Vurt

  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 down-market 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.

  AN IDEAL

  FOR LIVING

  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.

  ‘Yo
u 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 disturb 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?

  Déjà 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.’