by Will Self
The following morning they crossed from Barn to an islet midway in the seething channel. It was a rough passage: the wind was up, and the motos were tossed about by the waves. This time the humans had stripped, applied a coat of moto oil, dressed, then slathered on a second coat. They arrived less discommoded than their mounts. Without their regular mud wallows, the motos' skin dried out and cracked, while the curry-water immersions accelerated this process. Hunnë in particular was beginning to suffer. Scratches on her muzzle were infected and ran with gleet, her hand and feet flanges were ragged and bleeding. She was off her forage. Hunnë was the shyest of all four, needing constant cuddles and reassurance. Carl wept for her, and wept also for himself, for three days out from Ham it was Changeover day.
Antonë, observing how well the motos swam and the small flaps of flesh that stoppered their nostrils, while a transparent membrane protected their deep-set eyes, was driven, as ever, to speculate: Could it be, he mused as Carl tended to Hunnë, that Dave in his infinite wisdom meant for these beasts to undergo such inundations? Might they be antediluvian creatures, survivals from before the MadeinChina? They rested for a single night on the islet, and were sorely tried by the rats that infested the place. The three stronger motos were able to catch considerable numbers, while these meaty chips were refused by Hunnë. The following day at foglamp on, the convoy carved a passage through the dancing green swell to Chil.
Here they abandoned their Ham cloakyfings, T-shirts and jeans, and donned the robes and trainers. Böm showed Carl how to fasten them, and strap the mirror arm to his brow, so the lad might see behind at a glance. From now on, he said, we talk only in Arpee, we call over the points and the runs, we speak often and always of Dave, we revile all mummies. Do this now, and if we meet with Chilmen we will not be surprised.
With a knife Böm hacked off his beard – and to Carl his pitted, bleeding face was alien, disturbing even. No Driver on this estate wears a beard, Böm explained. He spread out the A2Z on the flat bole of a felled smoothbark. This is our route – he tapped the oiled parchment – we're to the northeast of Wyc, between the manors of Hemel and Ban, only a few clicks – by my reckoning – from the start of the Emwun, the great trading route. We can walk this track by night, then lay up in the woods by day. When we get here, to the northern coast, we will have to get a berth on a ferry over to Cot, for it will be too far to swim the motos. I have dosh – enough both to pay for our passage and discourage any questioning.
Carl understood by this that Antonë did not expect the motos to leave Chil with them. In his mummyless funk he fell on poor Hunnë's bristly neck. Lad and moto wept copiously. Enough! Böm cried. It's foglight, this isn't the settled part of Chil, yet this woodland is not empty, there are barbecuers, huntsmen and stray settlements. We must be careful, lay up in the day, hide the motos, then go on when it's dark.
The first three nights went according to plan. The weather had closed in, and the screenwash was insistent. Although they had no headlight or dashboard to guide them, the Emwun was embanked and paved with pulverized crete that gleamed even in the blackout. Böm took the lead, scoping for bother, then came the motos, and lastly Carl, who followed up right didgy, slapping slack withers to get the motos on. Long before lampon they herded the motos off the track and sunk them in the undergrowth. Then they ate some of their declining stocks of takeaway and took a swig of evian before turning in for the wan day's troubled sleep. There was no question of lighting a fire.
On the third morning, as they ate their meagre repast, Böm held up the evian skin and shook it. You hear that, Carl? he said. We're running out. There's no evian right on the Emwun; we'll have to scout around today and see if we can find some. We'll take it in turns. You lay up with the motos and I'll look up north, then we'll swop over and you do west of the Emwun. If we keep on like this, staying dead quiet and going bloody carefully, we should find a bit of wet.
Antonë was gone for ten or so units, then returned empty-handed, so Carl set off. It was the first time he had been into the Chil woods. Once he left the track behind, Carl found that this huge expanse of trees consisted almost entirely of smoothbarks – rank upon rank of them, neither coppiced nor pollarded. There was no underbrush, and the stately, columnar trunks marched away from him, up slope and down slough, their roots sunk in damp leaf fall. Carl stared down Avenues half the length of Ham and, desperate lest he lose his way, he circumvented trees in his path, knocking off wet shrooms that smeared his robe with white pap.
After a while Carl found himself in a glade, in the middle of which was a bog – there was no clear evian but the deep choccy-blue sludge would be perfect for moto wallowing. Suddenly there was a movement by a dead brack stand, and Carl realized there had been a creature there all along. He twitched and off it sprang, showing a white scut as it crashed through the leaf fall. Carl ran all the way back to where Antonë stood nervously scanning. What's up! he said, and Carl told him about the beast. Munchjack, Böm sighed, bloody good eating, although not for us. This makes it certain – this is the Lawyer's forest. If his chaps found us here, we'd most likely be killed.
Carl told him about the wallow, and even though Böm was worried, he let Carl take the motos to it, one at a time, so they could moisturize. The last one to go was Sweetë, who was always so calm and trusting. Carl led her into the glade and sank her in the wallow, where she shlupped. He took up position, his back against a tree, and lost himself in the blue screen seen through a puzzle of twigs and boughs. A fat bird exploded from a branch and whirred away, little shitballs bombing from its behind. Carl shot up to see Sweetë's baby-blue eyes staring at the irony tip of a drawn arrow. This creature wasn't a munchjack but a lad the same age as Carl. He was done up in a richly embroidered carcoat, and sported a cockpiece, high-topped trainers and a baseball cap. The lad's long barnet reached to his shoulders in luxuriant curls. Carl had never seen this sort of gear before – only heard of it. He'd never seen a bow and arrow either, but knew this was what the lad had aimed straight at the moto. The lad was so afeared he didn't even notice Carl, so terrified that when the wallowing moto lisped, Alwi, mayt? he turned tail, dropped his weapon and ran screaming through the wood.
It was not long before Carl heard the blare of horns, the thud of hooves and the sound of many blokes shouting. He cried to Sweetë: Geddahn, baybs! Geddahn in ve wallö, rì dahn so az onlë yer ootah iss up fer breevin! Then he shinnied up a tree sharpish. No sooner was he concealed than the clearing was full of dads on jeejees, lads on foot and dogs yapping in a furry muscle tussle. The hunt spread out round the wallow, the dads with railings drawn, the lads with arrows strung, the dogs snuffling. The whole posse scoped out the dank water. Carl, horrified, watched as one lazy bubble grew, then popped. Despite his ghastly predicament he was entranced by the hunt. The dads wore bright scarlet leather carcoats and black leather jeans. Their raiment and their jeejees were hung with all manner of irony devices, while most had a dead munchjack slung across their saddles. Their barnets were oiled and teased, they were clean-shaven and had motorage eyes. The lads were puffed out, their shorts muddy, their cockpieces skewed, their breath smoky in the slant, second-tariff foglight. They leaned heavily on their long bows.
As for the jeejees and the dogs – never had Carl conceived that these toyist beasts would have such terrible beauty. With every jerk of the jeejees' foam-flecked muzzles he fancied they must break the spell that held them in thrall to the huntsmen, rear up, pitch the dads to the ground and gallop away. Carl thought the dogs must also be enchanted, for, despite their sharp teeth, savage eyes and slathering jaws, they ran hither and thither avoiding the most obvious prey – slow-witted lads who, armed or not, would be no match for the pack of them.
– Where's this monster, then, Fred? said the biggest dad on the tallest jeejee.
Fred, the lad, was scrabbling round looking for his abandoned bow and arrow. He straightened up at once and bowed down low.
– Mì Lawd, he said, Eye sore í rì ear, í wo
z gross, lyke a big baybee joynd wiv a bäcön. An í spoak 2 me. Eye swear í, í sed orlrì, mayt.
The Lawyer thought for a while, then he addressed the whole company:
– Yeah, it's a moto alright, the vile and toyist monster. I don't know how it's got off Ham, but we must find it and dispatch it.
The dogs were now snuffling in a furious agitation at the boggy edge of the wallow. Then the pack sang out, Ow-wow-wow-wow! and fused into a single undulation of fur and muscle. They've gotta scent of it, shouted one of the dads, and the whole posse grabbed their reins and wheeled their jeejees to follow the dogs. Horns blared, the dads cried, Nyaaair! Nyaaair! And, as quickly as they had arrived, the whole gaily caparisoned hunt streamed out of the clearing and back towards the Emwun.
Another shiny black bubble grew on the dark mirror of the wallow. It was Sweetë – still breathing, still alive. The wind rose, and leaves skittered on the forest floor. Strung from the branch in front of Carl's face a spider's web glistened with jewels of moisture.
Carl waited until the foglamp was dipping before he climbed down from the tree, and every time Sweetë stirred in the wallow he snapped at her to stay sunk. Finally, they headed back towards the Emwun, the boy with his hand buried deep in the moto's chilled folds, hoping by this stimulus to comfort and warm her. Carl expected the worst – and that was what Dave set before them. The bushes were torn up and trampled down, blood was sprayed on leaf and bough. Champ's guts were spilled out on the ground, and there was a trail of more blood and offal along the track. Eye wan mì mummy, Carl keened over the gelid mess. Sweetë shed heavy tears on Champ's lifeless eyes, she nuzzled his slack withers, then nonchalantly – yet reverently – began to lap at the cavity the Lawyer of Chil's chaps had hacked with their railings.
Böm emerged from the hollow smoothbark where he'd taken refuge and gave his pupil a hug.
– Yaw alyv! Carl exclaimed.
– Indeed, Böm said grimly. Still, we won't live much longer unless we get going. He jerked a thumb at the dead moto. They've taken Hunnë's carcass with them – they had ropes. I reckon they'll tow her to Luton; the Lawyer has a travelodge there. No doubt they'll return for Champ at foglamp on, so say your goodbyes.
– Wot abaht Tyga?
– I dunno, Böm said, shaking his head, he got away in the mêlée, probably not far, though. We'd best assume that he's dead – these hunting dogs will have sniffed him out.
– So vat woz ve Loyah uv Chil, woz í?
– Quite so. Böm pursed his plump lips. I would know him anywhere. He is a boorish, grasping fellow – as was his dad before him. Truly, Ham has been protected from his grievous depredations by the good offices of Mister Greaves.
They siphoned Champ for his oil as best they could and tore flesh strips from his flanks and buttocks. Antonë had found a stream heading northwest, so, with Sweetë hung about with evian skins and oil tanks, they splashed off along it. They kept going throughout that night and for the first tariff of the next day. Eventually, confident that the Lawyer of Chil's dogs had lost the scent, they rested for a tariff before leaving the stream and heading into the woodland. A dipped headlight switched on in a demisted screen, filtering some radiance down on to the forest floor. Despite this, it was awkward progress for the reduced party. The well-spaced smoothbarks ceded to scrubby crinkleleafs, and even urging Sweetë on all they could manage was a crawl. Carl did his best not to show his distress, but the dead motos preyed on him. Vay diddun eevun gé 2 go 2 Dave, he said to his companion. Böm snapped: Arpee, Carl! Arpee! Then slogged on, head down. Piqued, Carl turned sarcastic eyes on his retreating back. Böm was, he thought, a lyttul bloke lost inna grate forest.
On the third day after their fateful encounter with the Lawyer of Chil's hunt, the travellers came upon a descending slope of dead brack. So happy were they to be on clearer ground that they didn't even notice the thinning woodland, until emerging on to open ground. It was a bare field, the wet clods freshly broken, and in the middle of it were the team of Chilmen who'd done the breaking, gathered by a ropey old nag harnessed to a harrow of irony spikes. There were five of these dads, and, although they appeared pretty knackered, they closed on Carl and Antonë with alacrity. Wot ve fukk! said one, goggling at Sweetë. One of the others had been on Ham many years before and recognized the moto. This dad took charge: U Ió, tayk vese 2 dahn ve manna sharpish. Eyel dryv ve moto. He grabbed Sweetë's neck folds, and she snuffled: Pleethe, pleethe.
Through sombre, sodden kipper fields the party trod, gathering in their train a mess of dogs and sprogs. They passed a landfill where gulls and crows mobbed over a stinking midden. Although Carl had seen the sick fares of Chil come every year to Ham, he was shocked to find that these dads were quite as windy. Their threads were in filthy tatters, their limbs were scraggy, their tanks swollen. Lots of the kids had Dfishunt legs and many of the dads weepy goitres. Antonë walked by Carl's side and whispered instruction: Leave the chitchat to me. Then he could not forbear from a little pedagogy: See there, those birds grubbing in the dirt, that's pieces and those are roastducks, and over there, through the silverbark screen, that's their manor.
They passed by a small enclosure. In it, on bare and pocked earth, was a creature the size of a small moped with a conical snout and tiny eyes. Carl recoiled from this as they passed by, while Antonë muttered: That's a bäcön. Sweetë poked her head over the palings and addressed it, lisping: Alwi, mayt? And Böm could not forbear from laughing, for the toyist bäcön only snuffled.
The Chilmen's manor, although far bigger than Ham's, was laid out on the same plan, with two rows of semis set on each side of a stream. Instead of a travelodge at the top end, there was a larger, two-storey semi, and behind that a low, green Shelter nicely knocked up from fine 2by4s. There were ten dads' semis and ten mummies', all of them built in the bëthan style from heavy 2 by 4s painted black and rough plaster daubed white. There were diamond-paned windows of real glass and wooden doors. Manifestly this had at one time been a prosperous manor, but now the fences of the front yards were broken and the windows shattered. As the party moved up the dads' side of the stream, they came out with their opares to gawp at the moto and prod its bloody withers. Pleethe, lisped Sweetë, pleethe doan.
The Guvnor was waiting for them outside the big semi. His carcoat was flung open, revealing a bare chest heavily tattooed with wheels and phonics. He sported a baseball cap and a heavy gold earring, and his pouchy face was covered in grey stubble. Despite his cocky manner, he had the look of a dad from whom fat and muscle had melted away. His eyes were famished and dull, his hands shook. With him was a Driver, a timorous little man, his chubbynut head lost in the folds of his black robe. It was he who spoke first, in prissy and correct Arpee:
– Well, well, a moto, if I'm not mistaken. Presumably this is the one missing from the rank that our Lawyer raised on the Emwun south four days since. We will need to send to Hemel for some chaps so that these – he cast a sceptical eye over Antonë's and Carl's torn and filthy robes – ah, stalkers and their moto can be taken into custody.
The Guvnor took a different view:
– Eye doan giv a toss abaht ve Loyah fer nah, he said. Iss a pizzaDlivree from Dave sofaraz Eyem concerned. U 2 – he stabbed his thumb at Böm and Carl – can slorta viss monsta an ven render í dahn. Mì dad ear sez iss gúd eton, an we aynt ad no oil ear in yonks. Ven weel and djoo ovah 2 ve foritees. Nah! he spat, tayk vair stuff, vair A2Z, vair trafikmasta, vair grub an wotevah. Vay aynt goin noware.
That night Carl was banged up in one of the dads' semis, while Antonë was confined to the Shelter. A few opares fed the kids and put them to bed. The kids were very aggro – spitting, cursing and even shrieking. However, the dads didn't pay them any mind: they had Böm's supply of jack and fags, and were fuddled on the floor. The next day was Changeover at Risbro – which was the manor's name – so Carl was moved over to the mummies' semis. Any joy to be had from this arrangement was short lived. There was no mushy cuddlespeak or mummyish
petting for Carl. These were strange bints – all raggy and skinny. They took him in and used him roughly, pushing up their cloakyfings and sticking his face on their tits in a gross manner. We doan av no luvvin an we aynt gó Enuff lyttuluns uv R oan 2 luv, they told him. So weel mayk dú wiv U.
It was true – there were very few kids for a manor of Risbro's size. Carl counted thirty-odd mummies in all, but there were only five opares and a handful of kids. Wunce we bin up ve duff, an old boiler explained to Carl, weer untuchabubble! Untuchabubble! í doan matta if we av a kiddë aw nó – untuchabubble! Chellish! R dads R ve wurs inawl uv Ing.
At night they made him go from one of the mummies' semis to the next. No sooner was he settled in a box bed than some greasy-skinned old boiler plumped in beside him, reached under his T-shirt and jollied him up so she could mount on top, slop-slop. Carl felt nothing save shame after these couplings – his first – but if he tried to wriggle away the entire semi would rise up against him.
By day Carl was allowed out to do the miserable graft of slaughtering Sweetë. With Carl acting as gaffer the older lads knocked up a crude gibbet, gathered seasoned crinkleleaf chips for the smoking fire and forayed in the woods for a suitable hollow log.
The Driver of Risbro, 76534, was impressed by the breadth of Antonë Böm's Knowledge, even if he didn't believe the other queer's claim to be a stalker. The Driver was far from being a learned bloke; he was almost as ignorant as his fares, yet here in the remote hinterland of Chil what strength of character he possessed was roused in condemnation of the Lawyer.
The two spent the half-blob until next Changeover discussing the finer points of the Knowledge as they related to the parlous condition of the manor. In truth, 76534 told Böm, the Guvnor's appropriation of the moto is understandable. Here we are, our fields entirely surrounded by the Lawyer's forest, yet we are forbidden to gather any of the fruits thereof save a scant allowance of timber. The munchjack and bambi grub up our crops when they're fresh in the field, yet if a Risbroman so much as lays a hand on these beasts the Guvnor must send him to Wyc, where he's sold into chavery. It is the same for the fez and the snip, the whirrcock and the grouse – all are to be found hereabouts in abundance, while my fares make do with a few pork scratchings and chicken pieces – rat flesh even. Yet where in the Book does it make mention of any of this? Where does it say that mums and dads should live in such bondage? Yes – he sighed and took a pull on one of Böm's fags – there's scant regard for the finer points of the Knowledge here in Risbro, or throughout the rest of Chil.
