Vurt (25 page)

"Because that means you know how to get Desdemona back." "Yes. I do know."

"Tell me."

"It's quite simple. Find the Thing. Find a working copy of Curious Yellow.

Combine the two. Swapback. Quite simple." "Well fuck you, Game Cat!"

"Oh dear."

"You managed to get Tristan out of Curious. He said that you were working the feathers."

"Scribble, my dear. . . even at that age I was a master of the feathers. You haven't even started yet."

"I want Desdemona back!" "How very poetic."

"You bastard!" My hands were twisted up into tight fists. EVERYTHING OKAY IN THERE, GAME CAT, SIR?

Sniffing General's voice coming over the intercom. The Cat nodded at me as he pressed the speak button and I felt something pulling me back, the Cat's room dissolving around me, intense pain in the body. "Cat! Please!" I cried out.

Game Cat smiled, and the pain eased slightly.

"Everything's fine in here, General," the Cat was answering. Thank you. We're just discussing possible gifts that the visitor might be willing to donate. Get back to your ledgers, General."

WILL DO, SIR. JUST CALL IF YOU NEED ME.

"I will."

The Cat closed off the connection and then looked up at me. With a heavy sigh he raised himself out of the wicker chair, and walked over to an antique wooden cabinet. There were five drawers in it, one above the other. He pulled open the top drawer. "This is my collection," he said.

I walked over to the cabinet. I was standing by his side, gazing down into the drawer. It was divided into sections, each section separated by a panel of wood, each section lined with purple velvet. It was a series of nests, and in each nest lay a feather. In this first drawer all the feathers were blue, various shades of. It was like looking into the sky, seeing the glints of the day there. Along the edge of each section, embossed on a brass plate, were the names of the feathers. And, these feathers being blue only, I knew most of the names by heart, having travelled them.

"People come to me for feathers," the Cat said. "Special ones. Dreams. Dreams that they think will save them. They give me gifts in return."

He closed the top drawer, and opened the second. Black feathers lay glistening there. Like looking into the night. Closed that one, opened the third. Pink feathers. Like looking into the flesh. The names brought back some sweet memories.

"Of course this is only a small part of my collection. The major part I have in storage. You are seeing only the current favourites."

He opened the fourth drawer. Silver feathers. Like looking into the moon. One of the sections was empty. The name read Sniffing General.

"I'll have to ask for the Sniffer back, I'm afraid, when you've finished with it." He closed the fourth layer, opened the last

Gold.

My eyes dancing, catching the waves. Golden feathers.

Like looking into the sun.

Their very names alone bringing a dream to my head.

"Yes, that's how powerful they are," the Cat told me. I've heard that some people take them anally. Of course one doesn't like to think about such things."

Only two of the names meant anything to me: Curious and Takshaka.

that?"

The section marked Curious was empty. "You had Curious Yellow?" I asked.

"I am a keeper of the feathers. Of course I had a copy." "Where is it?"

Game Cat closed the drawer. Tristan stole it from me," he said. "Didn't you know

"No. I. . ."

"It's quite obvious," the Cat was saying. "Tristan didn't like what Curious had

done to me. My brother is a very conservative man, Scribble. You must understand this. Despite the hair and the Haze, and the guns. . . he is the white sheep of the family. He had the impression that he was losing me, to the Vurt. In fact it was the other way around; I was losing him to the pure world."

"He wasn't that pure," I said. "He told me that he had some dog in him."

"Oh yes. Just a trace. I'm the same. Our great grandfather was an Alsatian. Of course it's very far down in the blood stream by now. Sometimes I like to chew on a bone, more than is governed by dinner party etiquette. That's about the extent of it, thank God. And of course he's very jealous of me, being at a lower level, you see? Stuck to the real."

"Tristan stole Curious Yellow?" "He did."

"Where is it now?"

"I have the impression that he wanted to save the whole world from it. He is an innocent."

"I just want to know where it is." "He threw it away."

"Where?"

"You saw him do it." "What?"

"You were there." "Stop this --"

"You think that I'm not helping you. In fact I'm doing all that I can."

I looked deep into the Game Cat's eyes, and saw the answer there. It was way deep, but I managed it. Because really it was inside of me, and that was where I had to look. "My God!"

"Indeed. You were very close."

He smiled and nodded. "You will come back to me, won't you, young man? This is your proper place. Really, you are a natural."

"I would prefer the real world, and Desdemona."

"Ah yes. The draw of the physical. Of course I could come down and give you a hand now and again. My brother. . . you understand?"

"No. This is mine. No feathers. Nothing. Don't even consider it, Cat." I was heading for the door.

"One last thing, young man," the Cat said. "Yeah, I know. Be careful. Be very, very careful." "You got me, my kittling."

There are only FIVE PURE MODES OF BEING. And all are equal in value. To be pure is good, it leads to a good life. But who wants a good life? Only the lonely. And so therefore we have the FIVE LEVELS OF BEING. And each layer is better than the one before. The deeper, the sweeter, the more completer.

FIRST LEVEL is the purest level. Where all things are separate and so very unsexy. There are only five pure states and their names are Dog, Human, Robo, Shadow, and Vurt.

SECOND LEVEL is the next step. It happens because the modes want to have sex, with other modes, different modes, otherness modes. Except they don't always use Vaz, so these babies get born: Second level creatures. Or sometimes the modes get grafted together. There are many ways to change. Whatever, Second level beings go one better in the knowledge stakes. There are ten Second level beings and their names are Dogman, Robodog, Dogshadow, Vurtdog, Roboman, Shadowman, Vurtman, Roboshad, Robovurt, and Shadowvurt. Chances are you, the reader, are a Second level being of some kind.

But you just want to have sex, right? Which delivers the next level, the THIRD LEVEL, of which there are ten modes also; Robodogman, Shadowmandog, Dogmanvurt, Robodogshadow, Robovurtdog, Shadowvurtdog, Robomanshad, Robomanvurt, Shadowmanvurt, and Roboshadowvurt. These are the middle beings, where most creatures get stuck; they just haven't got the spirit to go beyond.

Except of course, some few just can't stop having sex. Which gives birth to the

FOURTH LEVEL, of which there are only five modes, each missing only one element, and their names are; Flake, Dunce, Squid, Spanner, and Float. Hey, what did you want? More big mouthfuls. Fourth level beings are deep beauties, and I should know, because the Cat is one. Which kind? Hey, what is this, gift week? You'll be asking who Hobart is next. I know, I'm a tease. That's how I make my living.

Beyond all this lies the FIFTH LEVEL. Fifth level beings have a thousand names, but Robomandogshadowvurt isn't one of them. They have a thousand names because everybody calls them something different. Call them what you like -- you're never going to meet one. Fifth level beings are way up the scale of knowledge and they don't like to mingle. Maybe they don't even exist.

The Cat? He calls the Fifth level Alice. Because that was my mother's name, and it's the thing we all spring from, and try to get back to.

You got a problem with that name, reader? So make up your own!

Cinders was still asleep when I came down.

I stroked her soft and green hair for a few seconds as I checked the flower clock on the wall. Only five petals had fallen. Seemed like I'd been in the Silver for an hour or more, but that's the Vurt for you; it does strange things to time.

I leaned over to kiss Cinder's face, and then went into The Beetle's room. He was struggling against his chains, desperate to get out of there. But still too fleshy, too human. He couldn't quite make it.

Not without my help.

I guess I'd always wanted him in this position, dependent upon me, but now it brought no pleasure.

"Time come, Scribb?" he asked. "Definitely," I answered.

"If you let me loose, Scribble, I'll be your friend for life." "I don't think you've got much life left, Beetle."

"I feel beautiful," he said.

"That's good. Could you do some last things for me?" "What's that, baby?"

"Steal and drive a van for me."

"I thought you were the expert these days." "I want to go bareback. No Vurt."

"Crazy mother."

"Damn right. You wanna go for it?"

The shining colours in his eyes lit up even brighter as he smiled, "Let's go ride some stash!"

His voice was singing.

I led the Beetle down along the canalside, towards the last archway. That old clapped out ice-cream van was still there, like a tin corpse. Icarus's face had appeared at the door, boasting a bad look of fear. So I just waved the gun around a little, just to keep him inside, whilst the Beetle breached the van. He didn't use Vaz, beyond that now, and the hood seemed to open up for him, like a slow seduction. He reached inside and I saw some colours shining. They flowed from his fingers, touching the wires inside, and then the engine choked into a small life.

"You know what, brother?" he said. "I really feel some juice tonight."

So we used that juice to drive out to the moors again, me and Twinkle and Mandy, and the Beetle up front, just like it should be.

"Where are we going, Mister Scribble?" asked Twinkle. "On a picnic. We're going to sell some ice cream."

"It's a bit dark for ice cream," she answered.

It was nine o'clock on the Sunday night, and the trees were fading into silver. "I like this van," the Twinkle said. "It's the best van yet. I always wanted to ride

in an ice-cream van."

"I saw you with that Lucinda woman, Scribble," Mandy said. "Do you have to bring this up?"

"Why not? You're quite the lover, aren't you?"

say?"

"What's happening?" asked Twinkle. "Scribble got himself a --" "Mandy!"

"What is it? What is it?" Twinkle shouting. "Nothing!"

"Scribble got himself a woman." "Scribble!"

"It's not. . ."

"Scribble, how could you?" Twinkle's eyes were staring. "What will Desdemona

That left me empty.

"Good question," said Mandy, with a smile.

I looked from the young woman, to the young girl, and then out through the ice-

cream van's hatch window, watching the fields go by.

Desdemona. Forgive me.

Beetle rode the van along the same tire tracks of the morning's ride, coming to a perfect stop some ten feet away from the grave.

I stepped out alone, telling the crew to keep the engine turning. The mound of soil.

My hands digging into the soil, bringing up clumps of mud; scraping the mud onto the earth, moving on, sod by sod, until my fingernails were black and fragile and the world was opening up beneath me.

Found her body there. Suze's.

Strands of hair mixed in with the soil. Her sweet face rising out of the dirt as I brushed the traces of earth away from her, my hand hitting against hard wood. The little wooden box.

Waiting. . .

It was lodged against Suze's neck, hidden amongst Tristan's hair. And Suze's hair had fallen over his, so that the box was entangled within.

Waiting. . .

I pushed my hands into the thick mat of hair.

Suze's eyes were closed and her body warm from the earth. She's just sleeping.

That's all. I'm just making a steal from a sleeping woman's body. That's all. . .

Christ! This was getting to me.

The complex folds of the hair, the sweat felling from my brow to my hands, the feet that I could hear the van door opening, Twinkle calling to me, the look on the dead woman's face; all these things conspiring against me, until I was tearing at the hair, cursing. Twinkle's voice from behind me, asking me what I was doing? But I had to get this box loose, you see, I just had to do it!

"What's going on, Mister Scribble?" Then I had it.

Waiting. . . Desdesmona. . .

The last few strands of hair fell away and the box was in my hands. It was hand- carved from mahogany, the top etched into the shape of a howling dog. No lock, just a small brass clasp. I clicked aside the clasp, and then lifted the lid. . .

Yellow!

A glint of yellow amidst the darkness.

Yellow! The Yellow feather! It was small and neat, just like I remembered, its golden flights enwrapping me, burnishing the air with colours and dreams.

Twinkle came round to see, and I guess her eyes must have seen the look in mine as I gazed at the feather, because all I heard was her sharp breath.

Curious Yellow. I have you!

Waiting for me. . .

We were. We were that. Coming in colours. Beetle up front, just like the old days, but this was something new, something else altogether. Felt like I was riding home, riding home in the back of a clapped-out Mr Whipping van, with a golden feather in one hand, Beetle's gun in the other, two bullets left.

Beetle was working the wheel with a hot touch. His spectrum was widening, his skin crumbling at the edges. I'd persuaded him to wear his black frock-coat, and to pull his hat down real tight. Mandy had wrapped a large scarf around his face. Cinders had given us the scarf and hat, along with a pair of neat sunglasses. The Beetle had these on

as well. And his leather gloves. "He looks like the Invisible Man!" Twinkle had cried. The Beetle just shrugged. Flashes of colour were seeping through the gaps in his clothing, but it would do.