Pollen, Page 8

  Now she can no longer trust Columbus. And if she can’t trust Columbus, who can she trust?

  She reaches over to turn on the room’s primitive radio, her fingers moving the tuner until Gumbo YaYa’s faint voice comes on, filtering over the edge of the map. A human voice. The hippy pirate is playing the song called Blue Suede Shoes. Boda is hoping the music will carry her into some kind of peace. But all through the song she can only think about loss. The loss of the Xcabs, the loss of Coyote, the loss of her former life. She’s like a blank, a drift of snow. She had given up her whole life to the Xcabs, now she was drifting free, with no memories of her life before the cabs. She didn’t even know what her real name was.

  I wish I was inside you now, Charrie, she thinks. I wish I was riding the road with you. She’s tired but can’t sleep, and in this state of shadows she imagines a conversation with the cab.

  ARE YOU OKAY, BODA? asks Charrie.

  Okay as I’ll ever be.

  YOU NEED SOME HELP?

  I’m lonely, but I guess I’ll get used to it.

  YOU WANT TO GO RIDING?

  In the morning. Sure. Let’s ride away, far away.

  INTO THE SUNSET?

  Into the sunrise. The sun rises in the morning.

  I KNOW THAT.

  And anyway, we’re heading south, not east.

  AWAY FROM THE CITY?

  Away from everything. Are you actually talking to me?

  OF COURSE I AM. I’M IN YOUR SHADOW.

  That’s ridiculous. A moment, and then…Is that what I am? Really?

  THAT’S YOUR PRE-CABIAN IDENTITY, BODA. YOU’RE TALKING TO ME OVER THE SHADOW.

  And a Dodo? I can’t dream?

  YOU’RE LEARNING ALL THE TIME, DRIVER.

  Boda smiles to herself, wrapped in a thin bed-sheet, and then whispers, ‘One for the money, two for the show. Three to get ready…’

  From below her window comes the sound of Charrie’s horn. Three times.

  Good night, Charrie.

  GOODNIGHT, BABE.

  When Elvis closes his golden throat and Gumbo comes back on air, Boda gets the shock of her life…

  ‘Boadicea, Boadicea, Boadicea! You out there and listening, killing girl? Listeners, listen up. Boadicea, or just plain Boda, is the name of the young Xcabber who yesterday morning broke away from the Xcab circuit. This is why the map went down, and why all you passengers were left stranded. Ya Ya! Gumbo has checked the Xcab memories, and this girl was driving her cab alongside Alex Park at the time of the murder.’

  Boda sits up in bed. ‘What?’

  ‘Also, she was the lover of Coyote, that beautiful taxi-dog who was killed yesterday. His funeral is tomorrow, a police rush-job. The plot thickens, listeners. So why aren’t the cops after this Boda, rather than blaming some mythical Zombie for this crime? When the cops are asleep, the people must police themselves. This is Gumbo YaYa asking the listeners to look out for this wayward rider. Boda is driving a rogue cab called Chariot, and she’s got a shocking map of Manchester tattooed on her head. So if you come across her, let the Gumbo know via the usual access. 7-7-7-Y-Y. You know it’s a safe number. Columbus has offered four golden feathers to whoever brings that girl home. Don’t give that old Cab-master the benefit. The Gumbo is offering five golden feathers! Ya Ya! Bring me that killer. Pollen count at 225 and rising. Meanwhile here’s the Spencer Davis Group from nineteen sixty-five with Keep On Running. This is the fifty-ninth revival of the sixties that the Gumbo has witnessed. So like, huh, keep on running, taxi-girl. I’ll be seeing you real soon.’

  The song playing. Boda terrified. What is this? I was at Alex Park at the time of Coyote’s death? No, I wasn’t. Columbus is setting me up. First he tried to kill me, now he’s…Shit, the whole of Manchester will be after me.

  Even the people in this bar…

  Now go, cat, go!

  She jumps out of bed, gets her things together, checks the window. The nails holding it shut are deep and rusted. Charrie is still down there, patiently waiting, caressed by neon from the End-of-the-World sign. A light drizzle is falling. Beyond Charrie, a lone, bulky figure is standing in the rain. From its shape it must be that Zombie man. Bonanza, wasn’t that his name? The Zombie is gazing up at her first-floor window. Boda shivers. Keep the engine running, Charrie. We’re getting out of here.

  She makes for the door as quietly as she can.

  Joanna is waiting for her. The barmaid is wearing a full-length leopardskin dressing gown, furry high heels, and her blond hair is slightly awry. ‘Going somewhere, lodger?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve decided against the room,’ Boda replies.

  ‘You been listening to the Gumbo, girl?’ Joanna says, her voice deep and shaded. ‘Sure was an interesting broadcast. All about rogue riders and dog-killers. A mighty fine reward he was offering. Got no use for feathers myself, but I sure could sell them to the boys. Make me some funds, and I’m out of here.’ At this Joanna steps forward, so close that Boda can see pancake makeup running to reveal bristles of black hair on the woman’s cheeks. And as Joanna steps forward, she brings a gun from the folds of her leopardskin gown. She points the weapon at Boda. ‘This is a genuine Colt .45 revolver, cab-girl. The gun that won the West.’

  ‘Please, I’m innocent.’

  ‘Like I said, honey, I could do with the money.’

  ‘Is that Mr YaYa?’

  ‘Do I sound like a man?’

  ‘Is that Wanita-Wanita, then?’

  ‘It is. What’s happening?’

  ‘Can I speak to Mr YaYa please. This is Country Joanna speaking. I have some very important news for the Gumbo. Are we on air now? Oh my God…’

  ‘We are not on air, lady. Calm down. I suppose you’ve found Boadicea?’

  ‘Actually, I have.’

  ‘You and a thousand others, Joanna.’

  Boda reaches for her pack of Napalm cigarettes. Pack message: SMOKING CAN MAKE THE NIGHT LESS LONESOME—HIS MAJESTY’S PERSONAL ELVIS. She lights one up, drags deeply, letting the smoke drift through the air between her and Joanna. Boda is sitting on a floor cushion in the living room behind Country Joe’s bar. Joanna is propped against the opposite wall, gun in hand, sweating. With the other hand, she’s holding the receiver of the telephone.

  ‘Is this my last cigarette?’ Boda asks.

  ‘Shut up.’ Joanna screams it in a deep voice and then turns her attention back to the phone. ‘Now listen here, Miss Wanita, this is a genuine call. I have the girl here. She is sitting in front of me. I am holding a gun on her.’

  ‘Prove it. We have access to the Xcab voice-prints. Let the girl speak.’

  Joanna hesitates. She cradles the receiver in her neck as she opens the sideboard to pull out a bottle of Boomer juice.

  ‘I thought you didn’t have any call for that?’ Boda says.

  ‘I take what I want. Keep the fuck away!’ Boda rises from her cushion, as Joanna drinks down two measures of Boomer. Boda knows full well the effect that Boomer can cause, having taken it many times herself. Two measures of Boomer make you blissful and careless. ‘Wanita, you still there?’

  ‘I’m still waiting, lady.’

  ‘Okay, Boadicea is now coming to the phone. Are you ready?’ Joanna gestures towards Boda. Boda takes the phone, and speaks into it…

  ‘Wanita. This is Boadicea, late of the Xcabs Company. I’m being held against my—’

  ‘Okay, okay! We’ve got a voice recognition. Stay right there, Boda. Gumbo, get over here. We’ve found the girl…’

  ‘…Boadicea! Gumbo YaYa talking to you.’

  ‘Gumbo, I’m innocent. Please, believe me—’

  ‘Give me that phone!’ Joanna grabs the phone off Boda. ‘Gumbo YaYa, this is Joanna talking. I’ve got the girl, and we can make a deal.’

  ‘Certainly…five golden feathers, as agreed.’

  ‘No, more than that. Are we on air now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to be on air, Gumbo. I want to sing on the radio. You se
e, I’m a Country and Northern singer.’

  ‘I can’t just let you on air like that, Joanna. There are certain technical processes to sort out. Now if I should…’

  ‘Gumbo, listen. This song is called Maverick Tendencies. It’s my most famous number. Maybe your listeners would like it. See what you think…’

  Joanna starts to sing then, over the phone, the song that Boda had heard her singing earlier:

  We were driving the cattle to another hick town,

  My lover blaming me for the rain coming down.

  As some good steer makes a run for open ground,

  Joe makes a loop to pull that maverick down.

  And I’ve got maverick tendencies in my heart,

  Since the night you broke me apart.

  Your love is gonna set me loose from the noose.

  I’ve got maverick tendencies in my heart.

  Joanna’s voice is crystal clear, riding the notes like the cowgirl she is singing about. Boda can’t take her eyes off the show; it looks like Joanna is singing for her life. There is a desperation hidden beneath the melody and the words. This, and the story the song is telling, really get to Boda. Jesus, this woman can actually sing: every note a flame. This is a real torch song…

  As that good steer runs for wide open space,

  Joe standing tall in the saddle, rain on his face,

  He throws the lasso to catch the traces

  Of a prey that won’t be branded or placed.

  Boda picks up one of Joanna’s guitars. She plucks at the simple chords of the melody. Joanna closes her eyes and actually smiles at Boda, as they go into the chorus together.

  I’ve got maverick tendencies in my heart,

  Since the day you broke me apart.

  Your love has set me loose from the noose.

  I’ve got maverick tendencies in my heart.

  Boda is bewitched by the song. Or is it the singer? There is something about Joanna that reminds her of Coyote. The singer and the taxi-dog share the same place in Boda’s newly born Shadow, that space reserved for the lonesome, the beauty of the remote.

  The rope slips free from the horns of the steer,

  That maverick beast runs on without fear

  Into wide open fields. I won’t shed no tears,

  Come the morning, Joe, I’ll be running clear.

  Boda realises that she is being mesmerized. She has to pull back from the song, the situation. Charrie, let’s ride!

  Shadow riding, and suddenly Boda is inside Charrie, working the controls so that he starts up, and then working the cab with her Shadow, speeding towards the neon cafe sign. Boda swings the guitar over her shoulder, ready to hit Joanna with it. Joanna’s eyes open, and she raises the gun, coolly, finger tight on the trigger, straight towards Boda’s head. Joanna carries on singing. Final chorus…

  I’ve got maverick tendencies in my heart,

  I’m gonna pull this old world of mine apart.

  I’ve a heart that won’t be tamed, blamed or ashamed

  I’ve got maverick tend—

  An explosion from outside, lights at the window as Boda feels the jolt inside, as Charrie smashes into the neon sign. Joanna turns her head towards the sound. ‘What the fuck was that?’ Boda completes the guitar swing and then brings it forward, a glancing blow against the singer’s head…

  Echoes of a song drift through the body of the instrument, the snapped strings and the hollow bones of Joanna. The blond wig falls off, revealing an all over No. 2 crew cut. Joanna screams—a deep manly voice this time. The telephone falls. She tries to bring the gun back on target, but Boda has the advantage now. Boda grabs the gun and turns it on the singer.

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Please…don’t hurt me.’ He’s crying in his woman’s voice now, swinging between male and female. ‘Please…no visible marks.’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Joanna sits.

  ‘You’re Country Joe, aren’t you?’ Boda asks. ‘You’re a transvestite.’

  ‘I am not a transvestite. How dare you? I am a proper child. A child of Fecundity 10. That’s all. I’m special. Very, very special. You will pay for this, girl.’

  Boda picks up the telephone. ‘Gumbo? You still there?’

  ‘What’s going on, Boda?’ Gumbo answers.

  ‘Get off my case, Gumbo.’

  ‘I’m doing my public duty.’

  ‘I am innocent. Innocent! And I will do all that I can to find out who killed Coyote. Tell that to your listeners, Mr Pirate Radio DJ. You hear?’

  She slams down the phone.

  ‘What you gonna do now, girl?’ Country Joe asks.

  Good question.

  Boda picks up the bottle of Boomer, stuffs it into her shoulder bag. Then she spots the blond wig on the floor. This goes into the bag as well. ‘Okay, Joe,’ she says. ‘You’ve got some nice clothes, I’ll bet?’

  Up to Joe’s bedroom, gun-led. A palace of glitter, silk and sashes. More wigs, different shades. Boda chooses some of the more conservative items. ‘You got the key for this room?’ she asks.

  Country Joe’s eyes are wet with tears, mascara-smeared. He points to the key in the back of the door. ‘You’re not gonna hurt me, Boda, are you?’

  ‘Well listen,’ Boda replies. ‘Us mavericks…we look out for each other. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Because who the hell else will?’

  Country Joe collapses on to his furry bed.

  ‘You’re a good man, Joe,’ she says to him. ‘This is just a bad day on the ranch.’

  Country Joe, his voice quivering, says, ‘I enjoyed singing with you, Boda. I really did…’

  Locking the bedroom behind her, Boda makes her way downstairs and through to the bar area. The curtain of the Wonderwall is glimmering in the darkness, and some brute presence can be felt from the Zombie half of the room. But the door to the outside world is locked and barred, the bar is windowless. The presence behind the Wonderwall is calling to her, and when she looks deeply enough, Bonanza is there, yellow Stetson in place, his finger beckoning.

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’ she asks.

  The greasy finger beckons.

  Boda walks through the curtain of air.

  The air breathes around her, like skin against skin, fingers of smoke dancing over her body. She feels dizzy, almost joyous. And stepping loose from the barrier, she feels something new opening up inside her. She feels like she is walking towards another part of herself.

  A feeling of strength at last.

  Bonanza leads her to another door, a Zombie door that opens on to the car park. As she runs across the car park, one of Country Joe’s dresses falls and is trampled into the mud. Chariot is there, entangled in the neon sign. Boda de-activates the defence systems, and then caresses the cab’s skin with a tender hand. You okay, Charrie? she transmits. NOTHING A TOUCH OF LOVING CARE WOULDN’T PUT RIGHT, he answers.

  Bonanza is standing by her, smiling, rain dripping off his Stetson, his oily skin slick with drizzle. Boda shakes his hand. Shadow touching Zombie, girl to boy. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  ‘No trouble,’ he grunts. ‘Make a good journey.’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  ‘It’s not you I’m helping.’

  Boda climbs into Charrie. WHAT NOW, DRIVER? Charrie asks.

  ‘Let’s ride, Charrie.’

  WHERE TO?

  ‘Back to Manchester.’

  Down to the root to find the killer and Boda thinks that Columbus himself would be a good place to start. Coyote himself had boasted to her about having visited Columbus but how do you go about finding such a nebulous creature, especially now that she’s off-map and Coyoteless?

  Bonanza is a shivering figure in the rain as Boda backs Charrie away from the busted sign and out on to the road. She can see Country Joe emerging from the Zombie door. He stoops to pick up the mud-covered dress. He goes up to Bonanza and starts to hit that creature on the chest, again and again those tiny hands coming d
own on half-dead flesh. The Zombie just stands there and takes it, until the singer faints into his giant arms. The two figures merge into a single being as Boda drives Charrie away from the lights of the roadside cafe.

  The second body was found that night, just before the old day shaded into morning: Tuesday, 11.49 p.m. A slab of earth in Alexandra Park surrounded by a radar of flies. They were eating their fill, these insects, buzzing crazy over the smell of dead flesh. Fat creatures, hundreds of them. We had to let off a sonic bomb before we could get our hands on the burial mound.

  Some dogtramp had found it, snuffling for food through patches of mist, running scared from what he had stumbled across.

  Midnight. Call the cops. Call up Sibyl Jones.

  I was still awake when the call came through, charged up by what I had learned from listening to Gumbo YaYa’s station, and from what I had read in Coyote’s diary. Outpourings of love towards Boda in every line of the last few pages, and a scrap of paper lodged there: a love poem to the taxi-dog signed in Boda’s firm hand. Will he push me again up the shaky path, this is how it started. Will he push me again up the shaky path I crave, and pull me down in the waving grass to drown. The writing was familiar. Also, a ticket for next Thursday’s Vurtball game at Manchester City, slipped between pages. According to the diary, Coyote had invited her to the match. Something in the diary’s tale of love got to me; a sense of being desired.

  I was naked from the waist up after reading it, kneeling over the cot in Belinda’s old bedroom. My stomach was lodged against the cot’s rim, so that my breasts were lowered toward the baby. My left nipple was being sucked at. There was no milk, of course, I was long past that juiciness. Still, my Jewel, my secret son, was feeding on something. He had started to sneeze rather badly during the night. I applied a wet flannel to his eyes and his nose. He gargled some words at me. I could only trust they were words of love, because there was no translation available. My Jewel had a dead tongue. Over the Shadow I found some scraps of love. I comforted Jewel for a while, resting his mis-shapen head in my arms, and then letting him suck once more. The telephone called me from this motherly job. Which made what we found in the park even harder to take.