The Book of Dave

by Will Self

  'How're you going to do it, then?'

  Dave looked sideways at Michelle, but her drained face didn't respond. How would he do the baddest thing? There were so many ways. The plunge from Suicide Bridge, drowning in the Serpentine, a shotgun at the West London Shooting Centre. Then there were the things Dave could throw himself beneath: the wheels of a hated fellow cabbie's cab, a police car, shit… if he timed it right he could probably sever his miserable head with the incisive wheel of a speeding bicycle courier.

  The racing bike clattered away over cobbles splattering blood–it had a trachea for a chain. Its clakka-clakka-clakk resolved into the rat-a-tat-tat of the doorknocker. Dave clawed on a balding, black towelling robe and fell down the stairs to the front door. It was a brilliant morning, and the postie – who was a squat African woman with chipmunk cheeks – thrust an envelope and clipboard at him. 'Sign heah, date an' print!' she cried, and when he protested 'Wha?' she reiterated it so forcefully 'Sign heah DATE AN' PRINT YOUR NAME!' that he instantly obeyed. It wasn't until Dave had shut the door and was padding back upstairs while tearing the envelope open that it hit him. He'd been served.

  Although the thick, bonded paper was headed with an embossed letterhead Dave didn't recognize, UNDERCROFT, MENDEL AND PARTNERS, 22 VIGO STREET, LONDON WI, the text was clearly addressed to him:

  Dear Mr Rudman

  In the matter of Carl Rudman we act for our client Ms Michelle Brodie. Following representations from our client we are satisfied that the non-molestation order preventing you from going within half a mile of our client's residence has been breached on two occasions. We have now lodged a temporary injunction for a full exclusion order in the Principal Registry of the Family Division of the High Court, and hereby give notice that until this case is heard any further breach of the existing order will result in an automatic custodial sentence.

  We also give you notice that pending any appeal on your part, all existing arrangements for visitation to your son, Carl, are held to be cancelled. Should you attempt to contact your son, we will view this as prejudicial and inform the police.

  If you have any queries regarding this letter, please feel free to telephone me on my direct line, listed above.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mitchell Blair

  It was a small letter, but it had unnaturally large teeth. Dave began to cry.

  7

  Broken on the Wheel

  510-13 AD

  The kipper season's wheatie crop had only just been harvested and the Council was still planning the first fowling expedition of the year, when the Hack's party arrived prematurely on Ham. The sight of the Chilmen struck fear into the Hamsters. There were at least thirty of them, all fit, strong chaps armed with shooters and railings, owing fealty to the Lawyer alone. There could be no thought of resisting them, and when Mister Greaves was met on the foreshore by Fred Ridmun wearing his Guvnor's cap, the whole population understood that their coming was no accident. The Geezer made no attempt to hide from the Hack. He was immediately seized and bundled off to the travelodge, where he was confined.

  For four days Mister Greaves sat in session and heard the evidence against Symun Dévúsh. One after another the Hamsters scuttled before him to recant and to give evidence of the Geezer's flying behaviour. The weather remained exceptionally fine throughout, a bigwatt foglamp beating down on the island. The Chilmen, despite their disciplined array, were as overawed as any other newcomers to Ham, and they soon began to relax and leave off their carcoats. So it was a considerable surprise to the Hamsters when, at first tariff on the fifth day, they rose to discover that the Hack's pedalo had been pulled back into the water and was being made ready to depart.

  – Bring ve fliar dahn, Mister Greaves ordered Fred. 4 Eye an arf mì dads ul B leevin 4 Wyc vis tariff. Ve uvvas ul stä eer 2 mayk shoor vares no maw bovva. Eyel B bakk in free mumfs wiv ve sikkmen. Eye want yaw moto reddy 4 slorta, an ve briks an bubbery an fevvas 4 yaw tikkit. U lot av slungaht viss Geezer, but if vese blokes Eye leev Bhynd katch U ló á í agen vare wil B maw Xeyels!

  Cowed, the Hamsters stood and waited in silence as Fred, together with a posse of dävine dads, hustled Symun Dévúsh down from the travelodge and brought him to the jetty.

  Far from subduing him, Symun's confinement seemed to have given him new vigour. Kids had smuggled him in extra food and drink, and old Ozmun Bulluk had even slipped him some of the fags the Chilmen had brought. It was while puffing on one of these that the Geezer said farewell to his fares. Before wading out to the pedalo, he turned back to confront the Hamsters, who had gathered on the shore. His gaunt old mummy, Effi, crippled Caff, whom he loved, Fred Ridmun, his mate and his betrayer, the Edduns brothers, Dave and Dick, Fukka Funch with his snub snout and bow legs, old Bettë Brudi, her wrinkled face clenched with pain and sadness. They were all there, from the oldest boiler to the youngest sprog. It was said later that even the motos, led by Runti, filed down from the woods and stood softly lisping their goodbyes, as tears rolled down their pendulous jowls.

  Fred Ridmun, fearful of his regained authority being undermined, was disposed to hustle Symun aboard the pedalo without more ado; however Mister Greaves motioned him to allow the Geezer to speak. Symun put one foot up on a pile of bricks, brushed his hair away from his face and, fixing his restless gaze on the Ferbiddun Zön, threw an arm up towards the aching blue screen.

  – E oo ayts lyf wil keep í, thass wot í sez in ve Búk, innit?

  There was a mutter of acknowledgement from his listeners.

  – Wel, Eye doan luv lyf ennymaw wivaht Am, so Eye spose Eye must ayt í.

  Another mutter like a response.

  – Awl Eye did woz 4 Am, awl Eye evah wannid woz 4 us ló 2 B cumfy.

  The mutter swelled into a groan.

  – Dave did givus ve nú Búk – U ló nó thass ve troof! Ven Eyem gawn … by now most of the cab – for that is what they had unwittingly become, the Chilmen included – were openly weeping … yul unnerstan vat, an yul C ow fings gesswurs an wurs, coz ve troo Nolidj az bin loss, an ven ve Nolidj iz loss iss ve end uv Am –

  This was by no means the end the Geezer intended for his address, but Mister Greaves, apprehending the powerful effect of his words, seized Symun by his shoulder and dragged him bodily through the shallows. Two of the Lawyer's chaps then pulled him into the vessel. The others splashed across and leaped in, then, with a flurry of pedals, the pedalo made fast for the reef. Yet not so swiftly that the Geezer's inflammatory words couldn't still be heard for some time floating over the lagoon, until eventually they became but mangled sounds, a peculiar presentiment of the fate that awaited he who had uttered them.

  During the three months that the Hack was absent, the Hamsters split once more into mummytime and daddytime. It was a new Breakup, and, bewildered as the kids may have been by the rebuilding of that invisible barrier that divided brother from sister, man from wife, and a child from its own very nature, they knew better than to question it. While some of the mummies and daddies wept as they recalled the long tariffs they had spent ranked up like motos in conjugal bliss, others were heartily glad to have their mutual indifference formalized once more.

  Besides, there was work to be done, work that had been neglected during the whirlwind of licence that had been the Geezer's time. Hard work – all the harder for the unseasonable pedalo fever, the extra mouths to feed, and the Hack's imposition of a substantial ticket. Once again the mummies and opares became beasts of burden. The barrels of moto oil that had been rendered down the previous autumn were brought to the pier, together with truckles of London bricks, bolts of bubbery and sacks of gull feathers. Fred Ridmun and the dävine dads made it clear that there was but one priority alone for the community: the rent must be paid to the Hack.

  Away from the Guvnor's hearing, and especially among the boilers, there were those who muttered that, whatever the seriousness of his transgressions, the Geezer had been denied a proper hearing. He himself had not been allowed to speak before the
Hack, and this weakened the bonds of fealty between the Hamsters and their Lawyer quite as much as any flying they may have been party to.

  It was Meshell Brudi, out gathering yellowdye flowers near the Mutha's grave, who first saw the returning pedalo. She ran back to the manor and told the other mummies, Ees bak an vairs sumuvva bloke wiv im – nó a Chilman. Eye seen im, sittin up in ve pedalo, big tall bloke wivva wyt barnet! Ees gotta bituv shynë stuff stukkup bì iz mush! This was the first sighting of the new Driver, who was to come to dominate the lives of the Hamsters – dominate them more than their isolation, dominate them more than their peculiar symbiosis with the motos, dominate them, perhaps, even more than the Book itself.

  Who was the Driver? No one on Ham ever knew. He never told them his real name – he was always the Driver. He came, like other visitors to the island, out of a void. This much can be said: when he made his landfall on Ham, the Driver was a vigorous man in his early fifties, long and angular of limb, full of beard and severe of countenance. His nose was sharp and prominent, his brows beetling. He did not deign for the pedalo to be tied up to the pier, but splashed overboard and waded ashore, his mirror waggling. He was clad in a full-length black robe, beneath which could be glimpsed black jeans and a black T-shirt of fine London cloth. His trainers – a form of footwear hitherto unknown on Ham – were orange and laced high up on his narrow ankles. In the Hamsters' eyes this raiment gave him the appearance of a giant and savage crow, an impression strengthened as it never altered in any way during the time he was among them. Neither the heat of the summer nor the damp of the kipper seemed to affect the Driver. No one ever saw him disrobe, not even the succession of opares who attended him in his semi.

  The deeply credulous Hamsters, still reeling from the deposing of the Geezer, were powerfully impressed by the Driver. Leaving the pedalo to be beached by his retainers, Mister Greaves came over the shingle after him and, seeing the whole population assembled exactly as he had left them three months before, prepared to introduce the alien. The Driver ignored him and turned his back on the peasant gaggle, so that it was his own deep and gravelly voice, speaking not in dialect but the refined accents of Arpee, that rolled over their bowed heads:

  – Greetings, good Hamsters! he cried. I am the Driver, and I come to you from the PCO in London. Before news even of this abominable flying reached the Inspectors' Faredar, it had been decided to once again send a circuit driver here, to this remote place, to remind you that Dave sees each and every one of you, daddies and mummies alike, in his mirror.

  In later days it was said that as the Driver called over that first time, an unearthly stillness descended upon Ham. The children stopped fidgeting, the motos ceased ruminating. The gulls, crows, ringnecks and flying rats – all, in short, of the aerial flotsam that swirled in the screen above the island – came spiralling down to the bare ground at the bottom of the village, where the tightly clustered birds formed a bizarre, multicoloured carpet of feathers. The winged ants – which were swarming on that muggy summer's day – doodled in to pitter-patter against the back of the Driver's robe, then fell at his feet, writhing in the dust. Even the chafers' legs became motionless, adding to the mounting silence.

  Whether any of this actually took place, or it was only the fabulous counterpoint to the tale of the Geezer's final address, is obscure. What is certain is that the Driver had spent the uncomfortable pedalo journey from Wyc – four long days on the open water, four damp nights anchored in densely wooded creeks – hearing the full story of the Geezer's insurrection; and he had concluded, quite rightly, that to establish a rapid ascendancy over the Hamsters it was necessary to employ all the theatricality of his adversary.

  Cupped in its grassy bay, the little manor of Ham was a natural amphitheatre. The Driver continued his declamation:

  – I have heard all about the disgusting practices that you have indulged in these past months – daddies and mummies consorting in grotesque propinquity – yet I shall not censure you for them any more than your Lawyer already has. I have heard how you abandoned the Knowledge and took up with a vile flyer – yet I shall not punish you for it. I come to bring you the Book! He flourished a huge, leather-bound copy from beneath his robe. See the Wheel! Read the meter! Know that the final tariff is at hand! Leave this place at once, you miserable, perfidious mummies! Sullied by rag and blob – whorish, licentious creatures! Chelle spawn!

  He waited while the mummies, opares and children shuffled back to the mummies' gaffs, then rounded on the remaining Hamstermen:

  – Do not be mistaken, for I know what happens to dads' minds when they do not honour the Breakup and observe the Changeover. I comprehend how you begin to doubt that Dave forsook the Lost Boy for your own miserable fares. The separate compartments into which Dave has poured all goodness and all badness become once again mingled. The hapless knave begins to think himself dävlike, possessing a freedom to act without the precepts of our faith. He no longer hears Dave speak to him over the intercom – instead mummyness spills into his every thought like piss from a ruptured bladder into the pure milk of burgerkine! The Driver spat as if disgusted by his own figure, then continued: It is for Drivers, queer and untainted by any vile contacts – tittyrub and cunnëlyk – to decide which fares shall for ever hail the cab in vain, and which will ride with Dave to New London!

  The Driver fell to his knees.

  – Thanks be to Dave! he called.

  – 4 pikkin uz up! the Hamstermen responded.

  – Let all you dads who have the Knowledge of it kneel down and call over the first run. Forward on left Green Lanes!

  – Fawud Green Layns! the dads cried in unison.

  – Right Brownswood Road!

  – Rì Brahnswúd Röd.

  When it was done, and the dads had called over the points, the Driver – to their considerable amazement – went on:

  – In the beginning there was Dave's word and Dave's word alone. All that we have comes out of the Book. All that is, all that has been, and all that will come again. You are not the only fares to do a runner, you are not the only ones to breathe the smoky cab of apostasy, you are not the only miserable know-it-alls to look for a shortcut to New London! For three centuries now the Book has been the very rock upon which Ing itself has been built. O yes, a new London has been erected, with wide avenues and grand buildings, with workshops and markets even – yet this is not the city foretold by Dave! This is not New London! For this city has also saunas and spielers, bullrings and cockpits, lewd theatres and pleasure gardens. Only the PCO can build New London, either here on earth or – if Dave so ordains it – beyond the screen!

  The Driver lifted the Book up to that screen and cried out:

  – I have seen New London! Then he advanced among his terrified listeners, thrusting the heavy volume into the faces of each of the dads in turn, while he continued his rant: I have seen it, and I know it will only be restored by restitution of the pure and original Dävinanity. Let the three cabs be hailed once again here on Ham! Let the twelve dads promulgate the doctrines of Breakup and Changeover! Let no mummy be admitted to your Council lest you be polluted by them!

  – For there must be no confusion concerning this matter, he said, striding back to where Mister Greaves stood with the cowed Chilmen and admonishing them with a stabbing finger, there has been a grievous crime perpetrated here against Dave, a crime that can be atoned for only by the most perfect calling over! The Driver fell to the ground and, lifting up handfuls of soil, let the dirt fall upon his head crying:

  – Thanks, Dave, for picking us up!

  – 4 pikkin uz up, the dads who remembered the correct response dutifully intoned.

  – And for not dropping us off.

  – Anfer nó droppinus dahn.

  They prepared fresh straw for the pallet and made ready the medicinal herbs. Sphagnum moss was gathered and dried, for the fibres of this useful plant were both absorbent of moisture while keeping wounds free from infection. The mummies used it for
their infants' nappies and to absorb their own menses. Many of them believed that the happy situation of the Sphagnum bog at the source of the spring that trickled through the village was a sure sign of Dave's providence. So the Sphagnum bed was prepared and garlanded with special Daveworks. To ask for His intercession in a successful birth the Hamsterwomen chose a distinctive, long thin shard of plastic with a narrow slot at one end that gave it the appearance of a flimsy bodkin. These they strung on to long lengths of thread, and hung from the eaves of the gaff where Caff was to be confined so that they twirled in the breeze.

  This birth would be special, the first since the Geezer had been deposed. As Caff Ridmun felt new life stirring in her, a fluttering at the sides of her taut womb, the Driver felt a new threat. He had examined both Caff and the Guvnor, and it was beyond doubt that this was the flyer's child. If Caff had a son, he might be another Antidave, ready to spread more poison in the world. The Driver was confronted by a paradox: the service, the ceremony whereby newborn Hamsters were anointed with moto oil, was profoundly antithetical to this rigid Dävist, yet, if he understood the matter rightly, the odds were that Caff's baby would not survive it. The future of Dävinanity on Ham thus depended on toyist superstition.

  Caff felt no fear, surrounded by the mummies. She accepted that what would be would be, Dave gave and Dave took away. She gloried in her enlarged body, her marbled tank and engorged breasts. The mummies called the last trimester the moto time, and reverenced the resemblance a Hamsterwoman about to give birth had to their beloved kine. With her withered left leg, Caff could no longer walk more than a few paces. So throughout the blowy autumn days she had sat in the lea of the Dévúsh gaff, her aching back braced against its mossy bricks, and stared out over the sparkling lagoon. With the baby kicking within her, she had never felt before with such intensity her own connection to the land. The foetal shape of Ham encompassed her – while she in turn encompassed this inchoate life.