Vurt 2 - Pollen (4 page)

Gumbo YaYa always seemed to know more about cop-cases than we did ourselves. He even had a phone-in line up and running, but whenever a cop called that number, the signal vanished into a mesh of darkness, which was the symbol of hiddenness in those days. A condom-virus was on the wave.

Through a veil of rain, I negotiated the sharp, fast left onto Wilmslow Road and then the right onto Claremont, riding the Comet towards a stranger’s death. It was 6.57 a.m. Just down the road I could see the police lights flashing, making red arcs in the rain, and the half-darkness, the black trees of Alexandra Park passing by to my left, the flickering lights of robocops moving through the leaves. One more scene of crime. My life. A crowd of dog-people were hanging around. Luminous cop ribbons were strung from lamp posts and cop-cars. One vicious dogboy had his jaws clenched around the ribbon. As I pulled up next to a black cab that was parked, half on, half off the pavement, I saw sparks fluttering in the morning rain. The dogboy yelped at the shock and then fell back into the paws of a young bitchgirl. A fleshcop brandished his gun at the crowd. I got out of the car and a young robocop officer came up close, beaming on me for identification. I walked over to where a crowd of cops were pressed around a dark shape on the ground. We were just opposite the side gate to Alexandra Park, Claremont Road entrance. A big dogcop was growling at a bunch of pissed-off, rain-dampened officers, telling them to shake some flesh. One of them sneezed.

“What have we got, Clegg?” I asked.

The dogcop turned at my voice. His dirt-brown fur was greasy-slick from the downpour. “Where’s Kracker?” he asked. Clegg was the one cop who didn’t call the boss the Biscuit Boy. Sometimes he even used the word Master when referring to the chief. Now, Kracker wasn’t one for the dirty work. He usually put in a scowling appearance at the scene of crime and then rushed back to his desk. This time he hadn’t even shown his face. He had a good excuse; his wife was expecting their twenty-first baby any second.

“He’s looking out for his new kid,” I replied.

“That’s a shame. So they send us a fucking smoke.”

Chief Inspector Z. Clegg was a fine, upstanding dogcop. His long snout and extra-rich sense of smell had sniffed out a whole batch of homicides and dogicides. He was half dog, half man, with a real hatred in his mind for anyone with the Shadow in them. Me, for instance. I am a smoking-woman, which means I have an abundance of Shadow in me, mixed in with the flesh. All creatures have got a trace of the Shadow, but some of us have direct entry. Clegg’s intense dislike for the Shadow was pathological.

“The victim’s got some dog in him, Zero?” I asked. I said this because of the wet, glistening look in Clegg’s eyes. I’d seen it too many times on previous cases not to know what it meant.

Z. Clegg just nodded.

The Z stood for Zulu, but Clegg hated that name, so he called himself Z. I called him Zero, just to get the fur on his back erect. He really hated it. Zero was one of those dogmen who desperately tried to deny their canine side. Which was some kind of joke considering the patches of fur on his face, and the long whiskers that sprouted from each side of his cheeks. He really hated being called a dog. Maybe because the dog-people were considered the lowest of the low in society. Most citizens saw them as being only a claw-scratch above the people of Limbo, the so-called Zombies. Even a robo was seen to be of more worth than a dog. Zombies, Dogs, Robos, Shadows, Vurt and Pure; this was the scale of worth. Therefore most dogs ended up on the wrong side of the law. A dog who joined the cops was constantly under pressure. Not only from the pure cops but also from the mad dogboys on the street, who saw it as the ultimate betrayal. On top of that add Clegg’s dislike of the Shadows, and the fact that he wasn’t married, that he was never seen lusting after women, or men, or even dogs for that matter—and you’d find a picture of crossbreed loneliness building. I had a million theories about why Clegg acted like he did, all that twisted bitterness. None of them made our relationship any easier. But most of all Zero hated it when somebody with even a tiny bit of dog in them got killed. This was his one concession to the dog he carried around inside his mixed-up genes.

“You got a name, Zero?” I asked. “You got a time of death?”

“Sure. The ID card in the cab calls him Coyote. Forensic clock puts the last gasp at 6.19 a.m.”

“Ever heard of him?” Zero knew all the dogs of importance, especially those on the dark side of the law.

“Get to it, Sibyl,” Zero growled. “Make me a happy man.”

I pulled a pair of steri-gloves onto my fingers, and then knelt down next to the body; early twenties, a smooth wave of black and white fur rising from his shirt collar, forming a sleek and spotted mask all over his face. Dogboy beautiful. Dressed in black jeans and a leather blouson, the jacket decorated with fan-club badges—Manchester City Vurtball Club, Belle Vue Robohounds, Rusholme Ruffians Basketball Posse. This victim was a Manchesterophile. Some wounds on the face—teeth marks and glass shards. Despite all this, the victim had a smile. It was captured on his dead face. Inside of the smile someone—the murderer?—had stuffed a bunch of flowers. Red flowers they were, rising on tall green stalks and then drooping back over his cheeks, softly. Clusters of red petals all tightly bound into long tassels. Their sticky smell was getting to me as I lowered my face back towards the body. Beyond the mouth of flowers a thin glaze of grease was smeared across the nostrils. His fur was shining, here and there, with spots of yellow powder.

“Anybody touched the body?” I asked.

Zero Clegg sneezed before answering. “You’re the first.”

I sniffed at the grease on his nose. “He was suffering from hayfever,” I said. “This is Sneeza Freeza.”

“This is really going to help us capture the perp, Jones,” Zero answered. “You want to do that shadow-search?” He made it sound like some kind of disease.

Maybe it is.

This is why the cops employed me. I can read the minds of the living and sometimes, if we get to them early enough, I can read the minds of the dead, their last thoughts, whilst they still linger. This is what I was now trying, letting my hands of smoke play over the corpse’s face, feeling my way towards his final seconds of life.

Contact. Dying moments coming through to me, dust to dust, smoke to smoke…

… taste is so sweet, so rich… can hardly breathe… so sweet… so full of the taste of honey… I am kissing flowers… her tongue is like a vine… and for a girl so young, so very young… it is the taste of… the taste of Eden… let me sleep there… let me sleep… sleep and grow… let me sleep and grow… Jesus! Nobody can have a tongue that long…

And then a burst of colour that made me weep.

… oh my God! The flowers are dancing… dancing…

I was travelling inside a dead dogboy’s head, drifting from a spectrum burst into a fall of emptiness…

… think about me, Boda… sing that song one last time…

That last line of Coyote’s life drifting into silence… that name he called with such need. It was a sweet death.

“What did you say?” Clegg’s voice.

“What?” I was still feeling the passage into darkness.

“You said it was a sweet death, Jones?”

“Did I?” I don’t know what I said. Maybe I just sent the message on the Shadow-paths, mind to mind, Shadow to Dog.

“Is there such a thing, Smokey? A sweet death?”

“There’s flowers in his head, Zero.”

“I noticed.”

“No, no. In his mind. Like an explosion… a burst of flowers… I…”

“What’s wrong with you? All I want is a clue.”

“I can’t describe it… an explosion of flowers…”

“Some fucking use you are.”

I ignored the remark, reaching instead for one of the flowers in Coyote’s mouth. I made a move to pull it loose from the bunch.

“You want to tell me how he died?” Clegg asked.

“That’s Skinner’s province.”

“Don’t get me going, Smoke. You find a name in that brain? The murderer, maybe? Is that too much to ask?”

“She was young. A girl, maybe. The name of Boda came up. That mean anything to you, Zero?”

“No it doesn’t. And stop calling me Zero.”

The flower was not coming loose. Something was holding it tight inside the dogboy’s mouth. I gripped both hands around the stems of the full bunch, and then gave a good tug on them. No good. It felt like the roots of the flowers were being gripped by a hand equal to mine, somewhere deep in the throat.

“Who the hell would stick a bunch of flowers into a victim’s mouth?” Zero asked.

“They won’t come out,” I answered, still struggling.

Zero pushed me aside. “Here, let me…” He knelt down and grabbed the stalks out of my hand.

“Zero! The prints…”

“It just needs a good strong dog-pull… Jesus-Canine!”

“Told you.”

“Pissing bunch of flowers!” The dogcop made an almighty effort. There was a tearing sound, and then Zero was falling backwards to land on his hindquarters, the bunch of flowers in his two front paws. “Bleeding flowers!” he exclaimed, and then sneezed, violently. And I saw that the liquid in his eyes wasn’t just tears, not just tears of pain. “This damned hayfever!” he snorted, desperately trying to get himself back on to two legs. “It gets earlier every year.” He handed the flowers over to me and I made a quick examination of the ends of the stalks. They were ragged and juice laden. I put my hands deep into the dead dog’s throat, feeling for something there. My fingers passed over a series of sharp needles. And when I pulled my fingers out they were smeared with sap. I looked over to Zero.

“What’s going on, Smokey?” he asked.

“The flowers weren’t just placed in the mouth,” I answered.

I had my fingers back down deep in the victim’s throat. I could feel where the roots of the plants were embedded in his throat muscles. It was totally beyond my training.

“What are you saying, Shadowgirl?”

“I’m saying that I’m way past a girl.”

“Cool down on the politics, Jones. Spill it.”

So I told him: “The flowers are rooted in his throat.”

“This is one bad scenario. Smells crazy-bad to the good nose. Take a look at this, Sibyl…” Using my first name, he was gesturing over to the cab. “Take a look at the meter.”

I looked into the cab. The driver’s window was broken, and a greasy smear was spread all over the door and the bonnet. I dabbed some onto my finger, sniffed at it. “Zombie juice, right?” Zero said. “Looks like he ejected a hitcher.” Then I saw the tariff, shining in luminous yellow.

“Where was he delivering from?” I asked. “Australia?”

“Further than that, Smokey,” Zero replied, moving around to the boot. “Dog must have been picking up from Limbo. Must have dealt with some bad Zombie. Boot-luggage was registered.”

“You tried it yet?”

He shook his head and pulled out a tube of Vaz, squeezed some into the lock, worked his cop-key until the boot lifted with a slow wave. Just emptiness in there. “We got a call from the cops out in Frontier Town, northern sector,” Zero said. “They traced him bringing in an immigrant. Lost him in the maze. Jesus-Dog! Sure was a mean dancer, that Coyote. Some big hero on the streets, so I’m expecting flak from this. I’m expecting another dog-riot. Kracker’s going to have my hide if I don’t deliver.”

The first dog-riot had taken place some years ago, fired-up by the random slaying of a young bitchgirl in Bottletown. Robo-Skinner and his team in forensics had found that the victim had been Shadow-raped. One more incident in the war between the smoke and the fur. We had tried our best to keep it from the streets but Gumbo YaYa stole the knowledge from our Wave. He then proceeded to broadcast it over his station, and the dogs had risen up in protest, demanding justice, equality and revenge. Since then the dog-people had been on a fur-trigger; exploding periodically—on some kind of canine cycle—whenever a dog was taken out. Coyote was just the latest in a long line.

Zombies, Dogs, Robos, Shadows, Vurt and Pure. The ladder of worth falling into war, rung against rung.

“You got any clues, Clegg?” I asked.

“You know what, Smokey? I’m reckoning this is a mist job. I’m thinking a Shadow did it.”

“Right… I see…”

“You got any other suspects, Smokey?”

“Every time a dog dies, you think a Shadow’s done it.”

The dogcop ignored my remark. “Let’s try the back seat,” he said. The door opened and a soft wave of yellow air drifted out into the street. Zero was holding his nose against the smell…

“Jesus!” I breathed.

“You said it, Smokey… oh shit… not again—”

He was going to sneeze… it was the smell…

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHCHOOOOOOOSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

“Dog-Christ!”

The smell of flowers from the back of the cab. The air inside seemed to be glowing with the scent of a thousand blossoms. Sparkles of colour floating, and something else under that, like flowers on a wound… the smell of death submerged.

“You ever smelt that before, Jones?” Zero was wiping his nose with a sodden rag. “Some perfume, uh?”

“No. Never.” I looked over to the other cops. They were all sneezing now… soft explosions… cries… curses…

“You want to close that door now? Please!”

I didn’t answer him. Something about that other smell, the hidden smell… I leaned into the passenger compartment…

“One question, Jones. How come we’re all sneezing our guts out, and you’re just walking free? How come you’re not sneezing?”

Inside the cab…

… the world was a scent… I was climbing into it… changing senses… the sparkles of colour on the seat… same as on the dogboy’s face… look closely… yellow… intense… tiny
… smear one onto my finger… it tickles… head fuming… foggy… underneath that… the hidden… there… the seat… a smear of grease
… Sneeza Freeza?… No… not that… too purple
… familiar… fingers in it… burning… cold… smell it… death… half-death…

I climbed out of the cab, to face Zero.

“Jones?”

“Bad news.”

“Spill.”

“He brought one through. A Non-Viable Lifeform.”

“A Zombie?”

“It was still alive, Zero. There were no last thoughts in there.”