Vurt (19 page)

I was in a Vurt, haunted.

That terrible sadness.

Takshaka exploded through the door, a great rush of colours and mists, writhing around the room, even as the room started to fade and I was pulling out. . .

Come on! Do it!

Couldn't find the way out.

King Snake wove his long body around the room, almost like he was showing off. His head was three feet across, with a cruel mouth split by two spear-like fangs. There was a knowing look in his unblinking eyes, like he was laughing at me. And something else there; something that stirred a bad memory for me; I knew that look! From the real world --

Come on, you bastard! Let me out of here!

I was working the jerkout switch but getting nowhere, stuck between worlds, knowing in my mind exactly what I was, even whilst my body clung to the Vurt.

And somebody calling my name. . .

Takshaka opened his mouth wide to show off the bloated poison sac at the back of his throat.

"Scribble!" That voice.

Help me. Voice, help me. Takshaka closed his mouth slightly until I could see his eyes again and catch the look that was there --

Shadowcop!

"Scribble! Come out! Please!" The voice calling to me. Twinkle's voice! King of the Snakes soaring down at me --

Do it now, do the jerkout! Do it!

"Scriiiii --

Intense wrenching somewhere in the body and I was -
-

-- iiiiiible!"

--
falling onto the settee as though from miles away.

Shaking, shaking. Twinkle was shaking me. "Scribble? Stop it!" "What? Huh! Christ! Hurts --"

"I've got you now. Calm down!" Twinkle holding me tight as I held on to the real world, like it was my mother, holding me back from the dream.

Tapewormer.

It was all just Tapewormer. All the kisses and caresses of Desdemona, they were all just false dreams, a poor boy's dreams.

Desdemona was still captured and this was reality.

I was stretched out full length on an old settee, in a rented room in Whalley

Range, and Karli the robobitch was licking my face, and Twinkle was bending over me. "Are you alright, Mister Scribble?" she asked.

Couldn't answer. Didn't know if I was or not.

She forced something into my hands. "It's from the Beetle. He can't use it any more. Not with his bad arm."

I bought my hand up to my face. The Beetle's gun in my hand. "He says to tell you. . . happy birthday."

Beetle had given me this?

"And from me," Twinkle said, slowly, like it was hard work. And then I remembered hitting her.

"I'm sorry for hitting you, Twink. Stuff was getting to me." "I can see that." And she could. Girl was growing.

I weighted the gun in my palm, feeling its power. Opened it up, saw three bullets left there. Mine to use.
This time, I won't drop you in panic or fear.

In my other hand, a silver feather lay waiting. Sniffing General. Doorgod. Key to the Cat.

"Scribble! You brought back a Silver!" cried Twinkle. "Well done!" Well done?

Well then. . . yes. . . well done, well fucking done! I was coming through!

It's all yours, Scribble. It's your show. Let Sirius guide you. And I knew exactly what he meant. The dog star.

I'm coming after you, all my lost ones.

DAY 23

"A glass of fetish. Clean drugs. Good friends. A hot partner."

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 glis- tening.

"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.