"This is your card, Scribble," she said. "No. No, it's not."
"You just don't know it yet."
The first drifts of darkness showed through the flat's windows, and I was thinking about Bridget and the Thing, and how I should get back there, see how they were doing. And how everything was over, and another night without love.
"Well, cheers, mate," said the Beetle, with bitterness in his voice. I guess the guy was looking out for me.
"Karli will see you home," said Tristan.
"You won't get scared without the pooch?" asked Beetle.
Tristan opened a door in the wall and I smelt turds and bad breath, meat and piss.
I looked into a dark place. The walls were covered in scratches and bites. In the shadows were darker shadows. Sleeping shadows, moving and breathing to a slow pulse. A low growling started up as Tristan turned on a sad little light and I saw the dogs there, a fur-lined duo. Great beasts. All plastic bones and synthetics.
"Robohounds," Tristan whispered. "Karli's mum and dad. Be careful. They bite." And I could see something in Tristan then, some trace of something dog-like.
"These are the beauties that keep us safe," he said. "Christ!"
"Indeed. Bow down to the dogs."
Walking along a gangway, like on a tall ship, concrete ship, miles above the sea of glass. Me, Beetle, Mandy, Tristan, and Suze. Oh yeah, and the dog. Karli. Great slavering fur-metal beast, stretched out taut at the end of Suze's leash. Tristan carrying his gun, just for show really. Who's going to touch him? Because they know what would be coming then. And two robodogs left back in the flat, looking after the homestead.
Night coming down. No one talking much, just walking the high-rise, hung up on private things. Each still strung out on wisps of herb, just enough to make the world seem kind of beautiful, even this place. The emptiness inside of me reflected in the glass fragments. So I was a thousand times sad, with each footstep.
Sometimes even broken glass, cracked cement, sad lives; well they seem like the good dreams of bad things.
And I was thinking well perhaps all is well, and Brid and the Thing will be glad to greet us and we don't need this old crusty anyway. We were the Stash Riders, and Desdemona was one of us, and we would be back together, just as soon as I got my act together. Shit, man, it was easy! All I had to do was find some English Voodoo feather,
go inside, taking the Thing with me. Find some meta-feather in there, some Curious Yellow, the most famous feather in the world, go inside. Find Desdemona in there, swap her back for the Thing, breaking all the known rules of Vurt, find our way back out. Shit, man, it was a piece of cake. Shit cake.
Now we were descending the stairwell.
"Sorry about not being much help," Tristan was saying to the Beetle. The Beetle just shrugged.
"I'm just trying to warn you, my friend." There was an edge of sadness to Tristan's voice, but I wasn't paying much attention.
"You had a good night, though?" Suze asked. "Great night," said the Beetle. Maybe he meant it.
We'd reached the bottom of the stairs, and we could smell fire in the air. Dogs were howling all through the Bottletown night.
"What's that?" asked Mandy.
"Some jokers," answered Suze. "Don't worry." " "Happens every night," added Tristan.
"They love to burn things."
"They call themselves the Torchers," said Tristan. "Crazy tribe." "Oh fuck." That was me.
"It'll be some waste-bin," said Suze. But I knew. But I fucking knew it!
We turned the corner of a dead liftshaft, into the car-park, and there was our lovely Stashmobile in a shroud of flames. Burning. Burning.
"Shit!" The Beetle's voice. The van a forest of fire. No one could live through that. No one. Low-level shadowgirl and an alien from Vurt. Gone to the flames.
The five of us, and the dog, all of us transfixed. As the van burned, and the glass told the story a thousand times. Then I was running into the flames, scorching my hands on the door handle.
Oh shit. Oh the Thing and Brid!
And all the hope drifting away from my life, all the hope of an exchanging the Thing for the sister.
All the hopes of my life. . .
Karli had slipped her leash, she was running around the van, barking at the
flames. Beetle had joined me, to help pull open the doors, but instead he was pulling me back, and I was suffering, the smoke bringing tears to my eyes, and the loss, all the losses, bringing tears.
Midnight. A drift of smoke. The van a pile of metal bones, blistered leatherette, melted rubber. My mind burnt. Just sitting there, on a vandalised bench, watching the van's corpse slowly fading. The stench of fire in my head, the glow of embers. A bunch of onlookers, Bottletown dwellers, come to watch the flames. Some of them were laughing. I was too far gone to care. The night was orange.
Tristan and Suze had rushed back to their flat for an extinguisher, but their hair had slowed them down, it just wasn't possible. And anyway, it didn't matter. There was nothing to save.
Karli Dog was nuzzling up to me, offering loads of comfort licks. I kept pushing her away, but she just kept on coming back anyway. So I let that long tongue carry on. It did some good, truth be known.
Tristan and Suze had come back with the foam-gun, but it was like pouring water on Hell. That van was going to burn, until everything was cinders. Until flesh was bone.
It just didn't matter anyway.
The Beetle had smeared his driving gloves with a full tube of Vaz. Then he'd gone up close to the dying flames, grabbed the back door handle, wrenched it loose. The door swung open, letting out a thick cloud of smoke. I'd watched the Beetle brave the smoke and the heat, thinking what a good guy he was. Then he turned away from the van, and walked towards me. His face was soot-blackened.
They're not there, Scribble."His words. I'd just looked at him.
They're not there. It's empty."
Bottletown kids laughing and dancing in the orange night, and me just sitting on a broken down car-park bench, thinking about the world, and getting licked to fuck by a mixed-up pile of dog flesh and plastic, name of Karli.
Shards of glass under my feet, the colours of dreams. In Bottletown, even our tears flicker like jewels.
Day 3
"We're all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen."
I woke up, inside of a dream. There was wool all around me, a total comfort fix. I was slow-drifting through the heavy layers of murmurs and soft touch, with five lovely angels singing to me, lullabies. And it felt nice.
Like a dream.
Five angels stroking me with azure blue feathers.
One of the angels had blonde hair and a dragon tattoo on her left upper arm. Her name was Desdemona. Another had black hair and black eyes rimmed with black liner and falling eyelids, with smoke rising from her body. Her name was Bridget. The third had six arms, all the better to stroke me with. His name was the Thing. The fourth had teeth like jewels, soft paws, and a long wet tongue of bliss. Her name was Karli Dog.
The last of the angels was fat, but wearing it well, with two sets of eyes, one set red, the other white. Its name was the Van.
All five had feathers in their hands, and each a different technique of stroking. Their soft flutterings played all over my skin. I was naked. Unashamed, mind. Not like me at all. But I was just loving the feelings; the voices of the angels, the warm clutch of the dream.
Was this just a dream?
I reached out for the first angel. Desdemona. Blood had started to dribble from tiny punctures in her skin. She had my fingers in her mouth and she was licking at them. Then she bit down on one of them, hard, so that the skin broke, and she was licking at the blood. "You ever gonna find me, Scribble?" she said. I had no good answers to give my sister except to reach out to embrace her. We fell into a kiss --
"Scribble! Get that fucking feather out of there!"
That was the Beetle's voice, coming into the dream. And somebody forcing my mouth open.
"You know I don't allow that. No one goes in alone!"
My eyes opened. Forced open. Beetle's eyes staring down at me, from close range. His hands messing about inside my mouth, like a fucking dentist. "Stop biting on
it!" he said. Biting on what? He reached deep inside my mouth, pulling on something soft and fluttering that had lodged there. "Gotcha!" announced the Beetle, pulling a blue feather from deep down inside of my throat. He held it aloft like a treasure, whilst I retched and convulsed, gasping for new breath.
"Sorry," I gasped out "I was dreaming. . . dreaming. . ."
"You weren't dreaming, saddo!" said the Beetle. "You were going in alone.
Nobody does that."
"Sorry, Bee. . . I. . ."
"Fuck off. Fuck off and die if you want to. Just don't do it on the premises."
I looked at the blue feather he'd pulled out of my mouth. "What was I doing?" "Blue Lullaby. You know that's only for babies."
I breathed.
I breathed again.
BLUE LULLABY is for when life gets bad. When life deals a stupid hand. If you should ever find your give-a-fuck factor has gone down to zero, this is the feather for you. Blue Lullaby will wrap you up in blankets and cuddles, making the bad things seem, well you know, kind of good all of a sudden. It's sweet. But a little warning from the Cat. It works up to a point, and it's not much of a point. It can cure the tiny troubles; it fucks out on the big troubles, just makes them worse. For those who need something stronger may I recommend TAPEWORMER. Except that the Cat doesn't like these let's- make-everything-sweet feathers. Life is to be lived, not to be dreamt about. But when life needs a gentle hand, Lullaby could be the one. It's a cradlesong. The Cat says -- use the Lullaby, don't abuse the Lullaby. It could turn nasty on you.
Status: a lovely sky-blue legal, with warnings.
I was shaking from the journey, rivered with sweat, tears just adding to the body's liquid content. I didn't know which was sweat, which was tears. That bad. The Beetle was holding my hand. It felt so good. It felt so good, that soft hand, amidst all the
wanderings. Karli the robodog was lying at my feet.
"You okay, Scribb?" the Beetle asked, voice all quiet and yearning, like spring flowers, that kind of thing. Most unusual. "You shouldn't go in alone, Scribb. How many times have I told you? You need the Beetle in there. Isn't that the truth?"
"I was just trying. . ." "What's that, Scribb?"
"I was just trying. . ." I said, exhuming the words. "I was just trying. . . I was just trying to find some comfort. . ."
Beetle holding me tight against his frock-coat, and I could feel his collection of biker badges biting into my wet cheek. "You poor fucker!" he said to me. "Brid's gone. Van's gone. Des has gone." He was waving the now creamed-up feather in front of my face. "And you think this is gonna bring them back? Huh?"
His voice was hard again, but still with that trace of sadness. Never heard that before. Rain was falling, Manchester rain; we listened to its soft drumbeats against the window. Beetle's eyes were full of the rain, and some drops of it fell down his cheeks, like tears. Except that all the windows were closed, so how could the rain get in? Even the window that never closed was stuffed with an old T-shirt, so how come the rain was rolling down his cheeks like that? Maybe it was tears? Maybe it was tears! Maybe the Beetle had found tears? And that felt good. It felt so good.
Bring me my van of burning desire. How I missed that chariot. And all who ride in her.
The Beetle had stolen a cheap car, just to get us home, but it was a pale substitute. The van was a good friend. Now gone. The robodog was licking at my trainers. "What's the dog doing here?" I asked.
"Suze gave the dog to you. Don't you remember?" "Where's Mandy?" I asked, suddenly missing her. "She went out. I think we had an argument."
I reached into my shirt pocket for a Napalm fag. And pulled out a pasteboard card.
This is your card, said Suze.
How did it get there? Suze must have done a sly pass, whilst I was herb-sleeping. I took a long look at the picture. A young man heading for a drop, hounded by a dog. Real-life model. Collector's item. "Do you forgive me, Beetle?" I asked, quiet-like, whilst looking at the card.
The flower clock shed a petal; it floated in a zigzag pattern, driven by sighs, down to the carpet.
"I do." That voice.
That voice of the Beetle.
Saying that.
Saying I do. I do forgive you. That meant so much. That meant everything. I forgive you for the weakness. I forgive you for the transgression. For doing Blue Lullaby. For going in alone. For trying to find the things that we've lost.
Never heard such words before, not from the Beetle. "Where are the Thing and Brid?" I asked.
"I don't know. It's getting bad."
The Beetle, saying that, with such an ache to his voice. I was getting a new picture of the main guy. He was a man without dreams. He dreamt other people's dreams, through the feathers. That was the Beetle's obsession; he had nothing else. I realised that my eyes had closed.
When I opened them, Beetle was close. He took my body in his hands, wrapping me in his black frock-coat. It felt so good. Like a family, I guess.
I brought the card up close to my face. The young man was walking towards an abyss, a rucksack on his shoulder, the yapping dog pestering his heels. Along the top edge the number zero. Along the bottom the words The Fool. What did Suze mean by this? Karli Dog snuffling around at my feet.
"What now, Beetle?" I asked, not knowing where to go. "I don't know, Scribble. I just don't know."
The flat door opened with a soft breath, and Mandy stepped into the room. Her face was flushed with pleasure.
"Where have you been?" asked the Beetle. "I've found Icarus Wing," she said.
I was coming in the lips of Venus. She had green hair all around her milky white face, eyes so bright I was nearly blinded, and it was like shooting stars into the mouth of a goddess. And where the semen landed, against the cloth of night, the planets and the stars were formed there. I was making planets with my cock, coming on like God on heat. Took six nights to come the whole universe. On the seventh night I rested. With a giant spliff, some wine, and a Screaming Headache album. And a packet of biscuits.