Will Self - The Book of Dave

Three long years Symun had been making his appearances. The heavy wheel he wore around his neck had given him two thick callouses on the points of his shoulders. For twenty-seven days the tension gradually increased, until on the morning of the twenty-eighth day he could hold down no food, nor even fag smoke. Then the warders would haul him before the Examiner, he would call over the nominated runs and points, and relief would come for a day or so, until the whole grim go-round began again.

By questioning every flyer who had suffered a reduction, Symun had discovered all the things to avoid. Never answer back to the Examiner; never react to anything that he might do — no matter how outlandish; never appear before the Examiner in slovenly attire, smelling of food or fags. Their failures were turned to his advantage, their maiming kept him whole, their deaths guaranteed his life.

Symun learned other things from his fellow doomed flyers — there was old flying and new flying. There were those flyers who claimed that Dave was still alive and walked among the daddies and mummies of Ing unrecognized, waiting for the time when he could overthrow the PCO. There were others — such as the Plateists — who said that the Book could not be understood without the use of other ancient relics that had been dug from the ground or dragged from the sea. There were those who had lapsed into the crepuscular realms of idolatry, and worshipped twisted hunks of old metal, barely legible signs — even the London bricks themselves. Still more — and these sectaries were strongly represented among the imprisoned flyers — held that Dave was but a bloke in another Book, which had been set down by the true and only God. These heretics failed their appearances with great alacrity and were broken on the Wheel.

By far the most numerous, though, among the flyers were those who held that they might speak with Dave directly through their own intercom, without any intercession by the drivers of the PCO. From talking with these flyers Symun recognized that they, like him, retained a secret mummyself locked inside their breasts — yet accessible.

The flyers came from all over Ing and from every position in society. There were noble lawyers, who through the gift of the King himself had once held estates in the western islands. They were dragged protesting through the huge gates and slung on to the muddy yard, their fine raiment dirty and torn. There were yeoman heretics, sturdy farmers from the burbs surrounding London, who were frogmarched in and stripped to their trainers by the laughing prisoners. And there were barefoot peasants, without money, advantages or connections, who were robbed and abused by all.

For in the Tower the world was turned upside down, and the scallywags of the city became the overlords. Symun, who had the protection of one of these criminal lawyers, was free from molestation and even able to amass a portion of dosh, heavy copper and silver coins that could be exchanged for all manner of goods and services — not least a chamber of his own. When Terri saw that his mate was well established, he encouraged Symun to speak of Ham and the events that had brought him to London. So it was that the Geezer appeared once more among dads.

The news of the prophet spread throughout the Tower. As Symun had correctly surmised, it was not the Knowledge that the Londoners resisted, only the exactions of the heavy-handed PCO. The new message that the Geezer called over was simple, and he now adapted it to be understood by all daddies and mummies, both high and low. Dave's second testament was devoid of the wild language and mystifying gibberish that characterized the Book itself. It was an everyday faith for everyone, which required no one — Driver, Examiner or Inspector — to be an intercom between dad and Dave. It was also a credo that demanded literacy of its adherents, so that they might distinguish between truth and falsity — between the gibberish of the old Book and the clarity of the new one.

So the Geezer picked up fares among the prisoners, and they in turn went out among the Londoners and carried the doctrine forth, written on scraps of A4 or else held in their memory. The agents of the PCO, who had seeseeteevee men everywhere, and who looked for flying and schism with fanatic eyes, were nonetheless caught unawares by the Geezer. They expected such doctrines to be promulgated by their own Drivers and Examiners, men of Knowledge who had taken the wrong turn. Or else they foresaw them arriving from over the sea, from the highlands of the Swiss and the Franks, where the King's enemies resided. That a simple peasant from the most remote portion of the archipelago should have carried the plague of doubt into the very heart of London, into its citadel even, did not occur to them until it was too late.

The Archdriver of the PCO, in formal robes quartered red and white, and blazoned with the device of the Wheel, appeared before the King at the morning getup. When the courtiers had dispersed, the two of them took a turn around Westminster Hall. Scrofulous peasants and pikeys were held back by a detachment of the King's own chaps behind a velvet cord. One mummy of the middling sort held out an infant, and the King did consent to bestow his touch, while a fony presented her with an amulet of the Lost Boy. The King's fool capered, beating upon a drum while he rapped:

A payn in ve nekk

A payn í iz

A payn in ve nekk í iz.

The King was in the full vigour of his middle years, the Archdriver a withered granddad who had to trot to keep up.

— I fear, your majesty, he puffed, that this Geezer is joining forces with other dissenters, in the Institute, in the Inns of Forecourt — perhaps even in the Shelters. This is a most dangerous schism. Fortunately we have an agent in the Institute itself who is close to the sectarians. We will send him into the Tower to act unwittingly as our informant. Others, I am sure, will become turncoats. I am confident we can eliminate these impious daddies and chellish mummies, as we've done in the past.

— We don't want martyrs, the King said, with this flying so widespread martyrs would be much too dangerous. We shall offer those who confess their lives. Their property shall be forfeit, their positions likewise lost. Exile and branding shall be their fate.

— And what of this, this Geezer himself?

— Why, he shall go back to from where he came, or near to it. Anywhere that is suitably remote. Let my Lawyer of Chil decide exactly where, for he must bear responsibility for this matter and take a hand in its resolution.

— A most symmetrical solution, your majesty, said the Archdriver, pressing his clove ball to his pitted old nose. Most symmetrical.

The Driver and Mister Greaves stood watching as the sick men of Chil were escorted past them up the stream to the travelodge. The screen wrapped around Ham was dramatically riven, a blue channel sat above the shore, and to the south of this tabular white clouds floated, rank upon rank, while to the north a bruised, magenta mass was banked up over the trees. There would be screenwash before nightfall. The moto slaughter might have to be postponed.

— How do I find you, Reervú? Mister Greaves asked, as he stretched his stiff legs.

— Well enough, the Driver grunted.

— And your fares, how are they?

— As benighted as ever, the Driver sneered, spittle flecking his mirror. Ignorant, venal, idolatrous. They profane this place, which should be an island of the blessed.

— What would you have me do as the representative of my Lawyer of Chil to rectify this?

— I cannot drive any further, Mister Greaves, without that I educate the lads in some way, and so detach them from their contumely association with the filthy motos. I need a teacher, Mister Greaves, that's what I need to cut out their superstition. I need a surgeon also, I cannot be expected to attend to their spiritual health and their physical being, that much is beyond me.