"We'll deal with that."
Staying pure. Featherless. Through a hole in the wall, into this dog toilet. And there
was
a cop waiting for us.
He was floating face down in the slow tide. A cop in dogshit, drowning.
That's one I'll keep with me.
And sparks of colours coming from the fuse-box as we passed, Beetle's colours.
Did good, my man.
I was wading after Twinkle, heading for the light ahead, the soft glow of streetlamps shining through the swung-back doors set in the cellar's roof. Following Twinkle up the steps, faint glints of the Beetle's colours shining from the doors' sprung locks. We emerged into a garden, overgrown with tall weeds. And a dump of maybe
fifty-five full to the brim binbags waiting for collection.
I guess the Council gave up on this house years ago.
The smell was sweet and high, but beautiful, free from Turdsville. From the front of the house I could hear the sound of dogs barking, people screaming.
I hope that you dogmen took some cops out that day, and that some of you are still running free.
An open gate in the back wall led onto a small street. Don't ask me its name. It's enough that we took it. There was a small road ahead of us, away from the trouble. It led onto Parkfield Street, and we were struggling down it, running with the pain. The Thing was weighing heavy on me. Twinkle racing ahead. I knew these little back streets fairly well because they were clustered at the back of the Rusholme Gardens flat. We took a left, and then a right, onto Heald Place. Down that, out onto Platt Lane. The park just over the road from us. The streets were still full up of Asian kids, and there were lights and noise coming from the park, the deep rhythms of Bhangradog songs.
No cops.
We made it across the road alright, the Asians looking at me funny, but I was used to that. Into the Platt Fields. The trees were swaying in a slow winding dance to the beat, brushed by waves of noise from the sound systems up ahead. Even the rain was caught up in the pulse of Bhangra; it blew into my face until I was soaked and the Thing was taking in the moisture, until he felt like a thick lump of sponge on my back, weighted like a pig. I was almost collapsing under him but I kept it going, making for the dancing kids ahead. "You alright, Big Thing?" I asked. He gave me some answer back, along some Vurt wave; all I caught here and there were scattered words; my name, my sister's name, mixed in with the gibberish. He was alive, that's all that matters.
I had the Thing. I had the yellow feather.
All I needed was a quiet and private space, and time enough to take them both.
But first some distance, between ourselves and any stray cops. So I headed into the Bhangra crowd. It must have been getting on for midnight now, but those kids were still dancing. The system was draped under rain sheets, but the rain didn't put the dancers off; this was their night of the year. They were high on Eid, and young Asian life pulsed through them.
They let us pass.
They were laughing and pointing; the white guy with the strange lump on his back, the young kid racing ahead. I guess we looked like fun of some kind. That's alright. I can handle that. They let us through anyway, towards the paths that led down to the boating lake.
Almost there. . .
A shot of light ringing through the rain, bringing a breath of fire to my ear. I managed a painful twist back, over my shoulder, swinging the Thing around, out of the line of vision. Through the veil of rain I saw a cop coming up fast on us, his flame-gun blazing with inpho. And then the Asian kids were really cheering us on. Because the enemy of fun was after the madfuckers, aiming to screw us down. I guess that's how they saw it. Twinkle was well ahead of me now. The Thing was getting to me, pulling me down to a slow motion crawl. I was slipping on wet grass, fighting for a hold, pushing against the rain, which felt like pins of steel, cutting the skin. Everything was wet and hazy, all bleached out in the moonlight, a violet and green shadow playing on the grass in front of me.
Shakacop!
He was in full Takshaka Yellow mode, beaming down from the Platt Fields' aerial, filling the world with his snake of smoke, whipping the air above the Bhangra into the colours of old myths. The kids were responding for sure, but not in kind.
Because the Takshaka was a Hindu, and these kids were Muslims, and that's a world of difference. The dreamsnake was coming down for me and I was failing myself, my own sweet dreams, and all who had believed in me. Slipping on black mud, dragging myself onwards, towards the glistening lake. But no chance of getting there.
No chance.
The first bullet hit. A hard push in the back. I felt its vile energies hitting me, pushing me down. I tumbled into the grass, face first, but then up again, finding the strength somehow, still believing.
"Keeping running, Twink!" I cried.
Second bullet hit. Shot from a cop gun, fired on a shadow tracer beam, it went in straight and pure, pitching me forward, so that my head was pressed flat against the mud and the grass, hard on it, right down, and I was just lying there waiting for the pain to come, waiting for my back to set on fire, and the life to go wandering away.
Should've cottoned it.
Pain didn't come.
Wasn't thinking too good.
The dreamsnake colours lighting up the field all around, Takshaka hovering above me. Another shot rang out, but there was no impact this time. I craned my head around some, looking back, to where these Asian lads had surrounded the cop. It looked like a crazy scrum. And then looking back to see Twinkle there, miles away it seemed, through the walls of rain, down by the lake. I tried to get up, but the Thing was a dead weight on my back. All I could manage was to roll over, onto the Thing, so that I was looking straight into Takshaka's wounded face, his split-ended tongue hissing like the rain, between the long fangs.
Then that snake whipped down, fast and true, a vicious blur. But he didn't go for my neck, which was the usual target, instead he sank those daggers into my ankle, piercing the skin, and the shadow smoke was all around my body and I was gone, a total shadowfuck, collapsing. . .
Into a world of numbers. Falling.
A realm of mists, where green and violet inpho played on waves of shadows. The smell of jasmine enveloping me. I was falling through the clouds of yellow, and as I was falling I could still move around, twisting to the right.
Still falling.
Twisting over again, trying to face upwards. But still falling. Turning around in a full circle, but no matter the direction I faced, I was still falling down, down towards the snake pit. And all these numbers floating by, pure and naked information, wrapping me up in mathematics. The records of all my crimes were being written in the saffron air.
And all of the Stash Riders' crimes. Everything. All we had done, and lost, and killed. I was coming to it then, the story, where I was, with my hair still wet from the outside rain, inside this palace of numbers.
I was inside of Takshaka's head, Copvurt Yellow, where he played all his inpho, working it all out, all the crimes of the world. I was falling through this sea of maths, without any feelings of up or down, just travelling, until something whipped itself around my leg, low down, around the ankle, where the dreamsnake had bit. I was pulled back tight by the pressure, my spine jack-knifing, so that the Thing was pressed between my shoulder blades and the small of my back. Thing didn't make a sound, cushioning the blow for me. Then I was whipped back the other way, so that my head came up towards my stomach, pulling the Thing with me, until I was looking direct into the king of snakes.
Takshaka was floating in space, his tail wrapped around my ankle, his face inches from mine, so I could smell the shadow-breath, and see the orange cells of inpho moving around inside his eyes.
I'M THINKING I SHOULD JUST DROP YOU.
This isn't real!
YOU'VE BEEN A PAIN IN THE GUT, SCRIBBLE.
He was beaming direct into my skull, drilling through the bone with his words, pricking my soft brain until I got the message, each word a new pain.
THERE'S SOME BAD MOTHERS DOWN THERE. SOME REAL TASTY EQUATIONS. THEY CAN FRACTALIZE A MAN IN SECONDS. THIS IS A YELLOW VURT. THE COLOUR THAT KILLS. YOU WANT THAT?
He let my head fall back so that I was suspended over the space. Down below there were numbers and symbols clashing against each other. It looked like a set of jaws down there, opening and closing. And where the equations were being solved, broken numbers were being discarded, forming themselves into columns of jagged teeth.
SHAME ABOUT THE BEETLE. HE WENT OUT GOOD, DIDN'T HE? I LIKE THAT IN A MAN. COULD'VE FOUND A PLACE FOR HIM ON THE FORCE. WE NEED SOME DEMONS LIKE THAT. I'M TELLING YOU SCRIBBLE, THE STATE OF THE PURE COPS WE GET, WELL IT MAKES YOU WANT TO CRY.
He loosened his grip a little, so that I jerked down some two feet or so, before he caught me again, tightening.
WHOOPS! NEARLY LOST YOU THEN.
He brought his ravaged face down to my new level.
EXCEPT FOR MURDOCH, OF COURSE. SHE WAS GOOD AND FINE. SUPER PURE. AND OH SO VERY GOOD IN BED. WHOOPS! THERE YOU GO!
And I could feel his tail unravelling.
Then I was falling down, into the mouth of the numbersnakes, screaming. "Aiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!"
Down the world, accelerating, snakes hissing from the blur as I plummeted, my mind going blank, and dreaming, so that I landed in somebody's soft arms, and they were raising me up, and this soft voice calling to me, softly, from the dream's mouth.
"I've got you, Scribble," the voice said to me. "I've got you in my arms." I opened my eyes to see the Game Cat's crooked smile.
He was floating in the tunnel, holding me tight, one-handed, like I had no weight on me, like I didn't have a Thing on my back.
"Cat!" I called out, just the name, the one word. All I could manage. "Never mind," he said. "Just watch this."
The Cat raised up his free arm. There was a ball hammer in it, and I could see the snakeweed sap dribbling there, on the head.
Takshaka came down fast for him, hissing with anger and frustration. So I guess the snake lost the edge, losing to anger.
Cat was super cool. He swung the hammer around, in a wave of heat. And then swung it back, inch-perfect, timed like a Vurtball player, going for the winning pitch.
Met that snakehead, full on.
There was a clang of light, then a hissing, burning sound. And the crunch of flesh against steel. Something went sliding past my head, and when I turned to look, I could see Takshaka tumbling over and over, tail whipping, screaming, blood pumping from his face. He fell into the jaws of numbers. The equations closed over the King Snake, biting shut, until only his cry was left. And then his long body was snapped in two. An explosion of orange sap, spraying all over. Me and the Cat covered in it.
Game Cat dropped the hammer after him. "You think I do this for just anyone?" he whispered, snake juice dripping off his face. "You think I'm doing this for you?"
"You killed him?"
The Cat took a yellow feather out of his pocket. "You don't kill something like Takshaka. You just win the current game."
"Thank you."
He placed the feather in his mouth, working it. One by one the list of Stash Rider crimes deleted themselves from the air. Cat pulled out the Takshaka feather, placed it in my mouth.
"This isn't for you," the Cat answered. "This is for Tristan."
Then I was gone, pitched out, jerked back, where no jerkout switch ever lived.
I must have passed out some few seconds there, on the field of mud, because when I opened my eyes there was this smiling face staring down at me.
"I don't know what you did, mate, but that snake just went woomph! It was
great."
I felt a strong hand clutching under my shoulder, and then lifting me up, until I
was looking direct into this Asian face. The rain was dripping over his colour, like rain in the dusk. His black hair was wetted down all over his eyes, but I could see the life in them, the energy.
"Go for it, mate," he said. "Whatever it is."
Then he was leading me over the grass, to where Twinkle was waiting. I was looking all around, expecting a snake to come hunting for me. But there was no sign, no colours, just the grey rain pock-marking the waters of the boating lake.
I fell into Twinkle's arms.
She reached up for my face to scrub some of the mud away. It felt good, her touch. I took the young man's hand in mine. He smiled. Over his shoulder I could make
out the rest of the lads running wild, away from the lone cop. He was naked in the rain, the kids sprinting away with his clothes, and no doubt the gun. Cop sure looked lonely out there, in the drizzle, pink and shivering.
"You do good, now," the Asian said, and then walked away, into the rain. Over on the playing fields they were shutting down the system; the lights going out, one by one, until darkness settled.
Midnight.
Twinkle took my hand. There was still some dogshit on me but the rain was taking care of that. But the Thing on my back was --
The dead weight of. . .
I was suddenly back on the field, feeling the bullets hit. But now seeing for real where those bullets had landed.
They shot the Thing," I said to Twinkle. "Don't worry," she said.
But I couldn't stop crying. "Thing is dead." All I could say. All I could think about Because that was Desdemona gone.
"Keep going, Mister Scribble. Big Thing saved you." "What for?" I asked the girl. "What for?"
Because you can't swap death for life. Not even in the Vurt.
The boating lake shining with the last remnants of the day. The bag of dead flesh on my back. Me and that young girl, walking along the water's edge.
Heading for nowhere. Shit cleansed in the rain.
DAY 24
"Tough shit."
"You know where the Slithy Tove is?" "Sure. It's just over the hill. We passed it."
"That's where Barnie works. You remember Barnie?" Twinkle nodded. "He'll help you. Go there. Through the trees. Keep to the darkest roads you can find."