Vurt

  ‘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. ‘Sta
y 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.

  GAME CAT

  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.

  ASHES TO ASHES,

  HAIR TO HAIR

  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 fra
ctal.’ 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?’