Jeff Noon - Vurt

There was the Beetle, back down from his bass trip, still shaking some but playing the crowd like a robopro, taking feathers from chance acquaintances. So I looked around for Mandy. Couldn't see no Mandy. But there were Tristan and Suze, holding their mutual hair aloft, as they moved through the brood. Christ! There was that shadowgirl, what was her name? She'd tried to beat us up in Bottletown. Nimbus! And look, there was Scribble, taking a feather into his mouth. No! No way! I was here, up on the balcony, not down there! I wasn't down there! I was fighting for control, trying hard to place myself.

I watched myself vanish, into the crowd, into the smoke. And that was better. To be the only one again, to be in one piece again. I just didn't need that hassle.

There was Mandy now. I'd spotted her. She was pressed up inside the crush and some chancer was tickling a feather against her lips, no doubt a Pornovurt, hoping for a turn on. Try a Blood-vurt, my man. More chance of a show then. I guess the guy didn't pass go, because the next thing he was all bunched up, clutching his balls, going down in the crush. Not many come up from down there. Mandy scooped up the feather anyway. Shit! That girl! She'd be a fine sight to wake up to, all ready for the day's adventure.

Just then a voice spoke to me, from up close, from the left side, but I was certain nobody was there. So I turned and there he was… this gentleman. No other word for him. The gentleman was dressed in knowledge and suffering. And a pea-green three-piece suit of tweed, with leather epaulettes. His face was guarded by a full beard and moustache, which kind of made up for his receding hair. What he had left was tied back in some kind of complex knot that hung over one shoulder, like a mutant topology. His eyes were totally yellow, soft and languid. They stirred the very worst memories. Lips full and red, and when they parted to speak, well, it seemed like he was speaking direct, direct to my soul.

"Yes. That girl would be worthwhile," he said, like he'd glimpsed all my secrets. His voice was a deep brogue, and it raised memories in me, feelings I couldn't place, like I'd heard it before, but hadn't paid enough attention to it.

"That's right," he said, "You haven't been paying attention to me."

I hadn't said anything! Shit! This was just like with Bridget.

"Are you a Sleeper?" I asked.

"Kind of, but nothing like Bridget."

"What?"

"You're looking for Desdemona. Am I right, Scribble?" He knew my name.

"You know a way -"

"And Bridget, of course. You'd like to find Bridget. Only trouble; you're worried that the Thing is more important to you than Bridget is. Because of the swapback for the sister. And this makes you feel guilty."

"Who are you?" I demanded.

He took a sip of red wine from his glass.

"Let's get something to eat." And then he turned away. I turned to follow, but sometime during my turning the gentleman had vanished. I was looking all around, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He just didn't exist any more. And it made an emptiness in my heart, the kind you just don't need to feel.

I turned back to the crush below. Dingo Tush had made an entrance. He was moving through the crowd, receiving the adulation. His fur was fingered and stroked by hundreds of loving hands, and the crush changed its geometry around him. Everybody was lost, except for the centre piece, the Dingo mandog. And over in the darkest corner, far below, a body of smoke was forming. I caught just a glimpse of it, before it smoothed away, into the crush world. But it sure made me jump, and I didn't know why.

I was feeling so empty inside, and food was all I could turn to. The table was sagging under the weight of dishes. It was a spread of joy; my mouth was dripping. There were the tiny wings of larks, stewed in pig's blood. There were the ink sacs of squids, leaking onto a bed of palms. There were the eggs of the wren, griddled over charcoal, with a saffron marinade. And there were the encrusted eyes of virgin lambs, smothered in dark filaments of horse bread, deep fried in shadow oil. Overseeing the feast was the Slithy Tove head-chef, with his long Vazzed-back hair and his sunken cheeks flecked with stubble. And something about his eyes, some bad need in there.

"Tuck in, Crewcut," he said to me. "Relish it"

"I will," I replied, filling my mouth with the succulence. "Hey, this is good!"

"Just tell 'em that Barnie made it. Barnie the Chef. Remember that?"

"Will do," I said, between mouthfuls.

And then Beetle was beside me, building a plateful.

"Nice grub, Scribb?" he asked.

"Sure it is," I said. "Barnie the Chef made it."

Barnie the chef gave me a smile.

"Seen much of Murdoch these days, Scribble?" the Beetle asked.

"I'm keeping low."

"Oh sure. Playing to a full house of dog turds at the Limbic club. That's real low, baby."

"I've got to make a living, Bee."

"Hey, we did that bitch cop good, didn't we?"

"Yeah."

"You should've let me finish her."

"They'd send somebody else."

"I know that. But the pleasure would've been intense. Hey, by the way, Scribb, cheers for the bass ride. That was some fucker-trip! Oh boy!"

"Beetle?"

"What?"

"Don't throw Mandy away."

"What?"

He was losing it again.

"She's your ticket."

"Yeah… well… I'm moving on from that girl. She's gone cold on me. She won't take the feathers any more. Not the ones I want her to take."

"I'm worried about you, Beetle."

He looked at me then, just for a moment, but it was wonderful. One of those old hard-core Beetle stares. Then the feathers set back in, took control, and the triple glaze descended, slithering over his vision.

"You're taking it too much, Bee," I said. "Too much Wormer."

I thought he was going to bawl me out, but he was too busy looking over my shoulder. That hard Beetle light came back into his eyes. "Tristan! My man! And Suze in tow!" he shouted, greeting the pair as they ascended.

"Beetle… listen to me…"

But the guy was gone, pushing aside a frail young diner, walking a jagged line towards the hair-locked couple. I watched as he embraced Suze, and then Tristan, stroking their locks with his long, Vaz-covered fingers. The crusty couple were stroking him back, in turn, and all I could do was watch; totally missing the scene. Suze smiled at me; it was a deep smile, way deep, and again I felt her going inside of me, caressing the whole body with one look. What did that woman have, that no other woman had, apart from Desdemona? The world was spinning around. Fetish and the Bliss, and the dancing; all of them getting to me. I turned away from the love, took a turning step backwards, away from Beetle, into empty space. The Gentleman was waiting for me there, with his three-piece pea-green suit and his wisdom.

"Don't let him get to you, Scribble," he said.

"Tell me your name?" I asked.

"You know who I am."

"Yes," I told him. "I know you." But from where?

"That's enough for now," he answered, reading my thoughts.

"Is the Thing still alive?" I asked.

"Still alive. So is Bridget."

And again, something about his voice got to me.

"How come you know all this?"

"Because I'm watching the world go by."

"Where is the Thing?"

"I think you should work that out for yourself."

"Tell me!"

He was looking at me. Yellow eyes. That look of deep recognition you only get once in a while. His gaze was golden and all the bad memories, the losses, they started to drift away. I was falling, seriously falling for this man. But I didn't know why, except it was like falling for a long lost friend, that you'd never met before. He started to speak, but then his eyes flickered away, to the right, over my shoulder.

I turned around, and there were the Beetle and Tristan, hugging each other.