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  Beetle was glued to the seat, the gun in his hands, both hands clenched, and his eyes wide from the action. Murdoch screaming from under the dog.

  ‘Get the pig off me!’ shouted Mandy, her face smeared with the thick blood of the fleshcop. ‘Can somebody please undo these cuffs, please.’

  I could move then, and I stood up, out of the clutching chair, away from the fear. I moved over to the dead cop. I found the keys on the floor, and set Mandy free. ‘Cheers, Scribb,’ she said. The cuffs fell to the lino, one ring still around the cop’s wrist. Beside his body I saw Murdoch’s gun, just lying there. I slipped it into my pocket. ‘Karli, that’s enough.’ The dog moved back slightly.

  Beetle had risen up, and he had the flame pistol pressed against Murdoch’s temple. Her face was a pleasure to behold, all cracked with fear and blood. Her shecop eyes were clenched tight shut against the moment. I saw a feather down on the floor, next to Murdoch’s head. I picked it up. Cheap fake Knowledge Feather, going cream in my hands.

  ‘That’s enough, Beetle’ I said. ‘Job is done.’

  We’re all just out there, somewhere, waiting to happen.

  DAY 21

  ‘Babe, it’s going all the way.’

  CONTAMINATED

  WITH BASS

  ‘The djinn is going in! Feel it! Feel it!’

  Two hands, separate, but in time with the big rhythm, working the Siamese decks.

  ‘Big djinn going in now! For the Collyhurst disciples. They are in the Limb! They are in the fucking Limb!’

  Two hands, two small human hands, working the twin decks, the triple decks, the quadruple decks of the Limbic System house.

  ‘This one’s on special import! All the way from Noirpool! Coming on tough-core from the Limbic System, out of the North. This is a white label dream coming at you! Ha ha ha! Dance, suckers, dance!’

  Twin hands working the infinite decks, mixing dreams with real time stories, forcing sweat out of hard-packed bodies. I can make a dead man dance. Fuck that. I can make a robot dance, a Shadow dance.

  I was looking through the booth glass, watching the submasses moving, groin to groin, or just on their own. Men, women, real or Vurt. Robo or smoke. I’m moving them all, at last, the whole congregation, all of the various shapes of existence, moving to the latest remix from the Interactive Madonna.

  ‘We’re all together, at last!’ I shouted. And my voice was amplified throughout all of the land, all of the places of Limbic, all of the wide-open spaces, and all of the darkest corners.

  ‘Play that Limbic Splitter, white boy!’ called a voice from the dance floor. Voice came through the system like a flare-path, all of a purple sheen, just the voice of a nowhere girl caught tight in a shining moment, but in that moment she was a queen.

  ‘Inky MC is talking to yer, live and direct, from the space between the beats, all the way to the floor. This one’s for you, lone dancer! Step up lively now! Dance on it!’

  She did. And they all did. And the whole house was misting over, side-swaying in step to the house fuel.

  ‘You got them, Ink!’ said the Twinkle, from over in the corner where she was eating a Bassburger from a plastic tray. ‘You got them going, and good!’

  ‘Hey listen, it’s early yet. Watch this!’

  ‘Keep on doing it,’ she says, between mouthfuls.

  A knock on the booth door then. Uh oh. Another sponger. ‘I’m busy,’ I cry.

  ‘Come on, Mister DJ, give us a go on the bass,’ says the voice from behind the panel. I don’t recognise it, but Twinkle opens the door anyway and I see a pale-facer standing there, that look of deep need in his eyes.

  ‘I need some bass, man,’ he’s saying, eyes full of glazed-up wonder. ‘More bass! More bass!’

  ‘I think not,’ I answer. He doesn’t care.

  ‘Give us some bass! Come on!’

  The Twinkle moves in, blocking the door gap. ‘The Ink man, he say no,’ she tells him.

  ‘Oh come on!’

  ‘Go fuck a sponge cake, loser!’ says the Twinkle, slamming the booth door on the sucker.

  That girl is growing up too fast and maybe it’s all my fault.

  Well I don’t care any more.

  I’m losing the will to care, and I find it beautiful.

  Maybe I’m changing for the worst. Maybe for the better.

  Because maybe the worst is the best, when you get far enough down.

  I slap a Twister on the deck mat and lay the syringe on the run-in groove, lining up the ghost track on the skull-phones, then letting the whole thing kick into bloom with a Manc yell.

  ‘Tune! Tune for the brood! All the people in the block. Limbic dopers! This is from Dingo Tush, latest tune! They’re calling it Sampled Under Foot. Know where that comes from! Dingo Tush later, coming on live with the Warewolves. Just for now, here comes the Rain Girl remix. Sampled Under Fuck! Tough-core, babies!!!’

  ‘Can I come to the after-gig party, Ink?’ says Twinkle.

  ‘No you cannot. You can just go home, Karli will see you there, and I will meet you later.’

  ‘Aw, Scribb…’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  But the noise was coming on loud as I flexed the decks, right up to Ultimax. People are moving, grooving, improving, super-smoothing. From over in a dark corner Karli the robobitch was howling to the music and I plugged her in, direct to the flex, mixing her barking in with beats. Crowd were soaking in it, howling at the full moon lighting patterns. Looked like a fox clan party in the mating season. People were near to rutting, just because of my music, and I was loving it, loving the power, when there’s another knock on the door.

  ‘Tell them to get lost, Twinkle. No deals.’

  ‘Get lost!’ said the Twinkle. ‘No deals!’

  ‘It’s me, Scribble,’ said the voice from behind the door, and my hands slipped on the decks as I let that voice get to me. Dancers missed a beat, wrong footing, and they were complaining out loud, through the system.

  Oh shit! Oh no! Not now!

  ‘Mandy?’ said Twinkle.

  ‘Keep her away!’ I demanded.

  ‘MC Inky says no,’ she tried, towards the shut door.

  No use.

  ‘It’s me, Scribb. The not-so-new girl.’

  And then a silence as I tried to ignore that strong voice. Mandy’s voice.

  ‘I’ve got the Beetle with me,’ she added, and I went a little bit weak.

  ‘Scribble?’ It was the Beetle calling, his voice so insistent, so kind.

  Fuck that! That’s all over.

  ‘That’s not my name, pal.’ I was resisting, trying to resist anyway.

  ‘Beetle wants to see you, Scribb,’ Mandy pleaded. ‘He’s missing your action.’

  Moments passed as the voice of Dingo Tush led the crowd towards ecstasy, and Twinkle was looking at me, with that look in her eyes, that sweet look.

  ‘Shall I let them in, Mister Scribb…I mean Ink?’

  Seven bars of music passed by before I answered.

  Booth door opens and that ungodly twosome, that pair of reprobates fall in the DJ box, and I just couldn’t help it, my weak heart was full of love for them. A kind of bruised love, truth be known.

  ‘Scribble!’ The Beetle drooled.

  ‘Okay, Beetle,’ I said. ‘The name’s Ink MC.’

  ‘Aye. I heard that.’ His eyes were triple glazed. ‘Long time, my man.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I was holding back the feelings, on purpose, just to spite him, just to build my dreams up, just to break even.

  Just to break even. Because sometimes you’ve got to do the best you can, in order to come out smiling, just by a little bit.

  ‘Scribble, baby, you’ve got your posse with you!’

  ‘I’m busy, Bee,’ I answered. And I was, working the decks like a pilgrim, searching for God. That’s the god of Limbic. The god of music, hidden inside the beats.

  ‘Twinkle and the Karli Dog,’ the Beetle carried on. ‘You’ve got them in
tow. That’s a nice one. And here’s me thinking you were all alone in the world these days.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t know me well enough, Bee.’ I looked into his eyes and saw a cracked ghost hiding there.

  Beetle was like a zombie. One of those zombies you see working the all-night garages, pouring petrol and Vaz into pimpmobiles, eyes full of fumes, blood-knots, and boredom. Never seen the Bee look bored before.

  ‘Maybe you’re right all of a sudden,’ he replied.

  I had to turn away. ‘How you sailing, Mandy?’

  ‘Hanging on, Scribble,’ she answered. Her hair was as red as the skin of a postbox, and it sure made me tremble.

  ‘Come on, Mandy,’ The Beetle slurred. ‘Come meet the Scribble once again. He’s making a living for himself. He’s…he’s playing the…oh shit…nevermind…’

  His voice trailed off into the distance and his vision closed on some thousand-yard stare, some far off wonder, way beyond this realm.

  ‘What’s he on, Mandy?’

  ‘Tapewormer.’

  Oh dear. Tapewormer. That was a bad feather, Bee. That was a bad move.

  ‘Shit, man!’ I said, turning back to him. ‘What’s happening to you?’

  ‘Hey, Scribble?’ he asked. ‘How did you manage such a landing? You got contacts?’

  ‘Yeah sure, I got contacts.’

  ‘That’s nice!’

  ‘That’s right. It’s nice,’ I answered. ‘You look like fuck, Bee.’

  ‘Well I guess so. But it’s a good fuck.’

  ‘Anything from the Thing, or Bridget?’

  ‘Yeah sure, everyday…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m with them everyday.’

  ‘You found them?’

  ‘Sure I did. They’re inside of here, babes,’ and he was tapping with an uncut fingernail on the side of his temple. Oh well, that’s Tapewormer for you.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mandy?’ I asked.

  ‘Said he wanted to find you. Said he wanted to get up close again…’

  ‘Damn right, Scribb,’ the Beetle said.

  ‘Said he wanted the Stash Riders back together.’

  ‘Stash Riders are dead,’ I said. Beetle’s mouth opened and closed like a Thermo Fish chewing on some sick blood.

  Just then Dingo Tush came on the stage, with his pack of players, the Warewolves. They were a ragged collection of hybrids; robodogs, shadowdogs, girl and boy dogs. They struck up a loud noise, full up on wolf howls and furry beats, and I managed a good fade on the mixer despite the anger flooding my system.

  ‘What we doing, Dogpeople?’ shouted Dingo to his crowd.

  ‘Barking for Britain!!!’ One voice, one howl.

  ‘Will you look at that turd taster!’ announced the Beetle. ‘Looks like he’s too much Alsatian in him.’

  ‘A whole lot,’ I answered, watching the dogman through the glass. He was working the crowd up to a slobber, his fur swinging back and forth to the beat of his dog drummer.

  Tune was called Bitch Magnet, and his rap was barking!

  ‘I cannot take that!’ snarled the Beetle. ‘Dog fucking! I mean, who the hell would find that a pleasure?’

  ‘The brood loves him.’

  ‘Fucking pervs! They’re just tart-seed, that lot. Fucking bunch of impurities!’

  ‘Where you living these days?’ Mandy asked.

  ‘Can’t tell you that’

  ‘Shit, you can’t!’ the Beetle said. ‘This is the Beetle talking! It was me that dragged you free of the slime. Remember your life, Scribble? Before you met me?’

  ‘The name is MC Inky.’

  ‘You’ll always be the Scribble to me. Or maybe Stevie.’

  ‘Then it’s over,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Between us.’

  ‘You making a living doing this, Scribb?’

  ‘No. Not really. Just about.’

  ‘I know that story.’

  ‘Keep selling the drugs, Bee. No problems.’

  ‘Plug us in, Scribb.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Go on, Ink man. To the bass.’

  ‘You’re not getting around me.’

  ‘I’ve got some Vurt.’

  ‘I don’t do that any more.’

  ‘Good Vurt.’

  ‘I’m going clean.’

  ‘I’ve got some Tapewormer.’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  Oh God, keep me strong. Don’t let me be tempted.

  ‘Plug me in, Ink baby. To the bass. Me and Mandy. We want it. Right, Mandy?’

  Mandy was looking at me, that first look, like when I’d found her, stealing Bloodvurts from the market stall. ‘I can’t control him any more, Scribb,’ she said. Her eyes flicked over to where the Beetle was swaying to some hidden dream, worming the tape back. ‘He keeps going in alone. Says I don’t belong there, not where he’s going. Says I don’t deserve to meet the Desdemona. I would’ve liked to have met your sister, Scribble. She sounds like a cool girl. I don’t know what to say. I really miss the group. I miss carrying aliens up the stairs. I miss you, Scribble. That’s the truth.’

  Moments of silence. Me dumbfounded.

  Broken by the Beetle; ‘Course you do, Mandy. I mean like, don’t we all?’

  ‘You reckon Desdemona misses the Riders?’ I asked.

  ‘You still looking for that corpse, Scribb?’ the Beetle said, and the anger came through then, into my eyes, causing tears to form there.

  ‘I think you should fuck yourself silly, Bee. And then get out of here.’

  ‘Come on, man! Plug us in. Let’s taste the bass! Come on, the Scribb. Deliver. For once! Deliver it!’

  Okay, the Beetle. You want it. Come get it. Hope you choke to death on it. I had the five-pin plug in my hands and I was shaking as I fed it. Straight to the gate. The Beetle was wide open at the mouth, and his gums were bleeding as I rammed the bass flex home. And then I was turning it up, turning the bass right up, way past the legal limits, and I was calling to the crowd the same time.

  ‘Limbic brood! This is for you! Feel it! Feel it! Dingo Tush! Calling to yer! Leave some space for the bass, Dog Star!’

  Brood went crazy, pumping it, as the bass kicked in and The Beetle was dancing in the air as the heavy waves pounded his system. Seemed like his body was about to burst. He was calling out my name, calling me to stop the bass from going any deeper.

  Babe, it’s going all the way!

  Know that feeling?

  I’ll bet.

  DAY 22

  ‘My mind was like a stranger, a cold-hearted stranger with a gun in his hands.’

  SLITHY TOVE

  Doorman at the Slithy Tove was a fat white rabbit. He had a blood-flecked head protruding from beer-stained neck fur and a large pocket watch in his big white mittens. The big hand was pointing to twelve, the little hand pointing to three. That’s three o’clock in the morning of the night just begun.

  Two door whores were trying to blag their way in without a coding symbol. Rabbit was dealing them grief. I flashed my laminated access-all-areas after-gig party passcode, formed to the shape of a small and cute puppy dog half-cut with a human baby, dappled in fur; overleaf, a photo of Dingo Tush, naked but for his (authorised) autograph. Around the edge of the pass ran the slogan—Dingo Tush. Barking for Britain Tour. Presented by Das Uberdog Enterprises.

  Rabbit bouncer scanned my pass and then looked up into my eyes. It was a hard stare. ‘I was the Dingo’s DJ tonight, partner,’ I told him. He was suitably enamoured; he let me pass.

  I pushed through the slithy portals, through the hole in the earth, along the shelves of jam, all the way through the corridor of hanging-on liggerettes, straight to the crush.

  Must have been five hundred people in there, that small space; friends, lovers, enemies, husbands, wives, second cousins, groupies, agents, roadies, managers, fur dressers, bone-buriers, flea pickers, glitter dogs and litter men, DJ’s, VJ’s, SJ’s, mothers, smothers, ex-
lovers, record pushers. All the entourage of Dingo Tush, dancing around the handbag Vurt transmitted from the roof-beams, and then more spilling out into the Fetish Garden, under a streetlamp moon, still dancing.

  I walked into the crush, and was driven up, and lost, plugged in straight off, with a whiff of Bliss. You just can’t get away from it. The love is clinging. Well, when it’s breathed in direct, through the air conditioning, I mean, what chance do you have? I took a deep mouthful, felt high as a paper plane. Man, that was good Bliss Wind. I took another gulp, full lungful this time, head was spinning and I loved everybody in the crush all of a sudden. Caressed my way to the bar and ordered a glass of Fetish. The dark spicy afternotes hit my palette, causing sparks, and I was floating, hot. Slithy Tove system was playing The Ace of Bones. Original pressing by Dingo Tush, but this was the hard (hard!) remix, cooked up by Acid Lassie, and it was dancing the crush to a frenzy. I turned around, leaning my back against the bar, just to view the scenes better. I was gazing into a dub mirror. That’s the kind where you only get the best bits looking back at you. It was that splendid mix of Bliss and Fetish, dogmusic and crush-dancing; makes you feel like a star in your own system.

  I swigged another gulp of Fetish, relished it, breathed deep of the Bliss scent, then turned on, full on, to the crowd and the crush, and just drenched myself in it. Christ, I needed release!

  There was a balcony up above, and I had the sudden clear thought that I would like to be up there, looking down on the herd. So I pushed off from the bar, holding my glass tightly, and entered the maelstrom, squeezing through tight gaps between dancers. Some were dressed in black, some in purple, some in vinyl, some in feathers, some in rainbows, some in bare flesh, some in fur, some in smoke and herb, some in tatters, some in splatters. The rest in pin-stripe. All the colours were present. Sweat was dripping off me already, as I entered a small circle of feather sharers, and as I passed they gave me a quick tickle to the throat, just a little one, so I only caught a glimpse of moon-flecked meadows as I flew over them, flapping my thunderwings, chasing the prey. Gang was on Thunderwings, and its sweet feel stayed with me as I moved on, forcing a path towards the stairs. Thunderwings helped me through the crush, and up the stairs. Felt like I was flying those stairs. Up to the balcony, where the world lay waiting.