The Book of Dave

by Will Self

  Carl slit Sweetë's throat under a cloudy screen. Smoke from the Risbro semis mingled with the rags of mist that snagged in the brooding trees. The dogs wouldn't lay off the dying moto and darted in to nip at Sweetë even as her blood coursed. The dogs terrified Carl. With their teeth and claws they were like big rats, and in common with rats they were always hungry. Yet even so the lairy Risbro lads kicked and punched them unmercifully. At the corner of the home field there was a gibbet from which dangled four or five dog carcasses. Crows flapped down and lazily pecked at these until stoned by the kids. When they were well hung, the dogs were cut down and their meagre flesh tried for fat.

  Yeth 2 pway, yeth 2 pway, yeth 2 pway wiv U awl ve day. Yeth 2 Runti, yeth 2 Champ, yeth 2 Hunnë an Tyga 2 … The lifeblood flowed out of the moped in a haunting, sing-song rhyme: Yeth 2 Am, luverlë Am, yeth 2 Am, bootiful Am. Bì-bì, Cawl, bì-bì, Tonë … Sniggering and catcalling, the Risbro lads hauled on the ropes and Sweetë was winched up. She moaned, her jonckheeres twitched, her jowls flopped into her staring eyes, then she was gone, rising up into the tortured sky of this Daveforsaken clearing. Carl wept as he called over the slaughter run.

  It took a blob to smoke all of Sweetë's flesh, render her blubber and try out her fat. Carl was in no hurry, for he understood that when the last tank of moto oil was sealed, his and Antonë's fate would be as well.

  That night the Risbromen returned from the resurfacing work they'd been doing on the Emwun. They came with a car, although only the Guvnor was allowed to sit atop it and whip up the spavined jeejees. It was the first wheeled vehicle that Carl had ever seen, and he was transfixed by its curiously fluid motion. It moved as if it were a pedalo rising and falling on a sea of mud.

  When Carl had changed over, he was told to join the lads and dads who were gathered in the Shelter. Böm was there – although of 76534 there was no sign. The Shelter was well equipped by Ham standards, with an irony urn, a large micro, a blackboard and bits of printed London cloth hung over the tiny windows. Carl had already given belly meat and offal to the opares, and they'd made bangers for the dads. These were frying in a huge pan together with chopped crybulbs. The smell of sizzling moto oil and fag smoke filled the air, and the Risbromen's gaunt faces were like skulls in the flickering lectric light. Carl shrank into a corner, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, but the Guvnor called to him.

  – Yeah, he said, U dunna gúd job wiv viss moto, boy, an thass jususswel, coz we gotta graft lyke fukkin Paddies on vat Emwun if we wanna survyv ve kipper. Ve Loyahs Hack tayks a grayt big waduv R arvest B4 ve cölsnaps, an we aynt per-mí-éd 2 flog ve ress til buddowt.

  The other dads gobbled their assent through mouthfuls of meat.

  – Ayntí ve troof, said a tall fellow with greasy black hair. Vey go arfta ve lore abydin an lé awlsorts uv culluds gé awä wiv fukkin murda.

  – Weer lukkë 2 gé a warkup lyke U 2, said the Guvnor. Lars cölsnap we ad 4 blokes flogged, 4 fukkin chavs, ayn vat rì?

  The other dads groaned and chawed.

  – And what d'you imagine the Lawyer will give you when you hand us over? Böm asked.

  – Mebë a munkee, mebë a wunna – Eye dunno. The Guvnor spat in the fire under the urn. Mayn fing iz weel gé sum. Í aynt nuffing pursnul – bleev me, iz juss everyfing iz dosh rahnd viss wä an we aynt evah gó Enuff.

  Carl wondered why Böm didn't offer the Guvnor some of the dosh he was carrying; heavy brown coins, which he kept wrapped up in a piece of moto skin and tucked in his girdle. Böm, however, said nothing further, only blinked myopically at the leering, sated Risbromen, who were puffing on their purloined fags.

  – What if we tell the Lawyer's chaps that it was you who stole the moto? Carl heard himself saying. What'll happen then?

  – Wot fukkin moto! The Guvnor reached across the table and cuffed Carl in the face. We dunno nuffing abaht í, vairizit? Iss gawn, ve meet iz curried an iddun, ve oyl iz stashed, eevun ve boans iz awl smashed up. Nah, doanchoo fukk wiv me, U lyttul cunt, sooninuff Eyel Bcummin 2 fukk wiv U!

  These past days the opares had been fattening Carl up, feeding him Sweetë's sweetmeats, her finest belly meat, and letting him drink as much gubbins as he could hold down. Ure a plump Enuff peece, one of the Risbromen had said on the night before they left for the Emwun. Weel fá-én U up sum mor B4 we giv U a röstin! Remembering this, Carl shrank down on the bench, his face stinging, his stomach fluid. Antonë glared at him from the other side of the table. As from a long way off dibbles of the Risbromen's jawing reached his hot ears: We put vem speed bumps in ve röd an ooze í bovverin? Uss. ĺ doan bovva ve pikeys an ve culluds – vey aynt gó no cars, vey juss go rahn, but R axles R fukked … Carl fell into a fitful sleep, then woke to the ugly grumble of a run called over by many drunk dads: Leffbìforrud vebrorway, bare rì crouchenill, rì ornsëlayn, leff azlevil röd, rì saynjonzwä. He collected himself and stumbled from the Shelter with the dads calling after him: B luckë, mì sun!

  The weather snapped so cold that Risbro was blanketed by powdery rime. Frost twinkled on the bare boughs of the woodland, and icicles hung from the eaves of the semis. The dogs took refuge in the landfill, digging down for whatever warmth they could garner. The community retreated to its bëthan semis, and there, dads and mums alike, they overindulged in their own watery booze. Carl realized that the dads meant to have him the night before the next Changeover, and he readied himself as best he could. The night before that, as he lay sleepless in the box bed with a couple of the lairy lads, Böm appeared with a stump of letric that threw sharp shadows on the toshed walls. The dads lay higgledy-piggledy on the floor and the hearth, snuffling like bäcön and hugging each other for warmth. Don't worry, Antonë said, they've had a skinful, they're mullered. They don't think we'll make a run for it without takeaway or evian – but I've sorted all that.

  Outside the screen was clear, the dashboard shone, and there was a full-beam headlight. They slithered across the ringing streak of the frozen stream, then slipped between the mummies' semis and made for the woods. A skulking dog growled but didn't bark. Two hundred paces on, Böm stopped and delved at the roots of a stumpy old crinkleleaf, then pulled up a changingbag. It's all here, he whispered to Carl. A2Z, traficmaster, a takeaway and a warm cloakyfing for both of us. Now come on.

  All that night they trudged through the crispycrunch woodland. The smoothbarks of the Lawyer's forest marched forward to meet them, and they hurried down the long Avenues where the night birds chirred and the wind soughed. Halfway through the third tariff the headlight dipped below the trees; it was another four stumbled clicks before the foglamp switched on, sending lemon-yellow beams into the escapees' eyes. Then there came a marvellous sight: the smoothbarks fell away, overtoppling in a great mess of torn-up roots and boughs. Beyond this tangled barrier the sea unfurled, rucking up green and white under the gathering day. Soaring gulls stabbed at the froth-mantled waves. They stopped for a takeaway, then, after examining the A2Z, Böm guided them along the coast, and eventually down to a cretey bay, where there was a pedalo pulled up on the rubble beach.

  What's this, Tonë? Carl asked, disbelieving such good fortune. The grub, the cloakyfings – now this pedalo, owdjoo sort it?

  – It was the Driver, Böm replied, dumping their gear in the little craft. 76534. I did a number on him. He was at school with me in the Smoke, and he's a good bloke – he didn't want us handed over to the Lawyer.

  – What'll happen to him when the Risbromen find out?

  – What can they do? He's their Driver. The penalties for laying a hand on him or any other dävine are most severe – a fact our current circumstance cannot fail to remind you of. So we must make haste – you see out there? He pointed towards the dun smear of land on the horizon. That's Cot, and up there to the northeast is Junction 14 where the ferries take on cargo for London. If we can get out into the sea lanes, we may, perhaps, persuade a gaffer to take us on board. Chil is a wild estate, the Lawyer owing but formal allegiance to the King. Ho
wever, Cot is a different matter! It is densely settled with many large estates and populous manors. Our disguises would not bear scrutiny there for long.

  They made the small craft as ready as they could.

  – Tonë, Carl said as they were on the point of casting off, don't you wonder what happened to Tyga? The Risbromen didn't say nuffing about im and they must have eard sumfing when they was ganging up on the Emwun.

  – I know. Böm paused in his work and gave the matter the full weight of his consideration. It is strange, yet I fear Tyga's fate was most probably the same as the others', rendered down for his oil – if not by another manor, then by some of the wild barbecuers who haunt the forest. It's tough, Carl – he took the lad by the scruff and looked him full in the face – all we can hope for is that his fare is with Dave.

  They shoved off and took to the pedals. There was an offshore current that grabbed the frail vessel and sent it rapidly south. They redoubled their efforts, and Carl, leaning back into the stroke, lost himself in the screen, the wheeling seafowl, the rushing wind that resounded with their cries – and a deeper slushier bellow, the bellow of a distressed moto. He stopped pedalling and gasped, appalled yet delighted, for there, nosing through the tangled tree-fall along the shoreline came, adorably snuffling, the muzzle of the lost moto.

  As soon as they neared the shore Carl scrambled from the pedalo, sloshed through the icy water and fell on Tyga's neck. Lad and moto cooed and baby-talked to one another, while Böm looked on, scratching his chin in confusion. The moto was painfully thin, his hide torn and bloody. He had two arrows buried in his left armpit and his hand flanges were ragged. Tyga could say nothing of what had happened to him, only lisp a few disjointed phrases: Bad daddies, bad daddies, ith cowld – no fowage, hep me, Cawl, hep me! Carl, with his hands buried in the moto's neck folds, drew him into the tangle of felled trees. There he scrabbled for what fodder he could find – redberries, bits of shroom – and pressed them to Tyga's loose lips. Vare wur ve bad daddies, Tyga? he asked. Vare we loss U? Tyga only groaned. Either he couldn't comprehend the question, or was too traumatized to answer it.

  Böm put a stop to these inquiries. We've got to go. Got to. Look, here's the rope, tie it round Tyga's neck and he can swim behind the pedalo. Carl did as he was told. The odd flotilla cast off, but this time Böm pedalled alone, while Carl sat in the stern coaxing the wounded moto. As they headed into the open water, the coastline came into view, and Carl could see twenty clicks in each direction. Here and there the woodland was broken by deep bays where smoke curled from hidden chimneys, and a few small pedalos like their own bobbed on the waves. Don't worry, Böm called from the bow, they're putting down traps for sea rats and suchlike. If we keep straight out to the north, they won't be bothering us. He checked the traficmaster, the angle of the foglamp, and bent once more to the pedals.

  Out in the channel, once again the current plucked and pulled at their tiny craft. Gulls swung down and mobbed them, their crap splattering, their beaks digging at poor Tyga's vulnerable muzzle. Carl, screaming, struck out at them, but they only wheeled away, then swooped down once more. Böm kept pulling and pulling at the pedals as the waves broke over the prow. Eventually, exhausted, he shipped them and called to Carl.

  – It's no good, the current's too strong, we're making no headway. We'll have to let it take us.

  – W-where to, guv?

  – If it keeps on like this, right to the shores of Cot, but we'll cross the sea lanes before that. I don't know, perhaps if Dave wills it we'll run into a ferry there.

  They brought Tyga alongside and lashed him to the thwarts. Antonë tried steering with a pedal while Tyga flailed as best he could – even so, the craft spun from the hard barge and wet jam of the open sea. For unit after unit the gulls harried them, while Carl dripped evian into Tyga's cracked lips, for he feared the moto was about to expire, so sickly did he look, his eyes raw and weeping and his gasps shuddery and spume-laden. The foglamp sunk down into the swell while in the east storm clouds boiled up. The wind rose and the gulls fled for land. It looks bloody awful, Antonë cried above the howl. We're shipping water, if we don't make land soon we're done for. You'd best call over a run or two and ask Dave to pick you up!

  With the foglamp fast dipping and the wind rushing and the moto groaning and the pedalo foundering on a liquid precipice, Carl saw a black patch of land cut from the sea by its fading, scissor beams. They lashed the stubborn water with their pedals while Tyga's limbs churned below the surface, they veered, yawed and finally gained the inside edge of a groyne. Then, in the dead water, they came in upon a shingle beach, where a tall dad stood, his arms upraised against the bilious screen. He was clad in a bizarre tunic of metal plates. These were inscribed with discordant phonics: W821 TBL, X911 VCF, R404 BNB.

  Welcome to Bril, the tall dad sang in a voice that rang out above the wind's rush and push. He made an obeisance, while behind him the long grass swished in the gathering night. Welcome dad and lad – welcome moto. To Carl's astonishment the dad clanked down towards them and, untying the ropes, placed an expert hand in Tyga's neck folds, and so guided him up out of the water. Behind the dad Carl saw sharp squares of light. There was a semi – they were safe. He pulled his drenched cloakyfing tight around him, shivered, took a step up the beach, staggered and fell headlong. Purple dusk plunged to blackest night.

  Carl awoke to find himself lying on a snowy sofabed of unearthly softness and luxuriance. Way up above him the dashboard winked in a smoky firmament. Turning his head, Carl saw a long table, beyond which, in a grate the size of a Hamster gaff, a mighty fire roared – entire tree trunks propped on elaborately wrought andironies. Caught by this shifting pattern of light, the bent, bald-wigged heads of many daddies and mummies could be seen by the bemused lad. They were seated at long tables and appeared to be having a curry. Opares floated along the aisles, pannikins cradled in their arms. Then he realized that what he had taken for the screen was in fact the roof of a giant semi, from the rafters of which hung many letrics. Awed, he struggled to rise, and, perhaps hearing the motion, one of the daddies came over to him. It was Antonë.

  – Hush now, he said. Don't try to get up just yet. Here, have some of this. He held out a dish slopping with warm oatie.

  – B-but where are we?

  – In the Shelter of the Plateists of Bril. Do not be alarmed, they won't harm us, they are dävine queers – not Drivers, not even mummies and dads.

  – Where's Tyga, is he OK?

  – He's being well looked after. They have quartered him in the barn conversion with their own burgerkine. They will not harm him any more than us. Now eat this and have a slug of jack – he held out a bottle – you need it.

  Böm returned to his place at table. The booze burned Carl's throat and thrilled his belly. He gobbled up the oatie. His wet clothes had been taken from him, and he was naked underneath the fine cloth counterpane. The big Shelter was warmer than the semis of Risbro – yet not so much so that Carl couldn't feel the draughts. He snuggled down and bent his ear to hear the chatter that floated from the long table; however, of this he could make little sense, save for the occasional place name – Farin, Chip, Swïn – which he recognized from the cross-examinations the Hamstermen gave Mister Greaves.

  The davine queers all wore the same tunics as the man who had met them on the shore. In the lectric the heavy irony plates shone in an unearthly fashion, as if generating their own light, and when their wearers moved the tunics clinked and clanked. Both the men and women sported the bald wigs of Inspectors, and their lean faces had an intensity that Carl found disquieting, despite Antonë's assurances.

  When the curry had been scraped, the queer at the far end of the table from the big fire stood. Silence fell and, raising his arms, he addressed the Supreme Driver:

  – Ta very much, Dave, for the grub!

  – Ta very much! the other queers chimed in.

  – Ta very much for the plates!

  – Ta very much!

/>   – Ta very much for Antonë and Carl, who come to us fleeing from the PCO!

  – Ta very much!

  – Ta very much for our Shelter here at Bril!

  – Ta very much! And so it went on for what seemed to Carl to be at least half a tariff, the big bloke crying out thanks and the others chorusing assent. Carl nodded off, and when Antonë came to the sofabed, he found the lad curled up in the foetal shape of his beloved Ham. The tension that had scored and blanched Carl's naturally rubicund face was smoothed by sleep for the first time in blobs. It was with considerable reluctance that Böm gently shook him awake.

  – What are Plateists? Carl whispered, for, while most of the queers had by now left the building, a few still clanked about the place clearing the pannikins.

  – A good question, Antonë replied. He adjusted his spectacles – which somehow he had managed to hang on to through the stormy passage from Chil – and goggled at his young pupil. The Plateists are, as you see, queers who sport the Plateist ephod, the more plates they sport the closer they are to Dave.

  – Are the plates Daveworks?

  – Of a very special kind, gathered a long time ago from the ancient folkways, the Emwun, Emfaw, Emfawti, Emfive and Emsiks. Which is why you find such Plateist manors as still exist near to these routes. Here at Bril we cannot be more than a few clicks from the Emfawti.