Vurt (8 page)

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.

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.

Some things just seem bound.

And she opened her mouth, my sister, waiting for the feathering. She was too full up of love to resist, so I stroked her there, deep in the mouth, and then myself, and this is how we lost the sister. Desdemona was taking it, all to heart.

Tristan uncorked a new jar and reached inside, with wide open fingers. And

when he pulled his hand back out, it was covered in thick green slime, like hairvaz, but living. Nanosham! Read about it in the Cat, but never seen it before. Those minuscule machines were dribbling from between his fingers.

"Watch this," he said. And with a broad and sexy sweep, he set those tiny machines working on his and Suze's hair. You could almost hear them feeding on the dirt and grease. Nanosham was a jelly base containing hundreds of baby computers. They turned dirt into data, processing hair clean, giving the people droidlocks; the ultimate crusty accessory.

"My darling," whispered Tristan to his love. "This is the sweetest pleasure." Suze turned to me, holding out a clutch of the nanoes. "You want to try some?"

she asked. Her eyes knew all my secrets. I felt her there, inside my body, and it was like she was caressing me. Maybe Suze was a shadowgirl. But no, it wasn't that, it felt differ- ent. Felt like she was becoming me.

"Young man's got no hair anyway," Tristan said. I couldn't answer. Couldn't even shake my head. All of the air had turned into smoke. Maybe the herb brew was giving me visions. I saw a thick snake of hair writhing between the heads of a man and a woman. And voices drifting through like mist patches, like waves of knowledge. I didn't know where I was. . .

The people were talking all around me, about me, but none of them made sense; all I could feel was Suze's body inside mine, touching all parts of me. I was getting a hard-on! What was this? The voices. .

"You should." "Little boy."

"Saves on shampoo." "He's got no hair." "Call that a haircut?" "It's a crew job."

Who was saying what? And when? And to whom?

I felt a sudden, clammy hand stroking my short blond hair.
Okay, it's short. Well who gives a fuck! Some of us look like shit with long hair. This the beautiful people will never understand. I'm just trying to look good, you know, my best. Some kind of best.

And I shivered as I felt those fingers stroking my head.
Get the fuck off me!
Until I realised it was my own hand. It was my own hand stroking me; through the fog it had come, in order to stroke.

"Aw! Look at the baby." "He's shaking."

"He's stroking his hair." "He's nervous."

"He just doesn't know any more."

All those voices calling to me, through the mist. . .

The world was a haze. "What's she doing to me!" I shouted. "Stop her!"

And the voices falling to silence and all those eyes on me now, as Tristan told Suze to stop playing with me. Suze said that I had the dream within me, but I was well gone, and the feeling of bliss fading as Suze removed herself from my body.

What was that woman?

"Tell the story, Scribb." Beetle's voice.

The last drop fell away and I was myself again, with only a lonely space left in my soul, and a story to tell. . .

Last time I saw my sister, for real, she was sitting opposite me, across an apple jam-smeared table, with a feather in her mouth, expecting to fly. It was me, the brother, holding the feather there, turning it all around inside of her mouth. And then moving it to my own mouth, and Desdemona's eyes were glazed already by the Vurt, as I twisted the feather deep, to follow her down. Wherever she was going, I was going too. I really believed that.

We went down together, sister and brother, falling into Vurt, watching the credits roll; WELCOME TO ENGLISH VOODOO. EXPECT TO FEEL PLEASURE. KNOWLEDGE IS SEXY. EXPECT TO FEEL PAIN. KNOWLEDGE IS TORTURE.

Last time I saw my sister, close up, intimate, in the Vurt world, she was falling through a hole in a garden, clutched at by yellow weeds, cut by thorns, screaming my name out loud. A small yellow feather was fluttering at her lips.

I told her not to go through that door. It was a NO GO door. She went anyway.

I told her not to. She went anyway.

"I want to go there, Scribble. I want you to come with me. Will you come?" My sister's last real words to me, before the yellow feather kicked in, and she was falling, screaming my name.

Some of us die, not in the living world, but in the dream world. Amounts to the same thing. Death is always the same. There are some dreams you never wake up from.

Desdemona. . .

The room, in silence.

Later that day. Hours of smoke uncounted, but now the mist was drifting apart, revealing tiny fragments of the real world. These little glimpses stung the eyes like needles. I could no longer tell the tale; its telling was too much for me. I was shaking from the memories; Desdemona was aching in my heart.

Tristan broke the mood. "You found another feather in there?" he asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

I just nodded.

Through the tears I saw that Suze was sitting at a small table, consulting the oracle. She was shaking a can of bones around, and then dropping them onto the table. On the baize lay a spread of picture cards. She took note of which cards were touched by which shape of bone, and then threw the bones once more. Karli the robodog was licking my face, like she loved me, or something. Her tongue was long and wet, slick with nanoes. I swear I could feel them cleaning my face for me, cleaning all the salt tears away.

"It was a yellow feather?" Tristan asked.

"Yes. Small and yellow. Totally yellow," I managed. "It was beautiful." "You want to tell how you found it? Or what happened?"

I didn't. Tristan just nodded. "I understand," he said. Did he?

"I've been there," he added. "What?"

"I've been inside English Voodoo."

"Tell me." I was desperate for knowledge.

Tristan looked over to where Suze was working the cards and the bones. Then he looked back at me. "You lost your sister there?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And got what in return?"

"I don't know what it is. Some kind of Vurt alien. We call him the Thing." My mind dragged me back. Me waking up from the English Voodoo feather,

covered by the weight of slime. The Thing writhing about on top of me. Me screaming at it, pushing with all my strength to get out from under, tears falling from my eyes, a cry rising in my throat. The sister gone forever, replaced by this lump of stuff.

Tristan nodded. The rates of exchange are complex. Nobody really knows how they work. Only that a constant balance has to be kept, between this world and the Vurt world. Both worlds must always contain the same worth.

"The Thing can't be as worthy as Des. Just can't be. . ."

"In his own world, that Thing is loved just as much. Everything adds up. The Game Cat tells you this. Believe me, the Game Cat knows."

"What do you know?" I asked.

Tristan looked over at Suze once more before answering. "Your sister took Curious Yellow."

Oh Christ!

Even the Beetle was aroused, out of Haze slumber. "Curious Yellow!" he shouted. "Holy shit! We're fucked, Scribble, baby!"

"Most probably," Tristan said. "Curious Yellow lives inside English Voodoo. It's a meta-feather."

Curious Yellow was often talked about, never seen, never felt. It was up there in the higher echelons, where the demons and the gods lived. Nobody pure could ever touch it, but Desdemona had touched it, tasted it, and now she was no more of this world, and the chances of getting her back were falling rapidly to zero. "What is Curious Yellow?" I asked. "How can I find it?"

"It can't be found, Scribble," Tristan replied. "It can only be earned. Or stolen." "Desdemona's in there. I know she is!"

"Most probably she's dead."

His words cut me, but I wasn't giving up; "No. She talks to me. She's alive! She's in there, somewhere. She's calling to me. What can I do, Tristan?"

"Give up."

"Is that what you did?" I asked, and I could tell that I'd got to him. He'd lost somebody! He'd been there, in the Voodoo, lost somebody to the Curious. I could see the pain in his eyes, like a mirror.

"There's no hope," he answered. "Believe me. I've tried." "So you won't help us?" the Beetle asked.

Tristan stared at Beetle. Then he turned away, towards Suze. He was running his hands through their joint hair, almost like he was testing just to see if she was still there, attached, safe. Suze picked up a card from the table, and held it out to me.