— Iss tym, Runti, Carl cooed, tym fer yer slorta, yeah? Ve Acks partë ul B eer vis tariff or ve nex, an Eye gotta tayk yer bak 2 ve manna.
— Slorwa, the moto said wonderingly, slorwa.
— Thass rí, Runti, slorta. Weel uze yaw meet 2 feed ve Ack an iz dads, yer oyl fer vair woonz, an yul be wiv Dave a lars, yeah.
— In Nú Lundun.
— Yeah, thass rí, Carl said, kissing Runti delightedly, in Nú Lundun. It mattered not what doubts the lad had, for, in this article at least, the creature's simple faith and his own scepticism were at one.
They took all morning to get back to the manor. Carl led Runti round the northern end of the Perg, then up and down the bumps and dips of Sandi Wud. He'd played here with Runti all of his life. When he'd been a tiny boy, the moto had minded him — and when he grew older, he had minded the moto. They revisited all of their favourite haunts: the big hollow crinkleleaf that stood at the edge of the curryings, the ridged bark of which was perfect for scratching moto hide; the boggy slough in Turnas Wud, where Runti could wallow; the grove of silverbarks in the heart of the wood, where they stopped so that Carl could tear off A4 strips and feed them to Runti on the palm of his hand.
They ambled on with Carl's arm slung around Runti's neck, or, when the undergrowth grew thick, he'd tailgate so he could grab the moto's cock and balls. Feeling his touch, Runti gently squeezed his mighty haunches together, lisping:
— Thath ware.
— Yeah, Carl answered him, thass ware.
And he recalled the great beast's final mating: his feet crunching on the frosted leaf fall, his hot breath clouding the sharp kipper air, while Runti's hands scrabbled to gain purchase on the barrel back of old Gorj. Such tiny genitals the motos had — they could never have mated without human help. Surely this alone proved that men and motos were meant to be together? Together on Ham— and together for eternity in New London. How could the Driver ever doubt it?
Towards the beginning of the second tariff, boy and moto trudged back up to the Layn, crossed over it and broke through the last tattered curtain of leaves. Below them they could see the gaffs of the manor, its bay and the easterly cape of the island. From behind this — just that moment emerging — came the prow of the Hack's pedalo, a sharp black wedge against the brilliant sea. Carl could make out five pedalers on each side of the vessel, and deep in its well the heads of at least fifteen more fares. Yes, it was a big enough party this year. An weel mayk em elfy wyl vey mayk us sikk, Carl muttered. He turned to the moto and kissed it on its snub nose. Cummon, luv, iss time 2 go 2 Dave. Then they ambled off down the hill.
The six gaffs of the Hamsters' little manor were set in two rows of three, on each side of an evian stream that was rich in irony. At the western end a seventh — used as a travelodge — was built above the spring itself. Pod-shaped, the gaffs hunkered down into the land, their rough reddish sides hugged by the greensward, their lumpy thatched roofs lashed down by crude ropes. For hundreds of years — perhaps even since the dawn of the Knowledge itself, for the gaffs were known to be very ancient — they had gone by the names of the six clans of Ham. To the south of the stream, running from east to west, were the Edduns, Funch and Brudi gaffs; while on the north side were the Dévúsh, the Ridmun and the Bulluk. The Breakup had not changed this, although the dads now occupied the gaffs to the south of the stream, and the mummies those to the north. That the Hamsters should cleave so to this redundant nomenclature was only one of the reasons why their Driver was now insisting that the unsanitary manor — with its dwellings shared by kith and kine — be demolished and a new one built.
On a frayed patch of ground a few paces from the Ridmun gaff, Fred Ridmun, the Guvnor of Ham, together with three of the other dads, had knocked together a gibbet big enough to hang the moto from once its throat had been cut. In late autumn, when several motos were slaughtered, such a gibbet would have been far larger, and all the Hamstermen would have spent a blob or more building it. However, for this, the midsummer's feast for the Hack's party, only one moto was to be slain.
This was Runti, who now lay on his side, slack flesh squidging from under him, his tank slopping, his arse bubbling. His legs were lashed with some of the better imported rope, a length of which was also slung over the top beam of the gibbet. At the moto's head knelt Carl, together with his stepdad, Fred. Carl held a small knife that was hidden in the dense wattles of the beast's throat. Fred was tall like all of the Ridmun clan, his hair lanky, his beard a lustrous, curly brown, his eyes a stony grey, his lips sickle-sharp and sickle-curved. He was a dävine dad, so he called over the slaughter run:
— Leev on ri smiffeeld, leffpoltreeavenoo, leffchartaowse … rìfarringdunlayn …
His stepson stroked Runti's stubbly brow as the run and its points were called.
— Tym 2 go nah, Runti, he said.
— Nó hwurtin, the moto lisped.
— Nah, nó hurtin, yul ardli feel í.
This was true, because at that very instant Carl pressed the knife deep into the beast's neck and a maroon tide pulsed out on to the bare earth. Púlupp! Fred cried to Fukka Funch, Sid Brudi and Ozzi Bulluk. The three dads began hauling on the end of the rope; it came taut, and the moto's bleeding body was dragged jerkily towards the wooden frame, leaving an old irony stain in its wake. Giss an and! Fukka shouted to the gang of Chilmen who were standing a way off, looking on both enthralled and horrified.
Reluctantly the Hack's pedalers detached themselves from the group, strolled over and grabbed the rope. All eight dads gathered as much purchase as they could and pulled. Their muscles knotted, their backs creaked, the gibbet groaned. First Runti's hindquarters, then his sagging tank lifted from the ground. Carl stayed by his head, whispering endearments:
Iss orlrì, luvvi, doan wurri, ear we go, nó long nah, ittul B bé-er wen ure up on ve fingi.
— Itun hwurtin, Cwarl. Eye hwurtin sum, the moto protested, and one of his large hands sought out his musher's smaller one.
— Onli a lyttul, Runti, onli a lyttul, an itull soon B ovah an yul ave a nyce kip.
— Mwy nek hwurtin, Cwarl, ish hwurtin.
The moto's whole body — which was the length of one and a half men and considerably bulkier — was now part-resting on his crumpled neck. Then, with a great heave and a shout from the hauliers, the moto cleared the ground and swung free, a fat, fleshy pendulum spraying pink mist.
While all this had been going on, the Driver was coming along the bay from his semi, his back stiff, his bright orange trainers glaring as the hem of his black robe rose and fell, his mirror flashing in the foglight, the sign of the wheel embroidered on his breast commanding attention. Now he came up to the Hack's party and turned his back on them. The Hack, Mister Greaves, was staring full into Runti's dying face.
— Ware2, guv, he said to the Driver in a cursory fashion.
— To New London, came the answer in Arpee with considerably more solemnity.
— Iss awlways a fyn fing 2 C a moto slorta, said Mister Greaves, grabbing the loose stuff of his long T-shirt with both hands so that it stretched over his pot tank.
— Maybe, the Driver snapped. At any rate, it's a practice the Hamsters wouldn't wish to forgo.
Carl looked up into the Driver's mirror and saw there cold black eyes under high, white, gull's-wing eyebrows. The lad bent back to stroking Runti's muzzle, murmuring: