Vurt (30 page)

"Mister Scribble. . ."

Her young face was wet from the trip. "You're on your own now, kid," I said.

"What about you, Scribble? What are you going to do?" "Some things."

"Keep the faith."

"That's right Keep the faith. Go on now."

Twinkle set off, into the dark morning, through the breath of trees. She looked back just the once.

"Keep going," I called.

Keep going.

I pulled off one shoulder strap, and then the other, until the Thing was loose. I lowered him to the ground.

His dead eyes looking up at me. I think they were his eyes.

Thing was dead, for sure. Two holes in his back where the bullets had lodged.

But that's not good enough. I had the Curious feather out of my pocket, and I was forcing it into his mouth, if that was his mouth? Any orifice would do. Pounding and pounding on his chest. "Come on! Come on!" Working the feather some more, deep enough for Lazarus, so why not the Thing. Bringing my fists down on his chest. . . thinking about the Beetle and Mandy and how I'd lost them for nothing. . . bringing my fists. . . bringing my fists down. . . again and again. . .

Nothing.

It brings nothing. His dead eyes.

I have lost you, my alien. . . and all that goes with you.

I pulled the feather out. Then picked his body up, carried it to the lake's edge. I lowered him into the waters.

The Thing floated for a moment, until the water had soaked through to every vessel. Then he sank away. Beneath the waves.

It's over.

I looked back to where the Asian kids were packing up their gear. The rain was letting up some, and the road seemed miles away, like I was free and safe for a while.

Don't believe it. We're neither free nor safe, until we've earned it.

I walked over to a clump of trees, found the place there, amongst the flowers and the insects, where Desdemona and I used to lie down, hidden by the leaves, to take our pleasures. The lake glimpsed between shadows and branches; flickers of yellow coming off the feather.

Time to go.

But where? You've got nothing to give, Scribble, what's the point? I put the feather to the very edge of my bottom lip.

Pulled it away again, trembling, unsure.

So long we have travelled for this.

Feather back in. Deep this time.

Felt the glitters there; a curious shade of yellow. Desdemona calling.

In my last moments of reality I pulled out the feather and placed it in my pocket.

The Curious Yellow coming on. . .
Desdemona, somewhere. . .
An end to fasting.

My face bathed in a yellow light "Looking good, Stephen."

"Cheers."

"You've done well. You should feel proud." "I know that. But I can't help feeling down." "Don't say that. You got through."

I moved the razor across my cheek, revealing an area of skin, and then wiped the foam onto a flannel.

"I've haven't got what she wanted. Don't you know how that feels?" "Don't I just?"

I wet the razor in the sink. The water looked dirty. "I really wanted to please her, you know?"

"I know."

"She had her heart set on that bag."

"It's doesn't matter, Stephen. Believe me. She'll have a good birthday anyway." "You know what Des is like."

"Believe me. No one knows better."

I looked deep into the eyes staring back at me. Yellow eyes. "See what I mean?"

The neon tube above the mirror cast a yellow gloom over my face. The light seemed almost thick, and my hand had to push gently through the air, as I brought the razor back up. It was my father's open razor, the one sharpened on the leather strop hanging up beside the sink. He hated me using it. But what the hell? It wasn't every day that your sister gets to be sixteen. I was taking her out tonight. I wanted to look good.

Especially because. . .

"I should've moved on that bag --" "Stephen!"

I was talking to myself in the bathroom mirror. Calling myself by name.

"As soon as Des spotted it, I should've got the money out there and then. Oh no.

Not me. I wanted to surprise her with it."

"So you let that guy steal it off you. Big deal." "It's not just that --"

"You got her something nice instead?" "No. I --"

"You didn't get her anything?"

"No. There's nothing else she would -- shit!"

I'd taken a nick out of my face. Blood fell into the water, swirling. I reached for a tissue and when I looked into the mirror to stop the flow it was my father's face that I dabbed at --

Oh my god! I was. . .

"You know I forbid the use of that blade."

I was. . . I was. . .

"It is a man's blade." "Father. . . I am sorry."

What was this? Where was I? This feeling? What is it. . . think. . . think!

"Give me the blade, Stephen." "Please. . ."

This isn't real! Nobody calls me Stephen any more.

"Must I punish you again?" "No. . ."

I'm getting the Haunting!

"Father!"

He was swinging the blade. . .

This isn't real. I'm in a Vurt. Jerk out!

The razor coming for my face.

Jesus Christ! Jerk out, you dumb fucking --

"Looking good, Stephen." "Cheers."

"So you got Desdemona nothing, eh?" "Don't remind me."

I was looping my best tie into a Windsor knot. My father had shown me this, when I was seven years old.

"Wouldn't have done any good anyway. She'll never be yours."

"Look --"

The knot was all wrong. "Sorry, Stephen. My fault." "Yeah. Stop putting me off."

I was standing in my bedroom, talking to myself in the wardrobe mirror. I pulled the knot loose to start again. There was a small shaving nick in my left cheek. The square of tissue paper -- stuck to the cut by a film of dried blood -- wasn't the best thing to have on your face, the day of your sister's birthday. But that's okay. It would be healed in a minute or so. I was waiting for Desdemona to get back from college. We were going out that night, celebrating, and I had my best suit on, all washed and pressed. Now I just had to get this knot right. And the weak lemony glow from the bedside lamp wasn't helping any. It made my eyes look kind of yellow.

"She's going to be real angry, Stephen." "I don't think that's -- shit!"

The knot was all crooked. I pulled it loose again. "Having trouble? Here let me --"

"I don't want help! And stop calling me Stephen!" "It is the name I gave you, boy."

"My name is --"

Wait. . .

"You will damned well use it."

My father had taken the two ends of the tie in his big work-scarred hands. "How many times must I teach you the Windsor?"

It wasn't me in the mirror! My father. . .

"Father. . ."

"It is a man's knot."

He crossed the tie, wide end over narrow, through the loop, down, around and behind, up to the right. Wide end down through the loop, crossed at right angles over the narrow, pushed through the loop one last time and finished by slipping the wide end through the knot in front. He tightened the finished Windsor, pulling it gently, until the knot was right up against my throat.

This isn't real!

"There. Perfect. Simple. Elegant!"

He pulled the knot tight. Tight! Pulling down on each end of the tie until my throat was closing and the breath leaving me. My hands coming up, but so weak I --

The Haunting!

"Even a fool could manage it!"

All my air was used up. Bursts of light behind my eyes. Pain. The fierce glare in my father's eyes.
This is Vurt!

"But not my boy, evidently."

Darkness, and the end of pain beckoning.

Jerk out! Come on! Work it!

The pain dying away as I lost the will to --

"Oh Christ!"

I was shivering amongst the trees, down by the lakeside. The leaves were rustling from the gathering wind. I couldn't stop shaking.

Made it.

Made a way out of there.

A shadow falling across the moon.

Christ, that was bad. And no sign of Desdemona. Shaking, shaking. . .

Breathing in gulps of air. Again. Again. My lungs aching, and my throat, and a sharp pain on my cheek from the razor's edge.

And then letting out the air, in a long passage. Something coming between the moon and the trees. Found a way out somehow.

Except that you can't jerkout of a Yellow.

The leaves shaking as something moved amongst them.

So what was. . .

"I have found you, Stephen."

My father pushing the branches aside, the glint of light on the razor in his hand.

I'm still in the Vurt!

"I won't have any child of mine out after ten."

Father stepping forward, blocking the moon's light completely, until there was only darkness. And the blade. . .

Get out of here!

His hand around my neck --

"Looking good, Scribble."

"Looking good yourself, birthday girl." "You taking me out tonight?"

"Bet on it, Des." "Where?" "Platt Fields."

"Platt Fields? I was maybe expecting a meal. Then a club. I feel like dancing."

"I know. But there's a little clump of trees there, side of the lake. It's private and cosy, and we could. . . well, you know. . ."

"Scribble! You're disgusting!" "It's you that makes me like this."

She pushed me backwards, onto the bed. Then she jumped on top of me, and started to really tickle me, just where I can't stand it.

"Des!"

"I'm not going to some dingy park. I'm going dancing!" "You've got to."

"What do you mean, got to? Who says got to? Hey! --"

I manage to get a grip on her body, and then kind of throw her over, but gently, until I was on top of her, and she was smiling beneath me. "We've got to go there, Des. Don't ask why. I just know we've got to go."

"Why should I?" "It's important." She went quiet then.

Her bedroom was a warm glow of yellow, the last rays of the sun coming through the drawn curtains. Her eyes were too much for me, too full of life.

I lowered myself down, until our bodies were touching all over, and my lips were

on hers.

"Careful, Scribb." "Why?"

"You'll crease your best suit."

"It's all for you, Desdemona. All for you." We kissed some more.

"You got me a present, Scribb?" "I tried to."

"Scribble!"

"I tried to get that bag you wanted. Well, I did get it. But. . ." "Don't tell me, you lost it?"

"It was --" "I hate you."

"It was stolen, Des. This guy on the bus. I was bringing it back home. I was going to wrap it and everything. But this guy just snatched it away from me, ran down the stairs, jumped off just as the bus was moving from the stop. I didn't know what to do."

"You know what this means?" "I know."

"It means we can't go to Platt Fields." "I know. Why is that?"

"I don't know. Crazy, isn't it?" "I'm sorry, Des."

"It doesn't matter. We'll just stay in tonight We could --" "That can't happen. Father. . . he. . ."

"Has he been hassling you again?"

"He went for me with the razor before. I was just shaving, you know." "I know."

"And then. . . in my room. . . well, it was bad." This is a curious house, isn't it, Scribb?"

"It's a bad house."

Then I pulled her blouse free from her belt, to reveal the hard ridges of the scars on her lovely stomach. I put my lips to them, trying to kiss them away. Nothing would work.

"I'm going to kill that man, one day."

"I don't think it's possible, Scribble. He's not real."

I moved back up her body, to look at her eyes again, trying to work out what she meant. I don't think she knew. And neither did I. Just that it was true.

"Thanks for the card, Des." "What card?"

"My birthday card."

"Don't be silly. It's my birthday, Scribb. Not yours." "No. I mean a few days ago. My twenty-first birthday." "Scribble, you're only eighteen!"

That stopped me. "Oh god."

"I know. I can remember sending it as well. What's happening, Scribble?" "I got you a present anyway, Des."

"Show me!"

I put my hand into my jacket pocket, feeling something fluttering there, not knowing what it was until I pulled it out. And then still not knowing.

"Oh Scribb! It's a feather!" "Looks like it."

"Look at the colours in it. All those yellows! They're just the same colour as the light in this house."

"Just the same. It's curious."

"I keep getting this feeling, Scribble. Like I'm being haunted, or something. I can't work it out. Like there's another world out there, and I just can't get to it."

"I'm getting the same. Can't explain it." "What does the feather do?"

"I think I'm meant to tickle you with it." "That's sounds right."

She pulled up her blouse some more, offering me her stomach and breasts. I stroked the yellow feather gently over her body. Starting at the dragon tattoo, and then down, and across, and then up. . .

"Oh god. That feels good. It's making me see pictures." "What do you see?"

"Me and you walking away from this house. Growing old together. Keep stroking. That's it. That's good. We're living in a little house, miles from here. Miles away from father. Keep doing it, higher. That's it. On my neck. Feels lovely. Miles away from the pain. On my lips, please, Scribble. Yes! Miles away from the knife. In my mouth now. In my mouth!"

I had the feather poised on my sister's lips, and my whole being was telling me to push further, to let her take it in deep, and I didn't even know why. I just had to do it to her. Gently pushing. . .

"Scribble!" "What?" "Your eyes!"

"What about them?"

"Yellow! They're turning yellow!"

Oh shit!

"Take that feather away, Stephen." "Father. . ."

"It is a young boy's game."

I was lying on top of my father, pushing a feather into his mouth. His hands were coming up to hug me. I tried to push the feather in, don't know why, just had to, but his bite clamped down hard on the flights, so that the feather was lodged solid between his teeth. Then his hands came down on my back and I felt the blade going in.