Will Self - The Book of Dave

— No, Böm said feebly. No, we mustn't… we can't.

Two days later, in the middle of the second tariff, Antonë Böm and Carl Dévúsh stood at the brow of Wollötop, where the Layn plunged into the dense undergrowth of the Ferbiddun Zön. At this, the highest point on Ham, the view in all directions was of waves frothing over the reef, as if it were the island itself that was disturbing the sea. Further out to the south, the white caps curled away across the Great Lagoon to the Sentrul Stac; while to the north the deeper sound between Ham and Nimar was like buckled irony plates under the ragged racing clouds.

A chill wind moaned between the pines that guarded the moto wallows, and further along the Layn to the northeast the twisted branches of crinkleleafs scratched at a tinted screen within which pinprick dash lights gleamed. For three full tariffs the storm had lashed Ham, blowing every single leaf from the trees, the screenwash hosing the paths into muddy chutes. Now the screen was clearing, and the wind scoured Antonë's and Carl's faces. They both carried the Hamsters' heavy mattocks on their shoulders. Böm also had a flaming bundle of oil-soaked reeds, but the brand would shed little light — they were counting on the headlight, which wouldn't dip until well into the third tariff.

— Ready, then? he said.

— Reddë enuff, Carl replied.

Böm hefted his mattock. Come on, then, he said through pursed lips. Let's go.

Within a few paces the quiet of the zön enfolded them. The hill sloped steeply, and they first slipped, then fell. Struggling on, the pair pushed through a bank of dead pricklebush and found themselves in a gully between high banks over which swarmed the spiky roots of rhodies. Looking up, Carl saw the dark blue rift of the screen fringed by their glossy evergreen leaves. Böm was reverently calling over and over: Forward Heath Street… Forward Heath Street… Forward Heath Street, as he edged his way deeper in the Zön. He could see a gap in the bank to their left and, thrusting his way into it under the bushy overhang, called back to his companion: Hampstead Square, this should be the last turn-off before we reach Beech Row.

Carl came slithering through the mud to reach Böm's side, and supporting each other they pressed forward. Djoo bleev í? the lad whispered, overawed by the mystery of the place. Djoo bleev viss iz Lundun? Böm cast anxious glances about him at the dark banks. Here and there the soil had crumbled away in the rain, and even through the gloom they could make out the exposed courses of brick. After they'd skidded another hundred paces there came a second gap in the bank to their left. This is it, Böm sighed. If we truly are in Hampstead, then this is Beech Row. Follow me.

Bent double beneath the dense press of the undergrowth, they squeezed into the ditch. After a score of paces they scrambled up the bank to the right. On top the rhodies were quite low, and, upon rising up, they found themselves head and shoulders above the canopy. The headlight was full beam, its silvery letric illuminating the eerie scene. Spreading out below was a lap of land in the hillside; over it shimmered the shiny, purple-black masses of the rhodies, while here and there pinnacles of brick rose up, stark against the night screen.

This mound — Böm indicated the tumulus immediately to their left — must be the gaff. There's Knowledge of this in the Book, Carl. A gull swooped past, coasting on its airy ramp. Böm started and dislodged scree, which pattered down into the ditch behind them. Carl, remembering the granddads' tales of rat colonies in the Ferbiddun Zön, clutched Böm's shoulder. Steady, lad, the teacher calmed him. Be steady.

They clambered down the slope and on to the flat area below the mound. Then Böm began his peculiar search on hands and knees, seeking out first the long-buried remains of the ancient wall, then rising to check its orientation with the mound, then sinking down again. It was eldritch, the queer rustling about in the dark shrubbery, the gulls scooting overhead, the full-beam headlight bearing down on them from the south, smoky cloud roiling across its fly-specked glass. Suddenly Böm's scurrying ceased, and he let out a single, low moan. Carl crashed through the bushes to his side. Böm was kneeling before a gaping pit. The vegetation had encroached on it, the rain had washed down into it — yet still the clay streaks and sand dashes at its edges made the hole appear freshly dug. L-look, Böm stuttered. L-look here … and here … Where the fill from the pit had been scattered among the rhodies, there were neat piles of Daveworks, twisted bits of irony, bricks and lumps of crete. Th-this is it. . Böm managed to splutter. This is where the G-geezer, your d-dad dug. This is where he claimed he found the second Book!

— Mebë iss stil vare, said Carl, and, since Böm at first did not acknowledge him, he said it again: Mebë iss stil vare — ve Búk.

— W-what d'you mean?

— Me dad, ee sed Dave túk ve Búk bak, diddunee? Mebë ee ment ee put í bak, bak in viss ole.

— Oh, no, no, surely not — it couldn't be, there's nothing there, look … look …

They stared down into the pit, and the muddy puddle at the bottom held the reflections of their two heads outlined against the screen above — as if they were two creatures who had come there to drink, and were now frozen in contemplation of their own, misunderstood image.

— We gotta lúk innit, Carl said after a while. We gotta dig, thass Y we brung vese … He held up his mattock. Cummon nah, Tonë, lettus dahn.

As Böm tried to lower the lad carefully into the pit, the sides gave way, and they were both precipitated into the chilly quag. They wallowed there, at first working their mattocks deep into the sludgy pit bottom; then, when that yielded nothing, they sank down, plunged their arms in up to the shoulder and grabbed handfuls of the muck. Finally, exhausted, they abandoned the search and heaved themselves back up the sides of the pit, to lie wet and cold under the dashboard. There's nothing there, Böm gasped. But there was once something — there must have been. This, the very empty pit itself, was enough of a revelation for him; and so, along with its eroding sides, the last vestiges of his loyalty to King Dave and the PCO crumbled away.

They came back down through the home field to the manor in the harsh foglight of the first tariff. The pod-shaped gaffs were silent and brooding, for the Hamsterwomen and children had been shut up, while all the Hamstermen were waiting for them at the Council wall. Through the thicket of dead withies Carl could make out the figure of the Driver, standing tall and still as a statue among the crouched figures of the dads and staring at them with his yellow eyes.

He had no need to summon them: cold, soaked, caked with mud, as if they were primordial men, reborn from the very soil of Ham, the two recusants limped towards their destiny. In stony silence the dads watched them approach and in stony silence they listened while the Driver pronounced his anathema:

— Flyers! That's what you are — both of you. Flyers! Digging and delving where you have no business! A branded flyer and a flyer's whelp! The chellish mummies are behind this — of that I've no doubt!

As if it were only another of the Driver's rants, with no more application to him than to any Hamster, Carl Dévúsh felt his attention first wander, then burrow deep inside of himself to that cosy mummyplace where all cares were forgotten. His dad — the Geezer — he had known this escape from the daddytime as well, of that Carl was now certain; and whatever the future might bring, he too would always have this refuge.