Vurt

by Jeff Noon

  That was my first Vurt in eighteen days, since the night we took out that fat cop, and it felt like coming home, that tasty. Maybe I was weakening. It didn’t seem so bad to be weakening.

  Life on the balcony was quieter. Not so tight. There were chairs, and people talking to each other at tables, and food. And food! Hadn’t eaten in a week! Seemed like. But first I had to look down, to see that crush from the heights. And as I looked down a last few fragments of Thunderwings made it feel like I was flying over the dancing; dogs and shadows, robo and Vurt, all getting mixed up in Bliss.

  There was the Beetle, back down from his bass trip, still shaking some but playing the crowd like a robopro, taking feathers from chance acquaintances. So I looked around for Mandy. Couldn’t see no Mandy. But there were Tristan and Suze, holding their mutual hair aloft, as they moved through the brood. Christ! There was that shadowgirl, what was her name? She’d tried to beat us up in Bottletown. Nimbus! And look, there was Scribble, taking a feather into his mouth. No! No way! I was here, up on the balcony, not down there! I wasn’t down there! I was fighting for control, trying hard to place myself.

  I watched myself vanish, into the crowd, into the smoke. And that was better. To be the only one again, to be in one piece again. I just didn’t need that hassle.

  There was Mandy now. I’d spotted her. She was pressed up inside the crush and some chancer was tickling a feather against her lips, no doubt a Pornovurt, hoping for a turn on. Try a Bloodvurt, my man. More chance of a show then. I guess the guy didn’t pass go, because the next thing he was all bunched up, clutching his balls, going down in the crush. Not many come up from down there. Mandy scooped up the feather anyway. Shit! That girl! She’d be a fine sight to wake up to, all ready for the day’s adventure.

  Just then a voice spoke to me, from up close, from the left side, but I was certain nobody was there. So I turned and there he was…this gentleman. No other word for him. The gentleman was dressed in knowledge and suffering. And a pea-green three-piece suit of tweed, with leather epaulettes. His face was guarded by a full beard and moustache, which kind of made up for his receding hair. What he had left was tied back in some kind of complex knot that hung over one shoulder, like a mutant topology. His eyes were totally yellow, soft and languid. They stirred the very worst memories. Lips full and red, and when they parted to speak, well, it seemed like he was speaking direct, direct to my soul.

  ‘Yes. That girl would be worthwhile,’ he said, like he’d glimpsed all my secrets. His voice was a deep brogue, and it raised memories in me, feelings I couldn’t place, like I’d heard it before, but hadn’t paid enough attention to it.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘You haven’t been paying attention to me.’

  I hadn’t said anything! Shit! This was just like with Bridget.

  ‘Are you a Sleeper?’ I asked.

  ‘Kind of, but nothing like Bridget.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re looking for Desdemona. Am I right, Scribble?’ He knew my name.

  ‘You know a way—’

  ‘And Bridget, of course. You’d like to find Bridget. Only trouble; you’re worried that the Thing is more important to you than Bridget is. Because of the swapback for the sister. And this makes you feel guilty.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

  He took a sip of red wine from his glass.

  ‘Let’s get something to eat.’ And then he turned away. I turned to follow, but sometime during my turning the gentleman had vanished. I was looking all around, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He just didn’t exist any more. And it made an emptiness in my heart, the kind you just don’t need to feel.

  I turned back to the crush below. Dingo Tush had made an entrance. He was moving through the crowd, receiving the adulation. His fur was fingered and stroked by hundreds of loving hands, and the crush changed its geometry around him. Everybody was lost, except for the centre piece, the Dingo mandog. And over in the darkest corner, far below, a body of smoke was forming. I caught just a glimpse of it, before it smoothed away, into the crush world. But it sure made me jump, and I didn’t know why.

  I was feeling so empty inside, and food was all I could turn to. The table was sagging under the weight of dishes. It was a spread of joy; my mouth was dripping. There were the tiny wings of larks, stewed in pig’s blood. There were the ink sacs of squids, leaking onto a bed of palms. There were the eggs of the wren, griddled over charcoal, with a saffron marinade. And there were the encrusted eyes of virgin lambs, smothered in dark filaments of horse bread, deep fried in shadow oil. Overseeing the feast was the Slithy Tove head-chef, with his long Vazzed-back hair and his sunken cheeks flecked with stubble. And something about his eyes, some bad need in there.

  ‘Tuck in, Crewcut,’ he said to me. ‘Relish it’

  ‘I will,’ I replied, filling my mouth with the succulence. ‘Hey, this is good!’

  ‘Just tell ’em that Barnie made it. Barnie the Chef. Remember that?’

  ‘Will do,’ I said, between mouthfuls.

  And then Beetle was beside me, building a plateful.

  ‘Nice grub, Scribb?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure it is,’ I said. ‘Barnie the Chef made it.’

  Barnie the chef gave me a smile.

  ‘Seen much of Murdoch these days, Scribble?’ the Beetle asked.

  ‘I’m keeping low.’

  ‘Oh sure. Playing to a full house of dog turds at the Limbic club. That’s real low, baby.’

  ‘I’ve got to make a living, Bee.’

  ‘Hey, we did that bitch cop good, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You should’ve let me finish her.’

  ‘They’d send somebody else.’

  ‘I know that. But the pleasure would’ve been intense. Hey, by the way, Scribb, cheers for the bass ride. That was some fucker-trip! Oh boy!’

  ‘Beetle?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t throw Mandy away.’

  ‘What?’

  He was losing it again.

  ‘She’s your ticket.’

  ‘Yeah…well…I’m moving on from that girl. She’s gone cold on me. She won’t take the feathers any more. Not the ones I want her to take.’

  ‘I’m worried about you, Beetle.’

  He looked at me then, just for a moment, but it was wonderful. One of those old hard-core Beetle stares. Then the feathers set back in, took control, and the triple glaze descended, slithering over his vision.

  ‘You’re taking it too much, Bee,’ I said. ‘Too much Wormer.’

  I thought he was going to bawl me out, but he was too busy looking over my shoulder. That hard Beetle light came back into his eyes. ‘Tristan! My man! And Suze in tow!’ he shouted, greeting the pair as they ascended.

  ‘Beetle…listen to me…’

  But the guy was gone, pushing aside a frail young diner, walking a jagged line towards the hair-locked couple. I watched as he embraced Suze, and then Tristan, stroking their locks with his long, Vaz-covered fingers. The crusty couple were stroking him back, in turn, and all I could do was watch; totally missing the scene. Suze smiled at me; it was a deep smile, way deep, and again I felt her going inside of me, caressing the whole body with one look. What did that woman have, that no other woman had, apart from Desdemona? The world was spinning around. Fetish and the Bliss, and the dancing; all of them getting to me. I turned away from the love, took a turning step backwards, away from Beetle, into empty space. The Gentleman was waiting for me there, with his three-piece pea-green suit and his wisdom.

  ‘Don’t let him get to you, Scribble,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me your name?’ I asked.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I know you.’ But from where?

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ he answered, reading my thoughts.

  ‘Is the Thing still alive?’ I asked.

  ‘Still alive. So is Bridget.’

  And again, something abou
t his voice got to me.

  ‘How come you know all this?’

  ‘Because I’m watching the world go by.’

  ‘Where is the Thing?’

  ‘I think you should work that out for yourself.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  He was looking at me. Yellow eyes. That look of deep recognition you only get once in a while. His gaze was golden and all the bad memories, the losses, they started to drift away. I was falling, seriously falling for this man. But I didn’t know why, except it was like falling for a long lost friend, that you’d never met before. He started to speak, but then his eyes flickered away, to the right, over my shoulder.

  I turned around, and there were the Beetle and Tristan, hugging each other.

  Except that Tristan had no time for Beetle, no time at all. Instead he was staring, deep and pointed, straight into the eyes of the Gentleman. No one else could see him. I realised that then. Only me and Tristan. We were joined by this, but how to fathom it?

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked, and his eyes turned back to mine, full of pain and suffering.

  ‘It’s like this, Scribble,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the poison. It’s inside you.’

  ‘The snake bite?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know how you got it. Some have got it. Most haven’t. Those that do, they should use it. You’re not using it.’

  ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘So was I. Your age. One day you find it. One day you realise. The world slips into place. You’ll get there.’

  ‘Like how?’ I demanded, only to see the Gentleman doing that slipping away trick again.

  ‘Scribble! Come here!’ Beetle’s voice breaking into my trance. ‘Scribble. Let’s chat.’ He’d given up on Tristan, and homed in on me once more. His eyes were dancing behind the drugged-up glaze. ‘Scribble, something to tell you.’ His voice was way deep, still dragging some remnants of the bass injection. ‘Listen to me!’ he shouted, clutching my arms tight.

  ‘Well say it.’

  ‘Scribble…I…I want to…just to…’

  The Beetle looked around then, all nervous and fearful, and this was rare enough to cause me to stare back hard at him. He couldn’t give my stare back.

  He couldn’t give it back! Beetle couldn’t look at me! Not without flinching. Wonders of the world!

  ‘Just say it.’ My voice was hard, not caring. Told you I was losing it.

  He forced his eyes to mine, and then said, ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He pulled his baccy box from his pocket and place it in my hands.

  ‘Can’t take it,’ I whispered. ‘Can’t…’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  Beetle had carried his drugs in this old Black Cherry Rough Shag tin box, from the days of our time at Droylsden State, high school for unachievers. Within its closed-up darkness he had carried Jammers and Vaz, Fluff and Shadows, Feathers and Haze, all the things he could lay his hands upon. Contained within, all of his dreams. His treasure box.

  ‘I can’t take this, Bee.’

  ‘Open it up,’ he said.

  Box opened with a satisfying click, and a nice feel in the hands, and I expected to find a real mess in there, a jungle of dark drugs. Instead a single feather lay on a bed of cotton wool.

  ‘Bee!’

  Feather was a deep blue-black, with a sheen of pink. I picked it up with shaking fingers, loving the way it fluttered in my hands, like the dream-bird was still using it, flying the Vurt waves.

  ‘Bee!’

  I turned it over to read the white label.

  Tapewormer.

  ‘Bee!’

  I realised I was just saying his name; saying nothing, too shocked to think.

  ‘You know I can’t go back, Bee.’

  ‘I’ve been up to my eyes in it, lately,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t stop using it.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  I was crumbling under those hints of yesterday.

  ‘It’s a jewel Vurt, Scribble. But I was getting hooked. Just couldn’t stop reworming that tape. Makes everything beautiful. But you know me, I can’t stand getting hooked, well, not to single pleasures.’

  ‘I don’t know if I…’

  ‘Des is in there,’ he said, pointing to the feather. ‘Well, you know, kind of.’

  ‘And here’s me trying to give up.’

  ‘It’s just for…just for…’

  Guy couldn’t say it.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Old times. Stash Riders.’

  ‘Right.’

  And he turned away, back to his old self. He made his way back to the food bench, telling Barnie the Chef he was a cool genius, in the kitchen of the gods.

  Forgiveness.

  It was forgiveness the Beetle was asking for, and my heart melted.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ said the brogue voice.

  ‘I do,’ I answered, to the shadow that was forming. ‘You just don’t know why.’

  ‘I know the secrets,’ said the Gentleman, back again.

  ‘I need this!’

  ‘You need the gift. But not the Vurt.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘You’ve got the Vurt inside you,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t need feathers. You could tune in. Direct. This has happened already, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Don’t know why I said that!

  ‘You’ve been there. Slipping in and out,’ he said.

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ I told him, again not knowing why, except that things had been going strange for me lately; lots of little slips, in and out of states. So that I didn’t know what people were saying to me. And this feeling inside, like the world wasn’t solid, it was an edge. It felt just the same when I was getting the Haunting. This isn’t all there is. The edge was scary and I was living on it. No, not living on the edge, I was living inside the edge!

  ‘Young man, the edge is real, and you don’t know how close you are.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the step. It’s not getting worse; it’s getting better.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘To where you lie. Your place, your proper place. The dream world, featherless.’

  ‘I like it here on Earth.’

  ‘Desdemona is waiting for you.’

  ‘What?’ Oh Jesus!

  ‘She’s waiting. Take a look.’

  And the Gentleman led me gently to the balcony, where I gazed down upon the crowd, and there was Desdemona, waiting there, in the middle of the crush, perfectly still, her yellow blouse flecked with blood, and her face scarred and cracked. Sister was beckoning to me, from the dance floor, her two arms outstretched, urging.

  ‘Desdemona,’ I said.

  ‘That’s her,’ said the Gentleman. ‘She’s waiting.’

  I turned back to him, but already he was shivering, dissolving. ‘Tell me who you are?’ I demanded.

  ‘Don’t let the Viper get you,’ he replied. ‘Be careful. Be very, very careful. Keep it clean. Right under the rim. You know I never lie.’

  ‘Just wait…’

  But his eyes were over my shoulder once again, and I turned around to see Beetle and Suze hugging each other, but Tristan just looking, straight on, right into the eyes of the Gentleman. It was the look of love, that kind of doomed love that never leaves you alone.

  ‘Tristan will tell you who I am,’ the stranger said.

  ‘Cat? Game Cat?’ I said, turning back to the voice, but the voice was gone. Cat was gone.

  That feeling again, that emptiness.

  I peered over the balcony, searching for Desdemona. There she was, covered in smoke and blood, drifting away, into the smoke and the blood. And I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t fucking help her! Her scarred face misting over, dissolving, like the dreams of love, into the crowd, into the Vurt.

  Losing her.

  Losing.

  Things we want the most, things that slip away.

  And then I was taking the
stairs, three at a time, dodging the rung-dancers, heading down to the floor and the fading sister. I was pushing into the crush, but they were welded tight by now. I think I threw some poor wraith aside as I squeezed through. The world was closing up and I ran straight into the arms of Bridget.

  Bridget!

  That smoky shape I had seen on the outskirts, from above; now she was in my hands and the smoke was rising from her skin, way beyond what I was used to, and her eyes were shadow-flecked and knowledgeable. She pushed away from me, back into the arms of her dancing partner, a handsome boy with curly brown hair.

  ‘Bridget!’ I called out.

  ‘No,’ the shadowgirl answered, and maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe I was dreaming.

  ‘You’re just dreaming,’ the voice in my head was saying. But it was Bridget’s voice in there. She was thinking to me, through the Shadow waves, looking like the ghost of yesterday. I caught just a glimpse of recognition in her eyes, and then she was gone, fading away in a wave of smoke.

  And a new face of scars taking her place, amongst the crush. Face of Murdoch. Shecop. Dog-torn. Penetrating. Real.

  Moving through the crowd, like a demon.

  HEAVY LOSSES

  Where do you run, when the bad girl comes? Maybe you run home to Mummy. Maybe you run towards your lover. Or maybe, like me, you’ve got a Beetle in your life; somebody powerful, even if he was just this moment thick-bodied from the overuse of cheap Tapewormer feathers.

  I took the stairs, three at a time, not caring about the cries of the crush, running into the arms of the main Rider. The Vurtglaze slipped from the Beetle’s eyes, as I screamed the bad news at him. It was a sunblind being opened to a bright day, wonderful to watch, and he popped a couple of Jammers, already on the move. He pushed me through the crush, kicking some dancers over, just to make a way.