by Jeff Noon
‘Beetle! What about Mandy?’ I said in the rush.
But his mind was on another trip, the jam was kicking in, and his eyes were scanning the pack for a way out.
‘We can’t leave her, Beetle!’
‘Kid can hack it.’ A quick breath, and then, ‘There’s gotta be a back way.’
We were cutting through the pack, as they made way under the threat of the Beetle’s curse and the jammed-up energy in his fists. I heard a shout from below—‘Out of the way! Police!’ Some such. You ever seen a cop trying to cut through a dancing crush of semi-legals? I guess that Murdoch was having some problems down there. So suck on it, shecop! I was right up against the food tables now, and Barnie the Chef was giving me a bright stare. ‘You liked my food, didn’t you, Crew?’ I told him that he was the King of the Feast, and that the angels were dining out on his takeaways. He pointed us to a back door. ‘This way, Crew-cut,’ he answered. ‘Relish it.’
And we were clattering down a shining steel ladder of hard rungs, a fire-escape to heaven. Me and the Beetle, on a ride together, old-days style. Felt like flying, and I guess I still had some Thunderwings in me. Then we were down on the back streets and running for sweet life.
I’m not telling this very well. I’m asking for your trust on this one. Here I am, surrounded by wine bottles and mannequins, salt cellars and golf clubs, car engines and pub signs. There are a thousand things in this room, and I am just one of them, the light is shining through my windows, stuttered by bars of iron, and I’m trying to get this down with a cracked-up genuine antique word processor, the kind they just don’t make any more, trying to find the words.
Sometimes we get the words wrong.
Sometimes we get the words wrong!
Believe me on this one. And trust me, if you can. I’m doing my best to tell it true. It just gets real hard sometimes…
The very strangest thing about that night of running was this: that I could picture the Beetle better than myself. I didn’t know where I was. But the Beetle was always, all of the time, very clear to me. I was following his movements through a clear-sighted glass, watching him burn a way down the darkness.
Me, myself, I was the Beetle’s shadow, just hanging on to his flame, running through a black alley, back of the Slithy Tove restaurant. Something weighty and hard was banging around inside my jacket pocket but I didn’t connect to that just then. I could feel a crowd running with me, but I didn’t know who they were. Maybe I was still on Thunderwings, but that thin tickle should have long dissolved, into the blood stream. So what was I on?
What was I on?
Felt like the night was surrendering to me, filling me up with its pictures.
I was getting glimpses of everything.
I was Vurt-high, running through a dark space, with some crowd behind me, with nothing in my mouth, no feather in my mouth.
Cop sirens were sounding off, making bad music.
Whistles blowing.
The howling of a generator, as it pumped hard power to a set of arc lights.
Shadowcops shining down.
Feet clattering. Real human feet clattering over concrete.
Didn’t know where I was.
Coming up hard against a brick wall, and turning away, and there was the Murdoch, scarred-up face glaring at me.
Dancers, former dancers, panicking behind me, in a crush, in a little crush, and then scattering. And me left there alone, facing the Murdoch’s scars.
‘I’ve got you.’ The shecop’s voice was hard from the chase, and the gun in her hand was crackling with shiny new life, like it had living bullets in the chambers.
I reached into my pocket without thinking, my fingers closing on Murdoch’s old gun, the one I had stolen from the pad floor. But I had little knowledge of such things, and when Murdoch told me to drop it, I dropped it. It made a dead sound as it fell to the concrete, like I’d cut myself off from release but Murdoch’s gun was well aimed and true. ‘What’s it gonna be, kid?’ she offered. ‘Dirty or clean?’
Murdoch’s gun was the only thing in my life, the only thing worth living for. It gets like that sometimes, with instruments of death.
‘What’s it gonna be?’
Murdoch’s gun was a raging hard-on, pointing straight at me, straight to the heart. There was just a glint of sun coming up, over a rooftop, and a dark mist forming to her right. Other cops were moving into position. I could hear screams and cheers as people were brought down, or people were escaping. I could feel the Beetle’s presence, way up close, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.
‘Best to come clean,’ Murdoch said. The mist behind her right shoulder solidified into a twisting shape.
I knew that face, that shape.
Shaka! The blown apart shadowcop.
His smoking body was a mess of fumes, and his face was a grimace of smoke. He was waving in and out of existence, as his new-fangled box of tricks struggled to shine his broken body into the real world, so that it could lick there, feeding on secrets. They’d patched him up somewhat, but his beams were still strong and hot, and he fired them at me, somewhere towards me; I could feel them burning the brickwork just to one side of my head.
‘He’s mine, Shaka!’ shouted Murdoch.
And wasn’t it just my fate, to be the prize in a shooting contest, between the real and its shadow.
Murdoch asked her gun barrel to focus, and I could hear the whirring, as it found my centre, fixing hot bullets upon the heart, that soft target.
‘Turn around slowly,’ Murdoch said. ‘Towards the wall. No surprises. I don’t like surprises.’
Sure.
So I’m turning to the wall, just in the very act of turning, when I sense Beetle nearby. That’s how it was. I could just sense him!
The Beetle steps out of the shadows, holding his gun aloft, like an offering.
Murdoch had seen that gun before and now here she was, once again, on the dirty end. You could tell she wasn’t too keen on it. Same with the Shaka. He’d taken punishment from it; now here he was, once again, on the dirty end.
Made me feel good; just to be free, for once, of the dirty end.
Shaka was flickering on and off, his shot memory banks struggling against his mechanisms. His box of tricks was being held by some new dumbfuck partner, who was obviously way out of cool; he was shaking, and the aerial box was shaking with him. Shaka was doing his best to keep his beams in line. You could tell from his half-lit face that humans left him kind of cold at this precise moment.
Murdoch was sweating; fluid was running down the claw marks in her face.
At the junction of Wilbraham Road and some poor bugger’s driveway, rested the mobile kennel van of Dingo Tush and his pack of canine players. Hey, hey, we’re the Warewolves, painted on the side. Next to it I could see Tristan and Suze, their hair a strong river flowing with moonlight Suze had the two robo-hounds on a double leash. The dogs were almost as tall as she was and baying for cop-blood.
I was dancing. That twitching dance that only the truly scared-to-fuck can manage. But my mind was like a stranger, a cold hearted stranger with a gun in his hands. That was the Beetle. Mandy came up behind him, her eyes darting from point to point, as she made out how the twin guns were poised; one on my heart, the other on a shecop’s head.
Moon was still, full, and voiceless.
I’m taking this one moment at a time, step by step, because it’s difficult, and because it’s so important.
Murdoch spoke up. ‘You’re going down for the murder of a police officer, Beetle.’
‘So take me,’ the Beetle answered, just like that. Beautiful.
Murdoch let the sweat droplets roll down her face, down her arms, down her fingers, to the trigger on the gun. It was slippery. The whole thing was slippery.
‘Give me inpho, Shaka,’ she asked.
Shaka obeyed, firing a thin shaking beam, straight to the gun in Beetle’s hands. ‘IT’S A GUN, MURDOCH,’ he replied.
‘For fuck’s sake
, Shaka!’
SORRY MA’AM.
I guess we caught that Shadow real good.
Thin beam travelling once again; Beetle just letting it happen, like he knew somehow, what was about to happen.
FOUR BULLETS LEFT, beamed the Shadowcop.
‘You taking a chance, Murdoch?’ asked the Beetle.
‘Well, I guess so,’ she answered.
Somebody was gonna get killed, hurt, or arrested.
Maybe it was me. Most probably it was me.
Some things just seem bound.
This is how we lost Desdemona, and found the Thing. Yes, time to tell it.
Sister and brother flying down through a feather’s embraces. Into the Voodoo world. To land softly in a garden of bliss, walled in by ancient stones, surrounded by colours and perfume, a jungle of flowers. Bright yellow birds were singing bright yellow songs, from the trees that were growing, visibly, even whilst we walked. Deep in the countryside, an English garden…
‘It’s lovely, Scribble!’ announced Desdemona. And indeed it was; everything you could wish for. Desdemona took my hand, and then my mouth, filling me up with kisses. The garden was playing with our senses, making them into a tapestry. The flowers were pollen-heavy, and so was I. I took Desdemona into my arms, letting her fall, gently, to the floor of petals, me following her down, into the petals.
Her cunt was pressed against my cock, and the world was beautiful.
I’ve done this already, I thought, maybe this is the Haunting? Maybe I’m inside the Vurt just now? But I dismissed that thought real easy, so I couldn’t have been, could I?
Could I?
Then I slipped inside of her, the sister, feeling the walled garden close in to caress my penis, until the sap rose to the top, and the garden was flooded. The air was heavy with pollen; the whole world was copying itself, over and over, through the act of sex. And we were enfolded in the system, sucking where the bee sucks.
We were being watched.
I rolled off Desdemona’s slick body, onto the ground, feeling the earth clutching at me, like it wanted to feel my seed. I was sinking, and a hooded figure was standing some five feet away, watching, just watching.
I lifted myself up, just to get a better look, only to find myself sinking into the figure’s gaze. Like being eaten.
The figure was draped in purple robes, head to foot, hooded, so that only the eyes showed. Yellow eyes. Twin suns, glistening with knowledge. ‘Your names, please?’ the figure said. It was a woman’s voice. I nudged at Des, and she sat up, straight away, no fear. There was no fear involved.
‘My name is Desdemona,’ she said.
‘My name is Scribble,’ I said. It was the most natural thing, no problems.
‘Thank you,’ said the figure. ‘Welcome to English Voodoo. Do you know why you’re here?’
‘We do not,’ I answered. I could not lie.
‘You have come for knowledge,’ the figure said. ‘There will be pleasure. Because knowledge is sexy. There will also be pain. Because knowledge is torture. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes,’ answered Des. ‘We understand.’
Did we?
‘Good. Join us.’ The figure said this, moving her arms, to indicate the garden. Other figures were appearing, moving in from the distance, like images growing on a photographic plate, taking on life. They were all hooded and covered the same, head to foot, so that you could not distinguish between them. Only the yellow eyes peering out from beneath the dark cowls. Desdemona and I stood up then, to be on the same level with the figures. ‘We are the keepers of the garden,’ they said, all at the same time, but I was just getting the messages, no words, just thoughts. What are these creatures?
Birds were twittering in the trees, and one of the gardeners called out in a small bird-like whistle. A yellow bird, a canary, flew down into his hands. He stroked it carefully, until the bird was happy. Then he gently plucked a feather out of its plumage. It was a yellow feather, and he held it up for all to see. It was a small and gentle golden feather, kissed by the English sun. It really got to me. Looked like a dream. The figure opened his hand to let the bird fly free. Then he raised the yellow feather to his lips, darkened by the hood. He sucked it in, and then was gone, sinking into the earth, into a hole that opened up, and then closed again, as the figure disappeared beneath the soil. Flowers bloomed again over the space, growing in super motion. The golden feather was left there, floating in the air, free of all restraints. The next figure plucked it from the air, stroked it in, then was gone, sinking. The feather floating. The next figure took it up, stroked it. Gone. The next figure took the feather. Stroked it. Gone. The feather still floating. And so on, until only the initial figure remained.
‘Where are they going?’ Desdemona asked.
‘To the past, the bad past, in search of knowledge,’ the figure answered. She had the feather in her hands, and she was offering it to Des. ‘Why don’t you try it?’ the figure said.
Desdemona hesitated for a second, and then took the yellow feather into her hands. She held it against her lips. ‘What will it do?’ she asked.
‘The past is waiting,’ the figure answered. ‘You can go there, and change it. That way knowledge lies.’
Desdemona placed the feather between her lips.
‘Des…’ My voice calling to her, in the garden. ‘It might be dangerous…’
‘Yes, it is,’ said the figure. ‘It’s a Yellow feather.’
‘It’s a Yellow feather, Scribb!’ Des replied. ‘Haven’t you always wanted to take one of those?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘How many chances do you get?’ my sister asked.
‘Not many.’
‘You get one chance,’ she said. ‘And this is ours. Let’s do it.’
‘Des…’
‘It is not for the weak,’ the figure said, but the sister already had the feather between her lips. Desdemona turned to face me.
‘I want to go there, Scribble,’ she said. ‘I want you to come with me. Will you come?’
‘Please don’t go, Des.’
Did no good.
Desdemona pushed the golden feather in deep, to the limits. Her eyes flashed yellow, just the once, and then the ground was opening up beneath her feet, and weeds were pulling at her, yellow weeds, spiked with thorns. Desdemona was screaming; ‘Scribble!!!!’ But what could I do? The tendrils were wrapping themselves around my sister’s limbs, drawing blood from a hundred places, as the spikes pierced her skin. This wasn’t the easy passage the other figures had achieved; they hadn’t gone down screaming. It was going wrong, the day was going wrong!
What could I do?
The sister was being pulled down by the yellow weeds; creepers and thorns clutching tight on her body, dragging her down to the world beneath the soil.
‘Knowledge is torture,’ the figure said. ‘Didn’t I tell you that?’
I was running towards Desdemona, trying my best to reach her.
The flowers won.
They dragged her down into the soil, until only her hair was left, her beautiful hair, and then even that was gone, strangled by the weeds, until only the weeds were left, the blonde flowers. They grew over where she had buried herself, smothering the space in a second.
The figure had the feather in her hands, and she was offering it to me.
‘Go fuck yourself!’
My words.
‘Very well,’ the figure said. ‘You are too weak. Maybe one day…’ And with that she pushed the feather into her own mouth. Her eyes flashing more golden than the sun on a hot day, and I was alone, in the garden, the English garden.
The feather floated for a moment, and then started to fall. I reached out for it.
I reached out for it.
A yellow bird flew down, a blur of speed, caught the feather in her beak, and then was gone, flying back to feather some nest.
And who will feather my nest, now?
The garden was empty.
I stayed there for two, three hours, I don’t know. A long time.
And then I jerked out.
How can I forgive myself? Why did Desdemona leave me? All the hours I have spent wondering this. What had I done wrong? Wasn’t I enough for her? What else did she want?
Some things are just bound.
This was how we lost Desdemona. And how I came to wake up, smothered by a Thing from Vurt, some heavy shit.
Exchange rates.
Some heavy losses.
Murdoch slowly swung her gun away from me, towards the real threat. Twin guns now, both of them pointed towards each other, mirrored in the same need. Beetle and Murdoch.
I heard the moon howl.
Dingo Tush was in the area. His jaws were split wide so that the inside was visible, slavering. He was calling up dogs from all over the Fallowfield, howling at the moon. Felt like the moon was howling.
I could hear the dogs responding.
The Dingo van came open and a pack of hybrids shot loose, charging the concrete with their claws. I guess Murdoch got some visions of the Karli Dog just then, and she didn’t fancy a repeat play of the last pad debacle. The gun reared up in her hands as it spat smoke. Then the noise of it. Then the bullet reaching out for a new home.
The Beetle answered her.
More or less the same time. Not quite the same time.
One gun fired.
And then the other.
One gun was later than the other.
Listen carefully. This is the secret of how to live: fire your gun before somebody else does.
The Beetle reeled back from the bullet.
His shoulder exploded. It was a warm flower opening on his flesh. I got flecked with some Beetle blood, across the cheeks.
There was a siren ringing in my head, behind my closed-up eyes, and the howling of wolves, as the dog pack ran riot.
There were bullets, suddenly, flying everywhere. I had a high pitch inside of me, a high-pitched screaming, like some woman had caught a stray shot.
