"Cosmic Debris."
"No games, Dingo. The address."
"That's the lot, pure boy."
I pulled on the trigger.
Just a little, mind. Just a tiny Gun Stroker squeeze; enough to activate the red firing light. Enough to get the crowd gasping and the Dingo to start screaming; and to end the screaming with a blurted out message, the address.
I eased the trigger back into safety mode; the red light fading to cool mode.
"I would have told you anyway," shouted the Dogstar.
"Just to make sure, Dingo."
Just to make sure.
Because I already knew where Cosmic Debris was. I'd been there. I'd shopped there. We'd bought that old worm-hive settee from there.
Now we were going back. In search of some smoke-damaged shadowgirl and a second-hand Thing-from-Outer-Space.
"Stash Riders! Out of here!"
I was kind of loving this.
Outside, into the swirl…
Sunday mornings, starting at five a.m., they have this car boot sale at the Fleshpot canal site, down by the Old Trafford docks. That early all the illegal dealers turn up, selling off cheap feathers and Haze. Along with various domestic items. The sale was in full swing as we rushed out of the truckers' club. People were crowding the shore, looking for bargains. It was a crash of faces and noise. Cars were pulled up, tightly packed. Whole families were out in force, buying and selling. Felt like I was staring into a kaleidoscope, searching for a single crystal. Colours were swirling. Shouts and banter from all angles were calling to me, as I led the Stash Riders through the crush, back towards the van.
I pushed some people aside but it didn't take too much effort. What with The Beetle's colours, and Tristan's shotgun, and Karli's teeth and Karli's growl, I guess we made a pretty picture. The crowd made a clear path for us, over towards where the van was parked.
I was heading for the back door, ready to let the crew in, but I was getting this bad feeling, like there was something wrong with the number-plate, or something wrong with my eyes. I couldn't fathom it. Something wrong. I was staring at the number plate, and the numbers were flickering. Like they were living numbers. Couldn't work it out.
Then I got it.
Shadowcop!
There was a beam of inpho firing onto the number-plate. I looked around and there was the Shaka, working his mechanisms.
What now, big leader man?
"Stash Riders!" I was calling. "Let's move!"
I was running through the crowd, away from the van, forcing a path. People yelling out at me, but I wasn't listening, just running on. Twinkle and Karli close behind, could feel them. And the Beetle's colours leading the way.
Where was Tristan now?
Never mind that.
Didn't know where to run to.
Except that the sun was glinting on the water somewhere, beyond where all those boats were moored.
That's where I led the Riders, not even knowing why.
There were sirens playing in the morning air.
Cop sirens.
Dozens of boats were tied up along the bank; the floating families selling off stuff, just to make a small life. Some were selling food from barbecue boats. Some were selling love, the downmarket version; cheap sluts and rabid studs on deck. And a boat of flowers; a floating garden.
I was looking all ways, searching for a way out. Cop sirens were playing my all-time least favourite tune.
I caught a broken shadow dancing along the edge of my vision. I turned to get that image fixed. There was the Shaka, floating over the market, with the shecop Murdoch close behind, gun in hand.
Man, I was getting some serious Vipers in my system.
They were parting the crowd swirl by force and daring, and the look on Murdoch's face was pure, and raging; like she was aiming for a big thrill.
"Crewcut!" said this voice, from over by the boats. "This way! Relish it!"
I turned back to the water.
"Crew baby! This way!"
I was searching for the voice, the needling voice in the boat-stack. Then my eyes were following the sound to its likely source, finding the sign on the mast-head: "Food O'Juniper. Chef Barnie."
I ran towards the boat, dragging the posse on.
Chef Barnie was on deck, waving us aboard. A young girl child was standing next to him, her fingers working the lines loose. "This way, Crewcut. This way!"
We clambered onto the swaying vessel, and I was almost certain I had brought everybody with me. Twinkle? Yes. Karli with her? Yes. Mandy? Yes. Tristan?
Tristan? You there, my friend?
Seems not.
It seems that it is not to be.
The young girl cut the line.
"Wait!" I called.
But called it late, way too late.
And as we were drifting away, I watched the Tristan stepping out from the crowd, his gun lodged in his arms, firm and solid.
"Tristan!" I screamed. Guy took no notice. He had the shecop in his sights, and he wanted payment, payment for the loss.
Tristan let loose that shotgun.
It made a pretty flame in the morning's light
Car booters were screaming and running.
A pile of house trash exploded on a makeshift trestle table as the bullet hit. Murdoch dived behind the body of a family saloon, away from the fire. Other cops were coming in. Tristan was jigging the gun mechanism, readying for another shot. Too late. Too slow.
I was catching all of this from the widening water.
Too late. Too late and too slow. The both of us.
The cops were grabbing hold of Tristan, wrestling him to the floor, holding him down. Barnie was putting some water between us and the trouble. Now the cops were beating down on Tristan with hot spikes.
All I could do was watch.
I turned my eyes away. Barnie was there, at the helm, wheel in hand, turning it upstream. I studied his perfect facebones for a full minute. "Where are you taking us, Chef?" I asked.
"Home," he answered.
Home? Where's that then?
And the river was a vein of blood under the sun.
Eyes opening to a flicker.
Colours, shapes of faces, people laughing.
The television was on.
I'm sitting in a deep velvet armchair, in the corner of a small living room, watching through half-open eyes. The television was a matt black model, with chrome trim. A real collector's item.
The kids down on the rug were screaming with joy. The dog's tail wagging.
Noel Edmonds was on the television. With his whirlpool of hair, and that cheeky grin, he was asking questions of a happy family. Every time they got a question wrong, a rude noise sounded, and this bright red pointer moved closer to the symbol of a pile of sick. Above the family rested a giant bucket. It was steaming. Below the bucket, in large blue and red letters, were the words Noel's Spew Tank. Even when the television family got a question wrong, still they laughed and giggled. Down on the rug the three kids and the dog were laughing along. The dog laughed by wagging her tail. I was laughing as well. My god! I hadn't seen this since my childhood. What was happening?
I opened my eyes fully then, trying to take it all in. This room, this house, this wallpaper of flowers, and the people who were gathered there. It was all so familiar, like a memory. Like I'd been here before.
The oldest kid was a teenager. Her name was Mandy. The dog was called Karli, and the second girl was called Twinkle. I didn't know the name of the youngest kid. And I suddenly got this picture; they've never seen this before! Never seen the hair of Noel, the cigar of Saville, the magic of Daniels.
The living room door opened and Barnie came into the room. He was followed by a woman. She was carrying a tray of food, and Barnie had a bottle of wine and some glasses. The woman's hair was green, emerald green, and it reached down to her fifth vertebrae; it stirred up some feelings in me. Like I'd known her before, and very closely. Couldn't place it. She put the tray down for me, on a small glass coffee table. The food went with the room. Plates of meat and fish, spiced vegetables, crispy salads, ginger and garlic pastes, fruit and nuts, crumbling cheeses, apple pie with a cinnamon custard.