Beetle hit Brid right across the lips.
She was crying in the corner now and if I could've just got out of that chair, well then, maybe I would have done some good deed for a change. Maybe I would have killed the bastard.
. . .ashamed at my weakness.
Maybe everything. End up with nothing.
The Beetle gathered up every Vurt feather he could find and rammed the whole bunch down the Thing's throat.
At least one of us would have a good night.
Beetle left us then, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Me, the shadow, the new girl, the alien. And everything going wrong and the far off call of the owl.
If they can remix Madonna after she's dead, why can't they remix the night? Who can answer that one?
Awake, you know that dreams exist. Inside a dream you think the dream
is
reality. Inside a dream you have no knowledge of the waking world.
It is the same with Vurt. In the real world we know that Vurt exists. Inside the Vurt we think that Vurt
is
reality. You have no knowledge of the real world.
THE HAUNTING. This is the bitch incarnate. Once that ghost has got hold of you, you just gotta go with her. Back to life, back to the boredom. That's how you feel, right? Except that the Haunting isn't a bad thing. What? What's that the Cat's saying?
Haunting isn't bad? Man, the Cat's losing it! Listen up, kittlings.
Only a chosen few get the Haunting. They are the edge riders. Those strange people who can't make their minds up; just what am I? This is their question. Vurt or real? The Haunted are of both worlds; they flicker between the two, like fire flies. What are they? Insect or flame? Both! Believe it. The Haunted are special. They just don't know it yet. The Cat's advice to them; resist the temptation; don't jerk out. Jerking out is giving in. Giving up. Giving up on your true vocation.
The Haunting is calling you; come up, come up! Let me take you higher. The Vurt wants you.
The Cat wants you.
I was. I was sleepless. Locked in my room, writing all this up in the ledger of those days. Living up to my name. Scribbling. Trying to make sense of it all, and trying hard to find a way out.
And now I'm looking back and thinking. And the thinking makes me weary. It's the loss of things that kills us. And of the four humans in that pad that night, only two of us are still living and that's a bad dream come true. That shouldn't happen any more.
Vurt should have taken all of our bad dreams and turned them into theatre, brilliant theatre.
I was scribbling late into the ledger, listening with half a mind to the creaking bed through the wall. Beetle making love to Brid, to the sleeping Brid. Despite the arguments, I knew this would happen, knowing the score.
And then a soft knock on my bedroom door. I opened it a crack and there was Brid, anyway, standing there, and the noises of love still coming from the next room.
"Scribble?" she said, her eyes heavy lidded, voice clogged by smoke. "I'm working, Brid," was all I could manage, still listening to the noises. "Beetle's with Mandy," she said.
"Sounds like it." I was trying my best to be uncaring, it's just that the shadows in her eyes made me melt.
"Can I come in?" she asked and I let her walk past me into the room. She dropped onto the bed and then started to curl up like a flower's petals when the sun has gone. I went back to my table to carry on with the writing.
Brid was breathing sweetly now, lost in sleep.
I was putting it all down in words, a small desklamp hiding me in a shadow. The glow of my ledger burning softly as I banked up the words, the stories.
"What are you writing, Scribb?" I thought she was asleep and when I looked at her she was comatose and happy, eyes shut, curled up in her own shape. I couldn't see her lips move and then I realised, Brid was dream-talking, putting thoughts into my mind, which is the gift of the Shadows.
Shadows are the thought-readers. They are born with the powers of telepathy and their mind can by-pass the vocal cords, putting words into your brain, and stealing the secrets that you thought were yours alone. Shadowcops are the same, but mixed up with robo, rather than flesh, so they're not as strong; they can't go deep down, into the soul.
Still pretty scary though, especially when you're out on a spree. The human Shadow works best when asleep, so that's how you find them, usually, dreaming their dreams of knowledge.
"Don't let it worry you, Scribble," Bridget thought. "I'm not."
"I was just wondering. . . you're always writing. What's it all about?" "Everything," I answered, out loud.
"You don't have to talk," she said, except that the words just formed themselves into my mind. I looked at her again, her sleeping face, and I knew what she meant.
"This is weird," I thought. Just thought! "What do you mean, everything?" "Everything that happens."
"Between us?"
"Sure. The Stash Riders."
The Beetle called us this, and it stuck. He was making life into a kind of adventure, I guess. Just like a kid, but what's so wrong with that? That's the score with Cortex Jammers; they just want to be kids again.
"It's our story," I thought. "That's nice," she answered.
And then a deep silence. Just the sound of her breathing in my head and the soft petals falling off my alarm clock as it shed the minutes away until morning.
I was back to writing but nothing came out, nothing good, so I stopped, took a cigarette, a Napalm filter, and watched the smoke drift for a while. And petals falling from the clock. Stuff like that. All quiet now from the next room.
Brid's voice coming into my mind again; "Is it all right if I sleep here, Scribb?" "You've got a bed of your own."
"Not tonight, Scribb. Not tonight."
I took another few hard drags whilst forming the words in my mind. "That's all right, Scribb. It's a pleasure."
Shit! Some real dirty thoughts about Brid had flickered across my mind. When the shadowgirl was this deep, I had no secrets left."
"That's right, Scribb. No secrets."
"Give me a chance, Brid!" I said. Out loud, not thinking.
Brid's voice in my head again; "It just comes in pictures. Pictures and shapes." "I'd rather just talk."
"Sure. You don't mind me sleeping here?"
Why should I? She looked real beautiful in sleep, and the world was waiting for me to climb right on in there, curling up, losing myself in all that drifting smoke.
"Thank you," she thought. Like I said; no secrets.
"I just wanted to thank you," I told her sleeping face. "For taking the rap for me.
You know, with the Beetle, in the Skull Shit."
"We all jerk out sometimes." "You took the blame, Brid." "I guess I like you."
"More than Beetle?" "Don't ask. You'll get hurt."
"I saw Desdemona in there. In the Vurt." "I guessed that."
"She was in such pain. I couldn't stop pulling out. But I couldn't admit it, not to the Bee."
"You like that man too much, Scribble." "So do you."
"You're thinking about her again." She meant Desdemona. Bridget's words floating into my mind, like a mist over the pale shape of Desdemona; "Can't you forget her, Scribble?"
"We've got to find her, Brid!"
"We will, Scribble," said Brid's voice. "You want to sleep next to me?"
It wasn't a question. Because she knew the answer anyway. And the mist closing it all up, in drifts of blue, and me falling through it into the land of Bridget, which is called the land of Shadows, the land of sleep.
I woke up early, my arms around the shadowgirl; an innocent gesture, for an innocent night. The ledger was still glowing, throwing a blue shade over our shapes. I turned it off and went into the living room.
The Thing-from-Outer-Space was asleep on the rug, with his mouthful of feathers and a grin on his peaceful face. "How you doing, Big Thing?" I asked.
"Xhasy! Xha xha. Xhasy. Xha!"
Looking for a way home. Something like that, I guess. "You got anything else from Des, Big Thing?" "Xhasy. Xhasy. Xha!"
No.
I watched him for a while, imagining the dreams he was on, and then walked into the kitchen for breakfast. The house was mine at this hour and I made good use of it,
spreading apple jam on toast and watching the day begin.
I ate the sweet stuff at the scarred table, all the time keeping a close watch on the door to Beetle's room. They were making noises again and I couldn't stop my mind wandering, right on in there, seeing all that pleasure being given and taken, all those jars of Boudoir Vaz being used. Protector, lubricator, contraceptive, inflamer; all in the same jar. The noises were getting to me. It brought back Desdemona, her beautiful body all over mine. Her hands and her lips. The dragon tattoo. Her face coming close to mine, the feel of her skin, the shine in her eyes.
But that was just a memory. And memory was not enough. I wanted her back, for real. In my arms.
I looked over at the Thing again. Something bad was coming into my mind.
I got up out of the chair and walked over to his sleeping form. Boy, that Thing was ugly! I reached down to tickle his stomach. He sighed contentedly, from the depths of Vurt sleep. There was a loose flap of skin, still not yet fully reformed from the battles of Skull Shit. It broke off easily in my fingers. The Thing didn't even stir. I brought the greasy lump up to my lips.
Eating Vurt flesh was the direct route to the theatre. It was a potent cocktail of meat and dreams. Highly dangerous. Highly desirable. The Game Cat had talked about it once, in the magazine. I was looking down at more than a King's ransom of live drugs, street value. We could sell the Thing, and get ourselves right out of here, somewhere good. All except for Desdemona; without the Thing she was lost for ever. But maybe this would lead back to her. Maybe I could take some flesh, just a little bit, see where it lead? The Cat had said that it just took you back to where the Vurt creature came from. I didn't know where the Thing came from. But maybe from there I could find a door through to Desdemona. Maybe. Game Cat had warned against it, saying it was a sucker's trip, that it led to wild, uncontrollable games, mutant theatre.
The Cat had said no. That was good enough for me. And the Beetle would be real mad if he found me going in alone. He would beat me. The Cat and the Beetle said no, and that was good enough for me.
Anyway maybe the Thing came from a yellow feather. They are the highest feathers; you can't jerk out of them, you can only win the game. Or die. I really didn't want to chance that.
I licked at the Vurt flesh, and then took a small bite. . .
I'm being smothered by flesh. I can't breathe any more. There is no space in the
world, only flesh. It has a sweet aroma, as it presses up against my face. I can't do anything, I can't even struggle, the flesh is that powerful. The sweet smell stirs a memory in me. There is no way out now. this is my life; to be slowly smothered by thick sweet-smelling lard! I can't even scream. When I try to, the flesh just comes into my mouth, filling me with its aroma. My world is clogged. I know that smell from somewhere. I am drowning in the flesh. These are my last seconds alive. The sweet stench is overpowering me. I know that smell! I have smelt it all my life. This is my life. No! Before then. I have smelt that stench before now. In some other. . .
Christ!
I'm getting
the
Haunting!
The flesh enveloping me. All of my openings filled with the meat. I'm being killed by Vurt flesh.
Vurt! I'm in a Vurt. Which one? Let me do a jerkout!
The flesh of the Thing wrapping me in fat I've got no breath left. These are my last seconds. . .
The Thing! Christ! Hope it's not a Yellow. Jerkout!
I'm lying across the Thing, right in front of the fire. The Thing has got its tentacles around me, squeezing. I can hardly breathe. Let me tell you; hardly is enough. At least it's stale, unhealthy Stash Rider pad air that I'm breathing. That is enough. That is beautiful. I slide out of the Thing's sleepy embraces, falling onto the pad floor.
The carpet is most welcome, a real haven of bliss.
Above me the ceiling dances with pictures. Desdemona had painted them there; images of dragons and snakes, all writhing around a sharpened blade. That was her mind. And I was part of it.
Let us concentrate on the days to come, all the good things to come. Stash Riders finding English Voodoo, for instance. Riders getting the Thing back to his home planet. Swapping him over, for Desdemona. Riders getting out of this junk palace, getting a good life. Bridget finding a better love than the Beetle. The Beetle finding something, something to cling to. All the things that we had to get done. And the petals falling from the clock.
Just then the telephone rang. It sounded harsh and ill against the murmurings of love, and I could tell it had bad news to give, because that phone had been cut off, unpaid, some six months ago. No way could it be ringing! I jumped up from the floor,
and reached it on what seemed like the last ring -- "Scribble!"
The voice. "Desdemona!" "Scribble. . ."
"Is that you, Desdemona?" "Scribble. Help me."
Oh Jesus, Desdemona. . .
"Help me, Scribble." "Where are you?"
"Find me! It hurts. The razor. . ." "Where are you, Des?"
"A curious. . ." Her voice was drifting off, into the Vurt spaces. "Curious? Curious what? Des?"
No answer. Just the waves of static coming through, wave against wave, yellow on yellow; I could hear the colours!
"Talk to me, Des! For fuck's sake!" "Find a door. . . a curious house. . ." "What?"
The voice just a whisper. "Find a door. . ." "Where? Where to?" I was shouting now. "Get to me, Scribble. . . get to me. . ." The way through was dying in my hands. "Des! Talk to me! Talk to me. . ." Silence.
Oh Desdemona. Sister, oh sister. Where are you going?
I had my ear pressed up hard against the phone, but there was nothing. Nothing there. Just a bad buzz on the line. And the silence in the room.
And the petals falling, falling, from the face of the clock, making a carpet of flowers, where I would lay myself down, forgetting all my troubles.