The Book of Dave

by Will Self

  In response to this tyrannical edict the assembly became greatly perturbed and there was open dissent from the older mummies. However, the Driver's will was not to be flouted; he rose up to his fullest height and glared down on them. They fell silent and slunk away to their own gaffs.

  All this took place late in the kipper season, when the screenwash lashed the land and the sea was too rough to venture out upon. During this time the Hamstermen occupied themselves with gentle yet essential tasks – bubbery weaving, moto maintenance and caulking the pedalo. Misinterpreting their layover as sheer idleness, the Driver set the daddies to work at rebuilding his predecessor's semi and laying the foundations for a new Shelter. The old one, built by the previous Driver using prefabricated sections brought from Chil, had long since fallen into disrepair, a leaky and warped vessel for the Knowledge.

  The Hamsters had not the art of preserving wooden structures, nor could they build in London brick with mortar. Their own gaffs were of such ancient pedigree that their upkeep was an organic fact rather than a work of construction. The mortar for the last Driver's semi had been imperfectly mixed, and it was already crumbling as thick stalks of buddyspike prised the brickwork apart. The Driver hitched up his robes and led the digging of the foundations for a new one. The younger dads, impressed by his energy and willing to learn new ways that could benefit them, joined him in the undertaking.

  Caff Ridmun looked on as the other mummies dragged the truckles of London brick down from the Ferbiddun Zön. She had more intimate concerns: little Carl was three months old, and after much deliberation by the Council he had been given his real dad's name, Dévúsh, for such was the way of the Book. Soon enough he would begin to crawl, then it would be time for him to be paired with a moto.

  It took several days before Symun Dévúsh could even unclench his teeth, and Terri had to trickle water from a scrap of sponge between his locked jaws. Especially at night, Symun's emaciated body was racked by convulsions, and such was the persistence of the dizziness that he could neither stand nor walk, and soiled himself.

  When he was recovered, Symun learned fast. He had to; without a trade or any dosh of his own he had no way of augmenting the miserable slop doled out to the prisoners. Even this had to be fought over, men clawing and biting for a pannikin of cupasoup flavoured with half a raw crybulb. Since his turn upon the Wheel, Symun's strength was declining still faster, and he knew that if he failed his next appearance there was little chance he could survive more than another month in the Tower. Then a curious – and miraculous – thing happened. Terri, who Symun had assumed was only helping him with a view to some as yet undisclosed – and probably vile – advantage, revealed that his motives were quite other: Eye lyke U, dad, he told Symun. 2 tel U ve troof, Eye lyke awl fliars – yer diffrunt. Eye rekkun if U stik arahnd long Enuff, yul tel me sumfing incredubbul. Yeah, Eye rekkun U wil. Terri scratched his moulting, carroty hair. He had the ratty features and pox scars of all poor Londoners, his eyes were black stones, rubbed shiny with distrust, yet when he turned them upon Symun they flickered with curiosity and wonder.

  Terri got hold of a dog-eared copy of the Book. It was printed on the flimsiest of A4, and entire sections were loose in the binding, but all the runs and the points were there. Every day Symun and Terri called them over together. For Terri, a city urchin reared in the teeming rookeries of London, who'd hardly ever seen the foglight without fog or the burbs beyond the Emtwenny5, this was his getting of an education. Terri knew enough Arpee to correct Symun's Mokni. In return, Symun taught him phonics.

  When the warders took Symun for his next appearance, he was dismayed to find a different Examiner waiting in the chamber and shuffling his A4S. This one was a more aggressive character, his yapping voice and queer grimace – part snarl, part grin – at odds with his shiny pate and plump little body. He was tipping so far back in his seat that the back of his head rested on the table. His mirror was skewed, his fingers fiddled nervily with a shiny bauble on a chain. Yet his questions were straightforward enough, and when Symun had called over two runs complete with points, he pronounced himself satisfied:

  – Next appearance twenty-eight days! he snapped. Take the prisoner back to the yard.

  Terri found Symun employment. It happened by accident. Noticing that the Hamster kept his changingbag always by him – even tying it about his waist when he was wheeled – the cockney asked him if he had anything of value in it. Symun withdrew a curious canister from the bag. It was very flat and exceedingly wide. Then he said, most reluctantly:

  – Eye did av sumffing bluddë gúd ineer, but iss gon nah. Awl Eyev got ineer nah iz bitsuv plastik. He opened the canister to reveal a few handfuls of Daveworks.

  Terri stared at the stash for a few units and then said:

  – Vair ferbiddun eer, U no, ve PeeSeeO sez iss charms, iss majik. Vat doan stop folk nor neevah. Vey buyem on ve sly and wairem unda vair cloves, speshully ve loyahs an luvvies. Eye no a bloke wot smugguls em in from ve stikks. Ee needs elp graydin em.

  So it was that Symun Dévúsh, the flyer, found a way to survive in the harsh environment of the Tower. A way to survive – and a drive for survival as well. As long as he could add to his Knowledge and maintain it, he might prevent a reduction in his appearances. He might live.

  Carl grew into a happy, lively little toddler. As soon as he could break free from his swaddling and crawl off across the rips and linchets, Caff gave him to Gorj to look after. For another two years the moto nursed the human child, letting him suckle her heavy dugs alongside her own mopeds. It was Gorj who picked Carl up and took him over the island. She supervised his first walks along the Layn from the wallows to the Gayt. After that, they went down Winnies to Turnas Wúd, down Bish to the curryings, and even into Norfend to visit the Perg. Carl lay on her broad neck as she waddled along, his little hands twined in her bristles, utterly at peace, lulled in and out of sleep by the big beast's trundling motion.

  This had always been the way. The children of Ham were accompanied everywhere by their peculiar nurses, and through the motos' own annual cycle they learned the ways of Ham, its seasons and weather, its flora and fauna. They spoke with the motos' slushy lisp and were physically nurtured by a species untroubled by any taboo. The little kids and the motos wallowed together, slept together in the byres, and even foraged together when the season allowed for those fruits congenial to both species. In kipper the motos chewed away at the trunks and boles of the smoothbarks, deftly pollarding and coppicing them. The Hamsters said: Az ewesful az a moto. In buddout, the motos spied out bees' nests in the woods and brought them down to the village, so that the colony could be settled in a hive. The Hamsters said: Az wyz az a moto. In summer, the motos rooted out the rats and grubbed up the knotweed. The Hamsters said: Az elpful az a moto. Finally, in autumn the motos lay down willingly so that their throats could be cut, then sang beautifully as the lifeblood drained out of them. The Hamsters said: Az dävine az a moto.

  One by one the flyers who had been imprisoned in the Tower when Symun arrived failed their appearances, were reduced and reduced, until finally they were exiled or executed. Only one defied the process – and through it the PCO – Symun Dévúsh, the carrot-cruncher, the hick from the sticks, who, when he'd arrived at the gaol, had no more conception of the city he found himself in than a worm does of the apple it bores through.

  Three long years Symun had been making his appearances. The heavy wheel he wore around his neck had given him two thick callouses on the points of his shoulders. For twenty-seven days the tension gradually increased, until on the morning of the twenty-eighth day he could hold down no food, nor even fag smoke. Then the warders would haul him before the Examiner, he would call over the nominated runs and points, and relief would come for a day or so, until the whole grim go-round began again.

  By questioning every flyer who had suffered a reduction, Symun had discovered all the things to avoid. Never answer back to the Examiner; never react to anything that he might do
– no matter how outlandish; never appear before the Examiner in slovenly attire, smelling of food or fags. Their failures were turned to his advantage, their maiming kept him whole, their deaths guaranteed his life.

  Symun learned other things from his fellow doomed flyers – there was old flying and new flying. There were those flyers who claimed that Dave was still alive and walked among the daddies and mummies of Ing unrecognized, waiting for the time when he could overthrow the PCO. There were others – such as the Plateists – who said that the Book could not be understood without the use of other ancient relics that had been dug from the ground or dragged from the sea. There were those who had lapsed into the crepuscular realms of idolatry, and worshipped twisted hunks of old metal, barely legible signs – even the London bricks themselves. Still more – and these sectaries were strongly represented among the imprisoned flyers – held that Dave was but a bloke in another Book, which had been set down by the true and only God. These heretics failed their appearances with great alacrity and were broken on the Wheel.

  By far the most numerous, though, among the flyers were those who held that they might speak with Dave directly through their own intercom, without any intercession by the drivers of the PCO. From talking with these flyers Symun recognized that they, like him, retained a secret mummyself locked inside their breasts – yet accessible.

  The flyers came from all over Ing and from every position in society. There were noble lawyers, who through the gift of the King himself had once held estates in the western islands. They were dragged protesting through the huge gates and slung on to the muddy yard, their fine raiment dirty and torn. There were yeoman heretics, sturdy farmers from the burbs surrounding London, who were frogmarched in and stripped to their trainers by the laughing prisoners. And there were barefoot peasants, without money, advantages or connections, who were robbed and abused by all.

  For in the Tower the world was turned upside down, and the scallywags of the city became the overlords. Symun, who had the protection of one of these criminal lawyers, was free from molestation and even able to amass a portion of dosh, heavy copper and silver coins that could be exchanged for all manner of goods and services – not least a chamber of his own. When Terri saw that his mate was well established, he encouraged Symun to speak of Ham and the events that had brought him to London. So it was that the Geezer appeared once more among dads.

  The news of the prophet spread throughout the Tower. As Symun had correctly surmised, it was not the Knowledge that the Londoners resisted, only the exactions of the heavy-handed PCO. The new message that the Geezer called over was simple, and he now adapted it to be understood by all daddies and mummies, both high and low. Dave's second testament was devoid of the wild language and mystifying gibberish that characterized the Book itself. It was an everyday faith for everyone, which required no one – Driver, Examiner or Inspector – to be an intercom between dad and Dave. It was also a credo that demanded literacy of its adherents, so that they might distinguish between truth and falsity – between the gibberish of the old Book and the clarity of the new one.

  So the Geezer picked up fares among the prisoners, and they in turn went out among the Londoners and carried the doctrine forth, written on scraps of A4 or else held in their memory. The agents of the PCO, who had seeseeteevee men everywhere, and who looked for flying and schism with fanatic eyes, were nonetheless caught unawares by the Geezer. They expected such doctrines to be promulgated by their own Drivers and Examiners, men of Knowledge who had taken the wrong turn. Or else they foresaw them arriving from over the sea, from the highlands of the Swiss and the Franks, where the King's enemies resided. That a simple peasant from the most remote portion of the archipelago should have carried the plague of doubt into the very heart of London, into its citadel even, did not occur to them until it was too late.

  The Archdriver of the PCO, in formal robes quartered red and white, and blazoned with the device of the Wheel, appeared before the King at the morning getup. When the courtiers had dispersed, the two of them took a turn around Westminster Hall. Scrofulous peasants and pikeys were held back by a detachment of the King's own chaps behind a velvet cord. One mummy of the middling sort held out an infant, and the King did consent to bestow his touch, while a fony presented her with an amulet of the Lost Boy. The King's fool capered, beating upon a drum while he rapped:

  A payn in ve nekk

  A payn í iz

  A payn in ve nekk í iz.

  The King was in the full vigour of his middle years, the Archdriver a withered granddad who had to trot to keep up.

  – I fear, your majesty, he puffed, that this Geezer is joining forces with other dissenters, in the Institute, in the Inns of Forecourt – perhaps even in the Shelters. This is a most dangerous schism. Fortunately we have an agent in the Institute itself who is close to the sectarians. We will send him into the Tower to act unwittingly as our informant. Others, I am sure, will become turncoats. I am confident we can eliminate these impious daddies and chellish mummies, as we've done in the past.

  – We don't want martyrs, the King said, with this flying so widespread martyrs would be much too dangerous. We shall offer those who confess their lives. Their property shall be forfeit, their positions likewise lost. Exile and branding shall be their fate.

  – And what of this, this Geezer himself?

  – Why, he shall go back to from where he came, or near to it. Anywhere that is suitably remote. Let my Lawyer of Chil decide exactly where, for he must bear responsibility for this matter and take a hand in its resolution.

  – A most symmetrical solution, your majesty, said the Archdriver, pressing his clove ball to his pitted old nose. Most symmetrical.

  The Driver and Mister Greaves stood watching as the sick men of Chil were escorted past them up the stream to the travelodge. The screen wrapped around Ham was dramatically riven, a blue channel sat above the shore, and to the south of this tabular white clouds floated, rank upon rank, while to the north a bruised, magenta mass was banked up over the trees. There would be screenwash before nightfall. The moto slaughter might have to be postponed.

  – How do I find you, Reervú? Mister Greaves asked, as he stretched his stiff legs.

  – Well enough, the Driver grunted.

  – And your fares, how are they?

  – As benighted as ever, the Driver sneered, spittle flecking his mirror. Ignorant, venal, idolatrous. They profane this place, which should be an island of the blessed.

  – What would you have me do as the representative of my Lawyer of Chil to rectify this?

  – I cannot drive any further, Mister Greaves, without that I educate the lads in some way, and so detach them from their contumely association with the filthy motos. I need a teacher, Mister Greaves, that's what I need to cut out their superstition. I need a surgeon also, I cannot be expected to attend to their spiritual health and their physical being, that much is beyond me.

  – A teacher and a surgeon, eh? You don't ask for much! None save those who are most exalted – the Hack made a short bow – would willingly exile themselves in these remote parts. Even if I were able to find you such dads, they would most likely be compromised.

  – Compromised, pissed, queer, flyer – I care not, Greaves, I care not. Send me a fellow, and no matter how rebellious he be I feel confident that I shall be able to confine his aspirations in these few clicks. Do you doubt, guv – the old crow leaned over the Hack and bore down on him with his yellow eyes – whose will would prevail?

  He paused between two streets, and the Examiner reduced him to fourteen days. He stalled at a junction during his next appearance and was ordered to trial. The trial was one in name only. The old testimony of Mister Greaves was all that was required to establish Symun Dévúsh's guilt. No reference was made to his current activities, no defence was allowed. The Chief Examiner sentenced him in ancient Mokni: 2 B browkin on ve Weel. Yaw fingus crakked, yaw 4ed brandid, yaw tung cut aht, an U 2 B Xeyeled.

  In th
e long third tariff before his sentence was to be carried out, the Geezer gathered to his chamber as many of his disciples as could be accommodated and warned them: B bluddë cairful, U lot – ve PeeSeeO ul av U inawl. Dú nuffing, say nuffing, an ven vay brayk me stä ahtuvit. Yet they could not obey him – they loved him too much. When the warders lugged the Wheel out into the yard, the dads touched by the Geezer stood in the heavy screenwash and jeered them. Other warders dragged Symun out, his feet trailing grooves in the churned-up earth. In an echo of his departure from Ham, the Guvnor refused to let him stand or address the prisoners, for fear of his inflammatory words. In the hushed silence while the flyer was lashed to the Wheel, the bitten-off cries of the hawkers without the Tower walls could be clearly heard: Ivers! Marmi! Ockings! Getcha Eterkins cuss-taaard!

  This time the big Wheel kept on turning, faster and faster. The Geezer's head whipped round and around, until the vessels of his brain burst and blood flooded into all his memories. The common prisoners pointed out the details of this wheeling with the delight of spectators at a cock fight: Lookatvat, ees swallered iz tung! The Geezer's fares fell to their knees and wept.

  It was a long kipper night in London. From door to door of the city the seeseeteevee men of the PCO moved with stealth and efficiency. Scholars, tradesmen, craftsmen, common day labourers and a smattering of lawyers. In all, some two hundred daddies and a handful of mummies were judged to have been tainted by the Geezer's flying. Under torture they all confessed.

  They prised Symun Dévúsh's tongue from his gullet and pounded his chest to get him to breathe. Then they stretched the talking member from its root and cut it off. As he gargled in his own blood, they broke his knuckles and all the joints of his fingers with a punishment club. Then they branded him with the F for flyer on his forehead. Finally, as he swooned close to death, he was taken by cab to the Isle of Dogs and bundled aboard a ferry. The vessel lay off in the London roads that night, and in the small units of the first tariff a second exile was brought out to her by the pilot's pedalo.