Will Self - The Book of Dave

All this took place late in the kipper season, when the screenwash lashed the land and the sea was too rough to venture out upon. During this time the Hamstermen occupied themselves with gentle yet essential tasks — bubbery weaving, moto maintenance and caulking the pedalo. Misinterpreting their layover as sheer idleness, the Driver set the daddies to work at rebuilding his predecessor's semi and laying the foundations for a new Shelter. The old one, built by the previous Driver using prefabricated sections brought from Chil, had long since fallen into disrepair, a leaky and warped vessel for the Knowledge.

The Hamsters had not the art of preserving wooden structures, nor could they build in London brick with mortar. Their own gaffs were of such ancient pedigree that their upkeep was an organic fact rather than a work of construction. The mortar for the last Driver's semi had been imperfectly mixed, and it was already crumbling as thick stalks of buddyspike prised the brickwork apart. The Driver hitched up his robes and led the digging of the foundations for a new one. The younger dads, impressed by his energy and willing to learn new ways that could benefit them, joined him in the undertaking.

Caff Ridmun looked on as the other mummies dragged the truckles of London brick down from the Ferbiddun Zön. She had more intimate concerns: little Carl was three months old, and after much deliberation by the Council he had been given his real dad's name, Dévúsh, for such was the way of the Book. Soon enough he would begin to crawl, then it would be time for him to be paired with a moto.

It took several days before Symun Dévúsh could even unclench his teeth, and Terri had to trickle water from a scrap of sponge between his locked jaws. Especially at night, Symun's emaciated body was racked by convulsions, and such was the persistence of the dizziness that he could neither stand nor walk, and soiled himself.

When he was recovered, Symun learned fast. He had to; without a trade or any dosh of his own he had no way of augmenting the miserable slop doled out to the prisoners. Even this had to be fought over, men clawing and biting for a pannikin of cupasoup flavoured with half a raw crybulb. Since his turn upon the Wheel, Symun's strength was declining still faster, and he knew that if he failed his next appearance there was little chance he could survive more than another month in the Tower. Then a curious — and miraculous — thing happened. Terri, who Symun had assumed was only helping him with a view to some as yet undisclosed — and probably vile — advantage, revealed that his motives were quite other: Eye lyke U, dad, he told Symun. 2 tel U ve troof, Eye lyke awl fliars — yer diffrunt. Eye rekkun if U stik arahnd long Enuff, yul tel me sumfing incredubbul. Yeah, Eye rekkun U wil. Terri scratched his moulting, carroty hair. He had the ratty features and pox scars of all poor Londoners, his eyes were black stones, rubbed shiny with distrust, yet when he turned them upon Symun they flickered with curiosity and wonder.

Terri got hold of a dog-eared copy of the Book. It was printed on the flimsiest of A4, and entire sections were loose in the binding, but all the runs and the points were there. Every day Symun and Terri called them over together. For Terri, a city urchin reared in the teeming rookeries of London, who'd hardly ever seen the foglight without fog or the burbs beyond the Emtwenny5, this was his getting of an education. Terri knew enough Arpee to correct Symun's Mokni. In return, Symun taught him phonics.

When the warders took Symun for his next appearance, he was dismayed to find a different Examiner waiting in the chamber and shuffling his A4S. This one was a more aggressive character, his yapping voice and queer grimace — part snarl, part grin — at odds with his shiny pate and plump little body. He was tipping so far back in his seat that the back of his head rested on the table. His mirror was skewed, his fingers fiddled nervily with a shiny bauble on a chain. Yet his questions were straightforward enough, and when Symun had called over two runs complete with points, he pronounced himself satisfied:

— Next appearance twenty-eight days! he snapped. Take the prisoner back to the yard.

Terri found Symun employment. It happened by accident. Noticing that the Hamster kept his changingbag always by him — even tying it about his waist when he was wheeled — the cockney asked him if he had anything of value in it. Symun withdrew a curious canister from the bag. It was very flat and exceedingly wide. Then he said, most reluctantly:

— Eye did av sumffing bluddë gúd ineer, but iss gon nah. Awl Eyev got ineer nah iz bitsuv plastik. He opened the canister to reveal a few handfuls of Daveworks.

Terri stared at the stash for a few units and then said:

— Vair ferbiddun eer, U no, ve PeeSeeO sez iss charms, iss majik. Vat doan stop folk nor neevah. Vey buyem on ve sly and wairem unda vair cloves, speshully ve loyahs an luvvies. Eye no a bloke wot smugguls em in from ve stikks. Ee needs elp graydin em.

So it was that Symun Dévúsh, the flyer, found a way to survive in the harsh environment of the Tower. A way to survive — and a drive for survival as well. As long as he could add to his Knowledge and maintain it, he might prevent a reduction in his appearances. He might live.

Carl grew into a happy, lively little toddler. As soon as he could break free from his swaddling and crawl off across the rips and linchets, Caff gave him to Gorj to look after. For another two years the moto nursed the human child, letting him suckle her heavy dugs alongside her own mopeds. It was Gorj who picked Carl up and took him over the island. She supervised his first walks along the Layn from the wallows to the Gayt. After that, they went down Winnies to Turnas Wúd, down Bish to the curryings, and even into Norfend to visit the Perg. Carl lay on her broad neck as she waddled along, his little hands twined in her bristles, utterly at peace, lulled in and out of sleep by the big beast's trundling motion.

This had always been the way. The children of Ham were accompanied everywhere by their peculiar nurses, and through the motos' own annual cycle they learned the ways of Ham, its seasons and weather, its flora and fauna. They spoke with the motos' slushy lisp and were physically nurtured by a species untroubled by any taboo. The little kids and the motos wallowed together, slept together in the byres, and even foraged together when the season allowed for those fruits congenial to both species. In kipper the motos chewed away at the trunks and boles of the smoothbarks, deftly pollarding and coppicing them. The Hamsters said: Az ewesful az a moto. In buddout, the motos spied out bees' nests in the woods and brought them down to the village, so that the colony could be settled in a hive. The Hamsters said: Az wyz az a moto. In summer, the motos rooted out the rats and grubbed up the knotweed. The Hamsters said: Az elpful az a moto. Finally, in autumn the motos lay down willingly so that their throats could be cut, then sang beautifully as the lifeblood drained out of them. The Hamsters said: Az dävine az a moto.

One by one the flyers who had been imprisoned in the Tower when Symun arrived failed their appearances, were reduced and reduced, until finally they were exiled or executed. Only one defied the process — and through it the PCO — Symun Dévúsh, the carrot-cruncher, the hick from the sticks, who, when he'd arrived at the gaol, had no more conception of the city he found himself in than a worm does of the apple it bores through.