The Book of Dave

by Will Self

  And he recalled the great beast's final mating: his feet crunching on the frosted leaf fall, his hot breath clouding the sharp kipper air, while Runti's hands scrabbled to gain purchase on the barrel back of old Gorj. Such tiny genitals the motos had – they could never have mated without human help. Surely this alone proved that men and motos were meant to be together? Together on Ham– and together for eternity in New London. How could the Driver ever doubt it?

  Towards the beginning of the second tariff, boy and moto trudged back up to the Layn, crossed over it and broke through the last tattered curtain of leaves. Below them they could see the gaffs of the manor, its bay and the easterly cape of the island. From behind this – just that moment emerging – came the prow of the Hack's pedalo, a sharp black wedge against the brilliant sea. Carl could make out five pedalers on each side of the vessel, and deep in its well the heads of at least fifteen more fares. Yes, it was a big enough party this year. An weel mayk em elfy wyl vey mayk us sikk, Carl muttered. He turned to the moto and kissed it on its snub nose. Cummon, luv, iss time 2 go 2 Dave. Then they ambled off down the hill.

  The six gaffs of the Hamsters' little manor were set in two rows of three, on each side of an evian stream that was rich in irony. At the western end a seventh – used as a travelodge – was built above the spring itself. Pod-shaped, the gaffs hunkered down into the land, their rough reddish sides hugged by the greensward, their lumpy thatched roofs lashed down by crude ropes. For hundreds of years – perhaps even since the dawn of the Knowledge itself, for the gaffs were known to be very ancient – they had gone by the names of the six clans of Ham. To the south of the stream, running from east to west, were the Edduns, Funch and Brudi gaffs; while on the north side were the Dévúsh, the Ridmun and the Bulluk. The Breakup had not changed this, although the dads now occupied the gaffs to the south of the stream, and the mummies those to the north. That the Hamsters should cleave so to this redundant nomenclature was only one of the reasons why their Driver was now insisting that the unsanitary manor – with its dwellings shared by kith and kine – be demolished and a new one built.

  On a frayed patch of ground a few paces from the Ridmun gaff, Fred Ridmun, the Guvnor of Ham, together with three of the other dads, had knocked together a gibbet big enough to hang the moto from once its throat had been cut. In late autumn, when several motos were slaughtered, such a gibbet would have been far larger, and all the Hamstermen would have spent a blob or more building it. However, for this, the midsummer's feast for the Hack's party, only one moto was to be slain.

  This was Runti, who now lay on his side, slack flesh squidging from under him, his tank slopping, his arse bubbling. His legs were lashed with some of the better imported rope, a length of which was also slung over the top beam of the gibbet. At the moto's head knelt Carl, together with his stepdad, Fred. Carl held a small knife that was hidden in the dense wattles of the beast's throat. Fred was tall like all of the Ridmun clan, his hair lanky, his beard a lustrous, curly brown, his eyes a stony grey, his lips sickle-sharp and sickle-curved. He was a dävine dad, so he called over the slaughter run:

  – Leev on ri smiffeeld, leffpoltreeavenoo, leffchartaowse … rìfarringdunlayn …

  His stepson stroked Runti's stubbly brow as the run and its points were called.

  – Tym 2 go nah, Runti, he said.

  – Nó hwurtin, the moto lisped.

  – Nah, nó hurtin, yul ardli feel í.

  This was true, because at that very instant Carl pressed the knife deep into the beast's neck and a maroon tide pulsed out on to the bare earth. Púlupp! Fred cried to Fukka Funch, Sid Brudi and Ozzi Bulluk. The three dads began hauling on the end of the rope; it came taut, and the moto's bleeding body was dragged jerkily towards the wooden frame, leaving an old irony stain in its wake. Giss an and! Fukka shouted to the gang of Chilmen who were standing a way off, looking on both enthralled and horrified.

  Reluctantly the Hack's pedalers detached themselves from the group, strolled over and grabbed the rope. All eight dads gathered as much purchase as they could and pulled. Their muscles knotted, their backs creaked, the gibbet groaned. First Runti's hindquarters, then his sagging tank lifted from the ground. Carl stayed by his head, whispering endearments:

  Iss orlrì, luvvi, doan wurri, ear we go, nó long nah, ittul B bé-er wen ure up on ve fingi.

  – Itun hwurtin, Cwarl. Eye hwurtin sum, the moto protested, and one of his large hands sought out his musher's smaller one.

  – Onli a lyttul, Runti, onli a lyttul, an itull soon B ovah an yul ave a nyce kip.

  – Mwy nek hwurtin, Cwarl, ish hwurtin.

  The moto's whole body – which was the length of one and a half men and considerably bulkier – was now part-resting on his crumpled neck. Then, with a great heave and a shout from the hauliers, the moto cleared the ground and swung free, a fat, fleshy pendulum spraying pink mist.

  While all this had been going on, the Driver was coming along the bay from his semi, his back stiff, his bright orange trainers glaring as the hem of his black robe rose and fell, his mirror flashing in the foglight, the sign of the wheel embroidered on his breast commanding attention. Now he came up to the Hack's party and turned his back on them. The Hack, Mister Greaves, was staring full into Runti's dying face.

  – Ware2, guv, he said to the Driver in a cursory fashion.

  – To New London, came the answer in Arpee with considerably more solemnity.

  – Iss awlways a fyn fing 2 C a moto slorta, said Mister Greaves, grabbing the loose stuff of his long T-shirt with both hands so that it stretched over his pot tank.

  – Maybe, the Driver snapped. At any rate, it's a practice the Hamsters wouldn't wish to forgo.

  Carl looked up into the Driver's mirror and saw there cold black eyes under high, white, gull's-wing eyebrows. The lad bent back to stroking Runti's muzzle, murmuring:

  – Vare-vare, vare-vare, Runti, soon ovah, soon ovah …

  – Why should they forgo it, Reervú? said Mister Greaves, setting his jaw and thrusting out his long, wispy ginger beard. His nose was bulbous, his brows beetled, his cheeks were tenderized with old pox scars – yet he fronted up well. Still, the Driver had got to him – so much so that he had shifted to Arpee as he bit and nibbled his curry-stung lips.

  – Because the moto is real, not toyist… The Driver's voice was low, but his enunciation was perfectly clear. Even in chitchat he sounded like a zealot… and only toyist beasts may be scoffed.

  – Come off it, Dad. Mister Greaves was up for a bit of bother, and the dads, who'd by now finished lashing Runti to the gibbet, came up to hear them. The moto is a sacred creature, ordained as such by the Book!

  – On one reading perhaps. The Driver hooked his hands into the side vents of his robe, mimicking Mister Greaves's posture. However, on the true one – as higher authorities would tell you, if you listened clearly – it is an abomination.

  The Chilmen – both the Hack's pedalers and the sick fares – certainly looked disposed to agree with the Driver. Carl recognized two of the older pedalers – they'd been in the party on previous summers – while the rest of them, some twenty dads in all, had never visited Ham before. In the lad's eyes fares and pedalers alike were a motley crew, their awkward bones an ill fit for their scrawny hides. Their blue caps, yellow tops and red jeans were garish – babyish even – and naturally most of them bore fresh pox scars or weeping goitres. The Chilmen stood as close to the Hack as their rank allowed and stared at the moto with frank disgust.

  – Í lúks lyke an abominowotsit 2 me, said a slight man, whose bald head was cloven by a fresh trepanning wound. Í az ve eyes owa ooman, ve teef, ve cok an balls 2. Iss feet ar lyke ands wiv pads uv flesh mell-éd intavem, but iss muzzle iz lyke a burgakynes an iss bodi iz lyke vat uv an idëus bäcön … Í duz me fukkin éd in.

  – Me 2! Yeah, me 2! the other Chilmen cried.

  Carl continued to cradle Runti's upside-down head in his arms, heedless of the blood coursing down his neck and b
lotting out his T-shirt. With one hand he held an earflap closed, with the other he stroked the moto's bulging jonckheeres. He went on whispering into the beast's free ear, Vare-vare, Runti, vare-vare, mì sweet … but it seemed doubtful that the moto could hear him, for his baby-blue eyes were rolled back in their sockets, while his breath came in a laboured squeak and his blood continued to pulse. Then Runti gave a final convulsive shudder, arching his long back, snapping the ropes. Before, the dying creature had lisped in an undertone; now a single clear statement issued from his already bluing lips: Eye thleepy nah! Gonna B wiv Dave! Then he went completely slack. Carl stepped back from the gibbet, letting go of Runti's head, and plodded away, his face averted so the dads couldn't see his tears. He wished it were Changeover day with all his heart.

  – Bluddë el! the cloven-headed Chilman said wondrously, iss trew, ven – vat vey speek!

  Hmm, yes, the Driver answered him, but only with the voice of a child just weaned; they have no more reason than any toyist beast.

  – Be that as it may, said Mister Greaves, pulling his shirt still tighter around his tank, I've been Hack here at Ham for twenty-five years now and I've learned to love the moto well enough. I'd advise you, dads of my party, to love this fine beast too. His flesh will preserve you, his fat will grease you, and once it's extracted his oil will – as you well know – prove the most effective of remedies for whatever ails you. Is this not why you've been allowed to come here, to this most distant and yet dävine island of our Lawd's? Nah – he slewed angrily into Mokni – pissoff ve ló-uv U – go an kip in yer gaff. Yaw oasts av wurk 2 do – rispek vem.

  The Chilmen scattered in obedience, heading up the stream to the travelodge and disappearing one after another into its dark doorway, their faces still white with astonishment.

  The Driver addressed the Hack:

  – Mister Greaves, come and have a cuppa at my gaff; there's matters we must talk over before tonight's do.

  – And tomorrow's Council. Greaves looked over at Carl as he said this.

  – Yes, and tomorrow's Council. Shall we go?

  They walked away, the Driver taking his first few paces backwards before spinning on his heel; yet neither – in the mirror or directly – gave the slaughtered moto so much as a backward glance.

  Once the off-islanders were all gone, the Hamstermen set to work with a vengeance. From an oilcloth bundle Fred Ridmun drew out a hooked knife the length of his forearm. Fukka Funch dragged a large piece of oilcloth beneath Runti's dangling head. Carl put his weight on the dead moto's arms. Ozzi Bulluk pulled the rope that kept one of its hind feet lashed to the gibbet as tightly as possible, splaying the moto's legs. Its genitals, tank and ribs were all thrown into prominence. Taking a deep breath and crying out, Stikk í 2 im, Dave! Fred thrust the knife into the notch beneath the rib cage and, sawing vigorously, yanked it up. Hide and flesh parted with a loud popping sound, and Runti's guts flumped down in a tangled mass on to the cloth. Fukka moved in at once with a shorter knife and, feeling around in the moto's abdominal cavity, cut the intestines away. Behind him came Carl with a pail of sea water, which he sloshed up into the gory hole, slooshing out any shit or half-digested fodder. Carl was laughing as he barged Fukka out of the way, and instead of clumping him the dad laughed as well. It mattered not how old or how dävine you were – butchering a moto was always a joyous occasion so far as the Hamsters were concerned.

  The mummies and opares now came out from where they'd been waiting in a huddle behind the Brudi gaff. Hitching up their cloakyfings, they crossed the stream and came towards the slaughter site. All that morning the Hamsters' huge irony kettle had been simmering over a fire a few paces away from the gibbet. Now the women went to this, formed a chain, poured pails of boiling water and passed them, hand to hand, to Carl, who attached them to a rope and winched them up so that they could be tipped over the carcass. Once it was well and truly scalded, the dads dragged over boards and trestles to make up the skinning table. This was assembled immediately under the scaffold and the dead moto lowered down on to it.

  Next the daddies lined up along one side of the table and the mummies along the other. Short, broad-bladed knives were taken out from another cherished bundle and distributed among them. Then the company set to, scraping the thick bristles from the hide. Carl was too young to take part in this work; nevertheless he loitered near by and even risked smiling at his mum, Caff. She smiled back while the others chose not to notice this exchange.

  For twelve long years the Driver had sought to snuff out such intercourse between the sexes; however there were some of the Hamsters' rituals that he could neither proscribe nor modify. When the Hack's party came and the moto was slain, the dads and mums spoke to one another with warm vitality, exchanging news, opinions and especially gossip about the strangers, their remarks shooting back and forth across the table as rapidly as their knives scraped at the hide. Had the Hack accepted the rent? What illnesses or deformities did the Chilmen have? Was there any news of Chil, or even of the world beyond? What business did the Hack have with their Driver? And most importantly: what had been brought to trade? Was there fresh seed? Woolly? Fags? Booze even?

  The foglamp beat down on them out of a blue screen that tinted at the southern horizon, the sea pitter-purled against shingle, the gulls cawed over the Gayt, the flying rats coo-burbled from the top of the home field, the sweat stood out on the grafters' brows, and the mummies – with the Driver gone – risked loosening their cloakyfings. When free-flowing, the Hamsters' chitchat had the intimacy of thought, so when the old moto-skinning rap started up it was like a mummy humming to her sprog.

  – Allö, mö-ö, cum 2 feed us, cum 2 eel us, the mummies called.

  And the daddies responded:

  – Tara, öl mayt, gissa cuddul B4 U dì.

  Summoning himself as if from a dream, Fred wiped the sweat from his reddened brow and fixed the company with his flinty gaze. The mums and dads left off singing, downed tools and looked over towards the Driver's gaff, but, seeing the smoky ribbon that coiled from his chimney, they began singing again – if anything a little louder. Fred shrugged and joined in with them.

  By the time the moto's hide had been scraped, its carcass skinned, and its blubber flensed and set out in a number of pots for trying out, the slaughter site was crawling with flies, and blood had crusted on the sward. Fred and Ozzi had expertly disjointed the moto's limbs and hacked off its hams, shins, feet and hands. Runti's head had been severed and borne off by the mummies to make the headcheese for the Hack's cake. His tank had been cut away from his guts and hung up to dry; it would be used to store his own oil. Fukka Funch had set up a second trestle table and was skilfully fashioning smaller cuts from the chunks of carcass and trimming off the side meat to be smoked. He then reserved the spare ribs and the tank meat – for these would be curried and barrelled. He cut out the heart, liver and kidneys from their viscous basketry and slithered them across the bloody boards into the hands of the waiting mummies. A smoky, meaty smell began to hang in a pall over the manor as the blubber started to simmer.

  The other kids had returned from the woodland, and, as it was daddytime, the opares fed them with odd scraps of flesh, quickly fried up with handfuls of herbs. Then they were packed off with a tot of moto gubbins to ward away the pedalo fever. Fred retrieved the moto's slack bladder from Fukka's table, washed it in a pail, found its opening, inflated it with a few breaths and tied it off with a length of sinew. He tossed the whitish sphere towards the little kids, and Ad Brudi – who although only seven was a head taller than the others – grabbed it and ran off down to the shore. The whole pack followed after him, hooting and yelling as they batted it between them. They ran around the bay, and, as they passed the Driver's semi, he loomed in the doorway, a tall and threatening figure. The other kids wormed their way through the blisterweed, but he managed to catch hold of Ad and took the bladder from him. Shaking it, the Driver held it up to the screen, then returned it to Ad and sent him back towards
the dads.

  At the slaughter site Ad handed the bladder to Fred.

  – Ve Driver sez í aint rì fer ve kids 2 B larkin abaht.

  – So B ì, the Guvnor said grimly, and he tied the bladder to the side of the gibbet, where it wobbled in the breeze.

  Carl had no idea how Antonë Böm had arrived in the manor without being noticed, but he looked up from currying the meats to find that the teacher was standing right by his shoulder.

  – Ware2, guv, Böm said.

  – 2 Nú Lundun, Carl replied.

  A smirk played upon Antonë's fat wet lips. He compressed them and emitted the buzzing noise that signified his abstraction from the workaday toil of the Hamsters. His spectacles flashed the foglamp in Carl's eyes, his prematurely white beard lay lank on his bulbous chin. His cheeks were heavily scarred with the pox, his jeans were full – but his tank fuller. His soft, plump hands, with their tiny, recessed nails, dwelt on his swelling hips. Carl blanked him and concentrated on rubbing coarse seacurry into the moto meat.

  – So, Böm asked after a while, az Runti bin chekked?

  – Sluffoffs ovah vare. Carl jerked a thumb at the skin that lay at Fukka's feet, buzzing with flies. Böm ambled over and began to sort through the greasy folds. At once Fred was by his side.

  – Ware2, guv, he snapped.

  – 2 Nú Lundun, Böm cooed. Eyem juss lookin fer ve mark.

  – No bovver, Tonë, said Fred, refusing to be mollified. U no azwellaz me vat Runti woz reel Enuff; úve seen iz mark a fouwzan tymes.

  – Stil, we muss chekk ì, iss ve way, innit. Böm carried on examining the moto skin.

  – Iss nó yer graft, Tonë, an djoo no ì!

  Fred grabbed the skin, so that the two men held it stretched between them. The foglight streamed through the membrane, perfectly illuminating the phonics C-A-L-B-I-O-T-E-C-H. Looking from the Guvnor's angry face to his mentor's quizzical one, Carl felt his riven mind part still more.

  – C! Fred spat in the dirt. Reel enuff fer U, Tonë, reel enuff?