Will Self: The Book of Dave

— Ware2, guv, he said to the Driver in a cursory fashion.

— To New London, came the answer in Arpee with considerably more solemnity.

— Iss awlways a fyn fing 2 C a moto slorta, said Mister Greaves, grabbing the loose stuff of his long T-shirt with both hands so that it stretched over his pot tank.

— Maybe, the Driver snapped. At any rate, it's a practice the Hamsters wouldn't wish to forgo.

Carl looked up into the Driver's mirror and saw there cold black eyes under high, white, gull's-wing eyebrows. The lad bent back to stroking Runti's muzzle, murmuring:

— Vare-vare, vare-vare, Runti, soon ovah, soon ovah …

— Why should they forgo it, Reervú? said Mister Greaves, setting his jaw and thrusting out his long, wispy ginger beard. His nose was bulbous, his brows beetled, his cheeks were tenderized with old pox scars — yet he fronted up well. Still, the Driver had got to him — so much so that he had shifted to Arpee as he bit and nibbled his curry-stung lips.

— Because the moto is real, not toyist… The Driver's voice was low, but his enunciation was perfectly clear. Even in chitchat he sounded like a zealot… and only toyist beasts may be scoffed.

— Come off it, Dad. Mister Greaves was up for a bit of bother, and the dads, who'd by now finished lashing Runti to the gibbet, came up to hear them. The moto is a sacred creature, ordained as such by the Book!

— On one reading perhaps. The Driver hooked his hands into the side vents of his robe, mimicking Mister Greaves's posture. However, on the true one — as higher authorities would tell you, if you listened clearly — it is an abomination.

The Chilmen — both the Hack's pedalers and the sick fares — certainly looked disposed to agree with the Driver. Carl recognized two of the older pedalers — they'd been in the party on previous summers — while the rest of them, some twenty dads in all, had never visited Ham before. In the lad's eyes fares and pedalers alike were a motley crew, their awkward bones an ill fit for their scrawny hides. Their blue caps, yellow tops and red jeans were garish — babyish even — and naturally most of them bore fresh pox scars or weeping goitres. The Chilmen stood as close to the Hack as their rank allowed and stared at the moto with frank disgust.

– Í lúks lyke an abominowotsit 2 me, said a slight man, whose bald head was cloven by a fresh trepanning wound. Í az ve eyes owa ooman, ve teef, ve cok an balls 2. Iss feet ar lyke ands wiv pads uv flesh mell-éd intavem, but iss muzzle iz lyke a burgakynes an iss bodi iz lyke vat uv an idëus bäcön … Í duz me fukkin éd in.

— Me 2! Yeah, me 2! the other Chilmen cried.

Carl continued to cradle Runti's upside-down head in his arms, heedless of the blood coursing down his neck and blotting out his T-shirt. With one hand he held an earflap closed, with the other he stroked the moto's bulging jonckheeres. He went on whispering into the beast's free ear, Vare-vare, Runti, vare-vare, mì sweet … but it seemed doubtful that the moto could hear him, for his baby-blue eyes were rolled back in their sockets, while his breath came in a laboured squeak and his blood continued to pulse. Then Runti gave a final convulsive shudder, arching his long back, snapping the ropes. Before, the dying creature had lisped in an undertone; now a single clear statement issued from his already bluing lips: Eye thleepy nah! Gonna B wiv Dave! Then he went completely slack. Carl stepped back from the gibbet, letting go of Runti's head, and plodded away, his face averted so the dads couldn't see his tears. He wished it were Changeover day with all his heart.

— Bluddë el! the cloven-headed Chilman said wondrously, iss trew, ven — vat vey speek!

Hmm, yes, the Driver answered him, but only with the voice of a child just weaned; they have no more reason than any toyist beast.

— Be that as it may, said Mister Greaves, pulling his shirt still tighter around his tank, I've been Hack here at Ham for twenty-five years now and I've learned to love the moto well enough. I'd advise you, dads of my party, to love this fine beast too. His flesh will preserve you, his fat will grease you, and once it's extracted his oil will — as you well know — prove the most effective of remedies for whatever ails you. Is this not why you've been allowed to come here, to this most distant and yet dävine island of our Lawd's? Nah — he slewed angrily into Mokni — pissoff ve ló-uv U — go an kip in yer gaff. Yaw oasts av wurk 2 do — rispek vem.

The Chilmen scattered in obedience, heading up the stream to the travelodge and disappearing one after another into its dark doorway, their faces still white with astonishment.

The Driver addressed the Hack:

— Mister Greaves, come and have a cuppa at my gaff; there's matters we must talk over before tonight's do.

— And tomorrow's Council. Greaves looked over at Carl as he said this.

— Yes, and tomorrow's Council. Shall we go?

They walked away, the Driver taking his first few paces backwards before spinning on his heel; yet neither — in the mirror or directly — gave the slaughtered moto so much as a backward glance.

Once the off-islanders were all gone, the Hamstermen set to work with a vengeance. From an oilcloth bundle Fred Ridmun drew out a hooked knife the length of his forearm. Fukka Funch dragged a large piece of oilcloth beneath Runti's dangling head. Carl put his weight on the dead moto's arms. Ozzi Bulluk pulled the rope that kept one of its hind feet lashed to the gibbet as tightly as possible, splaying the moto's legs. Its genitals, tank and ribs were all thrown into prominence. Taking a deep breath and crying out, Stikk í 2 im, Dave! Fred thrust the knife into the notch beneath the rib cage and, sawing vigorously, yanked it up. Hide and flesh parted with a loud popping sound, and Runti's guts flumped down in a tangled mass on to the cloth. Fukka moved in at once with a shorter knife and, feeling around in the moto's abdominal cavity, cut the intestines away. Behind him came Carl with a pail of sea water, which he sloshed up into the gory hole, slooshing out any shit or half-digested fodder. Carl was laughing as he barged Fukka out of the way, and instead of clumping him the dad laughed as well. It mattered not how old or how dävine you were — butchering a moto was always a joyous occasion so far as the Hamsters were concerned.

The mummies and opares now came out from where they'd been waiting in a huddle behind the Brudi gaff. Hitching up their cloakyfings, they crossed the stream and came towards the slaughter site. All that morning the Hamsters' huge irony kettle had been simmering over a fire a few paces away from the gibbet. Now the women went to this, formed a chain, poured pails of boiling water and passed them, hand to hand, to Carl, who attached them to a rope and winched them up so that they could be tipped over the carcass. Once it was well and truly scalded, the dads dragged over boards and trestles to make up the skinning table. This was assembled immediately under the scaffold and the dead moto lowered down on to it.

Next the daddies lined up along one side of the table and the mummies along the other. Short, broad-bladed knives were taken out from another cherished bundle and distributed among them. Then the company set to, scraping the thick bristles from the hide. Carl was too young to take part in this work; nevertheless he loitered near by and even risked smiling at his mum, Caff. She smiled back while the others chose not to notice this exchange.

For twelve long years the Driver had sought to snuff out such intercourse between the sexes; however there were some of the Hamsters' rituals that he could neither proscribe nor modify. When the Hack's party came and the moto was slain, the dads and mums spoke to one another with warm vitality, exchanging news, opinions and especially gossip about the strangers, their remarks shooting back and forth across the table as rapidly as their knives scraped at the hide. Had the Hack accepted the rent? What illnesses or deformities did the Chilmen have? Was there any news of Chil, or even of the world beyond? What business did the Hack have with their Driver? And most importantly: what had been brought to trade? Was there fresh seed? Woolly? Fags? Booze even?