Will Self - The Book of Dave

The Driver fell to his knees.

— Thanks be to Dave! he called.

— 4 pikkin uz up! the Hamstermen responded.

— Let all you dads who have the Knowledge of it kneel down and call over the first run. Forward on left Green Lanes!

— Fawud Green Layns! the dads cried in unison.

— Right Brownswood Road!

— Rì Brahnswúd Röd.

When it was done, and the dads had called over the points, the Driver — to their considerable amazement — went on:

— In the beginning there was Dave's word and Dave's word alone. All that we have comes out of the Book. All that is, all that has been, and all that will come again. You are not the only fares to do a runner, you are not the only ones to breathe the smoky cab of apostasy, you are not the only miserable know-it-alls to look for a shortcut to New London! For three centuries now the Book has been the very rock upon which Ing itself has been built. O yes, a new London has been erected, with wide avenues and grand buildings, with workshops and markets even — yet this is not the city foretold by Dave! This is not New London! For this city has also saunas and spielers, bullrings and cockpits, lewd theatres and pleasure gardens. Only the PCO can build New London, either here on earth or — if Dave so ordains it — beyond the screen!

The Driver lifted the Book up to that screen and cried out:

— I have seen New London! Then he advanced among his terrified listeners, thrusting the heavy volume into the faces of each of the dads in turn, while he continued his rant: I have seen it, and I know it will only be restored by restitution of the pure and original Dävinanity. Let the three cabs be hailed once again here on Ham! Let the twelve dads promulgate the doctrines of Breakup and Changeover! Let no mummy be admitted to your Council lest you be polluted by them!

— For there must be no confusion concerning this matter, he said, striding back to where Mister Greaves stood with the cowed Chilmen and admonishing them with a stabbing finger, there has been a grievous crime perpetrated here against Dave, a crime that can be atoned for only by the most perfect calling over! The Driver fell to the ground and, lifting up handfuls of soil, let the dirt fall upon his head crying:

— Thanks, Dave, for picking us up!

— 4 pikkin uz up, the dads who remembered the correct response dutifully intoned.

— And for not dropping us off.

— Anfer nó droppinus dahn.

They prepared fresh straw for the pallet and made ready the medicinal herbs. Sphagnum moss was gathered and dried, for the fibres of this useful plant were both absorbent of moisture while keeping wounds free from infection. The mummies used it for their infants' nappies and to absorb their own menses. Many of them believed that the happy situation of the Sphagnum bog at the source of the spring that trickled through the village was a sure sign of Dave's providence. So the Sphagnum bed was prepared and garlanded with special Daveworks. To ask for His intercession in a successful birth the Hamsterwomen chose a distinctive, long thin shard of plastic with a narrow slot at one end that gave it the appearance of a flimsy bodkin. These they strung on to long lengths of thread, and hung from the eaves of the gaff where Caff was to be confined so that they twirled in the breeze.

This birth would be special, the first since the Geezer had been deposed. As Caff Ridmun felt new life stirring in her, a fluttering at the sides of her taut womb, the Driver felt a new threat. He had examined both Caff and the Guvnor, and it was beyond doubt that this was the flyer's child. If Caff had a son, he might be another Antidave, ready to spread more poison in the world. The Driver was confronted by a paradox: the service, the ceremony whereby newborn Hamsters were anointed with moto oil, was profoundly antithetical to this rigid Dävist, yet, if he understood the matter rightly, the odds were that Caff's baby would not survive it. The future of Dävinanity on Ham thus depended on toyist superstition.

Caff felt no fear, surrounded by the mummies. She accepted that what would be would be, Dave gave and Dave took away. She gloried in her enlarged body, her marbled tank and engorged breasts. The mummies called the last trimester the moto time, and reverenced the resemblance a Hamsterwoman about to give birth had to their beloved kine. With her withered left leg, Caff could no longer walk more than a few paces. So throughout the blowy autumn days she had sat in the lea of the Dévúsh gaff, her aching back braced against its mossy bricks, and stared out over the sparkling lagoon. With the baby kicking within her, she had never felt before with such intensity her own connection to the land. The foetal shape of Ham encompassed her — while she in turn encompassed this inchoate life.

It was the middle of the third tariff when the birth pains eventually came. There had only been a dipped headlight — and it was long since switched off. Low cloud blanketed the island and from behind it a reddish tinge suffused the screen. Making her way down the stream bed from the Bulluk gaff, Effi Dévúsh came across the Driver, a black-clad and minatory figure. He was muttering in an undertone, but Effi, who had work to do, did not hail him — she knew what he was doing, calling over, countering the wavering paths of Ham with the certainty of his Knowledge.

The Driver remained there until the foglamp was switched on. In all he called over a hundred runs. Such rigour spoke of the deep conflict within him — for did not Dave honour all new life? When at last he heard the bellows of the expectant mummy give way to the reedy cries of the infant, he turned on his heel and lurched along the foreshore to the tumbledown semi of the old Driver. There he fell into a fitful slumber, and dreamed that he flew with Dave over the silvery immensity of New London.

In the days following the birth of her son Caff's fatalism foundered on the rocks of love. A savage love for the manikin she cradled, whose twinkling blue eyes and fierce ruff of fine brown hair recalled to all Symun Dévúsh. The other mummies understood this emotion, even if they would not acknowledge it. No infant born on Ham was even named until it had survived its service. It was as if these first eleven days of life were only a final stage of incubation, and the thick coating of moto oil it would then be slathered with was the final membrane through which it must pass into independent life. For inasmuch as a Hamster was born of woman, so he was also born of the island itself.

On the eleventh day, when Effi Dévúsh came with the moto oil and loomed in the doorway of the Dévúsh gaff, Caff, unable to contain herself, began first to whimper and then cry out. Caught between zoolatry and love, she let go of the infant and, dragging her withered leg behind her, crawled into the far corner, where she lay sobbing on the yok flags. Effi, who was attended by two other boilers, ignored her. They went about the ritual with steely efficiency. Her assistants removed the swaddling and held the thrashing limbs, while Effi spread the viscous grease, paying particular attention to the raw wound of the navel. The infant, which at first howled in protest, responded to the mysterious embrocation of the moto oil, struggling less and less, until when it was finally released it lay silent and still in the foglight that streamed through the door, another of Ham's miraculous and shiny fruits.

Outside the Hamsters stood in silence, the dads' shaggy heads bowed, the mummies worrying at their cloakyfings. Now began a time of waiting. If the new infant survived the next blob, it would receive a name. More likely, on the third or fourth day after the service, it would refuse the suck of its mummy's pap, and on the fifth or sixth its tiny pink gums would lock shut. Then the fits would begin — convulsions, which would rack the tiny body with increasing severity — until on the seventh or eighth day it expired. By then, such would be the mite's torment that death would seem a deliverance, even to its own mummy. The Driver stood unregarded among the islanders. Once more he was calling over the runs and the points, for whatever the outcome — torment or release — his faith required above all that he bear witness to the once and future London.