The Book of Dave (35 page)

By day Carl was allowed out to do the miserable graft of slaughtering Sweetë. With Carl acting as gaffer the older lads knocked
up a crude gibbet, gathered seasoned crinkleleaf chips for the smoking fire and forayed in the woods for a suitable hollow
log.

The Driver of Risbro, 76534, was impressed by the breadth of Antonë Böm's Knowledge, even if he didn't believe the other queer's
claim to be a stalker. The Driver was far from being a learned bloke; he was almost as ignorant as his fares, yet here in
the remote hinterland of Chil what strength of character he possessed was roused in condemnation of the Lawyer.

The two spent the half-blob until next Changeover discussing the finer points of the Knowledge as they related to the parlous
condition of the manor. In truth, 76534 told Böm, the Guvnor's appropriation of the moto is understandable. Here we are, our
fields entirely surrounded by the Lawyer's forest, yet we are forbidden to gather any of the fruits thereof save a scant allowance
of timber. The munchjack and bambi grub up our crops when they're fresh in the field, yet if a Risbroman so much as lays a hand on these
beasts the Guvnor must send him to Wyc, where he's sold into chavery. It is the same for the fez and the snip, the whirrcock
and the grouse – all are to be found hereabouts in abundance, while my fares make do with a few pork scratchings and chicken
pieces – rat flesh even. Yet where in the Book does it make mention of any of this? Where does it say that mums and dads should
live in such bondage? Yes – he sighed and took a pull on one of Böm's fags – there's scant regard for the finer points of the
Knowledge here in Risbro, or throughout the rest of Chil.

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!

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. However, 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.