"I feel…"
"Yes?"
"I feel like I've known you already."
"In what way?"
"It's… it's embarrassing."
"You know Barnie sleeps around?"
"Does he?"
"That's okay. So do I."
"Do you?"
I was holding myself back from her.
"He has this thing about shadowgirls. Maybe it's because he's a robo. He likes that softness against his hardness. Soft smoke, hard plastic. It works well. And of course the shadowgirls love him back. It's got to be robo or dog, to keep a shadowgirl happy."
I thought about Bridget and Beetle. And then seeing Bridget dancing with that new man at the Slithy Tove. What was he?
"Did you find anything?" she asked.
"What?"
"In your eyes."
"No. Nothing."
"Let me look," she said, and stepping close, too close, she reached up to stroke my face. Lucinda looked into my eyes. Which meant I had to look into hers. They were green like apples from a sun-drenched orchard, somewhere far off. It was too much for me.
"Stop shaking. Let me see," she insisted.
Lucinda gazing into me. I was hard already, and what I saw in her eyes, up close, just made it ten times worse.
"No. Nothing," she said. "Your eyes are blue, perfect blue. Like a summer's day, but without a hint of sun. That's strange. I could have sworn…"
"That I was Vurt?"
"Yes. It feels right, but not a trace of yellow."
"There's yellow in your eyes." I had seen the tiny flecks there, as she gazed deep into me. They had sparkled like fragments of gold.
"You've been here before, haven't you?" she said.
"I can't explain it."
"Let me show you something."
"Lucinda…"
"What's wrong, baby?"
"I…"
"What is it?"
"I shouldn't be doing this."
I should be seeking out Bridget and the Thing. And Desdemona…
Lucinda took a hold of my hands, gently leading.
The back bedroom was draped in purple, with a stone slab bed and a statue of the Virgin Mary. Her white alabaster body was dripping blood from the eyes.
I felt myself reeling, and then getting hard at the sights.
"I'm in the Vurt!" I mumbled. "I know I am!"
"No," Lucinda replied. "You just think you are."
"But this is Catholic Fuck, isn't it? An Interactive Madonna Vurt?"
"That's right. Don't you get it yet? The living room?"
"That was the early nineties, wasn't it?"
"Correct."
"We're talking Nostalgia Trap?"
"You got it. And the room where Beetle sleeps? With the straps and the whips?"
"That's got to be Mistress Pervurt. I've done all of these!"
"Look closely."
And then I started to get it, the feeling of being cheated. I looked closely at the Catholic Fuck room. The blood didn't look that real any more. I smeared some on to my fingers, sniffed at it, "This is paint?"
Lucinda laughed. "Barnie had these rooms designed for me. They're copies of best-selling feathers. It's fun, isn't it? And Barnie gets off on it, I think"
"He can't do Vurt?"
"You got it. Barnie is flightless."
"I knew it. That look…"
"It's not so bad, you know? It makes him very real. Very powerful. In that old-fashioned kind of way. No wonder the shadow-girls love him in bed. I know I do. And these rooms… well they certainly make him come good."
But all I was seeing was the sadness in Barnie's eyes, that sense of missing out on the dream. But not in the sense that I knew. He liked missing out on the dream. The dream was weak and the chef was solid. Now it all came together; Barnie was featherless. I had to pull myself back from the feelings. "You've got the Vurt in your eyes, Lucinda. What are you?"
"I'm the star. I've got just enough Vurt inside me. I can connect the living with the dream. They call me Cinders."
Cinders O'Juniper.
And I saw myself in her arms, making love to her in feathers, countless soft and pink Pornovurts.
"I'm a Vurt actress," she said. That's my job."
Having her there in front of me, for real, it was making me ache.
"I know you've got some Vurt inside you," she said. "Despite the blue eyes. Maybe you're not ready for it yet. I felt it though, from the first glimpse. I'm feeling it now."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm tingling all over."
Didn't know where to look.
Cinders led me down the canal paths, beyond the gates of Toytown, down to where the car mechanics and the rubberwear manufacturers work and play. That was during the day, but now it was early evening; the world was half-lit, and the pathway was ours alone.
We were walking a thin cobbled line between the canal and a railway bridge. The bridge was pitted with a row of arches, and each of them taken over, and boarded up against the nighttime thiefs. And the water at my left hand side was the colour of a bad Vurt dream, you know that kind, when the feelings turn to mud, and you can't fight your way out.
Cinders was quiet and distant as she led the way, walking some two feet ahead of me, her body full up of wonders and sex dreams. This was the partner of my fantasy bed, countless times, and I was following like a dog. I guess I felt pretty low down. Totally unresisting.
You got that feeling?
"Nearly there, Scribble," Cinders said. "Can you feel it yet?"
And I could.
"I'm feeling apprehensive, Cinders," I replied.
"Don't worry, Scribble, there are no snakes around these waters." She was tapping a message on an archway door.
"You're sure of that?"
"Sure I'm sure."
I was looking at the sign above the door.
Karmachanics.
Two old cars and an ancient ice-cream van were parked outside.
"Why so sure?" I asked, shivering.
"We caught all those fuckers long ago."
The door swung open a fraction and Cinders slipped inside. I followed her, into a dark red room. The roof was arched above us, the stones slick with damp. Smoke was drifting through the tight space, bringing visions to my eyes.
Icarus Wing was at the smoke desk, mixing it.
"You brought that dog, this time?" he asked.
"Not this time," I answered, shaking.
"Or that bad arse guy?"
He meant the Beetle. "No one," I said.
"Then come right on in. You are welcome."
"You two met already?" asked Cinders.
"Hey, this kid really threatened me, you know," replied Icarus. "But that's okay. No grudges."
In the shadows I caught dry glints of violet and green. Also, the sound they made, skin against skin, skin against soil and glass; slithers in the night. Bad dreams.
I was sweating, holding it all back in, against the fear. Along one entire wall of the arch they lay, a triple bank of old fish tanks, each one containing either a single snake, or a knotted mass of them.
"Don't be scared, Scribble," said Cinders. "These are your friends."
"I'm not sure about that," I stammered.
"Vurtboy is scared shitless," laughed Icarus.
"You sold me a bad Vurt, Icarus."
"Sold you?"
"That Voodoo feather was a pirate copy. Nothing but a cheap dream."
"Hey, how was I to know? I just buy the things in, you know? You're standing there, threatening one of my best snakes with a pumped up robodog. What do you want? I hadn't even had time to test that new stuff. Leave me out of this."
"Icarus is editing this morning's rushes," said Cinders. "You want to see some?"
No. Is it alright if I just run a million miles away?
The archway was studded with silver feathers in racks, and used-up cream feathers littered the floor. Dream smoke was drifting in layers of colours; blue, then black, then silver. And in the dark roof gulf a few wisps of gold fluttered against the wet stones.
Yellow smoke! That rare and precious mist.
"We shot some beauties this morning," said Icarus, mixing the smoke, "We're calling this one Bitch On Heat. It's right close to the edge. As hard as you can get, and yet still put on the top shelves at Vurturama's. Go ahead, take a look."
Anything other than those ugly twisters, so I lowered my face into the Vurt mist. I felt its fingers caressing me until I wasn't there any more, I was walking on my splayed paws over to where Cinders was waiting on all fours. Her green hair was dark with sweat and her lips were wet. I was salivating and my cock felt good and strong, as it unsheathed itself. I could feel the fleas jumping in my fur but I paid them no mind. All I wanted was to rut. Her haunches were jutted at just the right angle for entry and I followed my cock back to the source, peeling the lips back as I pushed forward, my front paws on her shoulders, my hind legs slipping and sliding on the lino, trying to get a purchase. Felt like sinking into tenderness, into the night, into some hot meat dinner. Awhoooh!!!!! I was howling, and the woman was jerking back against me and moaning with it. Awhooohhh! Good rutting tonight! Awhooooohhh!
Then I was jerking out, sick of myself, back to reality, sick of the wanting, and Cinders was laughing at me in the archway. I saw Icarus with a ball hammer in his hands. The stench of snakeweed in the air. He was opening up one of the cages. "There's some stuff we need to take out there. Or else we say goodbye to general release." But I wasn't listening that well. The room was misting over and the dream smoke was clogging my mouth, bringing the Vurt back down. I needed air, clean air, and as the snake came out, caught under Icarus' snakeweed spell, I was fighting for the door, struggling with the latch, heading out somewhere, into the open. Just anywhere would do! I caught a whiplash glimpse of the snake as it whacked its body against human flesh. I had a hard-on to make Zeus jealous as I forced the door and felt the hot wet night falling on me.
It took five minutes for the feelings to soften in the rain. I was standing by the canalside, drawing breath, watching the water slap listlessly against the stone. It was a turgid outgoing tide, sweet and rank. Debris bobbed along, not really getting anywhere. One piece looked just like a human forearm. Over the water I could see the opposite bank, where, earlier, some way downstream, we had lost the Tristan to the enemy. Lights were playing faintly there, as some other kinds of people led themselves a normal life. I needed some intake so I reached into my pocket for my ten pack of Napalms, my fingers falling instead on the soft flights of a feather.
I pulled the feather loose and held it up against the moon. It was silver to the very edge. I think the moon was a little jealous, because it hid its face behind a ragged cloud. I thought about the Game Cat.
What had he called it?
The silver flights made a merry flickering.
Sniffing General.
Just do it.
Just do it. Just take it in. Into the mouth. Get the latest message. Go visit. Move along the path some way. Just do it. Find out what the Cat has to say.
The feather was resting between my parched lips, under the moon, by the waterside, edge of Toytown, when I heard Lucinda's voice calling to me. "Didn't I please you enough?" she said.
I took the feather out of my mouth.
"What's it called?" she asked.
"Sniffing General."
"That's way up the scale, young boy. Sure you can handle it?"
I didn't answer.
"You ever done a Sucker, Scribble?"
"What's that?"
"Sucking feathers. It's how we make the Vurts. They work like normal feathers, but in reverse. Instead of giving us dreams, they steal our dreams. Then they bring me in, or some other unfortunate. Somebody with a bit of Vurt in them, just to make it real. They mix me into the dreams, Scribble. I'm very good. It's a sad life, but a good living. Maybe you could try it."
"I don't think so."
"I think you could do good."
"It's not me." I was denying everything.
"I must have really pissed you off, in that Dogvurt?" Cinders asked.
"No."
"You just don't like talking to me any more? Is that the thing?"
"Not that."
"Oh wow, Scribble… you really know how to make a Vurtgirl feel wanted."
Sudden thought: maybe I could swap this woman? She's got so much Vurt in her, and so much worth; maybe I could steal her away, and do a swapback for Desdemona.
"I'm real, Cinders," I answered. "You've seen my eyes."
"Oh you're so real, kid. So why all the fuss? How come you're so scared of the flesh?"
"I've had women," I cried.
"Sure." Her voice was mocking me.
"I've got myself a woman," I said. "She's a good woman."
"Where is she? She's so good, so where is she?"
I couldn't answer.
"Pussy got the tongue?'she asked.
"I can't see why you're coming on like this. I've got other things to do."
"I don't like people running away from my art."
"I got scared."
"That's what I said, wasn't it?"
Her eyes were sending me fiery signals. All I wanted was to pull away and be out of there. But her voice was pulling me back; "The saddest thing is, I could really take you somewhere. Somewhere good. Don't you want that, Scribble?"
Her eyes were a deep lunar green in the watery light, flashing with stars of yellow. Lucinda came close, in the soft rain, and kissed me. Her lips had a honey taste to them, and I felt myself slipping. Slipping into the rain and the water, and the Vurtflesh. Her fingers were playing along the small of my back like the ripple effect of the moon's tide, as it pulled and pushed at the waters of the Ship Canal.
Just do it.
I pulled my lips away from hers with a soft sound.
Her eyes were looking at me, and I just couldn't believe it.
"I'm going back to the house," she said. "Barnie's working tonight. And then he's going to visit Shadowtown. You want to come back with me?"
"I'm not very good with women," I whispered.
"Try it sometime," Lucinda said. She was a pale shape in the darkness, but her words cut me to the heart.
Try it sometime.
Just do it.
And I was sorely tempted. So much so that I looked deep into those eyes of green and yellow, and I saw something new there, not of herself. Lucinda was taken over and blue eyes I knew so well were staring at me from behind the green fronds of hair.
"Desdemona?" I cried. "Is that you, sister?"
It was that old Desdemona look of love and lust. I was drawn forward into her arms, falling into memories. I could do nothing but follow her back to the house, where we made love against the statue of Virgin Mary. We were doing a Catholic Fuck, and this from a total unbeliever. Never mind. I was making love to Cinders O'Juniper, the queen of pink feathers. I'd done it before of course - what young kid hasn't tried this one? - but this was for real now, too real. So much so that I could barely take it, especially with Desdemona flickering inside of Cinders' eyes, calling out to me. And when we reached the peak, and the woman's voice was screaming "Save me, oh save me!" I couldn't tell if it was Cinders or my sister that was doing the calling. And that made the ending bitter and sweet at the same time, with the Virgin's blood falling on to my skin, until a moment of release burst within me and I sprayed it all out, into the dream and the real, until both were saturated.
I woke up in my sister's arms, or so it felt, until Cinders turned her face to mine, sleepily. "What happened then, baby?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"I felt like I was somebody else."
You were. Well, kind of. Partly. Halfway. I didn't have the words to tell her what I was feeling.
"Felt good," she said, but I didn't feel any pride, or anything. Because I knew that Desdemona was in there, somewhere, using the Vurt in Cinders to get to me.
"This is just a one-off?" Cinders asked.
"I think so."
"You've got other things to do?"
"Some." And I told her about my sister and how I was trying to get her back. And all about the obstacles in my way. And then Lucinda said this, and it killed me, "Maybe you could swap me back?"
What could I do to answer that?
"I've got the Vurt in me," she said. "I think I've got the worth. Enough to satisfy Hobart. Let's do it. This life tires me."
I was dumbstruck.
"No. No, it cannot happen." I actually said that. Cinders meant too much to me. Even if I never saw her again. Too much.
Her eyes were closing on the world, and when she spoke, it was from far down inside the dream, "Find what you want."
"I'm trying to."
"Keep the faith…" Her last words before sleep.
I climbed naked out of the Catholic bed, trying to find my scattered clothes in the grey light. Through the bedroom window I could see the moon shining through a ribbon of clouds. Maybe it was too late. I picked up my jacket and pulled the silver feather from the inside pocket. I took a last look down at Cinders.
What was I doing, leaving this woman?
I checked the time from the flower clock and then pushed the feather deep, between my lips.
Going silver.
Falling…
Hit by darkness…
What…
Nothing here…
I'm…
Darkness…
Nothing here…
There's nothing here! For fuck's sake!!!
Darkness…
Falling…
I'm not here. There's not even me here. Just the thought that I might be here. I think. Or don't think. No, don't stop thinking, Scribble! Because then even you won't be here any more. Don't stop thinking…
No. Not falling, floating…
In the darkness…
Where the fuck am I?
You're here, thinking about here…
Keep thinking…
But who's doing the thinking for me…
You are, Scribble…
Right…
Who's Scribble…
You are…
Right…
Get me out of here!!!
Darkness…
A single star of light… up ahead… where's up… where's ahead… where is my head… this is my head… and the star's inside my head…
Twinkle, twinkle… little star… how I wonder what you are…
The little silver star was writing letters in the night… in my head… just like…
What was it like?
Right…
Silver star…
Just like a cursor… that's it… I'm in a feather…
I am a feather…
The silver star is scrolling…
1. EDIT
2. CLONE
3. HELP
4. DOOR
5. MAP
I'm thinking about the number four…
Four for a door… remember that…
Why… just remember it…
1. BLUE
2. BLACK
3. PINK
5. LIFE
6. CAT
Five is alive… five is alivev remember that…
I'm thinking about the number seven… because I can't resist it…
Why not…
Because of Desdemona…
Who…
I AM SORRY… INSUFFICIENT CODING ACCESS… PLEASE RESELECT…
I'm thinking about the number eight…just for the hell of it…
I AM SORRY… INSUFFICIENT CODING ACCESS… AND ANYWAY HOBART IS IN A MEETING JUST NOW…PLEASE RESELECT… AND STOP WASTING MY TIME…
I'm thinking about the number six…
THAT'S OKAY… LOADING… PLEASE HOLD ON…
What…
Christ!
Falling… falling… really falling now… down through the layers of darkness… more and more stars in the sky as I rush through… silver stars… more and more of them… until the darkness has drained away… and I'm falling like a stone through the silverness… getting my thoughts back… one by one… until I know where I am… and who I am… and where I'm going…
A door opening in the silver…
Through…
Sniffing General was sitting at his desk, pushing something around with his paper-knife. He was a small man, not much hair, thick glasses covering his eyes, and he didn't bother to look up as I came into his office. "You've got a nerve," he said. It was a thin voice, edging towards a whine.
"I want to see the Game Cat."
"I mean, asking to see Hobart. That's ridiculous."
He'd finished with the knife now, and he was gazing down at his desk, almost lovingly. I stepped closer. A line of blue powder on a small shaving mirror, that lay face-up on his desk, and I couldn't tell if he was smiling at the Choke powder, or his own reflection. There was a door in the wood panelling behind him, fitted out with frosted glass. The words Game Cat were etched onto a small brass plate, fixed just below the glass.
"Is he in?" I asked.
"I don't like people wasting my time," he said, rolling up a ten pound note. "Do you think I haven't got work to do?"
"I am a personal friend of the Cat's."
That made him look up. He'd already stuck the note up his left nostril, and what with that, and the thick glasses, it was all I could do not to laugh.
"Oh they all are, they all are," he replied. They all claim to know the Game Cat. None of them do, of course. Only I know the Game Cat." With that, he lowered his head, and sniffed up the line of Choke.
"Tell him that Scribble is here to see him."
The General looked up again, his eyes behind the glasses coming alive now, turned up by the powder. "I've had trouble from you in the past," he said.
"Is that right?"
"Oh yes. Tapewormer, I think it was. I've got the details somewhere." He was shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk. "It was you, wasn't it? Yes. Scribble. That was the name. It's all down here somewhere. You went Meta on that one, into Takshaka. Didn't you hear me calling to you?"
I had done. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.
"Messing about in Takshaka is not recommended. The cops don't like it."
"The cops?"
"Takshaka is a Copvurt. They store all their information there."
"The cops own the King Snake?"
"Well they think they do. Really it's the other way around. Takshaka owns them. But let's keep the cops happy, yes?"
"I just want to see the Game Cat, Sniffing General," I said. "I have an appointment."
"Oh they all do," the General replied. "You wouldn't believe the number of appointments I have to deal with. Of course the Game Cat has never heard of them before. It's all so tiresome. And then there was that other incident, wasn't there?"
"Which one?"
"That Curious incident. Yes. That was most difficult."
"What are you saying?" I asked.
"Really, Mister Scribble… vehemence will get you nowhere. Yes. English Voodoo it was. You lost somebody very worthy that day. She went through a door into Curious Yellow, if I recall. Got swapped. You know that Hobart has to work out all the details of these transactions? Hobart has better things to do. And do you know who gets blamed for it? That's right I do. I got a right dressing down that day, let me tell you."
"Pity about the Game Cat then," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"I thought the Cat did the same? Got lost in Curious Yellow. Isn't that how he ended up here?"
The General was silent for a moment. Just the sound of his nostrils sniffing up the Choke powder, deeper and deeper. "You seem to know a lot, Mr Scribble?"
"I've been around," I told the General. And then, "Tell Geoffrey that I'm here."
That clinched it..
"Geoffrey?" he asked.
"Yes. Tell him I've come to visit."
The Sniffing General considered it for a moment, and then pressed a button on his desk. He spoke into an intercom; "Game Cat… ahum!… yes, yes… sorry to disturb you… there's a somebody out here, wants to see you, sir. Calls himself Scribble…"
I heard the Cat answering from the speaker, but it was all lost in static.
Sniffing General seemed to get the gist of it, "Game Cat will see you now."
There is a room in England somewhere, but it's nowhere to be seen. It exists only in the mind, and only in the mind of those that have been there. This is where the Game Cat lives, surrounded by his objects. Swapped objects. Kitchen sinks and golf clubs, stuffed animals and antique globes, fishing rods and bus tickets. All the paraphernalia of England that the Cat had gathered around him, swapped in countless desperate deals, from all the people that had come to visit, seeking solace.
I was just the latest.
"Scribble," the Cat said. "So nice of you to make it."
Game Cat was sitting in a wicker armchair, with a balloon glass of deep red wine in his hand. He was wearing a purple smoking jacket, and - get this - he had tartan slippers on his feet.
"Would you like a drink, young man?" he asked.
"You know what I want, Cat," I answered.
"You should drink more wine, Scribble. Oh I know that Fetish is all the rage these days, amongst the children, but really… only wine does the job. It certainly eases the pain, my kittling. Ah! How the children love that talk." He held his glass up to the light from a table lamp. The lamp was the shape of a golden dancing fish, and its glow was soothing. Another gift, I guess, from another grateful visitor.
"Yes, certainly," he said, reading my mind. "When people visit me they usually bring something along… some gift… some small thing." He gestured towards the array of objects in his room. "Did you bring anything along, Scribble?"
"Nothing."
"That's a shame. You sure you don't want a drink?"
"You know what I'm thinking, Cat."
"My, my, those are violent thoughts."
"Give me that fucking Yellow!"
"Really, I will not stand for this. Shall I call the General?"
"Do what the fuck you like! Just give me the Curious!"
"He will have you removed. It is quite painful, if I remember -"
"Cat! I want Curious! Now!"
"Scribble…"
"The feather!"
He looked at me. "I don't have Curious Yellow." And there was something in his eyes, some injury… maybe he was telling the truth. No, he was lying!
"Liar! Tristan told me. You're hooked on it!"
He took a sip from his wine glass, like he didn't care.
"You know where Tristan is?" I asked.
"I know."
"He got captured."
"I know, yes."
"It means nothing to you?"
I was playing him along, trying for a reaction.
"Young man," he said, "you can never play me."
How was I going to handle this?
"I don't think you can handle it, Scribble. I know the rules of the game better than you. I know all the rules. The secret ones… the ones that don't officially exist."
"Okay. You win."
Keep it simple.
"Yes. Let's." He took another sip. "I went down to visit him, you know?"
"Your brother?"
"Yes. In his cell. I am not totally without feelings, Scribble. They had… they had hurt him somewhat… he had… he had wounds. Bruises, really. A bit of blood, not too much. He's alive."
"That's good to hear."
"But he seemed very sad and weary to me. He had a collection of very bad thoughts, like it was all coming to an end." He paused. "We have no secrets, of course, my brother and I." Another pause. "I told you to help him, Scribble."
"I tried."
"Did you?" The Cat knew how to hit me.
"Losing Suze was too much for him," I said.
"Yes, I can imagine."
"Can you?"
"Yes. I can imagine."
I was getting the picture of a man without connections. Someone to whom real life was some kind of hideous prank, played by a cruel god. And so, from a very early age, the Vurt must have seemed like heaven, like the touch of a strong hand, leading him to feelings. He must have clung to the feathers, revelling in the strength they gave him, the intensity, until feathers were everything. And real life was a bad dream. Takshaka's bite must have seemed like a gift, and the chance of getting lost, getting swapped, was all too much. Cat had taken it, fallen into it; going through the door into Curious Yellow with no regrets; losing himself to the Vurt.
"Well that's quite an interesting theory, Scribble," he said. "Doesn't it remind you of somebody?"
"You never told me about Curious Yellow. That you got lost in it."
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because that means you know how to get Desdemona back."
"Yes. I do know."
"Tell me."
"It's quite simple. Find the Thing. Find a working copy of Curious Yellow. Combine the two. Swapback. Quite simple."
"Well fuck you, Game Cat!"
"Oh dear."
"You managed to get Tristan out of Curious. He said that you were working the feathers."
"Scribble, my dear… even at that age I was a master of the feathers. You haven't even started yet."
"I want Desdemona back!"
"How very poetic."
"You bastard!" My hands were twisted up into tight fists.
EVERYTHING OKAY IN THERE, GAME CAT, SIR?
Sniffing General's voice coming over the intercom. The Cat nodded at me as he pressed the speak button and I felt something pulling me back, the Cat's room dissolving around me, intense pain in the body. "Cat! Please!" I cried out.
Game Cat smiled, and the pain eased slightly.
"Everything's fine in here, General," the Cat was answering. Thank you. We're just discussing possible gifts that the visitor might be willing to donate. Get back to your ledgers, General."
"I will."
The Cat closed off the connection and then looked up at me. With a heavy sigh he raised himself out of the wicker chair, and walked over to an antique wooden cabinet. There were five drawers in it, one above the other. He pulled open the top drawer. "This is my collection," he said.
I walked over to the cabinet. I was standing by his side, gazing down into the drawer. It was divided into sections, each section separated by a panel of wood, each section lined with purple velvet. It was a series of nests, and in each nest lay a feather. In this first drawer all the feathers were blue, various shades of. It was like looking into the sky, seeing the glints of the day there. Along the edge of each section, embossed on a brass plate, were the names of the feathers. And, these feathers being blue only, I knew most of the names by heart, having travelled them.
"People come to me for feathers," the Cat said. "Special ones. Dreams. Dreams that they think will save them. They give me gifts in return."
He closed the top drawer, and opened the second. Black feathers lay glistening there. Like looking into the night. Closed that one, opened the third. Pink feathers. Like looking into the flesh. The names brought back some sweet memories.
"Of course this is only a small part of my collection. The major part I have in storage. You are seeing only the current favourites."
He opened the fourth drawer. Silver feathers. Like looking into the moon. One of the sections was empty. The name read Sniffing General.
"I'll have to ask for the Sniffer back, I'm afraid, when you've finished with it." He closed the fourth layer, opened the last
Gold.
My eyes dancing, catching the waves.
Golden feathers.
Like looking into the sun.
Their very names alone bringing a dream to my head.
"Yes, that's how powerful they are," the Cat told me. I've heard that some people take them anally. Of course one doesn't like to think about such things."
Only two of the names meant anything to me: Curious and Takshaka.
The section marked Curious was empty.
"You had Curious Yellow?" I asked.
"I am a keeper of the feathers. Of course I had a copy."
"Where is it?"
Game Cat closed the drawer. Tristan stole it from me," he said. "Didn't you know that?"
"No. I…"
"It's quite obvious," the Cat was saying. "Tristan didn't like what Curious had done to me. My brother is a very conservative man, Scribble. You must understand this. Despite the hair and the Haze, and the guns… he is the white sheep of the family. He had the impression that he was losing me, to the Vurt. In fact it was the other way around; I was losing him to the pure world."
"He wasn't that pure," I said. "He told me that he had some dog in him."
"Oh yes. Just a trace. I'm the same. Our great grandfather was an Alsatian. Of course it's very far down in the blood stream by now. Sometimes I like to chew on a bone, more than is governed by dinner party etiquette. That's about the extent of it, thank God. And of course he's very jealous of me, being at a lower level, you see? Stuck to the real."
"Tristan stole Curious Yellow?"
"He did."
"Where is it now?"
"I have the impression that he wanted to save the whole world from it. He is an innocent."
"I just want to know where it is."
"He threw it away."
"Where?"
"You saw him do it."
"What?"
"You were there."
"Stop this -"
"You think that I'm not helping you. In fact I'm doing all that I can."
I looked deep into the Game Cat's eyes, and saw the answer there. It was way deep, but I managed it. Because really it was inside of me, and that was where I had to look. "My God!"
"Indeed. You were very close."
He smiled and nodded. "You will come back to me, won't you, young man? This is your proper place. Really, you are a natural."
"I would prefer the real world, and Desdemona."
"Ah yes. The draw of the physical. Of course I could come down and give you a hand now and again. My brother… you understand?"
"No. This is mine. No feathers. Nothing. Don't even consider it, Cat." I was heading for the door.
"One last thing, young man," the Cat said.
"Yeah, I know. Be careful. Be very, very careful."
"You got me, my kittling."
There are only FIVE PURE MODES OF BEING. And all are equal in value. To be pure is good, it leads to a good life. But who wants a good life? Only the lonely. And so therefore we have the FIVE LEVELS OF BEING. And each layer is better than the one before. The deeper, the sweeter, the more completer.
FIRST LEVEL is the purest level. Where all things are separate and so very unsexy. There are only five pure states and their names are Dog, Human, Robo, Shadow, and Vurt.
SECOND LEVEL is the next step. It happens because the modes want to have sex, with other modes, different modes, otherness modes. Except they don't always use Vaz, so these babies get born: Second level creatures. Or sometimes the modes get grafted together. There are many ways to change. Whatever, Second level beings go one better in the knowledge stakes. There are ten Second level beings and their names are Dogman, Robodog, Dogshadow, Vurtdog, Roboman, Shadowman, Vurtman, Roboshad, Robovurt, and Shadowvurt. Chances are you, the reader, are a Second level being of some kind.
But you just want to have sex, right? Which delivers the next level, the THIRD LEVEL, of which there are ten modes also; Robodogman, Shadowmandog, Dogmanvurt, Robodogshadow, Robovurtdog, Shadowvurtdog, Robomanshad, Robomanvurt, Shadowmanvurt, and Roboshadowvurt. These are the middle beings, where most creatures get stuck; they just haven't got the spirit to go beyond.
Except of course, some few just can't stop having sex. Which gives birth to the FOURTH LEVEL, of which there are only five modes, each missing only one element, and their names are; Flake, Dunce, Squid, Spanner, and Float. Hey, what did you want? More big mouthfuls. Fourth level beings are deep beauties, and I should know, because the Cat is one. Which kind? Hey, what is this, gift week? You'll be asking who Hobart is next. I know, I'm a tease. That's how I make my living.
Beyond all this lies the FIFTH LEVEL. Fifth level beings have a thousand names, but Robomandogshadowvurt isn't one of them. They have a thousand names because everybody calls them something different. Call them what you like - you're never going to meet one. Fifth level beings are way up the scale of knowledge and they don't like to mingle. Maybe they don't even exist.
The Cat? He calls the Fifth level Alice. Because that was my mother's name, and it's the thing we all spring from, and try to get back to.
You got a problem with that name, reader?
So make up your own!
Cinders was still asleep when I came down.
I stroked her soft and green hair for a few seconds as I checked the flower clock on the wall. Only five petals had fallen. Seemed like I'd been in the Silver for an hour or more, but that's the Vurt for you; it does strange things to time.
I leaned over to kiss Cinder's face, and then went into The Beetle's room. He was struggling against his chains, desperate to get out of there. But still too fleshy, too human. He couldn't quite make it.
Not without my help.
I guess I'd always wanted him in this position, dependent upon me, but now it brought no pleasure.
"Time come, Scribb?" he asked.
"Definitely," I answered.
"If you let me loose, Scribble, I'll be your friend for life."
"I don't think you've got much life left, Beetle."
"I feel beautiful," he said.
"That's good. Could you do some last things for me?"
"What's that, baby?"
"Steal and drive a van for me."
"I thought you were the expert these days."
"I want to go bareback. No Vurt."
"Crazy mother."
"Damn right. You wanna go for it?"
The shining colours in his eyes lit up even brighter as he smiled, "Let's go ride some stash!"
His voice was singing.
I led the Beetle down along the canalside, towards the last archway. That old clapped out ice-cream van was still there, like a tin corpse. Icarus's face had appeared at the door, boasting a bad look of fear. So I just waved the gun around a little, just to keep him inside, whilst the Beetle breached the van. He didn't use Vaz, beyond that now, and the hood seemed to open up for him, like a slow seduction. He reached inside and I saw some colours shining. They flowed from his fingers, touching the wires inside, and then the engine choked into a small life.
"You know what, brother?" he said. "I really feel some juice tonight."
So we used that juice to drive out to the moors again, me and Twinkle and Mandy, and the Beetle up front, just like it should be.
"Where are we going, Mister Scribble?" asked Twinkle.
"On a picnic. We're going to sell some ice cream."
"It's a bit dark for ice cream," she answered.
It was nine o'clock on the Sunday night, and the trees were fading into silver.
"I like this van," the Twinkle said. "It's the best van yet. I always wanted to ride in an ice-cream van."
"I saw you with that Lucinda woman, Scribble," Mandy said.
"Do you have to bring this up?"
"Why not? You're quite the lover, aren't you?"
"What's happening?" asked Twinkle.
"Scribble got himself a -"
"Mandy!"
"What is it? What is it?" Twinkle shouting.
"Nothing!"
"Scribble got himself a woman."
"Scribble!"
"It's not…"
"Scribble, how could you?" Twinkle's eyes were staring. "What will Desdemona say?"
That left me empty.
"Good question," said Mandy, with a smile.
I looked from the young woman, to the young girl, and then out through the ice-cream van's hatch window, watching the fields go by.
Desdemona. Forgive me.
Beetle rode the van along the same tire tracks of the morning's ride, coming to a perfect stop some ten feet away from the grave.
I stepped out alone, telling the crew to keep the engine turning.
The mound of soil.
My hands digging into the soil, bringing up clumps of mud; scraping the mud onto the earth, moving on, sod by sod, until my fingernails were black and fragile and the world was opening up beneath me.
Found her body there. Suze's.
Strands of hair mixed in with the soil. Her sweet face rising out of the dirt as I brushed the traces of earth away from her, my hand hitting against hard wood. The little wooden box.
Waiting…
It was lodged against Suze's neck, hidden amongst Tristan's hair. And Suze's hair had fallen over his, so that the box was entangled within.
Waiting…
I pushed my hands into the thick mat of hair.
Suze's eyes were closed and her body warm from the earth. She's just sleeping. That's all. I'm just making a steal from a sleeping woman's body. That's all…
Christ! This was getting to me.
The complex folds of the hair, the sweat felling from my brow to my hands, the feet that I could hear the van door opening, Twinkle calling to me, the look on the dead woman's face; all these things conspiring against me, until I was tearing at the hair, cursing. Twinkle's voice from behind me, asking me what I was doing? But I had to get this box loose, you see, I just had to do it!
"What's going on, Mister Scribble?"
Then I had it.
Waiting… Desdesmona…
The last few strands of hair fell away and the box was in my hands. It was hand-carved from mahogany, the top etched into the shape of a howling dog. No lock, just a small brass clasp. I clicked aside the clasp, and then lifted the lid…
Yellow!
A glint of yellow amidst the darkness.
Yellow! The Yellow feather! It was small and neat, just like I remembered, its golden flights enwrapping me, burnishing the air with colours and dreams.
Twinkle came round to see, and I guess her eyes must have seen the look in mine as I gazed at the feather, because all I heard was her sharp breath.
Curious Yellow.
I have you!
Waiting for me…
We were. We were that. Coming in colours. Beetle up front, just like the old days, but this was something new, something else altogether. Felt like I was riding home, riding home in the back of a clapped-out Mr Whipping van, with a golden feather in one hand, Beetle's gun in the other, two bullets left.
Beetle was working the wheel with a hot touch. His spectrum was widening, his skin crumbling at the edges. I'd persuaded him to wear his black frock-coat, and to pull his hat down real tight. Mandy had wrapped a large scarf around his face. Cinders had given us the scarf and hat, along with a pair of neat sunglasses. The Beetle had these on as well. And his leather gloves. "He looks like the Invisible Man!" Twinkle had cried. The Beetle just shrugged. Flashes of colour were seeping through the gaps in his clothing, but it would do.
We were speeding the Wilmslow Road at a Jammer pace, back towards Manchester and the address in my pocket. Except the Beetle wasn't on Jammers any more; he didn't need that shit, not with the bullet in him.
"We going after Brid and the Thing now, Scribble?" asked Twinkle.
"That's the score, kidder," I answered.
"Oh good."
That kid should be having a good life, not being thrown about in the back of a stolen ice-cream van. And it was me leading her there, into a dark place, just because I needed her help. What kind of behaviour is that?
Yeah, I know. Like shit.
We came onto the Fallowfield crossroads. The Slithy Tove restaurant went by on the left and got me to thinking about Barnie, and his wife. Cinders. Her green hair wet with sweat.
Lose that picture. Lose it!
We were driving up the Fallowfield hill now and I saw a phone booth coming up close on the right, outside the student residences.
"Beetle!" I shouted. "Stop right here. I need to make a call." He pressed down on the brakes like a Sumovurt, throwing us all over the Mr Whipping equipment.
Like I really need this battering, my man. Know what I'm saying?
The phone booth had been vandalised recently, but a drop of Vaz in the slot sorted that out. I had a blue Mercury Vurt, almost gone to cream, but the phone's mouth took the feather gratefully. Then I pulled the feather out, and placed it between my own lips. Ten units of value glowed in the phone's eyes.
Jesus. That was low.
POLICE. YOU NEED HELP? the floating head asked.
Yes. Yes I did.
POLICE. CAN WE HELP? repeated the voice, growing impatient. I was finding it hard to speak, and I knew just why. This was the first time, in all my life, that I'd actually called the cops.
"I was just wondering…," I managed.
YOU HAVE AN ENQUIRY, SIR? LET ME PUT YOU THROUGH.
Noises in the wave wires like the kissing of the sea. The eyes telling me I had only seven units of call left.
DATA. CAN I HELP? A man's head replacing the woman's.
"Yes, please," I said. "I would like to know the situation regarding a Mr Tristan Catterick. He was arrested yesterday. Could you tell me please?"
"I've only got four units left," I said, but the line was playing the national anthem, whilst the head smiled benignly.
So I waited.
The voice cut in again. WE ARE RETRIEVING THE FILES, SIR. WE'LL GET RIGHT BACK TO YOU.
"I've got two units left!"
No response.
One unit.
The music playing, and then the eyes glowing from cream to blue again as the units came back on. Two units. Flicker. Four units. Flicker. And then upwards until I had ten units left. Somebody was feeding units in, and it wasn't me. Must be coming from the other side, from the cops, trying not to get me cut off.
They had a tracer on!
A glimpse of Takshaka's tongue flickering over the wires.
I pulled the feather out, doing a bad jerkout job. Shit! Time to move.
We rode down Fallowfield hill like demons, down into Rusholme, past the Platt Fields, towards the curry chute. Every car that we passed had flags waving from the windows. Pakistani flags. Inside each car, families of Asians were laughing and shouting, and the cars were sounding their horns.
What the fuck was going on?
Now the traffic was slowing down, and we came up close to the old flat, the Rusholme Gardens. It gave me a bad feeling, seeing where we had come from, and how far, and I thought the Beetle was feeling the same because I could hear him cursing. Except it wasn't from nostalgia. It was from the cops. I'd clambered up to sit next to him, and I could see them there; working the road, diverting the cars down Platt Lane.
A real heavy cop presence.
"Stay tucked up, Bee."
"I'm boiling, Scribb."
"You're a shining example to us all, Beetle, but right now I reckon you should keep it tight." I slipped the gun and the feather into my pockets. A shadowcop flickered onto our number-plate, but that's okay; that old ice-cream van was innocent. The Beetle kept himself well back in the shadows of the cab. A traffic cop waved us through, left onto Platt, taking it slower now, jammed between the Asian cars. Mandy came forward, poking her head between us.
"What's happening, Mandy?" I asked.
"Eid, baby," she answered.
Oh right. What a night to pick.
"It's the end of Ramadan. The end of fasting. The people go a bit crazy, and sometimes it kicks off. That's why the cops are here. They seal the curry chute off, but it just spills over."
Gangs of Asian kids were lining the pavements, cheering the cars and the flags, so Beetle found the button that worked the van's music. The kids really freaked out then. They waved us on like we were some kind of ice-cream chariot of the gods, dancing to the tune of Popeye the Sailor Man, played at fever pitch.
We got through okay, and then a slow right onto the Yew Tree Road. Cops were out of it by now, the roads were quiet. Right from Yew Tree, onto Claremont Road. I told the Beetle to slow it even more. He did so, with a sure hand, taking us to a gentle crawl, between the rows of terraces. Way ahead, at the top of Claremont, you could see where the cops had sealed off Wilmslow Road. Hundreds of Asians moving beyond the roadblocks.
"Kill that Popeye shit as well," I added.
Silence coming in as the music faded.
"What number we after, Scribb?" asked Mandy.
There's the one," I said.
The van came to a smooth stop.
Karli started to whine.
Here we are. Sunday evening, the 1st of June. Ten thirty on the night of Eld.
The road was pretty much our own now. The house was three storeys tall, over the top of a junkshop called Cosmic Debris. A tight alley opened up between this house and the next, barred by a wooden gate, topped with wire. Dogfluff fluttered on the barbs.
Karli was really howling now, feeling something.
The house was dark but for the weak spluttering of a candle in a top floor window. "Bad dogs, real bad dogs," said Mandy, "they don't like the light."
This is it. This is where we come to.
"You want to try the back, Bee?" I said. Because who would invite this shining man into their household?
"Love to," he answered.
"We go in first. Got that? No heroics."
"What, me?" His colours were very beautiful. They always are, just before the death.
"You're doing fine, Bee." I said.
"I do feel good." Maybe he knew it. The ending. He wasn't letting on.
"I just wanted to say…" I started. But the words wouldn't come.
"Don't bother," the Beetle replied. Cool as ever, right to the end.
"I'm proud of you, Beetle." Managed it.
"Me too," said Mandy.
Beetle took off the sunglasses. He looked at me, smiled, then over to Mandy.
He kissed her. It was sweet, and it lasted.
Then he turned back to the house. "I haven't got all night. Let's do it."
Oh. Beetle.
"Are we really here, Scribble?" asked Twinkle from the back of the van.
I looked back to find her, but all I saw was Karli.
The robobitch was down on her stomach, rubbing the van floor like a snake. Her forelegs were stretched out flat, her hindlegs were raised up tall, tail aloft, her arse on view, pink and pouting. "I think she's smelling something," whispered Twinkle. "I think she's on heat."
Yes. We're here. And we're all on heat.
Twinkle and Karli went to the door first. There was a kind of alcove, with the door to the shop on one side, and the door to the upstairs flat on the back. Above the door someone had pinned a printed notice saying PURE FREE ZONE. Below that was tacked a piece of paper with the words - you not got dog, fuck off! - scrawled in thick clumsy letters. Above the letterbox was an ornate iron scrollwork sign that said CHEZ CHIEN in a Gothic script. Below the box someone had felt-tipped the message - Turdsville. Watch where you tread. It was written in a human hand. Just to the left of the bell was a sticker, a photo of an Alsatian on it, and the words - Go ahead, make my day! Somebody had glued two blue human eyes over the dog's.
Twinkle pressed the bell.
You couldn't hear the bell, so you just had to believe it was working.
No response to that.
Mandy was standing behind Twinkle, and I was behind her. The Beetle was still sitting in the van, watching us through the window. The gun felt hot in my pocket, but that didn't stop the fear. I just couldn't stop shaking. Twinkle pressed the bell again, keeping her finger down this time.
Still no answer.
"Maybe they're not in," said Mandy.
"Keep pressing, Twink," I said.
Twinkle pressed.
No answer, so she lifted the letterbox and shouted through, "Anyone at home?"
Nothing.
Until the door came open a little, held back by a heavy chain. Two dark, wet eyes stared out at us. "What want?" the deep voice growled. "What want?"
You could see the slaver dripping as he spoke.
Twinkle rose up like a true star to the occasion. "We've got a young bitch," she said. "You want to buy some?"
There was a pause. The dog's eyes flicked up to stare at me. I smiled back.
"Let hear some," barked the voice.
So Twinkle pressed the Karli up close to the door gap and let her sound off there. That bitch howled like a sex goddess, like a Pornovurt; like Cinders on an Oscar-winning bed scene. The doordog was whining back, full up of heat and want. He vanished for a second, and then the chain hung loose and the door yawned open, on a breath of rank air. You could hear the locks getting wet and slippery. That's when the smell hit us. The overpowering stench of dogs.
We went on through. The doordog had us trapped now, in a tight dark space. Behind him a set of stairs faded into the darkness. The stench was thick, almost physical, and the dogman's eyes were glinting in front of mine. Karli set off up the stairs, Twinkle down hard on the lead, pulling that bitch to a howling halt on the middle step.
The doordog had a heap of dog in him, a whole heap. He was standing upright, on two clenched hindlegs, and that was the just about the most human thing about him. His muzzle was long and matted with dirt. His teeth were crowding his jaw, his pink lips drooling a bath of foam. He patted each of us down in the small hallway. Finding nothing on Mandy and Twink, finding the gun on me. He took the gun away in his clumsy paws and hung it on a coat hook and then shooed us up the dark stairway, after the Karli. Top floor," he growled.
I took one step forward, and felt the soft squelch as I brought my foot down.
Oh yuk!
The stairs were covered in dogshit.
So were my shoes.
So I followed Twinkle like a mad dancer, one foot here, one there, between the dungheaps, moving up to the dim landing.
The top step led straight into the kitchen. Along one wall were nailed the carcasses of dozens of dreamsnakes, shimmers of green and violet. Three dogmen were eating there, out of bowls at the table. The room was in darkness, but you could smell the meat they were eating, and lumps of it were falling to the floor as they slobbered at it. The smell was sweet to my nostrils, but I couldn't work out why. It was certainly having an effect on them; the more they ate, the more they howled. One of them fell on the floor, landing in some of his own shit. It didn't bother him, just kept on rolling around, like he was having some kind of trance.
I don't think they even knew we were there.
Karli took one sniff into the kitchen and then raced out of the room, following some more succulent dog scent, along a corridor, and then up the next flight of steps, Twinkle pulled along by the tight lead.
I hung back for a moment, Mandy just behind. There was a closed door to my left. The door ahead of me was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open. The room was bathed in darkness, with a smell like dog sex coming in waves. One whiff of it and I was back in the pink Vurt, Bitch on Heat, Cinders urging me on. And when she looked back at me, it wasn't Cinders, or Desdemona; it was the Game Cat there, smiling in the dog's eyes.
No.
Not now. Do this alone. No feathers.
I brought myself down.
A lone dog girl was lying on a black carpet, her long tongue licking down between her split legs.
The room smelt like porn. Dogporn. Porn for the nose.
The bitchgirl looked up at me.
She had eyes of the brightest human blue, set amidst a face of fur.
I couldn't look into those eyes.
I closed the door gently, and then turned to the door on the left. Mandy was no longer with me. Where was that girl? No matter. Do it alone. Check every room. Keep looking - A tiny noise. There! Listen! A tiny noise just coming in, almost lost in the howling from the kitchen. I pressed my ear against the left side door. There it was. The sound of alien flesh rubbing up the wrong way against planet Earth.
I pushed the door open.
Slowly.
Do this slowly, holding the breath, keeping cool.
I went into the room.
There was a smell of bad meat, a rancid haze that clogged at the senses, bringing thoughts of death.
The Thing was in the room.
I could hear him calling me, in that strange tongue.
The room was dark, dark as all the rest, but I could just make him out there, his fat bulk. The curtains were closed, just a glimmer of a streetlamp filtering in. In the shadows I saw a thin shape moving. It was bent over near the Thing. A dull glint came from its fingers. The shape moved slightly as I stepped inside, lifting its head up towards me, and I saw the snout dribbling, a slow turn of its thin long face.
The shape howled, high pitched.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a young dogboy and he was crouched over a bed. The Thing was tied down to the bed with old dogleads. Dogboy had a breadknife in his paws, and he was cutting chunks from the Thing's stomach. Beside the bed lay a bowl. Some meat was in there already. My mind jumped back to the kitchen, what I saw there as we passed - the dogs eating and the sweet aroma of the meat.
Sudden flash of me arriving back down in the real, the Thing pressed up on top of me, that sweet aroma rising from his skin.
Those dogs were eating the Thing! Bit by bit. Letting him regenerate between meals. And then cutting some more muscle off, taking that featherless flight into Vurt, direct to the flesh.
Something snapped just then. Something happened.
Not sure what. But during it I felt the cut of the breadknife on my arm, up just past the elbow. Didn't hurt. Even though I saw the red spurting onto my jacket sleeve. The dogboy was howling as I picked him up.
Go take a flying fuck, dogshit!
Dogboy made a fat sound against the wallpaper, and then slid and crumpled. He lay there, broken, whimpering.
I went over to the Thing. My arm just starting to hurt now, but I managed the straps alright, cutting them with the breadknife. The Thing didn't move. Didn't even make a noise. He just lay there, weak-hearted. He'd lost a ton of weight over the lost weeks, eaten away; his alien metabolism battling hard against the cuttings, but not quite keeping up. I unwound the leads from the bed, and then wrapped them around his soft body a few times, making a harness. The Thing was muttering now, in that thick tongue of his. I tickled him on the stomach, where he liked it. Maybe it did some good. He was so thin I almost felt that I could carry him alone. So I slipped the leads around one shoulder, and then around the other, took a deep breath, and pulled him up.
I had him up there, aloft and free, his alien voice calling to me. Couldn't make out a word but it sounded like comfort anyway, like he was glad to be carried.
I walked back to the landing to fetch Twinkle and Karli.
Up the next flight to the top floor. Another two doors waiting. The floor had been cleaned recently, and it made a nice change, to be stepping lightly, free of the shit. I was covered enough already. A note pinned to the stairwell read "No dirty paws beyond this point. That includes you, Slobba!" It was written in Bridget's hand. Both doors were closed, but the one straight ahead had a flicker of blue light around the jamb. And the slightest hint of dog smell coming through, mixed in with flowers.
The Thing was weighing down on my shoulders.
I heard Dingo's latest love ballad - Venus in Fur - playing softly.
And then the voice, "Is that you, Scribble?"
Bridget's voice from behind the door.
I had the Thing. I had Curious Yellow. I could have just ridden out of there.
Instead I went on through.
"How could you do this, Bridget?"
She raised her sleepy head from the bed to look at me. Her eyes were loaded with dreams, and a red flush coloured her usually pale flesh. She was lying on a ruffled bed, wearing just a man's white shirt and a lace of shadow-smoke. The room was dark except for the play of light coming from the candle on the window ledge. It had an azure flame; the palest blue light gently shining over the room.
"The candle's there for you, Scribb," she said. "I knew you'd find me."
"I guess it took me too long," I answered.
There was a man lying in the bed, covered by sheets. He had a handsome face on him, long brown hair; maybe just a trace of dog. One hand lovingly stroked Bridget's neck, whilst the other held open a book. I could see the title in gold, embossed, the sonnets of John Donne.
The bedroom looked clean and human in the candle's glow, full of the smell of flowers and incense. I guess this was more of Bridget's work; an attempt to mask the smell of dog. The flowers did a good job, but only just; the aroma of dog lingered like one of Dingo's bass notes.
And I got the picture of Bridget gardening this small human space, in the middle of Turdsville. What was that girl on? What was the motivation?
And why am I the last person to ask this?
Karli was on the bed with the young couple. She was trying to nudge the sheets back, getting her nose under there, her pink arse on display, raised up. Twinkle was sitting in an armchair, watching Karli's game.
I was watching all this from out on the landing, through the now wide-open door, with the breadknife still clutched, tight, in my right hand.
Bridget lit a cigarette in the blue shadows.
"We've come to take you out of here," I said.
Bridget turned back to me, her mouth full of smoke, giving me that old-time sleepy smile. "Look at the Thing," I cried. "Look what they're doing to him!"
"Yeah?" she answered, her voice a slow drawl.
"They've been eating him!"
"Eating who?"
I took a breath. "Bridget…"
"How's the Beetle these days, Scribble? He still pushing you around?"
"Beetle's doing fine."
So what was I supposed to say? Beetle's on his last moments.
He desperately wants to see you again, before he dies of the colours, so why don't you just come easy?
Would that have worked?
And where the hell was that guy anyway?
"This is my friend, Uber," she said to the man beside her. "Scribble."
"Good morning, sir," his voice lightly dog-touched. "May I say how pleased I am to be in your company."
"Scribble, this is Uber," Bridget told me.
"How could you do this, Brid?" I cried. "Tell me!" Bridget turned her sleeping eyes full on to me, and in the blue light, they looked like jewels.
"Uber is so very good. He takes me places."
"Yeah. To a dogshit hole like this."
Uber threw the blankets back.
Karli was thrown with them, but he caught her in his human hands as he rolled out of the bed. He was a strong, young man, and he lifted the dog without struggle. Karli didn't mind. That robobitch was in love! She let herself be tumbled over onto his lap.
Uber was a beautiful creature.
A perfect split, straight across the middle. Sometimes it happens like that, once in a thousand matings. He was human from the waist up, dog from the waist down. He placed his fur-covered legs down on the floor, sitting on the bed, with the Karli in his strong arms. She was nuzzling up close to him, licking his face with a pink tongue. Uber moved his head away from her, giving me a slow look.
"I have been so looking forward to this," he said, in that dark voice. "Bridget tells me stories about you. I must say, I do find them rather amusing. She has a high regard for you, sir."
I didn't answer.
The shadows changing on the candle's breath.
He held out a long fingered hand. Sharp claws pushed through the soft pads of each finger, and when he smiled, his teeth were pointed, tiny shards of dog lodged in the human. "What's wrong?" he said. "Won't you shake my hand, sir?" He could retract the claws at will, and he did so now, presenting a soft hand to me, but still I wasn't tempted. "Don't you like me, Scribble? After all, I'm the one who saved Bridget."
"Saved her from what?" I asked.
"Why, from the pure life, of course."
"I'm taking Bridget back," I said.
Uber turned his face to the candle. He closed his eyes slightly against the glare. "Ah yes," he said. "I was expecting this. Dingo warned me thus."
"It's going to happen."
"Put down the food please, sir."
"I can't."
"Why's that?"
"I need the Thing."
"You call him a thing. That's shows little respect. Food is most precious, and should be treated accordingly."
"Fuck you."
Uber closed his eyes fully, for a moment, whilst stroking Karli on his lap.
"This is a luscious robobitch," he said. "I thank you for bringing her to me."
And as he spoke, he was moving his fingers between Karli's hindlegs.
"Scribble?" said Twinkle, from her chair.
"Don't worry, kid," I told her. "It's under control."
"Is it, indeed?" said Uber. "Under control? Is it under control? Oh good. Whose control?" And each word came darker than the last, and more dog-like, like he was losing it, the human, and getting one serious rag on.
"I'm walking out of here," I said.
"Don't push him, Scribb,'said Bridget
"I'm taking the Thing with me," I said. "You ready, Twink?"
"I'm ready," she answered. And then turned to the pet. "Karli!" she called.
Karli pricked up one ear towards Twinkle's voice, and then refolded it. "Come on, Karli!" Twinkle tried again. But I guess that dog was too happy.
"You coming too, Bridget?" I asked.
She didn't even look at me.
Twinkle was on her feet, by my side.
Uber was stroking Karli on the neck, the underside, where she loved it the most. He blew out the candle, even from that distance, with a dog's breath. When he turned back to me, his human face was split by a pure canine grin.
"Don't let me do this," Uber said, tightening still further. And at first Karli let it happen, thinking it a touch of love. But then feeling it for what it was; an act of torture. Uber's fingers were squeezing on the windpipe, and his claws were coming out, pricking tiny jewels of blood from Karli's neck. He had an expert's knack of finding the soft flesh between the plastic bones. Karli was whimpering now, struggling to get loose. Uber parted his thick lips, showing those chiselled teeth. "I am Das Uberdog," he growled. "The world is my shitting place." And his eyes were wild, wild and free, as his claws tightened on the wet throat.
I made a struggling move, under the digging weight of the Thing, but Twinkle beat me to it. She launched herself forwards, hurling herself at Das Uber with all her young strength.
Uber bent a powerful dog-muscled leg in two, like a levered machine, so that Twinkle was pressed up against it, struggling to get Karli loose. Then Das Uber unflexed his leg, quickly and with a finely tuned force, that sent Twinkle screaming, backwards, to land at my feet.
"What is your reading of the situation, sir?" asked Das Uber. Blood from Karli's neck was leaking between his long human fingers.
"I think you smell like shit, "I said.
"Thank you,"he replied.
So I turned around.
Twinkle was clutching at my legs, trying to stop rne, crying out, "Scribble! Scribble! Don't leave us!"
But I just turned around, and walked away.
Some things ore more important than others, and if that makes me bad, then let it stand.
I was heading back down the stairs, the weight of the Thing on my shoulders and back, almost pulling me over.
Cold, like stone.
Twinkle was crying from above, but I was down on the first landing now, carrying the weight. Felt like I was carrying Desdemona herself. That's how I pictured it, the swap already made, just to get the blood pumping. Past the front room where the bitchgirl was licking herself to a frenzy. I could hear her whining from under the door. Around the corner, along the corridor, towards the kitchen, where all three dog people were now down on the floor, rolling around, travelling some mutant Vurt, fuelled by the Thing's flesh.
Where was Mandy? Where was Twinkle? Where was the Beetle? Where was the Bridget? Why was I doing this alone?
And then Uber's howl, from the top storey. Sounded like a siren's cry, refused in love. The scrabbling of his dog claws on lino and floorboards. Me taking a lurching race for the last stairs, where the front door lay waiting, and the doordog was turning to see what all the howling was about.
Thing was, he was just a little bit busy.
Because Mandy was happily wrapped around him, one hand reaching down stroking him between his legs.
Thanks for the help, Mandy. Appreciate it.
But then I saw that her other hand was reaching for the coat hook, and I changed all that around. Do it, girl! Do it!
I could hear the dogs getting close behind as I raced down, stumbling under the burden of the Thing, slipping on dogshit, making a slide of it, heading straight for the doordog. His eyes were so wide, felt like I was going to slide right on in there. Something was grabbing at me from behind, pulling at the Thing on my back, dragging hard, so we were pulled up, and back, halfway down the stairs, lodged against the two walls. A strong, white, human hand reached around and grabbed my neck. My face was jerked back, and I was looking straight into the eyes of Das Uberdog. That's when the lights came on.
A scorching brilliance.
Every lamp shining down with a fierce radiance, dazzling in rainbows of colours.
Beetle! Was that your work, my man?
I heard dogs behind me howling in pain; sounded like a bad jerkout.
But not Uber.
He took it, unblinking, and I felt his claws digging in at my throat.
I brought my right hand up, and backwards, in a sweeping arc, the breadknife lodged solid in my fingers.
Das Uber saw it coming, moved his face with a dog's jammed-up instinct, whip-fast, away from the blade's path.
Too slow, sucker!
The knife went in, hard against the flesh, somewhere on his left cheek, hit bone, slipped, cut through, into the jawline.
Blood on my face, Das Uber howling, me twisting the knife, hard!
I was free of the grip now, so I heaved the Thing back up, letting go of the knife, and started for the door again. The doordog had struggled free of Mandy. He was shielding his eyes from the glare with one forepaw, struggling up the stairs, his other paw flailing around in front of him.
That's when Mandy delivered. Delivered good.
Do it, girl!
First the flash of bright hot light, then the exploding air, the noise of it enough to kill, then the howling scream of Doordog as he's thrown up the stairs by the force. He bangs against me, and then drops. In the centre of his back a black and ragged hole is burning. Flame bullet.
The dogs were howling from the top of the stairs, and when I turned I saw Das Uberdog pulling the knife out of his torn face. He peeled his gums back, away from the long teeth, displaying his wound.
I stepped over the body of Doordog, and joined Mandy at the bottom. She was standing with legs apart, my gun in both hands, just like she'd done, no doubt, in countless Bloodvurts. At the top of the stairs I could see the dogs scuffling about in panic, banging into the walls, their half-cut brains struggling with the messages. Behind them Bridget and Twinkle were standing. Twinkle had Karli by her side. Robodog looked okay, a bit wobbly, some blood on its fur.
"You hurt, Uber?" called Bridget, from the landing.
He didn't answer, didn't even look around, just put one paw down on the next step.
Mandy had the gun well aimed, but I could see her shaking some.
Uber brought another paw down, another step, holding the knife in his right hand. It had his blood on it, and more of the stuff was flowing down from his ragged lips.
"One more step, dogbreath," said Mandy, "and it's the big kennel."
Uber raised his paw, staring her straight in the eye. He could see the sweat on her face, and the shake in her arms.
He started to bring down the paw.
"She'll do it, Uber," shouted Bridget. "I know her." And then, more slowly, "These are my friends."
He stopped then, looked back up the stairs towards his lover, his fine and sleepy-eyed shadowgirl lover. And I wonder what thoughts she had found there, inside that dog man?
"Uber… that's enough." Bridget speaking. No. Not speaking. Just thinking. I was tuned into them, the woman and the dog, and all the things that had gone on between them.
I think she was the purest thing he'd ever known.
And when he turned back to us, you could see that something had changed, something had clouded over in those deep eyes that had run with the dogs, whilst also contemplating the works of John Donne.
He stepped back to a higher level.
I guess the poetry made it through, this time.
"You coming on down, Twinkle?" I shouted.
"Karli's hurt," she cried.
"Karli's done good. She's a real Stash Rider. Just like you, kidder."
Bridget nodded when Twinkle looked at her. So the young kid came down the stairs, followed by the robodog. And Das Uber stepped aside, to let her pass. Just like a man should do.
Twinkle came into my arms. There were tears on her face. I wiped them with my filthy hands. It was all I had.
I looked up the stairs, past Das Uber, to where Bridget was holding onto the dogs. The look in her eyes told me a story. You know that one, about giving up something good, for the sake of something else. And then finding no way back? And maybe you don't want to go back anyway?
Yeah, I guess so.
For what I've lost, and for what I've taken, a part of this story is for you, Bridget. Wherever you are.
I still didn't have a clue where the Beetle was, except that the lights were starting to fade again, but I suddenly thought; We're going to do this! We're getting away with it! "You're going home, Big Thing," I said, making Twinkle laugh.
Mandy tucked the gun into the back of her jeans and then opened the front door. She went through, taking Twinkle with her, and the Karli Dog. I followed, the Thing on my back. He was squirming around on there, like he knew he was going home. Like he knew that we were going out there, into the dark of Claremont, to where the ice-cream van lay waiting.
But there was another car parked close by, a black and white job; another one just down the road. Cop cars. A beam of light came whirling into position, trapping us there. Shadowbeam! Full intensity. Inpho flickering over my face, searching for clues. Clues of fear.
Shecop Murdoch was waiting for us, over by a streetlamp, gun in hand. Takshaka Shadowcop was flooding out from the roof of one of the police cars, and he was smiling that smoky smile, as he transmitted.
DO NOT MOVE. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.
"I guess we got you, Scribble?" Murdoch said.
Some other cops, real-life ones, four of them, stepped out of cars.
"I guess so," I answered.
That's okay, officers. We've got this one."
At Murdoch's word the four cops backed off a little, leaning against their cars, like this was some kind of easy squeeze.
I was standing in the doorway of the doghouse, my hands tight around Twinkle's shoulders and chest. Karli was snarling at the shadowcop, but keeping it under control. Mandy was in front of us, out in the rain some, so that I could see that her hair was getting a sheen on it. Behind me the Turdsville door was still open, but I couldn't chance a move, not with Takshaka beaming me. The deal was knife-edge.
"Shame about Tristan," Murdoch said.
Her hair was drenched to the bone. She looked like a near-death drowning, and the intense look of purpose on her dog-ripped face was starting to tell me something.
"Is it?" I answered.
"Yeah. Died during custody."
"I'll bet," I said, but my heart was falling fast, into despair, and I felt the world slip to one side slightly, like maybe the rain was falling sideways.
"Found him this morning," Murdoch was saying. "Hung himself, from the window bars. I'm thinking that maybe he couldn't take it."
"I think you're right." I was stalling, keeping it going, waiting for a moment to come, some kind of loose moment.
Some things take a life to arrive, and a part of this story's for you, Tristan.
"Where's the tough guy, just now?" Murdoch asked.
Good fucking question!
"Who's that?" I replied.
Seeing colours…
"The Beetle?"
"You killed him, Murdoch. That Mandel finished him."
"He got one of ours."
Murdoch's voice was hard and cold when she spoke, and I was getting the story now, what was going down here, and why she was keeping the dumb cops back.
Shecop had gone into personal mode.
I think she was waiting for a move from us, a legit reason to blow.
Colours playing on the edge of my vision.
MURDOCH! I'M GETTING A GUN ON LINE. HE'S CARRYING!
His beams were playing over me, trying to find that lost gun. He seemed to be ill at ease in the night air, as though his real home was the Takskaka Vurt, and this was just rain-soaked boring life.
You just made a big mistake, Shadowfuck, leaving Mandy in the shade…
"You want to use it, Scribble?" Murdoch said.
…and not bothering about the house corner…
"I couldn't beat you, Murdoch," I replied, playing it out. "You're the best."
… where the colours were playing.
I caught a glimpse of movement, as Mandy pulled the gun from the back of her jeans, keeping it hidden behind her back.
Be careful, soldier. Just one bullet left in there.
Murdoch smiled. And then somebody called her name.
"Murdoch!"
The Beetle's voice! Full of colours.
The shecop turned her head, just a fraction, that's all it takes, over towards the side of the building. We all turned then, to see the Beetle in his glory, Walking out from the side alley, bathed in a rainbow.
Karli started howling.
The Beetle was naked. His body was a blaze of shapes, ever-changing. Beetle was no longer flesh. The fractals had taken possession, moving in swirls and arabesques through every part of him. He was the Shining Man, the walking firework. The darkness fused and popped all around as he moved, through a halo of fire, and the rain turned into sparks when it hit his skin. Best of all; the Beetle was walking with that loose-limbed Stash Rider cool that I never did master.
Flare. My man had flare.
"Murdoch!" he shouted again, the words coming in colours. "Leave them alone!" The fleshcops made a clumsy move, away from their vehicles, reaching for gun comfort, shocked and blinded. One of them tried to grab Beetle. Bad move, buddy! Just one touch and that cop was sizzling. He went through all the colours before dropping to the pavement. Cop sure left a beautiful corpse. In the confusion I pulled Twinkle backwards, towards the open door. She had Karli by the lead, and that robodog wasn't keen on missing the action.
"Get in the house, kid," I whispered, hard. "I mean it!" I dragged her back, with the dog, getting myself between them and the trouble. I wanted Twinkle and the dog together, in case it all went wrong.
Murdoch saw the Beetle coming towards her and swung her gun around, shouting to the other cops; "Keep it simple, people!" Only Shaka kept his beams aligned, moving from me to Mandy.
MURDOCH! IT'S NOT SCRIBBLE! HE'S NOT GOT THE GUN!
"What?" Now Murdoch was looking well nervous, not knowing where to look.
IT'S NOT SCRIBBLE! Takshaka going wild, firing his beams everywhere. One of those beams, a red-hot one, caught the Beetle in the chest. The shining man just took the heat on board, loving it, until his colours shone like snake-diamonds.
One of the other fleshcops got it together, lost it, went for panic mode, starting firing. The Beetle didn't even jerk from the impact. Pieces of his body flew apart from the force of the bullet, colours raging. Beetle just carried straight on…
Oh Bee.
…carried straight on, as more cops opened fire. He was almost on Murdoch now and she was firing at him as well. He caught the round full on, and his body was blown apart, splintering into a shower of fractals. And the colours were draining from my life. Into the spaces. The Beetle's voice coming through.
My name written in a cloud of sparks in the night air, in the Manchester night air. And then falling away to nowhere, where the angels live.
IT'S THE GIRL! Takshaka had focused on Mandy.
Murdoch started to turn again towards us, bringing the gun around, but Mandy was already out there, on the edge of nothing, watching the Beetle losing the race, and she was calling out Beetle's name as she…
Save something!
I stumbled backwards, heading for the doghouse door.
…as she pulled the gun around, activating.
Noise and flame.
A bullet tracing out a path of fire.
And as I was falling back, under the weight of the Thing, into the hallway, I saw Murdoch's body catch that flame bullet, full on, in the heart's place.
Suck on that, bitchcop!
Murdoch screaming, and then the explosion of gunfire, as the cops took Mandy. Her body was blown back, blood and flesh exploding, all across the walls, as she bounced against the bottom stairs, coming to rest at our feet. I had Twinkle and Karli pressed up tight against the wall. Twinkle was crying for Mandy, and the dog was yelping. The Thing was still fixed to my back, wriggling around, calling my name out loud. And then I was kicking the door shut, bullets punching back holes in the wood.
A rain of splinters, hard as glass.
I was hitting home the door bolt, but already the guns were letting up.
I was down flat on the floor by now, the Thing cushioning me, Twinkle alongside, and Karli. Mandy in my arms, getting crushed. No use.
Still didn't bring her back.
For Mandy and the Beetle, Stash Riders, a part of this for you.
The firing stopped, and Shaka's transmission came through, loud and angry, almost human.
WE HAVE YOU. JUST COME OUT CLEAN. NO OTHER WAY OUT.
Dogs howling from the stairs above.
Das Uberdog and Bridget were standing on the landing above, surrounded by wailing halfdogs. The full pack had gathered, making a vicious gang. Bridget was calling me to come up.
"Is this where it ends, Mister Scribble?" Twinkle asked.
"Not yet," I answered.
"We're the Stash Riders, is that right?"
I turned my eyes to that face of tears.
"That's right," I said. "Out on the edge, loving it."
Or come out dirty.
Wanna bet?
They gave us maybe two seconds to consider, before putting one single bullet through, high up on the door, like a warning.
Twinkle screamed out.
"Don't let it scare you, Twink," I whispered.
"I'm not scared, Mister Scribble," she answered. "Don't you get it yet?"
I looked her deep in those strong eyes.
"Keep screaming, kidder," I said.
Twinkle screamed like a wounded child, like Cinders in a climax love scene.
"Let up, Shaka!" I shouted. "We've got a young kid inhere. That cunt just wounded her!"
SORRY ABOUT THAT, SCRIBBLE. WE'VE GOT SOME SAD COPS OUT HERE. JUST LOST ONE OF OUR BEST. GOT NO PROBLEM WITH THE YOUNG GIRL. SEND HER OUT. WE GET HER TO HOSPITAL. YOU WANT TO DO THAT?
"I can't trust you on that," I shouted back.
WHY EVER NOT?
Because the world's on your side, not on mine.
I let him wait five seconds, before answering; "Okay, Shaka! I'm sending the kid out. Go easy. No tricks."
"She's in a bad way."
That was all I needed.
I ran up the stairs, dragging the Twinkle along behind me. Past Das Uberdog, who had his charges in hand, waiting for the call up. Those mad dogs were howling at his fingertips, baying for blood.
Cop blood.
Worst enemy. Best meat.
"Take those cops out, Das!" Bridget shouted.
And as I passed, Das Uber was already leading the dogs down, towards the front door. Karli was looking at the pack, as they descended. Robodog had a yearning look in her eyes. "You wanna go with them, Karli?" asked Twinkle.
Karli leapt for the chance, heading down the stairs after Das Uberdog.
Police were expecting a young kid to come out. But they were getting a pack of cop-eaters.
I wonder how they coped with that?
"You got another way out, Brid?"
She smiled at me. And then gave me the answer.
Shadowgirl didn't even have to open her mouth.
We were running through a soft mud. Didn't even want to think about it; smelt like the world gone bad. Couldn't see too well, just pushing on, ankle deep, retching. The Twinkle in front. Pictures on the stone walls as we passed, painted in shit.
Just caught glimpses.
Dogs fucking women. Men fucking dogs. Half and half split babies being born, all wreathed in the foul miasma that rose from the mud.
Das Uberdog's face glowing in the darkness from the wall ahead.
Those painted eyes fixing me, demanding belief, so that I couldn't move. Dogshit leaking into my shoes, Twinkle turning around to urge me on. "You like it down here, Mister Scribble?"
No! No, I don't!
"So stay here then!"
The young girl pushing on through the shit.
Oh my god!
"Wait for me, Twinkle!"
Bridget had led us to this cellar, down from a pantry door set in the kitchen's wall. "They most probably got cops out the back, Scribble," she'd said.
"We'll deal with that."
Staying pure. Featherless. Through a hole in the wall, into this dog toilet.
And there was a cop waiting for us.
He was floating face down in the slow tide.
A cop in dogshit, drowning.
That's one I'll keep with me.
And sparks of colours coming from the fuse-box as we passed, Beetle's colours. Did good, my man.
I was wading after Twinkle, heading for the light ahead, the soft glow of streetlamps shining through the swung-back doors set in the cellar's roof. Following Twinkle up the steps, faint glints of the Beetle's colours shining from the doors' sprung locks. We emerged into a garden, overgrown with tall weeds. And a dump of maybe fifty-five full to the brim binbags waiting for collection.
I guess the Council gave up on this house years ago.
The smell was sweet and high, but beautiful, free from Turdsville. From the front of the house I could hear the sound of dogs barking, people screaming.
I hope that you dogmen took some cops out that day, and that some of you are still running free.
An open gate in the back wall led onto a small street. Don't ask me its name. It's enough that we took it. There was a small road ahead of us, away from the trouble. It led onto Parkfield Street, and we were struggling down it, running with the pain. The Thing was weighing heavy on me. Twinkle racing ahead. I knew these little back streets fairly well because they were clustered at the back of the Rusholme Gardens flat. We took a left, and then a right, onto Heald Place. Down that, out onto Platt Lane. The park just over the road from us. The streets were still full up of Asian kids, and there were lights and noise coming from the park, the deep rhythms of Bhangradog songs.
No cops.
We made it across the road alright, the Asians looking at me funny, but I was used to that. Into the Platt Fields. The trees were swaying in a slow winding dance to the beat, brushed by waves of noise from the sound systems up ahead. Even the rain was caught up in the pulse of Bhangra; it blew into my face until I was soaked and the Thing was taking in the moisture, until he felt like a thick lump of sponge on my back, weighted like a pig. I was almost collapsing under him but I kept it going, making for the dancing kids ahead. "You alright, Big Thing?" I asked. He gave me some answer back, along some Vurt wave; all I caught here and there were scattered words; my name, my sister's name, mixed in with the gibberish. He was alive, that's all that matters.
I had the Thing. I had the yellow feather.
All I needed was a quiet and private space, and time enough to take them both. But first some distance, between ourselves and any stray cops. So I headed into the Bhangra crowd. It must have been getting on for midnight now, but those kids were still dancing. The system was draped under rain sheets, but the rain didn't put the dancers off; this was their night of the year. They were high on Eid, and young Asian life pulsed through them.
They let us pass.
They were laughing and pointing; the white guy with the strange lump on his back, the young kid racing ahead. I guess we looked like fun of some kind. That's alright. I can handle that. They let us through anyway, towards the paths that led down to the boating lake.
Almost there…
A shot of light ringing through the rain, bringing a breath of fire to my ear. I managed a painful twist back, over my shoulder, swinging the Thing around, out of the line of vision. Through the veil of rain I saw a cop coming up fast on us, his flame-gun blazing with inpho. And then the Asian kids were really cheering us on. Because the enemy of fun was after the madfuckers, aiming to screw us down. I guess that's how they saw it. Twinkle was well ahead of me now. The Thing was getting to me, pulling me down to a slow motion crawl. I was slipping on wet grass, fighting for a hold, pushing against the rain, which felt like pins of steel, cutting the skin. Everything was wet and hazy, all bleached out in the moonlight, a violet and green shadow playing on the grass in front of me.
Shakacop!
He was in full Takshaka Yellow mode, beaming down from the Platt Fields' aerial, filling the world with his snake of smoke, whipping the air above the Bhangra into the colours of old myths. The kids were responding for sure, but not in kind. Because the Takshaka was a Hindu, and these kids were Muslims, and that's a world of difference. The dreamsnake was coming down for me and I was failing myself, my own sweet dreams, and all who had believed in me. Slipping on black mud, dragging myself onwards, towards the glistening lake. But no chance of getting there.
No chance.
The first bullet hit. A hard push in the back. I felt its vile energies hitting me, pushing me down. I tumbled into the grass, face first, but then up again, finding the strength somehow, still believing.
"Keeping running, Twink!" I cried.
Second bullet hit. Shot from a cop gun, fired on a shadow tracer beam, it went in straight and pure, pitching me forward, so that my head was pressed flat against the mud and the grass, hard on it, right down, and I was just lying there waiting for the pain to come, waiting for my back to set on fire, and the life to go wandering away.
Should've cottoned it.
Pain didn't come.
Wasn't thinking too good.
The dreamsnake colours lighting up the field all around, Takshaka hovering above me. Another shot rang out, but there was no impact this time. I craned my head around some, looking back, to where these Asian lads had surrounded the cop. It looked like a crazy scrum. And then looking back to see Twinkle there, miles away it seemed, through the walls of rain, down by the lake. I tried to get up, but the Thing was a dead weight on my back. All I could manage was to roll over, onto the Thing, so that I was looking straight into Takshaka's wounded face, his split-ended tongue hissing like the rain, between the long fangs.
Then that snake whipped down, fast and true, a vicious blur. But he didn't go for my neck, which was the usual target, instead he sank those daggers into my ankle, piercing the skin, and the shadow smoke was all around my body and I was gone, a total shadowfuck, collapsing…
Into a world of numbers.
Falling.
A realm of mists, where green and violet inpho played on waves of shadows. The smell of jasmine enveloping me. I was falling through the clouds of yellow, and as I was falling I could still move around, twisting to the right.
Still falling.
Twisting over again, trying to face upwards. But still falling. Turning around in a full circle, but no matter the direction I faced, I was still falling down, down towards the snake pit. And all these numbers floating by, pure and naked information, wrapping me up in mathematics. The records of all my crimes were being written in the saffron air. And all of the Stash Riders' crimes. Everything. All we had done, and lost, and killed. I was coming to it then, the story, where I was, with my hair still wet from the outside rain, inside this palace of numbers.
I was inside of Takshaka's head, Copvurt Yellow, where he played all his inpho, working it all out, all the crimes of the world. I was falling through this sea of maths, without any feelings of up or down, just travelling, until something whipped itself around my leg, low down, around the ankle, where the dreamsnake had bit. I was pulled back tight by the pressure, my spine jack-knifing, so that the Thing was pressed between my shoulder blades and the small of my back. Thing didn't make a sound, cushioning the blow for me. Then I was whipped back the other way, so that my head came up towards my stomach, pulling the Thing with me, until I was looking direct into the king of snakes.
Takshaka was floating in space, his tail wrapped around my ankle, his face inches from mine, so I could smell the shadow-breath, and see the orange cells of inpho moving around inside his eyes.
I'M THINKING I SHOULD JUST DROP YOU.
This isn't real!
He was beaming direct into my skull, drilling through the bone with his words, pricking my soft brain until I got the message, each word a new pain.
THERE'S SOME BAD MOTHERS DOWN THERE. SOME REAL TASTY EQUATIONS. THEY CAN FRACTALIZE A MAN IN SECONDS. THIS IS A YELLOW VURT. THE COLOUR THAT KILLS. YOU WANT THAT?
He let my head fall back so that I was suspended over the space. Down below there were numbers and symbols clashing against each other. It looked like a set of jaws down there, opening and closing. And where the equations were being solved, broken numbers were being discarded, forming themselves into columns of jagged teeth.
SHAME ABOUT THE BEETLE. HE WENT OUT GOOD, DIDN'T HE? I LIKE THAT IN A MAN. COULD'VE FOUND A PLACE FOR HIM ON THE FORCE. WE NEED SOME DEMONS LIKE THAT. I'M TELLING YOU SCRIBBLE, THE STATE OF THE PURE COPS WE GET, WELL IT MAKES YOU WANT TO CRY.
He loosened his grip a little, so that I jerked down some two feet or so, before he caught me again, tightening.
WHOOPS! NEARLY LOST YOU THEN.
He brought his ravaged face down to my new level.
EXCEPT FOR MURDOCH, OF COURSE. SHE WAS GOOD AND FINE. SUPER PURE. AND OH SO VERY GOOD IN BED. WHOOPS! THERE YOU GO!
And I could feel his tail unravelling.
Then I was falling down, into the mouth of the numbersnakes, screaming.
"Aiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!"
Down the world, accelerating, snakes hissing from the blur as I plummeted, my mind going blank, and dreaming, so that I landed in somebody's soft arms, and they were raising me up, and this soft voice calling to me, softly, from the dream's mouth.
"I've got you, Scribble," the voice said to me. "I've got you in my arms."
I opened my eyes to see the Game Cat's crooked smile.
He was floating in the tunnel, holding me tight, one-handed, like I had no weight on me, like I didn't have a Thing on my back.
"Cat!" I called out, just the name, the one word. All I could manage.
"Never mind," he said. "Just watch this."
The Cat raised up his free arm. There was a ball hammer in it, and I could see the snakeweed sap dribbling there, on the head.
Takshaka came down fast for him, hissing with anger and frustration.
So I guess the snake lost the edge, losing to anger.
Cat was super cool. He swung the hammer around, in a wave of heat. And then swung it back, inch-perfect, timed like a Vurtball player, going for the winning pitch.
Met that snakehead, full on.
There was a clang of light, then a hissing, burning sound. And the crunch of flesh against steel. Something went sliding past my head, and when I turned to look, I could see Takshaka tumbling over and over, tail whipping, screaming, blood pumping from his face. He fell into the jaws of numbers. The equations closed over the King Snake, biting shut, until only his cry was left. And then his long body was snapped in two. An explosion of orange sap, spraying all over. Me and the Cat covered in it.
Game Cat dropped the hammer after him. "You think I do this for just anyone?" he whispered, snake juice dripping off his face. "You think I'm doing this for you?"
"You killed him?"
The Cat took a yellow feather out of his pocket. "You don't kill something like Takshaka. You just win the current game."
"Thank you."
He placed the feather in his mouth, working it. One by one the list of Stash Rider crimes deleted themselves from the air. Cat pulled out the Takshaka feather, placed it in my mouth.
"This isn't for you," the Cat answered. "This is for Tristan."
Then I was gone, pitched out, jerked back, where no jerkout switch ever lived.
I must have passed out some few seconds there, on the field of mud, because when I opened my eyes there was this smiling face staring down at me.
"I don't know what you did, mate, but that snake just went woomph! It was great."
I felt a strong hand clutching under my shoulder, and then lifting me up, until I was looking direct into this Asian face. The rain was dripping over his colour, like rain in the dusk. His black hair was wetted down all over his eyes, but I could see the life in them, the energy.
"Go for it, mate," he said. "Whatever it is."
Then he was leading me over the grass, to where Twinkle was waiting. I was looking all around, expecting a snake to come hunting for me. But there was no sign, no colours, just the grey rain pock-marking the waters of the boating lake.
I fell into Twinkle's arms.
She reached up for my face to scrub some of the mud away. It felt good, her touch. I took the young man's hand in mine. He smiled. Over his shoulder I could make out the rest of the lads running wild, away from the lone cop. He was naked in the rain, the kids sprinting away with his clothes, and no doubt the gun. Cop sure looked lonely out there, in the drizzle, pink and shivering.
"You do good, now," the Asian said, and then walked away, into the rain. Over on the playing fields they were shutting down the system; the lights going out, one by one, until darkness settled.
Midnight.
Twinkle took my hand. There was still some dogshit on me but the rain was taking care of that. But the Thing on my back was - The dead weight of…
I was suddenly back on the field, feeling the bullets hit. But now seeing for real where those bullets had landed.
They shot the Thing," I said to Twinkle.
"Don't worry," she said.
But I couldn't stop crying. "Thing is dead."
All I could say. All I could think about
Because that was Desdemona gone.
"Keep going, Mister Scribble. Big Thing saved you."
"What for?" I asked the girl. "What for?"
Because you can't swap death for life.
Not even in the Vurt.
The boating lake shining with the last remnants of the day. The bag of dead flesh on my back. Me and that young girl, walking along the water's edge.
Heading for nowhere.
Shit cleansed in the rain.