Vurt (26 page)

We were speeding the Wilmslow Road at a Jammer pace, back towards Manchester and the address in my pocket. Except the Beetle wasn't on Jammers any more; he didn't need that shit, not with the bullet in him.

"We going after Brid and the Thing now, Scribble?" asked Twinkle. "That's the score, kidder," I answered.

"Oh good."

That kid should be having a good life, not being thrown about in the back of a stolen ice-cream van. And it was me leading her there, into a dark place, just because I needed her help. What kind of behaviour is that?

Yeah, I know. Like shit.

We came onto the Fallowfield crossroads. The Slithy Tove restaurant went by on the left and got me to thinking about Barnie, and his wife. Cinders. Her green hair wet with sweat.

Lose that picture. Lose it!

We were driving up the Fallowfield hill now and I saw a phone booth coming up close on the right, outside the student residences.

"Beetle!" I shouted. "Stop right here. I need to make a call." He pressed down on the brakes like a Sumovurt, throwing us all over the Mr Whipping equipment.

Like I really need this battering, my man. Know what I'm saying?

The phone booth had been vandalised recently, but a drop of Vaz in the slot sorted that out. I had a blue Mercury Vurt, almost gone to cream, but the phone's mouth took the feather gratefully. Then I pulled the feather out, and placed it between my own lips. Ten units of value glowed in the phone's eyes.

Jesus. That was low.

POLICE. YOU NEED HELP? the floating head asked. Yes. Yes I did.

POLICE. CAN WE HELP? repeated the voice, growing impatient. I was finding it hard to speak, and I knew just why. This was the first time, in all my life, that I'd actually called the cops.

"I was just wondering. . .," I managed.

YOU HAVE AN ENQUIRY, SIR? LET ME PUT YOU THROUGH.

Noises in the wave wires like the kissing of the sea. The eyes telling me I had

only seven units of call left.

DATA. CAN I HELP? A man's head replacing the woman's.

"Yes, please," I said. "I would like to know the situation regarding a Mr Tristan Catterick. He was arrested yesterday. Could you tell me please?"

HOLD THE LINE, SIR. I'LL GET THE RELEVANT FILE.

"I've only got four units left," I said, but the line was playing the national anthem, whilst the head smiled benignly.

So I waited.

The voice cut in again. WE ARE RETRIEVING THE FILES, SIR. WE'LL GET RIGHT BACK TO YOU.

"I've got two units left!" No response.

One unit.

HOLD THE LINE, SIR.

The music playing, and then the eyes glowing from cream to blue again as the units came back on. Two units. Flicker. Four units. Flicker. And then upwards until I had ten units left. Somebody was feeding units in, and it wasn't me. Must be coming from the other side, from the cops, trying not to get me cut off.

They had a tracer on!

A glimpse of Takshaka's tongue flickering over
the wires.

I pulled the feather out, doing a bad jerkout job. Shit! Time to move.

We rode down Fallowfield hill like demons, down into Rusholme, past the Platt Fields, towards the curry chute. Every car that we passed had flags waving from the windows. Pakistani flags. Inside each car, families of Asians were laughing and shouting, and the cars were sounding their horns.

What the fuck was going on?

Now the traffic was slowing down, and we came up close to the old flat, the Rusholme Gardens. It gave me a bad feeling, seeing where we had come from, and how far, and I thought the Beetle was feeling the same because I could hear him cursing.

Except it wasn't from nostalgia. It was from the cops. I'd clambered up to sit next to him, and I could see them there; working the road, diverting the cars down Platt Lane.

A real heavy cop presence. "Stay tucked up, Bee." "I'm boiling, Scribb."

"You're a shining example to us all, Beetle, but right now I reckon you should keep it tight." I slipped the gun and the feather into my pockets. A shadowcop flickered onto our number-plate, but that's okay; that old ice-cream van was innocent. The Beetle kept himself well back in the shadows of the cab. A traffic cop waved us through, left onto Platt, taking it slower now, jammed between the Asian cars. Mandy came forward, poking her head between us.

"What's happening, Mandy?" I asked. "Eid, baby," she answered.

Oh right. What a night to pick.

"It's the end of Ramadan. The end of fasting. The people go a bit crazy, and sometimes it kicks off. That's why the cops are here. They seal the curry chute off, but it just spills over."

Gangs of Asian kids were lining the pavements, cheering the cars and the flags, so Beetle found the button that worked the van's music. The kids really freaked out then. They waved us on like we were some kind of ice-cream chariot of the gods, dancing to the tune of Popeye the Sailor Man, played at fever pitch.

We got through okay, and then a slow right onto the Yew Tree Road. Cops were out of it by now, the roads were quiet. Right from Yew Tree, onto Claremont Road. I told the Beetle to slow it even more. He did so, with a sure hand, taking us to a gentle crawl, between the rows of terraces. Way ahead, at the top of Claremont, you could see where the cops had sealed off Wilmslow Road. Hundreds of Asians moving beyond the road- blocks.

"Kill that Popeye shit as well," I added. Silence coming in as the music faded.

"What number we after, Scribb?" asked Mandy. There's the one," I said.

The van came to a smooth stop. Karli started to whine.

Here we are. Sunday evening, the 1st of June. Ten thirty on the night of Eld.

The road was pretty much our own now. The house was three storeys tall, over the top of a junkshop called Cosmic Debris. A tight alley opened up between this house and the next, barred by a wooden gate, topped with wire. Dogfluff fluttered on the barbs.

Karli was really howling now, feeling something.

The house was dark but for the weak spluttering of a candle in a top floor window. "Bad dogs, real bad dogs," said Mandy, "they don't like the light."

This is it. This is where we come to.

"You want to try the back, Bee?" I said. Because who would invite this shining man into their household?

"Love to," he answered.

"We go in first. Got that? No heroics."

"What, me?" His colours were very beautiful. They always are, just before the

death.

"You're doing fine, Bee." I said.

"I do feel good." Maybe he knew it. The ending. He wasn't letting on. "I just wanted to say. . ." I started. But the words wouldn't come. "Don't bother," the Beetle replied. Cool as ever, right to the end.

"I'm proud of you, Beetle." Managed it. "Me too," said Mandy.

Beetle took off the sunglasses. He looked at me, smiled, then over to Mandy. He kissed her. It was sweet, and it lasted.

Then he turned back to the house. "I haven't got all night. Let's do it."

Oh. Beetle.

"Are we really here, Scribble?" asked Twinkle from the back of the van. I looked back to find her, but all I saw was Karli.

The robobitch was down on her stomach, rubbing the van floor like a snake. Her

forelegs were stretched out flat, her hindlegs were raised up tall, tail aloft, her arse on view, pink and pouting. "I think she's smelling something," whispered Twinkle. "I think she's on heat."

Yes. We're here. And we're all on heat.

Twinkle and Karli went to the door first. There was a kind of alcove, with the door to the shop on one side, and the door to the upstairs flat on the back. Above the door someone had pinned a printed notice saying PURE FREE ZONE. Below that was tacked a piece of paper with the words -- you not got dog, fuck off! -- scrawled in thick clumsy letters. Above the letterbox was an ornate iron scrollwork sign that said CHEZ

CHIEN in a Gothic script. Below the box someone had felt-tipped the message --
Turdsville. Watch where you tread.
It was written in a human hand. Just to the left of the bell was a sticker, a photo of an Alsatian on it, and the words --
Go ahead, make my day!
Somebody had glued two blue human eyes over the dog's.

Twinkle pressed the bell.

You couldn't hear the bell, so you just had to believe it was working. No response to that.

Mandy was standing behind Twinkle, and I was behind her. The Beetle was still sitting in the van, watching us through the window. The gun felt hot in my pocket, but that didn't stop the fear. I just couldn't stop shaking. Twinkle pressed the bell again, keeping her finger down this time.

Still no answer.

"Maybe they're not in," said Mandy. "Keep pressing, Twink," I said.

Twinkle pressed.

No answer, so she lifted the letterbox and shouted through, "Anyone at home?" Nothing.

Until the door came open a little, held back by a heavy chain. Two dark, wet eyes stared out at us. "What want?" the deep voice growled. "What want?"

You could see the slaver dripping as he spoke.

Twinkle rose up like a true star to the occasion. "We've got a young bitch," she said. "You want to buy some?"

There was a pause. The dog's eyes flicked up to stare at me. I smiled back. "Let hear some," barked the voice.

So Twinkle pressed the Karli up close to the door gap and let her sound off there.

That bitch howled like a sex goddess, like a Pornovurt; like Cinders on an Oscar- winning bed scene. The doordog was whining back, full up of heat and want. He vanished for a second, and then the chain hung loose and the door yawned open, on a breath of rank air. You could hear the locks getting wet and slippery. That's when the smell hit us. The overpowering stench of dogs.

We went on through. The doordog had us trapped now, in a tight dark space.

Behind him a set of stairs faded into the darkness. The stench was thick, almost physical, and the dogman's eyes were glinting in front of mine. Karli set off up the stairs, Twinkle down hard on the lead, pulling that bitch to a howling halt on the middle step.

The doordog had a heap of dog in him, a whole heap. He was standing upright,

on two clenched hindlegs, and that was the just about the most human thing about him. His muzzle was long and matted with dirt. His teeth were crowding his jaw, his pink lips drooling a bath of foam. He patted each of us down in the small hallway. Finding nothing on Mandy and Twink, finding the gun on me. He took the gun away in his clumsy paws and hung it on a coat hook and then shooed us up the dark stairway, after the Karli. Top floor," he growled.

I took one step forward, and felt the soft squelch as I brought my foot down.

Oh yuk!

The stairs were covered in dogshit. So were my shoes.

So I followed Twinkle like a mad dancer, one foot here, one there, between the dungheaps, moving up to the dim landing.

The top step led straight into the kitchen. Along one wall were nailed the carcasses of dozens of dreamsnakes, shimmers of green and violet. Three dogmen were eating there, out of bowls at the table. The room was in darkness, but you could smell the meat they were eating, and lumps of it were falling to the floor as they slobbered at it. The smell was sweet to my nostrils, but I couldn't work out why. It was certainly having an effect on them; the more they ate, the more they howled. One of them fell on the floor, landing in some of his own shit. It didn't bother him, just kept on rolling around, like he was having some kind of trance.

I don't think they even knew we were there.

Karli took one sniff into the kitchen and then raced out of the room, following some more succulent dog scent, along a corridor, and then up the next flight of steps, Twinkle pulled along by the tight lead.

I hung back for a moment, Mandy just behind. There was a closed door to my left. The door ahead of me was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open. The room was bathed in darkness, with a smell like dog sex coming in waves. One whiff of it and I was back in the pink Vurt, Bitch on Heat, Cinders urging me on. And when she looked back at me, it wasn't Cinders, or Desdemona; it was the Game Cat there, smiling in the dog's eyes.

No.

Not now. Do this alone. No feathers.

I brought myself down.

A lone dog girl was lying on a black carpet, her long tongue licking down between her split legs.

The room smelt like porn. Dogporn. Porn for the nose. The bitchgirl looked up at me.

She had eyes of the brightest human blue, set amidst a face of fur. I couldn't look into those eyes.

I closed the door gently, and then turned to the door on the left. Mandy was no longer with me.
Where was that girl?
No matter. Do it alone. Check every room. Keep looking --

A tiny noise. There! Listen! A tiny noise just coming in, almost lost in the howling from the kitchen. I pressed my ear against the left side door. There it was. The sound of alien flesh rubbing up the wrong way against planet Earth.

I pushed the door open. Slowly.

Do this slowly, holding the breath, keeping cool.

I went into the room.

There was a smell of bad meat, a rancid haze that clogged at the senses, bringing thoughts of death.

The Thing was in the room.

I could hear him calling me, in that strange tongue.

The room was dark, dark as all the rest, but I could just make him out there, his fat bulk. The curtains were closed, just a glimmer of a streetlamp filtering in. In the shadows I saw a thin shape moving. It was bent over near the Thing. A dull glint came from its fingers. The shape moved slightly as I stepped inside, lifting its head up towards me, and I saw the snout dribbling, a slow turn of its thin long face.

The shape howled, high pitched.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a young dogboy and he was crouched over a bed. The Thing was tied down to the bed with old dogleads. Dogboy had a breadknife in his paws, and he was cutting chunks from the Thing's stomach. Beside the bed lay a bowl. Some meat was in there already. My mind jumped back to the kitchen, what I saw there as we passed -- the dogs eating and the sweet aroma of the meat.