The Book of Dave

by Will Self

  Staring at the earthen floor of the room, so as to avoid the fanatic eyes of the Exile, Carl was seized by a peculiar irony contrivance, which had many spinning flywheels and a slowly turning knurled cylinder. These were obscurely connected to a white disc, the rim of which was inscribed with figures: 1, 2, 3 and so on.

  – Wassermattah, boy? Luvvie Joolee rasped. Aynt chew evah seen a meeta B4? Her Mokni was fluent, her manner lucid. Despite her eccentric appearance there was no trace of madness.

  – N-no, mum, Carl stuttered.

  – Mum! she snorted. Mum! Eye tellya, boy, vat vare iz ve diffrunz Btween U chavs an reel folk. Tym, munny, distunz. She pointed at the dial: Daves tym – nó Rs. Daves munny – nó yaws, Daves distunz – iz root 2 Nú Lundun! Then she rounded on Böm: Djoo bleev in Dave, ven, Böm? she spat out.

  – Enuff, the teach replied.

  – Djoo bleev in iz cummagayn, djoo bleev in iz mirrakulz, djoo bleev in Nú Lundun?

  – Yeah, Enuff. Carl had never seen Böm so tongue-tied.

  – So ow cum ve Dryva sez U 2 iz fliars? Djoo bleev, boy? she said, rounding on Carl again.

  – Yeah, L-Luvvie, he stammered.

  – Luvvie! she spat. Wotevah, ve pawtunt fing iz djoo bleev, Eye carnt B doin wiv fliars. Eye carnt B doin wiv vose oo aynt lé Dave inter vair arts. Eye tellya boaf vat Dryva issa nastë bituv wurk. E aynt no trú bleevah. E aynt got Dave in iz art. Dave vat iz gentul, Dave wot luvs us jussaz if we woz awl ve Loss Boy. The old boiler's face took on an expression both wistful and profound. Transfigured by her Dävinanity, she was, Carl understood, almost beautiful.

  – Eye bleev vat, Böm said in a hushed undertone.

  – Wel ve Dryva doan, an eel shaft ve 2 uv U B4 U gettof Am, so Eyem gonna affta elp U. U bin cummin 2 ang aht 4 yeers nah, Böm, but Eye aynt toal U nuffing, ri?

  – Nuffing much, Böm conceded with a rueful nod of his head.

  The old boiler bent down from her great height and shuffled into the corner of the room where a pile of cloth scraps lay in a heap. As she rooted among them, Luvvie Joolee continued: Wot Eye aynt nevah toal U iz vat Mistah Greaves brungus maw van juss trayd plastik, ee brungus vese inall. She held up a bundle tightly wound with twine. Lettuce, she announced, lettuce from Lundun, ees a frend, Mistah Greaves, no an alii but a mayt. She unwrapped the bundle, and Carl gazed wonderingly upon the sheaves of onion-skin-thin leaves that sprang from it, each one covered with spindly phonics. Siddahn, Luvvie Joolee commanded Böm, siddahn on ve flaw. Eyem gonna reed U wot me öl mukkas in Lundun av bin sayin abaht ve PCO an vat. U 2 needta no.

  It was with the motos that Carl was able to be himself and accept his secret mummyself. The motos gathered together in a rank in a woodland clearing under the screenwash, their backs shiny with moisture. When the shower ceased their bristles caught the bigwatt like jewels. The motos were always prepared to admit him to their cuddling and nuzzling. Unlike the Hamsters, the motos maintained an exact knowledge of who was whose mum and dad, going back for many generations. Old Champ, who had been the minder of Carl's dad, Symun, when he was a young boy, would hunker down before the lad and in his sing-slurp voice intone the moto lineage: Ven Darlin an Shoogar ad Hunnë, an Hunnë an Gorj ad Boythë, an Boythë an Poppit ad Wunti, an Wunti an Thweetë ad me. That there were only a handful of names for all the motos that were, had been and ever would be on Ham did not confuse the beast. In recounting who he was, old Champ's baby-blue eyes took on a strange luminousness that they never ordinarily possessed.

  Those dävine dads most in sway to the Driver were apt to dismiss such evidence of moto wisdom, asserting that the nicety of their intimate relations was a mere mechanical contrivance. Yet Carl had seen for himself that when a moto was put to mate with another he or she deemed unsuitable, a frightful motorage ensued; and his grandmother Effi told him it was the motos who mysteriously instructed their human keepers in their own management. Vares no Am wivaht ve motos, she had often said, no Am, juss barran Ian.

  During the blobs since the departure of the Hack's pedalo in JUL, while the Hamsters turned their attention to preparations for the kipper, Carl went increasingly to the motos. He sought out the rank that trundled over the harvested fields depositing dung, and, with old Champ's agreement, cut out a moped – usually Sweetë or Tyga – to accompany him on his forays. Despite the dads' objections, Carl's half-brother, Bert Ridmun, also accompanied him on trips along the ragged shoreline of the Gayt, where the rotten stumps of crinkleleafs subsided into the lagoon. In this unusual seclusion, Carl encouraged Bert to join him in riding the moto, as they were wont to do when kiddies. While the older beasts would have bridled at such treatment, the moped docilely accepted it, even allowing Carl to spur him a few paces into the sea. Here, half swimming, half wading, the moped conveyed the lad through the placid waters of the lagoon.

  One day, towards the end of the second tariff, they were both being taken for a ride by Tyga. When they'd gone a few hundred paces round the headland, the two lads saw that the entire population were gathered in front of the Shelter. The daddies, mummies and opares were listening, rapt, to one of the Driver's spontaneous effusions, while, despite the cuffs of their dads, the younger kids were playing tag. One or two motos cropped the turf, their muzzles gooey with forage.

  Carl and Bert slid off Tyga's back, and, drawing nearer, they heard the Driver's angry voice rising high over the bowed heads of the Hamsters. He stood facing the low wooden hut, his back to his audience, his eyes on his mirror. His deep voice shouted through the wall of his chest:

  – It's not enough! Your Knowledge is not enough! I have never reviled the motos, my fares, yet, in those passages of the Book that describe the moto, it is clear that Dave didn't mean these … creatures but conveyances of the kind that I have seen in the streets of New London. I know your attachment to these beasts and how you have depended on them; nevertheless you must understand that their oil is no longer in demand elsewhere in Ing; there are diverse other fuels, beeswax, tallow and suchlike, with which to conjure letric. In accepting the oil in place of dosh-rent, my Lawd's Hack is supporting you as if you were the meanest foundlings!

  The Driver paused and ran a hawkish eye over the congregation; there wasn't even a mutter of dissent, so he resumed:

  – Since I came among you and abolished the vile practice of anointing, many more of your infants have survived!

  This was manifestly the case, for the evidence was right behind him, a gaggle of infants and toddlers that exceeded in number all the other Hamsters.

  – You all know, the Driver continued, his voice dropping still lower, that you will have to change if the island is to support these greater numbers. Mister Greaves is prepared to pay for more bubbery and London bricks if you increase your industry. He is prepared to pay for the feathers of seafowl as well; however he will no longer offer you a good price for the oil of these … these … toyist beasts!

  At this the Hamsters let out a great groan, but the Driver, feeling the rhythm of his own rhetoric, was not to be halted:

  – Yes, yes, toyist beasts, with their infantile slubberish and gross bodies. You muss free yawselves from your chavveri, he said, beginning to slide, for emphasis, into Mokni. U awl no viss, U muss taykup ve Nú wä aw Nú Lundun wil nevah B bilt. U muss folio ve Buk aw U wil afta leev Am – U no viss. He suddenly broke off, having seen Carl and Bert trying unobtrusively to join the back of the throng.

  The Driver had the ability to incorporate chance phenomena the cry of a bird, the shape of a cloud, even the breaking of a large wave on the reef – into his calling over, which mightily impressed the Hamsters. So it was now; he stretched out his hand and clawed at Carl:

  – U C viss 1! They all turned to stare. Yeah, yeah, ve 1 oo därs 2 enta ve Ferbiddun Zön an digabaht vare! U no viss! Ve 1 oo wil B fahnd a fliar bì ve PeeSeeO an broak! U no viss! Innit vat ee iz rì palli wiv vese beests? Innit vat ee cuddlsup wiv em? Innit vat ee iz vair bumchum?! But ee aynt ve onlë 1! Losing all composure, the Driver swivelled t
o confront them directly: U awl dú ì! U awl ewes ve moto 2 gé off wiv eechuwa, mummies an daddies boaf! Iss dissgusstyn! Remembah ve Braykup! Stikk 2 ve Chaynjova! Caulova ve Búk – 4 wivaht í U R awl fliars!

  Carl could no longer bear the Driver's hateful rant. Although the Hamstermen made no move to grab him, he ran away in case they did. He feinted towards the startled motos, swerved and darted off behind the Shelter. Then he scampered full tilt up the home field towards the Layn, and kept on going down the far side into Norfend, crunching fallen leaves, snapping branches, sloshing through puddles, until at last he slid to a halt in a boggy slough and collapsed in a huddle of quaking limbs. He was alone now with his secret mummy self – he wouldn't cry, even though his tank was tight with misery.

  Carl had only been lying like this for a few units when he felt a soft, familiar hand on his head and registered the calm tones that almost always accompanied it.

  – We nú viss woz cummin, Carl, said Antonë Böm, hunkering down beside him, í woz onlë a matta uv wen. Carl looked up and his mentor's eyeglasses reflected his own thin face back at him.

  – B-but iss sew unfayre on ve motos.

  – Eye no vat. Böm helped Carl out of the boggy patch, and they seated themselves on drier ground. He cleared his throat and shifted to Arpee, gaining, he felt, in clarity of expression what he lost in intimacy: Unfair also on the Hamsters, whose simple dävness is used so badly. The Driver's calling over is designed to make them affirm a truth, while removing from them any responsibility for what it entails. It makes of them, um, um – he searched for the requisite analogy – nought save wollies and the Driver their gaffer. Böm began to grope in the inside pockets of his carcoat, eventually drawing out a blisterpack.

  – We carnt stä eer, Carl said, struggling to his feet, vayl cummun fyndus.

  – I don't think so. Now the Driver has begun he'll continue for a full tariff or more. Think on it, Carl. Ever since the Hack's party left, the Driver has called over more and more. A day no longer passes without his haling the three cabs. The dads can't get any work done – if he keeps on like this Ham will be unable to support itself through the kipper.

  – An wot abaht ve motos? Carl insisted.

  – The motos, ah, yes … Böm tore off a chaw of gum and stuck it in his mouth. Um, well, the Hamsters could no more slaughter their motos than they could walk over the sea to Chil, he chuckled, or build New London here and now. It'll never happen.

  Carl was unmoved by this levity. Vey no, he said.

  – What do you mean? Böm said, recovering himself.

  – Ve dads, ve Dryva – vey no wee bin anginaht wiv ve Xeyel.

  – Hmm, indeed, well, I saw young Sid Brudi scampering off when we came back along to Hel Bä the other day. I surmised it wasn't the first time he'd followed us. Still, how could they know what we were speaking of?

  – Eye dunno. Vey wanna shuttusup. Bert erred Fred an ve uwah dads tawkin.

  – Well, then, said Böm, chewing meditatively on this, it appears that our takeaway is ready, my lad. When we add this to what Luvvie Joolee has told us concerning her old man and his allies in London, it drives us to a single conclusion: we must find a way to leave Ham at once. We will travel to the last place our pursuers will think of: to London, and there make common cause with the Blunt dissenters. A simple petition will enable us to discover the fate of your dad. Mayhap these two endeavours, so curiously enmeshed, will serve to put a spoke in the Wheel.

  Banging hard, then pushing open the heavy door of the Funch gaff, Carl was assailed by a dreadful caterwauling. His Uncle Gari, who was known familiarly as Fukka, was seated in front of a roaring fire, stripped naked save for a bubbery cockpiece; his paps were roseate with gingery hairs, his skin shone with sweat, and he had a squalling infant propped on each of his bandy legs, while his blunt hands grasped their chubby shoulders. The kids' curly mops bounced as Fukka joggled them unmercifully. Ranged along the sloping walls of the gaff were the opares, while sitting on the yok floor, crammed in between the box beds, and even atop the dresser, were a gaggle of little Hamsters. The entire juvenile population of Ham was there: it was the last tariff before Changeover, and Fukka liked to give them a good send-off. Many of the kids had the distinctive Funch face – full-lipped, broad-nosed, pop-eyed. The other Hamsters said that the Funches looked like motos, something that Fukka didn't mind in the least. Unlike his father, Burny, Fukka was almost untouched by the rigours of Dävinanity. He had a simple and straightforward nature – as close to the earth as his wide frame; and, although it was now dangerous to speak of such things, the time of the Geezer had affected him deeply.

  All the kids held a vessel of some sort, a clay pot or earthenware ewer for the older ones, a wooden bowl or tincup for the youngsters. They were all beating upon them with spoons and sticks in time to Fukka's crazy jouncing, while with one discordant voice – at once bass and booming, cracked and reedy – they belted out a string of nonsense: Makk-daar-nal, makk-daar-nal, kennukkëfrichikkin anapeetsa-hut! Makk-daar-nal, makk-daar-nal, kennuckkëfrichikkin anapeetsa-hut! When Carl's pale face appeared in the firelight, far from moderating their racket the rambunctious crew redoubled it: Makk-daar-nal, makk-daar-nal, kennukkëfrichikkin anapeetsa-hut! Makk-daar-nal, makk-daar-nal, kennuckëfrichikkin anapeetsa-hut! Ending in a rat-a-tat-tat of beats and a great shout of laughter.

  Ha, ha! Fukka let the infants slide from his legs to the flags and opened his arms to embrace his nephew. Ve lairë yung git! he cried. Cummeer! They hugged, and Carl breathed in his uncle's oily smell. If the Funches were the offspring of motos and humans, and – as Effi Dévúsh maintained – motos were themselves monstrous products of the union of still other beasts and the gigantic settlers of Ham, then perhaps this explained why his uncle's clan were so congenial to Carl. For the Funches were notably affectionate for Hamsters, kissing and petting their kids in a way that the others didn't.

  – Wassup, ven? Fukka asked, when Carl was seated on a stool beside him, a tincan of booze in his hand.

  – Iss ve Dryva, Carl replied, anna granddads. Nah ve Dryvas göinnon lyke vat Eye fink ees gonna gé me an Tonë bangdupp. Carnt U sä sumffing, Nunkul?

  Fukka cast a plump red hand about him at the tumultuous scene in the house. From the rafters hung bunches of dried herbage. The curry bubbled over the fire, stirred by one of the opares, while a couple of the lads were mending a fowling rope that was uncoiled on the table. Clokk viss, Carl, Fukka said. Í doan matta wot Eye fink, coz ve granddads doan giv a munkees abaht ve Funches, nor ve Bulluks neevah. Weer inturnal Xeyels Rsels, juss lyke Luvvie Joolee aw, Dayv sayv us – he sketched a wheel on his chest and Carl did the same – ve Beestlimun. Eye gotta famlee 2 feed, if Eye speek aht abaht U weer fukked. Nah, Carl, U gotta tekyer charnsez. Fukka shook his great russet mop with a pained expression on his face, as if the whole peculiar weight of Ham had him in a headlock.

  Then, summoning himself, Fukka reached out to the opare at the kettle and, grabbing her by her cloakyfing, pulled her down on to his lap. He began to jounce her as he had the infants before, and tried to get the rap going: Makk-daar-nal, makk-daar-nal! While a number of the little kids joined in, the rest remained silent, their eyes averted; and although such a sight – the swollen cockpiece battering at the opare's thin behind again and again – was so familiar as to be commonplace, nonetheless Carl felt queasy, averted his eyes, then made his excuses and left.

  When, on the following morning, Carl returned from the shitter to see the Council assembled on its wall, he knew what was coming. The granddads sat, swaddled in their bubbery carcoats like melancholy auks. The Driver stood among them, his black robe lying slack in the misty air. The weedy stench of a calm sea blanketed the dads, and while Ozzi Bulluk and Gari Funch chewed their gum stubbornly, spitting from time to time on the turf between their feet, the others were silent. Cummeer! Fred Ridmun called to Carl. We wanna tawk wiv U. The Driver gestured to Bill Edduns, and, ever the willing fony, he dashed off along the shoreline towards B�
�m's semi no doubt to fetch him too for summary judgement.

  When they'd returned, and Carl and Böm were seated at the dads' feet, the Driver presented his back to the Guvnor and made his suit:

  – These two flyers have been seen consorting with the Exile, and doubtless they've also continued to enter the Ferbiddun Zön. I lay it before the Council that the two of them should henceforth be confined to the manor.

  – Yeah, yeah – Carl didn't know where such Boldness came from – but wot if Eye sed Eye woz gonna mayk ve furs jump onta ve stac, wot ven?

  There was a rumble of disquiet from the men.

  – Wotjoosayin? said Fred Ridmun, leaning forward to examine his stepson.

  – Eyem sayin vat wen me an Bert wozzup eest yesterdä vare woz stil fowl landin an tekkin off from ve stac, yeah. Nó lots but vey iz angin on. U sez – Carl stood to confront the Driver – vat weave gotta gé maw fevvers an vat, well U no ve wayuvit, doanchew?

  For the first time in many tariffs the Driver was bereft of words. He stood, white-faced and shaking, making no pretence of observing his fares in his mirror, for he did indeed know the Hamsters' way. Any dad might volunteer to make the first leap on to the Sentrul Stac in place of the Guvnor. This entailed privileges: the right to wear a baseball cap and to carry a lighter. Certain allotments of moto oil, booze and fags were also forthcoming. To molest a dad who had made the leap, fixed the cradle ropes and survived was unthinkable.

  At last Fred Ridmun spoke:

  – Iss troo wot ee sez, if ee mayks ve leep ee carnt B bangedup, innit.

  – Issit? The discomfited Driver lapsed into Mokni.

  – Ittis! the Hamsters chorused, and the Driver, bested, strode away to the Shelter.