by Jeff Noon
And then the voice…
‘Scribble…Scribble…Scribble…’
Words floating upwards, from nowhere, calling my name.
‘Scribble…’
Desdemona’s voice…
I looked around to see who was playing the fool.
Oh shit. Nobody should use that voice. And I got a sudden flash then, of Desdemona falling away from me, through into a yellow blaze…
‘Who said that?’ I demanded.
‘Said what, Scribble?’ asked Mandy.
‘My name! Who the fuck said it?’
A silence fell over the van.
‘It was in…it was in Desdemona’s voice…’
‘Do we have to keep thinking about her?’ asked Mandy.
‘Yes.’
Yes we do. Keep thinking about Desdemona. Don’t ever let her go. Not until I find her again. And then keep her forever.
I listened to the van settling its rust deposits.
The Riders were looking at me. Even the Beetle was twisted around, his eyes full of jam; ‘Nobody said anything, Scribb.’ But then I got it again, that voice.
‘Scribble…Scribble…’
And I got where it was coming from; the Thing. A gash had opened in his flesh, a set of black gums peeled back from crumbling teeth, and a tongue of lard moving there, between them.
‘Scribble…’
But only I could hear. Why was it only me, and why was he using that voice? That beautiful voice…
Beetle broke the mood; ‘Let’s do it! Inside!’
I heard an owl calling, from the Platt Fields. Real, Vurt, or robo—who can tell the difference any more?
No matter.
It had a longing to it.
GAME CAT
This week’s safe selection, my kittlings. Status: blue and legal.
THERMO FISH. You went swimming in the Seas of Pitch. But now you’re back on Earth and you’re feeling slightly queasy. It can only get worse. Because the Thermo Fish of Pitch have invaded your system. Your blood stream is a river home for them. They love those passages. You’re feeling the heat inside, the biting heat. One thing to do; buy yourself some nano-hooks, some pitchworm bait, go fishing for a week. You know the Game Cat doesn’t lie.
HONEY SUCKERS are out to get you. They want you for supper. Six legs, four wings, two antennae and a demon sting. They’ll cover your body with bites and turn you into a swarm. Only quork juice will save you. It turns the Honies to pulp. You better find some, and soon, because those bugs are coming. Trouble is, quorks live on the planet jangle. The Cat says squirt those suckers!
FLESH
TECHNIQUES
We had to drag the Thing-from-Outer-Space out of the van, his fat sack of a body clinging to the tartan rug, glued by the juices.
Beetle opened the van’s doors. ‘Come on, lazy fucks,’ he shouted, reaching into the back to gather the dropped feathers from the van floor. One of them, the black, he slipped into his baccy box. ‘I feel like tripping out somewhere.’ He was walking fast towards the house.
The pad was on the top floor of the Rusholme Gardens. Sure, it was in Rusholme but no trace of a garden. Just an old-style block of flats on the corner of Wilmslow and Platt.
The doorcam reacted to Beetle’s image in a loving way, opening its gates in a slow, seductive swing. Brid was back in shadow mode, sleep-walking to the step-light, so that left me and Mandy holding the can. The can was the Thing and he was like Vaz between our fingers. Oh boy, Thing was hot; totally adventurous. Respect to that.
‘Let’s move it, Big Thing,’ I said.
The Desdemona calls had stopped. Now he was rambling in his own language. Xa Xa Xa! Xhasy Xhasy! Stuff like that. Maybe he was travelling the Vurt-waves, looking for a new home. Maybe I’m some kind of romantic fool, especially when the Manchester rain starts to fall in memory and I’m scribbling this down, chasing the moments. Bridget used to say that the rain around there was special, that something had gone wrong with the city’s climate. That you always thought it was just about to start raining, but it always was, anyway. All I know is that looking back I swear I can feel it falling on me, on my skin. That rain means everything to me, all of the past, all that has been lost. I can see big spots of rain on the gravel. Over the road the black trees of Platt Fields Park are whispering and swaying, receiving the gift of water gratefully. The moon is a thin knife, a curved blade. Miles from there, and years and years later, I can still feel that slow struggle towards the flat door.
Thing-from-Outer-Space wasn’t really from Outer Space. Mandy just called him that, and we’d all latched onto it. Well then, what would you call a shapeless blob that didn’t speak any known language and that had come into your world by a bad accident? Tough one, huh?
‘Stop dropping him!’ hissed Mandy, her voice heavy from the exertion. The rain had plastered her red hair flat to her brow.
‘Does it look like I’m dropping him?’
‘His head’s on the floor!’
‘Is that his head? I thought it was his tail.’
Mandy was getting angry at me, as though I should enjoy carrying aliens over wet gravel, in the dark, in the rain. As though I should know all the various techniques of carrying aliens.
‘Keep a hold of him!’ she screamed.
‘Keep a hold of what? He’s all slippery.’
Just then a shadowcop flickered into life, broadcasting from the Platt Fields’ aerial. He moved like a fog, the starry lights of his mechanisms going on and off, on and off, as he drifted through the trees. I told Mandy to get a move on.
‘Look who’s talking about speed,’ she replied.
We had to bend the Thing into a strange shape to get him through the house doors, a kind of Mobius knot variant. The Thing didn’t mind; his body was super-fluid anyway, from the embrace of Vurt. A quick glance over the shoulder told me that the shadowcop was out of the park and heading towards the flats. I slammed the door on the sight. Silence. Pause. A catch of breath. The look of despair in Mandy’s eyes, naked eyes under the hall lights, her arms straining to hold the weight of alien meat. ‘Shit!’ I said. ‘We forgot the rug.’ The Thing was naked in our hands.
‘How did we get here?’ Mandy asked.
‘What?’
‘Why is it always like this?’
‘Never mind that. Keep going.’
Above us, on the next landing, Brid was drifting with the shadows, trailing smoke. ‘Follow her,’ I said.
It was like carrying a bad dream up a flight of greasy collapsing stairs.
Sometimes it feels like the whole world is smeared with Vaz.
‘Are you after the Beetle?’ I asked, halfway up the first flight.
‘Beetle? Don’t be daft.’
‘Oh good. Because Bridget would kill you.’
‘Seb told me something.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I managed, between panting breaths.
‘There’s a new delivery, tomorrow.’
‘Of what?’
‘New stuff. Good stuff, he said. Bootlegs. Well black.’
‘Voodoo’s not black. I told you that.’
‘Yes, English Voodoo. Seb—’
‘He’s got it!? Mandy!’
‘Not yet. Coming in tomorrow—’
‘Mandy! This is—’
‘Watch out! The Thing! He’s…’
I was dropping the alien. My hands were too sweaty. I was losing the world. A feather was floating in my mind. A beautiful multicoloured specimen. I almost had it! Just reach out!
‘Scribble!’ Mandy’s voice calling me back down. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I need it, Mandy! No messing. We’ve got to find Seb again.’
‘Not him. He gave me the contact name. Said that Icarus was getting a new delivery.’
‘Icarus?’
‘Icarus Wing. That’s his source. Seb’s supplier. You know him?’
I’d never heard of him. ‘Mandy, why didn’t you say this before?’
‘Would ha
ve done. Just the cops…and all that…the shadow-cop…the dog. Scribble, I got confused. I…I’m sorry…’
I looked at her then, her greasy scarlet hair a mess from the rain, a last smudge of paint on her bottom lip. Oh sure, no great beauty under the harsh light of a stairwell, face creased from the carrying of that lump of alien flesh, but my heart was calling out a song, a kind of love song, I guess. Christ knows, it had been a long time without singing.
‘Do you think Seb will be alright?’ she asked.
‘Find him, Mandy. Ask him about English Voodoo—’
‘I don’t think he’ll be working that Vurt-U-Want counter any more.’
‘Don’t you know where he lives?’
‘No. He’s very secretive…Scribb!’ Mandy’s eyes in shock mode.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Over there! The corner—’
We’d reached the first landing by now. There was a store cupboard set into the wall. It was marked NO GO. In the dark space between it and the wall lay a coil of rope, a violet and green rope. It moved. Sudden like.
‘It’s a snake!’ screamed Mandy. Oh fuck! Just then the lights went out.
Bastard landlord had them on a strict timer and the next switch was some two feet away, down the landing. Two feet’s a long way to go when you’re carrying an alien and it’s dark and there’s a dreamsnake on the loose.
‘Don’t panic!’ I said to her, in the dark.
‘Turn on the fucking light!’
‘Don’t move!’
Mandy dropped the Thing. I still had my hands under one end, and I felt the weight jerk as the bulk hit the floor. Mandy was running to the next switch. Snakes can see in the dark, but we can’t. So hit that switch, new girl! I was sweating with the fear and the Thing was starting to slip from my fingers. The lights came back on but it wasn’t Mandy who’d hit the switch. The woman from 210 had come out to see the noise and she’d got to the switch first. This is what she saw: Mandy, frozen, two inches from the control, me holding on for dear life to a pulsating mess of feelers and grease, a whip-fast coil of violet and green slithering to the nearest shadow.
I felt a nagging pain in my left leg, just where I’d been bitten. But that was over four years ago. So why the pain? Memory can be a right bitch sometimes.
The woman just stared at us for two seconds and then started to scream; ‘Arghhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!’ It was a knife-hot screeching, high and loud. The noise shot down the corridors, threatening a mass stepping-out.
Mandy hit the woman.
I’d never seen her violence until then. Only thought about it.
The woman was knocked into silence. I could imagine all of the occupants quaking in their beds from the scream, and then its sudden termination. Hopefully they would stay scared.
‘What is it?’ the woman said at last.
Mandy looked at me. I looked at Mandy, then at the Thing in my weakening hands, then at the woman.
‘It’s a prop,’ I said.
She looked at me.
‘We’re part of an avant garde theatre company. We’re called Drip Feed Theatre. Say what! We’re doing a new piece entitled English Voodoo…’
‘That’s right,’ said Mandy, coming out of shock.
‘We’re very experimental and wild. We’ve had this…uh…this…thing…made for us by a mad artist. He made it out of old tyres and a ton of animal fat. We’re just taking delivery.’
‘Do you like it?’ chipped in Mandy.
The woman just kept on looking, maybe building up to another screaming session.
‘We live in 315,’ I said. ‘Say, do you want to come up? We’re having some friends round. We’re going to rehearse the play. Fancy it?’
‘Oh my God, how gross!’ the woman said, before slipping back inside of her flat, slamming the door.
Mandy and I smiled.
We smiled. And something passed between us.
Don’t ask what.
‘Has the snake gone?’ Mandy asked.
Dreamsnakes came out of a bad feather called Takshaka. Any time something small and worthless was lost to the Vurt, one of these snakes crept through in exchange. Those snakes were taking over, I swear. You couldn’t move for them.
‘It’s gone. Hit the switch one more time. Let’s finish this.’
So we climbed the stairs together. Two humans, one alien strung heavy between them, and we managed to get to the second landing before the lights went out again. We clattered down the corridor, Mandy going for the switch with one hand, the other desperately trying to hold onto the slippery flesh. No luck. There’s never any luck! The Thing hit the floor like a sack of meat pulp. The darkness was thick, and full of breathings.
‘Do the lights, new girl.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Do it.’
‘I can’t find it.’
‘Get out of the way—’
Just then her fingers found the switch.
The light came on for an instant, then was gone, with a flat pop of burn-out. Bulb gone. In the brief flare we both saw the rapid flicking of violet and green.
‘Snake!’ I was screaming. ‘Move it! Move it!’
We hauled the Thing up and dragged him along, as best we could, which wasn’t that good, and more or less manhandled that meat towards the haven of flat 315. I smashed into the door, expecting hard response, but the way was open, well open, as we fell through, all three of us; male, female, alien. Mandy kicked the door shut with a neat back-heel and we collapsed into one shivering heap on the hall carpet.
The snake’s head was trapped in the door and the Beetle walked through from the kitchen, carrying a breadknife.
He cut that fucker off.
GAME CAT
This week’s black selection:
SKULL SHIT is one heavy fuck. Don’t try it alone, kittlings. This Vurt is going to blast you. You’ll be travelling the paths of your own mind, and that’s some maze in there. There’s a beast at the centre and it’s angry. Only the chosen know what the beast looks like, because only the chosen get that far.
The Cat’s been there, of course, and lived to write the review, but I wouldn’t wish the sight on my children (if I had any). Unless they’re ultra-brats, in which case…feed them this. Skull Shit aka The Synapse Murders, Head Fuck, Temple Vomit, Id Slayer. Call it what you like, do what you like; remember the rule: Be careful. Be very, very careful. Not for the weak.
Note: possession of this beauty can land you a two year stretch. That’s a load of game-time to be missing, so stay cool. Keep it close. This Cat has warned you.
(SOME SERIOUS)
SKULL SHIT
Brid was slumped on the settee, slow-gazing at a two-week-old copy of the Game Cat. Beetle was standing by the window, leafing through the feather stash. He had the snake head pinned to his jacket lapel. I had the right side of my face laid out on the dining table, my left eye fixed on a small lump of apple jam. I was getting my gear back together. That was a hard ride. The Thing-from-Outer-Space was lying on the floor, waving for a fix, his grease dripping onto Bridget’s Turkish rug. Mandy was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey.
Yeah, sure! And the King was in his counting house, counting out his money. No doubt. Except that we’d just trashed a week’s dripfeed on five lousy Blues and a single done-it-already Black. Sure, the Beetle could sell some low-level Vurt to a robo-crusty. Or maybe I could persuade Brid to sing some smoky songs in one of the locals, me on keyboards and decks, but the shadowcops were everywhere. Most pubs had one, broadcasting from above the Vurtbox, shining inpho all over undesirables. Those inphobeams could match a face up to the Cop Banks in half a nanosec.
Everybody was afraid of the shadowcops. There was this rumour going around that they could beam right into your brains, reading your thoughts there, just like a shadowgirl could do. Not true. They were just roboshads; taking in only what their beams could see, which was only the everyday surfaces. Don’t believe the hype; shadowcops ain’t got soul.
&nb
sp; DEAR SIR, WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE CURRENTLY RECEIVING BASIC NEEDS ALLOWANCE. Who the fuck doesn’t take dripfeed these days? WE HOPE YOU ARE NOT RECEIVING PAYMENT FOR TONIGHT’S PERFORMANCE. I would look over to the bar, seeking assistance from the landlady. She would be hiding her face in a jar of Fetish. THIS WOULD BE IN DIRECT VIOLATION OF DECREE 729. PLEASE DISCLOSE.
Of course, officer. Straight away. I think not.
That apple jam sure looked tasty. Boy, we were hungry!
Mandy came back out of the kitchen, clutching a doorstopper sandwich. She plumped herself down on a scatter cushion. We were all there, all five of us, the Stash Riders, in some form of life or other. The Beetle turned to face us, the five blue feathers clutched in one hand. He took each Blue into his other hand, saying their names out loud, each in turn, and then let them fall to the carpet. ‘Thermo Fish. Crack Flowers. Venus Dust. Thunderwings. Honey Suckers…’ We watched the feathers drift. Beetle turned directly to Mandy; ‘Cheap Blues,’ he said. ‘We don’t do cheap Blues—’
‘I had to buy something,’ cried Mandy. ‘You can’t just go in the shop, ask for black feathers! Seb would’ve laughed—’
‘You got the hots for this shop guy?’ Beetle asked. Mandy just turned away. The Beetle opened his baccy box, took out the black feather. He moved towards us, waving that Vurt like a dream ticket. ‘So. For tonight’s entertainment…Skull Shit.’ His lips were smiling. It was a wicked smile.
Mandy turned back to face him; ‘Christ, if I’d known it was going to be like this—’
‘You want this, don’t you, Scribble?’ The Beetle asked, totally cutting her out.
‘It’s not the Voodoo, Bee,’ I said.
‘I don’t believe you guys!’ Mandy butting in.
‘No, it’s not the Voodoo,’ the Beetle drawled. ‘But it’s all we’ve got. And the Beetle needs succour. Let’s take some feather!’
Mandy opened her mouth immediately, like she had something to prove. The Beetle pushed the feather into her mouth, until he could stroke it against the back of her throat. New girl took it all the way, like a Pornovurt star, and her eyes started to glaze. ‘See how she takes it?’ said the Beetle. ‘Smooth and easy. That’s my baby.’ Beetle pulled the feather out, and then turned to Bridget.