Vurt, Page 6

  Found none.

  The girl’s monkey boot swung back for another attack and I was thinking. All I want to do is be in Vurt. Be in Vurt forever. Life’s too much for me. I can’t stand the pain.

  That boot never made it.

  There was a sharp cry of pain, and then a hard crack. And it wasn’t me! It was nothing to do with me! I rolled over into a sitting-up position. Through a haze of blood I saw Mandy pulling the goth girl back, away from my tender features. Two of the robogoths were nursing painful wounds. Man, I loved that girl just then, and I wished her total happiness and forever more. The Beetle had grabbed hold of a stray ankle. He was twisting it all around, until you could hear the plastic bones cracking. I was on my feet again, and the battle was turning.

  Shadowgoth pulled out a knife.

  The blade of a knife catching fragments of colours, as it moved back and forth in the hands of a woman, over a walkway of broken glass.

  Mandy moved back from the knife.

  Beetle lifted the leg of the robogoth up, with a fierce jerk, so that the sad fucker fell back, against a hard brick wall. Shadowgoth swung the knife around to face him. Beetle just laughed at her. She thrust forwards, the blade glittering. It entered Beetle’s flesh, the left side of his stomach. He fell back, his mouth open, his eyes wide and staring. He clutched at the wound with his hands. Mandy went for the Shadow. That new girl was proving herself. The blade came back round, in a circle of colours. Mandy made a perfect move backwards, away from the slice, except that a robogoth was waiting for her. He wrapped his arms around her body, pulling her back. The shadowgoth moved in, holding the knife tight against Mandy’s throat. The Beetle was slumped against the wall and I was the only one left to save the day.

  ‘Hey fuckers!’ I shouted, or tried to. My voice was weak from the struggle. ‘You better leave my friends alone!’

  Oh wow! I guess you can say anything, if the blood is stirred enough.

  The shadowgoth laughed. Her robo partners were back in action by now. They gathered in a circle around us. Shadowgoth turned her face towards me, blinked, just the once, and then I felt her finger in there, inside my mind, pulling me apart. Shadow-fuck!

  All I wanted was a shadowcop to flicker into life, except that this was the Bottle, a no-go cop zone.

  ‘The game’s over, little man,’ the shadowgoth said.

  Oh fuck. Game’s over.

  Just then a door opened. Some two flats down. And a man stepped through. His hair was a long, thick net of grease, leading straight back into the doorway.

  Guy was beautiful.

  He had a dog on a long lead. The dog reached out with a vicious set of jaws, took a loud snap, came up with that errant dream-snake in its jaws. The dog swallowed it in a quick gulp.

  The goths looked back at the white guy with the jungle hair, and the dog from hell.

  ‘Tristan! My man!’ The Beetle calling from where he lay.

  ‘The fun’s over,’ said the jungle hair.

  He had a shotgun, cocked and ready. And a dog.

  Cocked and ready.

  No contest.

  HERBAL HAZE

  The room was thick with Haze. And a jungle of hair.

  We were all safe and sound inside of number 407, the home of Tristan. His girlfriend, Suze, was bathing our wounds with some herbal concoction. It smelt like the ripest fruit, but tasted like wine, and it touched our cuts with a sweet hand. Tyrannosaurus Rex were singing on Tristan’s system, all about the light of the magical moon, and I could hear dogs howling through the walls.

  A line of dreamsnake skins were pinned over the fireplace.

  Tristan had lodged his shotgun against the doorjamb, just in case. Now he was mixing up a lethal brew in a stoneware pot. Suze dropped some seeds in there as well. It gave off a dense pall of smoke and the smell was wondrous to the senses.

  ‘Who the fuck was that goth woman?’ asked the Beetle.

  ‘Take a good sniff of that, my beauties,’ announced Tristan. So we breathed deeply of it, as the gunmetal blue mist filled the room. And straight away I was into paradise land, touched by angels, caressed by spirits.

  ‘Who was she?’ the Beetle asked once more.

  ‘Can’t you handle it, Beetle?’ Tristan said. ‘The Beetle getting beaten by a woman?’ And maybe that was it; the hardcore man was smarting. Suze had lifted his shirt up, free of his jeans. She was applying the sweet lotion to his cut.

  ‘Tell me! Who was she? I need to know.’

  ‘They call her the Nimbus,’ Suze said.

  ‘Nimbus is one top-level shadowgirl,’ added Tristan.

  ‘She’s just a mist, Trist,’ Suze replied.

  ‘Nowhere near as lovely as you, my lover,’ Tristan said, running his fingers through the smoke that was rising in thick waves from the herb jars. And that was true. It wasn’t anything obvious, Suze’s beauty, but it was getting to me. Her look was cool, serene, like she’d lived through some bad things, but was now on the other side. It was the eyes that got you; they had a soft golden glow to them. What with the eyes, and all that hair, this woman was affecting me. Maybe this smoke was getting to me. Through the Haze I saw that Mandy was flat out on the floor, wrapped up in the dog. His paws were all over her.

  ‘That’s one big robodog, Tristan,’ the Beetle said.

  ‘Karli? She’s just a puppy,’ he replied.

  A puppy. That was the biggest dog I’d ever seen!

  Suze was speaking. I kind of caught it through the mist. ‘That’s a nice trophy, Beetle.’ She was admiring the snakehead attached to Bee’s lapel. ‘We don’t have no trouble with snakes around here. Not with the dogs.’

  ‘Yeah! That dog did good,’ the Beetle said.

  ‘What brings you around, Beetle?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘What else, Tristie. Drugs.’

  ‘What kind? Got some nice Mexican Haze in. You’re breathing it right now.’

  ‘I’m looking for some good Vurt, my man.’

  ‘Now you know, that’s not really my trip. Not these days. I’m into natural things now. Vurt isn’t natural.’

  ‘We’re looking for English Voodoo.’

  Tristan went quiet then. He tugged for a few seconds at his hair. Suze felt the tug and responded in the same way, tugging back on the plaits that joined them. They were twinned crusties, sharing the same haircut. Six feet of thick entwined hair stretched between them, and you couldn’t see where one ended, and the other began. Over the years their hair had knotted, and knotted hard, until separation was an unthinkable torture. They would walk the world together, never less than six feet apart. Now there’s love for you.

  ‘You want English Voodoo?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘You know where to find some?’ Beetle said.

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘You telling the truth?’

  ‘I got rid. Pretty quick. I don’t like that stuff. It’s not natural.’

  ‘But you had some?’ I asked, shaking from the knowledge.

  ‘I told you, the once. I don’t do Vurt any more. Period. And may I suggest, young kid…’ Tristan stared directly at me. ‘That you keep off that stuff yourself. It’s a killer.’

  ‘You heard of Icarus Wing?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s that? Some new killer feather? Man, they just can’t leave it alone.’

  ‘No. It’s a man. A man’s name. He’s a feather seller.’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t work those areas any more.’

  Suze had gone silent. She was adding some new herbs to the pot. A fresh brew of Haze floated into the room.

  ‘For old time’s sake, Tristie,’ asked the Beetle.

  ‘It means that much, yeah?’ Tristan replied.

  ‘We lost someone. To the Vurt.’

  Tristan went quiet again. And when he did speak, this was all he could come up with; ‘That’s a bummer, Bee.’

  ‘You really not got any Voodoo, Tristan?’ asked the Beetle.

  Tristan’s reply was the softest whisper; ‘Years
ago. Years ago.’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘Wonder not, Bee. English Voodoo fucks. It leads to bad things.’

  This was too much for me. ‘Someone good,’ I said. ‘Desdemona.’

  ‘Who’s Desdemona?’ asked Suze.

  ‘Scribble’s sister,’ replied Beetle. ‘We lost her. To the Voodoo.’

  ‘Uh uh, I get it,’ said Tristan. ‘Swapback time. It doesn’t work, Beetle. I’ve never known it work.’

  ‘Scribble’s on a mission trip,’ the Beetle told them. ‘And we’re all getting dragged along. He’s set on finding her. He’d give his all. Wouldn’t you, Scribb?’

  Tristan and Suze looked towards each other. I saw their hair as a river, flowing from each to each.

  ‘Only a fool goes into English Voodoo,’ said Suze. She was looking straight at me. The robopuppy had come up close to me, licking my face. I was doing my best to discourage her, but that dog just kept on licking. ‘Karli likes you,’ Suze added. I was covered in dog spit by now, so I couldn’t argue. ‘Tell us,’ she repeated, and something in her voice got to me, some kind of recognition. Like I’d known her for ages, without ever meeting. What was that feeling?

  ‘You’d better tell the story, Scribb,’ the Beetle said to me. ‘You’re better at it than I am.’

  So I told them.

  It went like this…

  ON THE

  WASHING OF

  DROIDLOCKS

  Brother and sister walking it home from a club; vanless, way past the last bus time, no money for an Xcab. We were halfway down the Wilmslow Road when we heard a screaming. A woman screaming, and we took that walk, right into a fist fight.

  A guy was clutching a woman, shaking her. She was screaming, over and over, face twisted towards the indifferent traffic.

  ‘Get off me! Stop hitting me! He’s hitting me! Get him off me!’

  ‘I think we should stop,’ said Desdemona.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think we should do something.’

  Oh wow, like thanks, sister.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I said, my voice doing its best to sound cool and hard. Totally failing.

  ‘We just found this woman, man,’ said the guy, a black guy. ‘We was just driving along.’

  His car was parked just forward a small way, one wheel mounted upon the pavement. Another guy, a white one, was hunched up in the driving seat. There was a woman in the back seat, and she was kind of rocking, you know, back and forth like a snake victim.

  ‘She was screaming by the road,’ the black guy said. ‘Just screaming…you know?’

  ‘He’s lying,’ announced Desdemona, and it wasn’t exactly pleasing.

  ‘I am not fucking lying!’

  ‘So what’s going on?’ I asked, still trembling, just to please the sister.

  ‘I was just trying to help her,’ he started, but I think we’d got him riled, because just then the woman found a way out of his arms. She ran straight into the road, into the path of an oncoming car. Car screeched to a halt, wheels slipping. Good driving but not that good. Car hit the woman. More like this, actually; woman hit the car, kind of threw herself at it. She was down, face to the tarmac, for maybe two seconds. Then she sprang up again, banging on other cars as they passed her by, slowly, scared faces peering out.

  ‘Help me! Help me!’ she was screaming.

  Nobody stopped. Who the hell stops these days?

  Drivers were looking at me as though I was some villain in this. Felt strange. One of those moments you’ll think you’ll remember forever, but it just slips away. Until such a day arrives when you’ve got nothing else to do but list your memories, nowhere else to live but inside them.

  Early morning air was misty and serene, with hours to go until sunshine.

  Screaming woman was miles away, seemed like, almost down to the next set of lights. I could hear cars braking over the screams.

  The black guy was just standing around, hopping from foot to foot, building his anger up. White guy just sitting in the car, chewing gum.

  Desdemona had opened the back door. Now she was reaching in to help the swaying woman.

  ‘I think we need the cops, Scribb,’ said Desdemona, from the back seat. ‘Girl’s in a bad way. She’s feathered up on something. I can’t move her.’

  The cops? I’d never called them before.

  ‘I don’t think we need that,’ answered the black, moving towards me. His fists were bunched up, and he had that look on him, like the idea that pain was a pleasure to give.

  I backed away, towards the car.

  ‘Are these guys hurting you?’ I heard Desdemona ask.

  No answer from the comatose girl. The other one, down the road some, was screaming anyway for the both of them.

  ‘Des?’ I whispered, trying to get her attention. Sister wasn’t answering so I made a quick turn, aiming to drag her out of there. But she was too busy to care about me; too busy searching through the woman’s handbag.

  ‘What are you doing, sister?’ I asked.

  ‘Looking for an address. I think these men are using her.’

  ‘Big deal, sis. There’s a bad guy out here.’

  ‘Keep him off, Scribb!’ the sister said.

  Well thanks for that. Like how?

  The black guy was up close now, waving his fists around, close enough to do damage to a soft face.

  Sound of a cop van in the distance.

  Fists faltering.

  Sometimes, don’t you just love the cops, despite the fact that they have hurt some good friends of yours? Because sometimes, just occasionally, they turn up in the right place, at just the right time. Don’t you just love them for that?

  Cop siren sounding. And the black stepped back, a small step. Then another.

  Then he was running. Out of there!

  White guy started the car engine.

  Desdemona was half in, half out of the car. ‘I’ve found something!’ she shouted. The car started to move off, and Des was thrown out, hard to the pavement.

  The siren bursting in my brain, as the cop van pulls up in front of the car, wheels squealing, blocking the escape.

  And although my sister’s body was on the floor, although she was obviously in pain, and the sun wasn’t even awake yet, never mind rising, still I could see her grasping tight hold of something. It was feathery, and it was glinting yellow as it passed through the air, towards her pocket.

  What you got there? What you got there, sweet sister? Must be a beauty.

  If only I’d known then. If only.

  Suze and Tristan are washing their hair, which is each other’s hair. Which is their shared hair. As they listened to my story.

  Mandy was awake again, sitting on the floor, playing with the big puppy dog. Something about its body made me uneasy; the way the plastic bones shone through the taut flesh stretched over its rib-cage. Suze called the dog Karli.

  The Beetle was sucking on a demon bong-pipe, his eyes drifting to other worlds, as the water popped in bubbles of Haze.

  I was trapped in the armchair, drugged by the smoke, fascinated by the ritual.

  Suze was taking water to the joint locks. Adding herbs to the water, she mixed up a slick lather, which glistened with perfume. Like you could see the smell, you know? She worked this lather into each thick strand of hair, each in turn, from her own roots to Tristan’s, until their hair was a stream of suds. It was lovely to look at, and Tristan was smiling through it all. ‘You’re very privileged to see this,’ Suze said, in a whisper.

  ‘It’s a good story, Scribble,’ Tristan said. ‘You want to carry on?’

  Their eyes were heavy-lidded from the shampoo pleasure, and it was like watching sex. Drugged-up sex. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ whispered Mandy.

  Through the walls I could hear the hound dogs howl.

  ‘Don’t worry about them, Scribble,’ said Tristan, dreamily.

  Desdemona and I, back in the Rusholme Gardens, fingering the feather.

&n
bsp; The Beetle and Bridget were out for the night and the morning, travelling in the van, visiting a down south Vurt Fest, gathering contacts and suppliers. The cops had taken some details, pronounced us innocent. We were back home, and it was all ours; the flat, the feather, the love.

  ‘Wonder what it’s called?’ Desdemona asked, letting the feather’s yellow glints shine under the table lamp. The feather was 70% black, 20% pink, 10% yellow. There was a pale space on the shaft where somebody had peeled the label off.

  ‘Plug us in, Des,’ I said.

  ‘No way!’ she shouted. ‘Not on our own.’

  She was following the Beetle’s rules. Nobody goes in alone, just in case it gets real bad in there.

  ‘Go on!’ I pleaded. ‘We’ve got each other. What can go wrong?’

  This I will never forgive.

  ‘Beetle’s doing it,’ I told her. ‘Right this moment. Down South. Oh come on, sister! He’s at a Vurt Fest! With Bridget! Of course he’s doing it. He’s in Vurtland, right now!’

  ‘We’ve never done a Yellow before, Scribb.’

  This was true. Yellows were ultra-rare. Low-lifers just didn’t come across them. ‘It’s not a full Yellow,’ I said. ‘It’s just got some Yellow in it. Look, a tiny amount. It’s safe.’

  ‘We don’t even know what it is!’

  ‘Let’s do it!’

  She gazed at the feather for a full minute, saying nothing, just drinking in the rainbow of colours. And then, finally; ‘Let’s do it, Scribb.’ It was a soft voice. And she looked at me with those eyes made out of plums, juicy plums, as I stole the feather from her hands.