Will Self - The Book of Dave

'The sparrows are nearly all gone in London,' Dave put in.

'Eggzackerly!' In the rearview mirror Dave saw the old man's bony digit waggle. 'Eggzackerly, lyke a fukkin sparrer aw a bitta bá-erred cod.'

'They're going inall.'

'Rì agen, gawn, cort inna eevul fukkin net, mayt, an eevul fukkin net vat juss cum aht uv ve fukkin sky.'

Coming up Highgate Road, Dave used the steep slope after the railway bridge to take off, and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang unfurled its wings once more, and soared up over the redbrick, 1930s blocks of Lissenden Gardens. He banked the flying car and came in on a flat approach to the summit of Parliament Hill, touching down on the path with hardly a bump. They rolled to a halt, and the fare got out. Dave searched the dash for a meter but couldn't find one. There was hardly any point in trying, for when he looked again he saw that the old man had done a runner, pelting off down the hill towards the Highgate Ponds, his long black robe streaming behind him. 'I s'pose I'll just have to wipe my mouth on that one,' Dave muttered to himself.

Dawn was silvering the mirrored buildings of the City — further to the east the bridge at Dartford floated above the riverine mist. The streetlights were still on, phosphorescent trails in the oily swell of streets and buildings. Dave felt an aqueous queasiness when he saw the long line of the North Downs to the far south — they were distant islands, uninhabited and uninhabitable. At his back he sensed the ridges of Barnet and then the Chilterns rising up, wooded shores against which London lapped.

Carl and his mother were sitting on one of the benches that looked out over the city. As Dave drew closer, he saw that they were both in their nightwear. He sat down, putting his arm around his son. 'Are you going to do the baddest thing in the world, Dad?' Carl asked, and Dave replied, 'Yes, son, yes, I think I will.'

'How're you going to do it, then?'

Dave looked sideways at Michelle, but her drained face didn't respond. How would he do the baddest thing? There were so many ways. The plunge from Suicide Bridge, drowning in the Serpentine, a shotgun at the West London Shooting Centre. Then there were the things Dave could throw himself beneath: the wheels of a hated fellow cabbie's cab, a police car, shit… if he timed it right he could probably sever his miserable head with the incisive wheel of a speeding bicycle courier.

The racing bike clattered away over cobbles splattering blood — it had a trachea for a chain. Its clakka-clakka-clakk resolved into the rat-a-tat-tat of the doorknocker. Dave clawed on a balding, black towelling robe and fell down the stairs to the front door. It was a brilliant morning, and the postie — who was a squat African woman with chipmunk cheeks — thrust an envelope and clipboard at him. 'Sign heah, date an' print!' she cried, and when he protested 'Wha?' she reiterated it so forcefully 'Sign heah DATE AN' PRINT YOUR NAME!' that he instantly obeyed. It wasn't until Dave had shut the door and was padding back upstairs while tearing the envelope open that it hit him. He'd been served.

Although the thick, bonded paper was headed with an embossed letterhead Dave didn't recognize, UNDERCROFT, MENDEL AND PARTNERS, 22 VIGO STREET, LONDON WI, the text was clearly addressed to him:

Dear Mr Rudman

In the matter of Carl Rudman we act for our client Ms Michelle Brodie. Following representations from our client we are satisfied that the non-molestation order preventing you from going within half a mile of our client's residence has been breached on two occasions. We have now lodged a temporary injunction for a full exclusion order in the Principal Registry of the Family Division of the High Court, and hereby give notice that until this case is heard any further breach of the existing order will result in an automatic custodial sentence.

We also give you notice that pending any appeal on your part, all existing arrangements for visitation to your son, Carl, are held to be cancelled. Should you attempt to contact your son, we will view this as prejudicial and inform the police.

If you have any queries regarding this letter, please feel free to telephone me on my direct line, listed above.

Yours sincerely,

Mitchell Blair

It was a small letter, but it had unnaturally large teeth. Dave began to cry.

The kipper season's wheatie crop had only just been harvested and the Council was still planning the first fowling expedition of the year, when the Hack's party arrived prematurely on Ham. The sight of the Chilmen struck fear into the Hamsters. There were at least thirty of them, all fit, strong chaps armed with shooters and railings, owing fealty to the Lawyer alone. There could be no thought of resisting them, and when Mister Greaves was met on the foreshore by Fred Ridmun wearing his Guvnor's cap, the whole population understood that their coming was no accident. The Geezer made no attempt to hide from the Hack. He was immediately seized and bundled off to the travelodge, where he was confined.

For four days Mister Greaves sat in session and heard the evidence against Symun Dévúsh. One after another the Hamsters scuttled before him to recant and to give evidence of the Geezer's flying behaviour. The weather remained exceptionally fine throughout, a bigwatt foglamp beating down on the island. The Chilmen, despite their disciplined array, were as overawed as any other newcomers to Ham, and they soon began to relax and leave off their carcoats. So it was a considerable surprise to the Hamsters when, at first tariff on the fifth day, they rose to discover that the Hack's pedalo had been pulled back into the water and was being made ready to depart.

— Bring ve fliar dahn, Mister Greaves ordered Fred. 4 Eye an arf mì dads ul B leevin 4 Wyc vis tariff. Ve uvvas ul stä eer 2 mayk shoor vares no maw bovva. Eyel B bakk in free mumfs wiv ve sikkmen. Eye want yaw moto reddy 4 slorta, an ve briks an bubbery an fevvas 4 yaw tikkit. U lot av slungaht viss Geezer, but if vese blokes Eye leev Bhynd katch U ló á í agen vare wil B maw Xeyels!

Cowed, the Hamsters stood and waited in silence as Fred, together with a posse of dävine dads, hustled Symun Dévúsh down from the travelodge and brought him to the jetty.

Far from subduing him, Symun's confinement seemed to have given him new vigour. Kids had smuggled him in extra food and drink, and old Ozmun Bulluk had even slipped him some of the fags the Chilmen had brought. It was while puffing on one of these that the Geezer said farewell to his fares. Before wading out to the pedalo, he turned back to confront the Hamsters, who had gathered on the shore. His gaunt old mummy, Effi, crippled Caff, whom he loved, Fred Ridmun, his mate and his betrayer, the Edduns brothers, Dave and Dick, Fukka Funch with his snub snout and bow legs, old Bettë Brudi, her wrinkled face clenched with pain and sadness. They were all there, from the oldest boiler to the youngest sprog. It was said later that even the motos, led by Runti, filed down from the woods and stood softly lisping their goodbyes, as tears rolled down their pendulous jowls.

Fred Ridmun, fearful of his regained authority being undermined, was disposed to hustle Symun aboard the pedalo without more ado; however Mister Greaves motioned him to allow the Geezer to speak. Symun put one foot up on a pile of bricks, brushed his hair away from his face and, fixing his restless gaze on the Ferbiddun Zön, threw an arm up towards the aching blue screen.

— E oo ayts lyf wil keep í, thass wot í sez in ve Búk, innit?

There was a mutter of acknowledgement from his listeners.

— Wel, Eye doan luv lyf ennymaw wivaht Am, so Eye spose Eye must ayt í.