Will Self - The Book of Dave

Carl Dévúsh couldn't sleep either. When he finally went to his bed in the Funch gaff, and threw himself on to the rough palliasse in among the hurly-burly of his mates' limbs, their dream cries and night farts beset him. His mind stirred and turned. He recalled the bizarre garb of the Chilmen, their red jeans and ornate leather trainers. Every word the off-islanders spoke betrayed an unsettling incomprehension of all that was certain to Carl: the firm ground of Ham itself. To go out into the world of these fares, what would that be like? Besides, from what Antonë had told him, the strange ways of the Chilmen were as nothing compared to those of Londoners. It wasn't the threat of the PCO and its Inspectors that bothered Carl — such things were too remote — but the loss of his home, his beautiful island.

Towards first tariff, Carl crept out from the box bed, slapped across the yok flags, unlatched the door and went out into the greying gloom. He followed the same route he had the day before, back across the home field, over the ridge and around Hel Bä until he reached the old tower. Dave had switched off the headlight, but Carl had no need of it to find his way. He could have walked the whole island — saving the zones — in his sleep. Once at the tower, he walked under the heavy lintel, ignoring the buddyspikes growing out of the stonework that tore at his face. It wasn't strictly forbidden to enter the five towers of Ham, although it wasn't altogether allowed. Nevertheless the children had all been in before, frightening each other with tales of how the giants would get them. Sitting down in the remains of a fireplace, Carl looked up through the open roof of the tower to the screen. The dashboard still shone up there, the arrangements of lights the same as those he had been taught to recognize by Caff when he was a little fare, sitting on her lap on the ground outside the Ridmun gaff, his head nestling in the hollow of her neck.

— Vass ve ëdlite, she'd said, ven iss on fulbeem we C ve lites ahtside, yeah, ve streetlites uv Nú Lundun. An ven iss dipped, we C ve dashbawd, rí, mì lyttul luv?

— Owzabaht Dave, Mummi, vairs ee?

— Ees sittin infruntuv uz, luv, but we carn C im coz ees invizzibull.

— But ee can C uz, earn ee, Mummi?

— O yeah, mì luv, ee can C uz, ee sees uz in iz mirra. Ees lookin awl ve tym — lookin in ve mirra ä uz, an lookin froo ve screen 4 ve Loss Boy. An uppabuv im, mì luv, uppabuv im vairs ve Flyin I, an ee sees all ve wurl.

Yet now, seven years later, huddling in the fireplace at the giants' tower, Carl doubted that Dave saw anything at all in his mirror let alone him.

Midway through the first tariff of the following day, when the foglamp was already high over the Gayt, the dads of Ham gathered for the Council. While the Council wall was right by the manor, stands of willowstalk and blisterweed hid their deliberations from the prying eyes of mummies, opares and kids. The dads looked instead to the bay, where, through the sole gap in the vegetation, the Hack's pedalo could be seen, drawn up on the shore. Although there were only twelve dads and granddads now, Fred had told Carl that in his own youth twenty dads had deliberated, while a generation before that there had been more than thirty — all pitching in to argue and dispute the business of the community.

In those days the Council had been a babel, but in the years since the Driver came among them order had been imposed on the noisy little assembly. This was never more noticeable than during midsummer, when for a full month the Hack's party was in residence. Then the Council conducted itself with great solemnity, the better to impress the visitors. On the first day after the Hack had arrived it was customary for him to judge those wrongdoers who had committed crimes in the intervening year deemed too serious to be dealt with by the Guvnor. However, there were hardly ever any of these — theft and violence were all but unknown among the dads, while tittle-tattle, bubbling and other instances of bad faith were dealt with by Fred. A simple oath upon the Book was always sufficient to discover the truth, while a ticket of a few quid served for most offences.

The Driver had not intervened directly in the running of the Council — he was too wily for that. Yet the time the dads had to spend in the Shelter — a whole tariff each day, two every seventh — had brought a davine rigour to everything they undertook. There was this dampener on the little assembly, and there were also the first symptoms of the pedalo fever: noses were clogged up, throats were sore, eyes watered. Some of the dads were gripped by an ague so severe that their newly bartered fags shook from their fingers and fell to the beaten earth. That the Council had to judge the most serious crime on the island in thirteen years weighed heavily upon all of them, not least because until thirteen years previously the concept — let alone the actuality — of flying had been unknown on Ham.

The Hack sat on the highest part of the circular wall. He gathered his bubbery carcoat about his hunched back in tight pleats. His full side whiskers — an anomaly among the Hamstermen, who grew their beards from the chins alone — gave him a magisterial air. Fred Ridmun stood before him, his official baseball cap in one hand, his cudgel in the other, while Carl and Antonë sat on the ground at his feet.

— Mì sun, Fred said, az bin gó ä bì Tonë Böm, guv, ee nevah wooduv dun viss stuff wivaht Böm.

— U shor abaht vat? The Hack drew meditatively on his fag. Iz reel dad dun stuff lyke viss innal, innit?

— But wurs, Fred answered. Far wurs.

— Wot cood B wurs van diggin in ve Zön, eh? Eye no wot sumuv U ló bleev in yer arts. Eye no U stil fink vat ve Búk woz fown ere on Am. U granddads iz ól enuff 2 remembah ve Geezer? There was a low murmur of assent. B4 King Dave vair woz enni numbah uv pissi lyttul playsez wot ad a clame 2 B ve craydul uv ar faif, innit? Another murmur. But ve Kings granddad, ee chaynjd all vat. Ee ad a revelashun vat ve Búk woz fahnd in Lundun, aint vat ve troof?

— Iss ve troof, the ailing Hamsters muttered.

— Iss nó juss ure zön wich iz ferbiddun — all ve zöns on Chil iz juss ve saym. Ven U need brik aw crete aw yok aw grint U gë í from ve edj. But U avent ve skil uv wurkin wiv ironi, an U av no Inspektur 2 soopavys such diggins. Nah vis bloke — he stabbed a finger at Bóm — oo cums ear a refewjee, ee dares 2 muck abaht in ve Zön. Wot else az ee dun, eh?

— Nah, nah, Mistah Greaves, Fred said, nó a bì-uv-ì, we aint gó no uvva bovva wiv Tonë, ees juss lyke wunnuv us.

The dads gave affirmative grunts, and Fukka Funch spoke up, saying:

— Ee sayvd mì Bellas lyf.

— Izzat so? The Hack addressed himself only to Fred.

– Í iz, Tonë iz a grayt jeepee, an im bein kweer ve wimmin av lë im be ä summuv vair birfs.

Mister Greaves shifted into the more sonorous cadences of Arpee, and Antonë Böm realized he meant there to be no further inquisition:

— None the less, flying counts against this man more than giving life counts for him. Flying takes away faith, and without faith we have nothing, no runs, no points, no intercom, no New London.

— No Nú Lundun, the dads chanted.

Greaves turned to Böm:

— Is there anything you can lay before this Council concerning your behaviour that could possibly justify it in the mirror of Dave? Do you want to tell us why you took young Carl Dévúsh into the Zöne and why you dug and delved in there?

Antonë Böm looked up at Greaves. He knew something of the Hack's status in the Bouncy Castle of Chil. He knew that, while Greaves may have paid hard dosh for the privilege of becoming his Lawd's subcontractor, nevertheless he had always been a sincere protector of the Hamsters. It would do the Hack's cause no good to be seen to go against the Driver — and beyond him the PCO.