That was when I felt it. The flash. Sudden image. Me riding in a stolen Merc, doing a wheel twist around a corner, not giving a shit, putting deliberate dents in the posh parked cars.
I was in Baby Racer.
I was right on in there! Driving!
Totally feathered up, living on the dub side.
The hatred had fired me, jump-started me.
I Vazzed open the van hood, disconnected the alarm system. How the fuck did I do that? Cut one wire, spliced it to another, poured some Vaz from the tube into the door lock, slipped into the van. I reached into my pocket for the hairgrip of Suze's, dipped it in the Vaz, fed it to the starter. It worked smoothly and suddenly I was in control, full up on knowledge, shifting those pedals like a young kid on a bad estate. Felt like bliss as I turned the wheel, steering the van out of the gap, no scratches, driving back to the team on a smear of Vaz, my head singing with it.
I opened up the back door, the same smooth way, and Twinkle and the dog were the first on board, first cargo. I lodged Beetle's head on the floor rim, then stepped into the back myself helping to pull his limp shape inside, Mandy steering the rudder of his legs. She climbed in after him. Beetle made some noises during all this, but I had the shades down. I was climbing back out when Mandy called me over. "Scribble? The Beetle…"
"What is it?" I asked.
"His wound. Look…" The worms were glowing there, and turning into colours. All the colours you could name. "What's happening to him?" Mandy asked.
"Never mind the Beetle just now. You know we've got some work to do."
In other words… I just didn't know.
"What's wrong with you people?" cried the Beetle. "I'm feeling top notch! I'm on the case! Just a little pain, is all!"
I climbed back out of the van, to where Tristan was waiting, Suze in his arms.
"How you doing, Tristan?" I asked.
He just turned those steel-driven eyes onto me, and I saw the answer there. A bad answer.
"We're doing it, okay?" I told him.
He kept staring.
"You know what she wants," I said.
He nodded.
We worked her gentle body into the van; it was like some kind of ceremony. Tristan followed her, stepping high, but sluggish. They were all in.
Good.
First phase over.
I closed one door, reached for the other. "Keep the faith." That's what I said, don't know why, just said it
Keep the faith.
I closed the darkness on them and walked around to the driver's door. I climbed in the cab. Reached up, for the Vurt. Come on down. Felt it coming down, the flood of knowledge, Baby Racer knowledge. My hands were turning the hairgrip key, working the clutch, feet on the pedals, wishing for a start.
Vurt came flooding down.
"Yahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" My voice screaming.
Baby Racer.
The engine caught. Gunned it.
"Be careful, Scribb," called Twinkle from the back, trying out her best Game Cat impression. Sounded nothing like him, but never mind that.
Be careful. Be very, very careful.
"Fuck careful!" I shouted, driving.
Driving!
My hands were instruments of Vurt.
I parked the van some few feet away from the original space, where the old van, the Stashmobile, had found her last resting place. Heavy tires crunching glass as we came to rest
I heard the back door opening.
Seconds later Tristan appeared at my window. I wound it down, letting his sad-eyed face come close. "I'm gonna sort some things out," he said.
"Yeah. Sure," I replied. "You alright?"
"I'm fine. Fine."
"You don't look it man."
"Just keep looking after Suze."
"It's done."
Then he was away, striding out, into the darkness. I watched him disappear into the stairwell. A kind of loneliness closed in, all around me.
I switched off the engine. The Vurt dropped away to a whisper, but still there, on the edge, just waiting.
I could hear the whimpering of Karli Dog. Maybe she was licking the wounds of Suze. The dead wounds.
I didn't look back. Couldn't afford to.
All around, the shimmering dark towers of Bottletown were calling to me.
"Can I get out the van, Mister Scribble?" asked Twinkle, from the darkness.
"No. No, stay in the van,"
I heard Mandy bringing some comfort to the youngster.
Through the windscreen I watched Bottletown going to bed. Light by light. All along the crescents lights were going out, one by one. Seemed like some kind of mystic code was being played out there, on the high-rises, until only the fat moon was left glistening.
"Are we doing anything, Scribble?" asked the Beetle, from the back.
"Sure, Bee," I answered. "We're doing the daily crossword. Now everybody shut the fuck up."
Everybody shut the fuck up. Even the Beetle.
We were waiting on something, each of us, in the moments before the rain.
Tristan had been gone half an hour.
What the fuck was he doing up there?
The first wet spots hit the screen. Big hot coins of it, splattering the glass.
"Where is he?" asked Mandy.
"He's coming," I answered. "Stay cool, gang."
Not believing a word.
I could see shadows moving, along the lines of glass.
"What the fuck's going on, man?!" screamed the Beetle. "What the fuck is going on out there?"
"I'm in control, Beetle."
"Well fucking show it, man! I'm getting impatient. And my fucking shoulder is killing me!"
"The dogs looked after you."
"It's worse than that."
Didn't know what to say.
The rain was falling hard now. I stepped out of the van, away from the voices, and the rain felt so good against my skin, I just wanted to shout out loud.
Tristan had been gone three quarters of an hour.
I walked over to where the first van had been fired.
The ground was well crushed with glass.
I was looking for clues, but could find none. Just a spill of oil on the tarmac, capturing rainbows.
But that was ages ago, the fire, and surely this fresh oil slick was from some other vehicle, some more recent crash, and anyway, maybe the Brid and the Thing were dead already, and I was just playing a pair of deuces. Maybe that's all I ever get to play in this hand?
Tufts of dog fur were caught on the shards of glass, and something had painted the words Das Uberdog on the pavement.
My feet were getting cut.
My ankle was aching again, so I rolled up my jean leg to see the wound dripping, like those tiny holes were reopening.
Tristan still wasn't back yet.
I could hear Beetle crying out in pain from the back of the van, but I just paid him no mind. Shades down. Other problems.
The black rain was dripping from my eyelids, into my line of sight, forming a beaded curtain. I hear a noise over to my right and I turn to see a man walking towards me. At first I think he's a bad guy, he looks that mean. Then I see the dogs coming, two of them, leashed to one of his hands. Over one shoulder he carries a shotgun, over the other a canvas bag. In his other hand a spade. And as the stranger approaches other details fall into place: the smears of paint on his face, in stripes: the look in his eyes, a look of pure momentum, like an animal.
He takes those last few steps, the ones that bring us near to each other, the difficult steps. I see then his bald head shining in the moonlight, jabs of colour here and there, bits of blood it looks like. "Tristan?" I ask. "That you?"
The stranger doesn't answer me.
"What you done, man? Where's the hair?"
"Shaved it."
The two dogs were straining to be set free, howling towards the moon, feeling their blood pulled in waves by its gravity.
That's drastic action," I say. "I guess you needed to do that?"
Tristan's not looking at the moon. He's not looking at the stars, or at the flats, or at the van. Tristan's looking at me. I'm his sole intention.