Jeff Noon - Vurt

Except that Tristan had no time for Beetle, no time at all. Instead he was staring, deep and pointed, straight into the eyes of the Gentleman. No one else could see him. I realised that then. Only me and Tristan. We were joined by this, but how to fathom it?

"What's happening?" I asked, and his eyes turned back to mine, full of pain and suffering.

"It's like this, Scribble," he said. "You've got the poison. It's inside you."

"The snake bite?" I asked.

"I don't know how you got it. Some have got it. Most haven't. Those that do, they should use it. You're not using it."

"I'm confused."

"So was I. Your age. One day you find it. One day you realise. The world slips into place. You'll get there."

"Like how?" I demanded, only to see the Gentleman doing that slipping away trick again.

"Scribble! Come here!" Beetle's voice breaking into my trance. "Scribble. Let's chat." He'd given up on Tristan, and homed in on me once more. His eyes were dancing behind the drugged-up glaze. "Scribble, something to tell you." His voice was way deep, still dragging some remnants of the bass injection. "Listen to me!" he shouted, clutching my arms tight.,

"Well say it."

"Scribble… I… I want to… just to…" The Beetle looked around then, all nervous and fearful, and this was rare enough to cause me to stare back hard at him. He couldn't give my stare back

He couldn't give it back! Beetle couldn't look at me! Not without flinching. Wonders of the world!

"Just say it." My voice was hard, not caring. Told you I was losing it.

He forced his eyes to mine, and then said, "I've got something for you." He pulled his baccy box from his pocket and place it in my hands.

"Can't take it," I whispered. "Can't…"

"It's for you."

Beetle had carried his drugs in this old Black Cherry Rough Shag tin box, from the days of our time at Droylsden State, high school for unachievers. Within its closed-up darkness he had carried Jammers and Vaz, Fluff and Shadows, Feathers and Haze, all the things he could lay his hands upon. Contained within, all of his dreams. His treasure box.

"I can't take this, Bee."

"Open it up,"he said.

Box opened with a satisfying click, and a nice feel in the hands, and I expected to find a real mess in there, a jungle of dark drugs. Instead a single feather lay on a bed of cotton wool.

"Bee!"

Feather was a deep blue-black, with a sheen of pink. I picked it up with shaking fingers, loving the way it fluttered in my hands, like the dream-bird was still using it, flying the Vurt waves.

"Bee!"

I turned it over to read the white label.

Tapewormer.

"Bee!"

I realised I was just saying his name; saying nothing, too shocked to think.

"You know I can't go back, Bee."

"I've been up to my eyes in it, lately," he said. "Couldn't stop using it."

"What's it like?"

I was crumbling under those hints of yesterday.

"It's a jewel Vurt, Scribble. But I was getting hooked. Just couldn't stop reworming that tape. Makes everything beautiful. But you know me, I can't stand getting hooked, well, not to single pleasures."

"I don't know if I…"

"Des is in there," he said, pointing to the feather. "Well, you know, kind of."

"And here's me trying to give up."

"It's just for… just for…"

Guy couldn't say it.

"I know," I said."Old times. Stash Riders."

"Right."

And he turned away, back to his old self. He made his way back to the food bench, telling Barnie the Chef he was a cool genius, in the kitchen of the gods.

Forgiveness.

It was forgiveness the Beetle was asking for, and my heart melted.

"You don't need that," said the brogue voice.

"I do," I answered, to the shadow that was forming. "You just don't know why."

"I know the secrets," said the Gentleman, back again.

"I need this!"

"You need the gift. But not the Vurt.",

"And why not?"

"You've got the Vurt inside you," he said.,

"What do you mean?"

"You don't need feathers. You could tune in. Direct. This has happened already, yes?"

"Yes."

Don't know why I said that!

"You've been there. Slipping in and out," he said.

"It's getting worse," I told him, again not knowing why, except that things had been going strange for me lately; lots of little slips, in and out of states. So that I didn't know what people were saying to me. And this feeling inside, like the world wasn't solid, it was an edge. It felt just the same when I was getting the Haunting. This isn't all there is. The edge was scary and I was living on it. No, not living on the edge, I was living inside the edge!

"Young man, the edge is real, and you don't know how close you are."

"To what?"

"To the step. It's not getting worse; it's getting better."

"You think so?"

"To where you lie. Your place, your proper place. The dream world, featherless."

"I like it here on Earth."

"Desdemona is waiting for you."

"What?" Oh Jesus!

"She's waiting. Take a look."

And the Gentleman led me gently to the balcony, where I gazed down upon the crowd, and there was Desdemona, waiting there, in the middle of the crush, perfectly still, her yellow blouse flecked with blood, and her face scarred and cracked. Sister was beckoning to me, from the dance floor, her two arms outstretched, urging.

"Desdemona," I said.

"That's her," said the Gentleman. "She's waiting."

I turned back to him, but already he was shivering, dissolving. "Tell me who you are?" I demanded.

"Don't let the Viper get you," he replied. "Be careful. Be very, very careful. Keep it clean. Right under the rim. You know I never lie."

"Just wait…"

But his eyes were over my shoulder once again, and I turned around to see Beetle and Suze hugging each other, but Tristan just looking, straight on, right into the eyes of the Gentleman. It was the look of love, that kind of doomed love that never leaves you alone.

"Tristan will tell you who I am," the stranger said.

"Cat? Game Cat?" I said, turning back to the voice, but the voice was gone. Cat was gone.

That feeling again, that emptiness.

I peered over the balcony, searching for Desdemona. There she was, covered in smoke and blood, drifting away, into the smoke and the blood. And I couldn't help her. I couldn't fucking help her! Her scarred face misting over, dissolving, like the dreams of love, into the crowd, into the Vurt.

Losing her.

Losing.

Things we want the most, things that slip away.

And then I was taking the stairs, three at a time, dodging the rung-dancers, heading down to the floor and the fading sister. I was pushing into the crush, but they were welded tight by now. I think I threw some poor wraith aside as I squeezed through. The world was closing up and I ran straight into the arms of Bridget.

Bridget!

That smoky shape I had seen on the outskirts, from above; now she was in my hands and the smoke was rising from her skin, way beyond what I was used to, and her eyes were shadow-flecked and knowledgeable. She pushed away from me, back into the arms of her dancing partner, a handsome boy with curly brown hair.

"Bridget!" I called out.

"No," the shadowgirl answered, and maybe it wasn't her. Maybe I was dreaming.

"You're just dreaming," the voice in my head was saying. But it was Bridget's voice in there. She was thinking to me, through the Shadow waves, looking like the ghost of yesterday. I caught just a glimpse of recognition in her eyes, and then she was gone, fading away in a wave of smoke.

And a new face of scars taking her place, amongst the crush. Face of Murdoch. Shecop. Dog-torn. Penetrating. Real.

Moving through the crowd, like a demon.

Where do you run, when the bad girl comes? Maybe you run home to Mummy. Maybe you run towards your lover. Or maybe, like me, you've got a Beetle in your life; somebody powerful, even if he was just this moment thick-bodied from the overuse of cheap Tapewormer feathers.