Will Self - The Book of Dave

Another shiny black bubble grew on the dark mirror of the wallow. It was Sweetë — still breathing, still alive. The wind rose, and leaves skittered on the forest floor. Strung from the branch in front of Carl's face a spider's web glistened with jewels of moisture.

Carl waited until the foglamp was dipping before he climbed down from the tree, and every time Sweetë stirred in the wallow he snapped at her to stay sunk. Finally, they headed back towards the Emwun, the boy with his hand buried deep in the moto's chilled folds, hoping by this stimulus to comfort and warm her. Carl expected the worst — and that was what Dave set before them. The bushes were torn up and trampled down, blood was sprayed on leaf and bough. Champ's guts were spilled out on the ground, and there was a trail of more blood and offal along the track. Eye wan mì mummy, Carl keened over the gelid mess. Sweetë shed heavy tears on Champ's lifeless eyes, she nuzzled his slack withers, then nonchalantly — yet reverently — began to lap at the cavity the Lawyer of Chil's chaps had hacked with their railings.

Böm emerged from the hollow smoothbark where he'd taken refuge and gave his pupil a hug.

— Yaw alyv! Carl exclaimed.

— Indeed, Böm said grimly. Still, we won't live much longer unless we get going. He jerked a thumb at the dead moto. They've taken Hunnë's carcass with them — they had ropes. I reckon they'll tow her to Luton; the Lawyer has a travelodge there. No doubt they'll return for Champ at foglamp on, so say your goodbyes.

— Wot abaht Tyga?

— I dunno, Böm said, shaking his head, he got away in the mêlée, probably not far, though. We'd best assume that he's dead — these hunting dogs will have sniffed him out.

— So vat woz ve Loyah uv Chil, woz í?

— Quite so. Böm pursed his plump lips. I would know him anywhere. He is a boorish, grasping fellow — as was his dad before him. Truly, Ham has been protected from his grievous depredations by the good offices of Mister Greaves.

They siphoned Champ for his oil as best they could and tore flesh strips from his flanks and buttocks. Antonë had found a stream heading northwest, so, with Sweetë hung about with evian skins and oil tanks, they splashed off along it. They kept going throughout that night and for the first tariff of the next day. Eventually, confident that the Lawyer of Chil's dogs had lost the scent, they rested for a tariff before leaving the stream and heading into the woodland. A dipped headlight switched on in a demisted screen, filtering some radiance down on to the forest floor. Despite this, it was awkward progress for the reduced party. The well-spaced smoothbarks ceded to scrubby crinkleleafs, and even urging Sweetë on all they could manage was a crawl. Carl did his best not to show his distress, but the dead motos preyed on him. Vay diddun eevun gé 2 go 2 Dave, he said to his companion. Böm snapped: Arpee, Carl! Arpee! Then slogged on, head down. Piqued, Carl turned sarcastic eyes on his retreating back. Böm was, he thought, a lyttul bloke lost inna grate forest.

On the third day after their fateful encounter with the Lawyer of Chil's hunt, the travellers came upon a descending slope of dead brack. So happy were they to be on clearer ground that they didn't even notice the thinning woodland, until emerging on to open ground. It was a bare field, the wet clods freshly broken, and in the middle of it were the team of Chilmen who'd done the breaking, gathered by a ropey old nag harnessed to a harrow of irony spikes. There were five of these dads, and, although they appeared pretty knackered, they closed on Carl and Antonë with alacrity. Wot ve fukk! said one, goggling at Sweetë. One of the others had been on Ham many years before and recognized the moto. This dad took charge: U Ió, tayk vese 2 dahn ve manna sharpish. Eyel dryv ve moto. He grabbed Sweetë's neck folds, and she snuffled: Pleethe, pleethe.

Through sombre, sodden kipper fields the party trod, gathering in their train a mess of dogs and sprogs. They passed a landfill where gulls and crows mobbed over a stinking midden. Although Carl had seen the sick fares of Chil come every year to Ham, he was shocked to find that these dads were quite as windy. Their threads were in filthy tatters, their limbs were scraggy, their tanks swollen. Lots of the kids had Dfishunt legs and many of the dads weepy goitres. Antonë walked by Carl's side and whispered instruction: Leave the chitchat to me. Then he could not forbear from a little pedagogy: See there, those birds grubbing in the dirt, that's pieces and those are roastducks, and over there, through the silverbark screen, that's their manor.

They passed by a small enclosure. In it, on bare and pocked earth, was a creature the size of a small moped with a conical snout and tiny eyes. Carl recoiled from this as they passed by, while Antonë muttered: That's a bäcön. Sweetë poked her head over the palings and addressed it, lisping: Alwi, mayt? And Böm could not forbear from laughing, for the toyist bäcön only snuffled.

The Chilmen's manor, although far bigger than Ham's, was laid out on the same plan, with two rows of semis set on each side of a stream. Instead of a travelodge at the top end, there was a larger, two-storey semi, and behind that a low, green Shelter nicely knocked up from fine 2by4s. There were ten dads' semis and ten mummies', all of them built in the bëthan style from heavy 2 by 4s painted black and rough plaster daubed white. There were diamond-paned windows of real glass and wooden doors. Manifestly this had at one time been a prosperous manor, but now the fences of the front yards were broken and the windows shattered. As the party moved up the dads' side of the stream, they came out with their opares to gawp at the moto and prod its bloody withers. Pleethe, lisped Sweetë, pleethe doan.

The Guvnor was waiting for them outside the big semi. His carcoat was flung open, revealing a bare chest heavily tattooed with wheels and phonics. He sported a baseball cap and a heavy gold earring, and his pouchy face was covered in grey stubble. Despite his cocky manner, he had the look of a dad from whom fat and muscle had melted away. His eyes were famished and dull, his hands shook. With him was a Driver, a timorous little man, his chubbynut head lost in the folds of his black robe. It was he who spoke first, in prissy and correct Arpee:

— Well, well, a moto, if I'm not mistaken. Presumably this is the one missing from the rank that our Lawyer raised on the Emwun south four days since. We will need to send to Hemel for some chaps so that these — he cast a sceptical eye over Antonë's and Carl's torn and filthy robes — ah, stalkers and their moto can be taken into custody.

The Guvnor took a different view:

— Eye doan giv a toss abaht ve Loyah fer nah, he said. Iss a pizzaDlivree from Dave sofaraz Eyem concerned. U 2 — he stabbed his thumb at Böm and Carl — can slorta viss monsta an ven render í dahn. Mì dad ear sez iss gúd eton, an we aynt ad no oil ear in yonks. Ven weel and djoo ovah 2 ve foritees. Nah! he spat, tayk vair stuff, vair A2Z, vair trafikmasta, vair grub an wotevah. Vay aynt goin noware.

That night Carl was banged up in one of the dads' semis, while Antonë was confined to the Shelter. A few opares fed the kids and put them to bed. The kids were very aggro — spitting, cursing and even shrieking. However, the dads didn't pay them any mind: they had Böm's supply of jack and fags, and were fuddled on the floor. The next day was Changeover at Risbro — which was the manor's name — so Carl was moved over to the mummies' semis. Any joy to be had from this arrangement was short lived. There was no mushy cuddlespeak or mummyish petting for Carl. These were strange bints — all raggy and skinny. They took him in and used him roughly, pushing up their cloakyfings and sticking his face on their tits in a gross manner. We doan av no luvvin an we aynt gó Enuff lyttuluns uv R oan 2 luv, they told him. So weel mayk dú wiv U.