Pollen

by Jeff Noon

Genres: General Fiction; Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Cyberpunk; Humorous sci-fi

Synopsis

The 30th anniversary reissue of the acclaimed sequel to Jeff Noon’s Vurt. A second key piece of the SF canon from an author who has found new readers with Gogmagog and Ludluda.

A nightmare trip into a Manchester overwhelmed by an alien hay fever...

“Ya Ya! The flowers are spurting pollen all over the Manchester map. Gumbo never seen such a giant, golden step before.”

A tale of reality gone soft and dreams become real, from the award-winning author of Vurt. As a vast cloud of pollen descends upon the city, people are sneezing themselves to death. Sybil Jones and her daughter Boda are on paths to the dark source of the pollen, what they find will change how we see the myths we create to make sense of the world.

“I’ll bet that you’ll find roads where Pollen touches the here and now of your own life, and maybe even recombines some thoughts you have about what’s real, surreal, alive, dead, organic, mechanic, attractive, repulsive, outdated, or absolutely of its time. I hope it impregnates you with ideas, as only the best poetry, art, music and stories can.”
Aliya Whiteley, author of The Beauty

With a new introduction by Aliya Whiteley and a new afterword by Jeff Noon

Release date: December 2, 2025

Publisher: Angry Robot

Print pages: 368

Sample

THE SNEEZE:

7 MAY

SUNDAY 6.19 A.M.

Extracted from The Looking Glass Wars

by R. B. Tshimosa

There is now little doubt that one of the most important discoveries of the last century was the ability to record dreams onto a replayable medium, a bio-magnetic tape coated with Phantasm liquid. This liberation of the psyche, in its most advanced form, became known as Vurt. Through the gates of Vurt the people could re-visit their own dreams, or, more dangerously, visit another person’s dream, a stranger’s dream.

It is generally accepted that this ‘doorway between reality and dream’ was first opened by the amorphologist ‘Miss Hobart’, but the actual origins of the Vurt and the method by which human beings travelled there (via ‘dream-feathers’ which were placed into the mouth) will always be shrouded in mystery.

Much of this frustrating lack of knowledge stems from the nature of the Vurt itself, because the ‘world of dreams’ very quickly achieved a life of its own. The early people of Earth were, in the main, ignorant of this aspect of the invention. It was this ‘self-dreaming’ attribute of the Vurt world that eventually led to that series of battles we now call the Looking Glass Wars. This book will attempt a dispassionate overview of the terrible wars between the dream and reality, a conflict in which both parties would suffer terrible losses before an eventual victor was declared.

All the great theories of warfare can be reduced to a manifestation of greed. Thus it was that the creatures of the dream, as they grew more powerful, started to despise and look down upon the original dreamers, whom they called the mere ‘storytellers’ of planet Earth. Indeed, the creatures of the dream now saw their fantastic realm as a separate world, Planet Vurt. The ‘Vurtuals’ longed for independence.

One particularly weak point in the barrier between dream and reality existed in the psychic air that surrounded Manchester, a rain-drenched city to the north-west of Singland (which was known in those primitive d ays by the name ‘England’). It was in this fabled city that the incident now called the Pollination took place. This is generally believed to be one of the earliest skirmishes in the Looking Glass Wars...

 

Monday 1 May

My father told me that I would live as many years as the grains of dust I could hold in one hand. Consequently I have lived to such an advanced age that now, when my body is ravaged by time, and powerless, all I have left to me is this voice, this Shadow, this urge to tell.

My name is Jones. A simple gift made uncommon by the Christian name my father gave to me – Sibyl. Sibyl Jones. I was born with the curse of the Unbeknownst, which meant that I was never able to dream. Imagine, a life of unpopulated sleep, in the days when the whole world was addicted to Vurt feathers, the shared dream. The state of Unbeknowing is a genetic lack; six per cent of the populace would always suffer from this inability. The ones who could dream called us the Dodos, the flightless birds. Often, in my youth, I would envision the Dodo part of my body as a river of dark, sterile liquid in my veins. At other times, a black, hungry beetle seemed to be alive in my stomach, gorging himself on my just-born dreams.

This was my curse. The gates to Wonderland were locked.

My salvation was the gift of the Shadow, which allowed me access to other people’s thoughts. I was a head-tripper, a mind-reader, living my life at one remove. One hundred and fifty-two years I have lived in this state, and the dust gets everywhere. Every orifice is clogged with it. The folded map of the brain becomes a drifting garden of powder.

It was not always so.

Once I was young and juicy, constantly wet – whether with blood, or love, or drink – well, it matters little. Take it as read: I was making recompense for the lack of a dream. I was a willing participant in the flood of ripeness, a willing victim of biology. But oh, the dust came to me, earlier than most, so that I got old before my time – my husband left me because of this, my daughter left me – until all that remained was the urge towards a non-specific justice. I became a Shadowcop in the employ of the Manchester Police, lending my telepathy to their interrogations. And all things in those days were neat and deftly placed; my life became a long crusade against crime and betrayal, and, beneath that, a river of alcohol and smoke and loneliness was roaring. My life was at home with this pattern of denial.

It was all soon to go astray.

I want to tell you this story, my daughter, this story of fragments gathered from Manchester: flowers and dogs and dreams and the broken maps of love. I think it’s time. Soon she will die, this mother of yours, this woman of dust that I have become. Please listen closely. This is my story, your story; my shadow, your shadow; my life of drifting air, my book, my Sibylline book...

Coyote is the best black-cab driver of all time. He’s taken more people more miles, to stranger places, in stranger times, with less hassle, less shit on the windscreen, with slicker twists of the wheel, deeper moves on the map, with fewer accidents, fewer wrong turnings, fewer complaints, fewer refunds, along more shortcuts and outlawed roads, and with more gravitas, for less money, and with more wounds to show for it all than any other driver could even imagine.

Two minutes to four in the morning, May 1, the world is fluttering all around him; dark birds, wings of soot, black fields and a blinded moon. Also, it’s just about to start to rain. Badly. This matters little; Coyote is a top dog driver and now his jaws are slobbering at the thought of some rich meat, some golden fare, some big juicy muscle of money.

Meat and money: twin dreams, a way to pay back the debts.

God knows Coyote has enough of them. Debts to the banker, debts to the court, debts to the little girl who lives down the lane. This is what

he calls his daughter, a sweet kid he sees now and again, and whose mother – Coyote’s ex-wife – is constantly asking for more support payments. Coyote doesn’t mind paying, in fact he likes paying; it’s just that he doesn’t have much money at the moment.

Everybody, everywhere – they all want money.

So does Coyote. Not too much, mind. Just enough would be fine. Just enough to pay off his debts and then some for himself. He has the idea that maybe he will head on down to sunny Pleasureville one day. Set up a little cab service there, sit in an office, watching the fares flood into his system. Live the life of a pedigree for a change. For the first time in years, Coyote has started thinking about the future again. If he can just get some capital together, some buried bones together. He’d vowed he’d never return to Limbo, but this is a lean period for good rides.

Now Coyote is waiting on this big meaty trip, booked two days ago, time and place specified to the last digit; fare to be paid at the drop-off point. He knows that most of the regular drivers insist upon money up front, but Coyote is old-fashioned. That’s why he drives a black cab. He even has the original fare-meter up and working. Modified to his own specifications of course, but still – nobody does that any more. Coyote is unique, and so proud of it. It’s just that unique gets kind of lonely after a while.

The time on his dashboard clock blinks back at him. It’s 4.02 in the morning. The fare is late. Thick-bellied clouds are gathering over the moorland track where he’s parked, looking like the first stirrings of a wet dream, and still no sign of the passenger. Coyote is getting nervous. Not about the threat of rain; Coyote has driven fares through hurricanes. Nor about the dark world all around him. In fact he likes the darkness. These days most of the rides he takes are highly illegal, and the darker the better is the rule. It’s getting close to the daylight and, if the passenger doesn’t turn up soon, he is going to call the whole trip off, and that is that. Time is Coyote’s main enemy. Time is where the daylight lives, and there the cops live too; sitting fat and desperate, waiting for some outsider-dog like Coyote to speed along, breaking the rules. He’s broken the rules before – Coyote lives to break the rules, that’s his job in life – but one careless day he had been caught for it, and was still paying off the fine. He wants to pay off the fine – that’s the human in him. But still, this isn’t something he wants to repeat. Trouble is, he just can’t stop breaking the rules. That’s the Dalmatian in him.

tubs his Napalm cigarette in the dashboard ashtray, grabs another pack from the glove compartment, gets out of the cab, breaks the airtight plastic wrap open with his claws, lights up another cig, leans against the cab, watches the clouds dancing for a while. Through the gloom the dark moors seem to be moving. Coyote is feeling nervous; he’s the only dogman for miles around, and the Zombies are gathering around him in the fields of the night. He knows that the moors of Limbo belong to these half-dead monsters, but this is where the big fares live. Is the top dog driver going to give up on that chance? Some jumping flea-jitters shiver through his skin, and suddenly these dead fields are too much to take; he needs some human company, some voices. He reaches into the cab to turn the ignition, and then strokes the radio. As usual he’s tuned into FM Dog National. Those sanitized howlings from the Dog Jockeys and all those records they play, sugar-coated bones sung by sweet young bitchgirls, are not right for his current mood. He wants something more human, something to appeal to the human side of his soul. Leaning in through the open cab window he retunes the radio until he reaches Radio YaYa. The fading moments of a long-ago song transform into a voice deep and slow and as parched as the earth Coyote is standing on...

‘And that was ‘John Barleycorn Must Die’ by Traffic, a mighty folk-rock paean to the regenerative spirit of Mother Earth coming to us from nineteen sixty-nine. Sure was a fine year, and a lovely touch of flute in there – you catching me, people? This is the good Gumbo himself starting the new day, May the first, the day of fertility, with a wish that John Barleycorn keeps on rising. As long as he keeps his polleny fingers out of this old hippy’s nose. The time is four minutes past four, and the pollen count for today is coming in at 49 grains per cubic metre and steady. This is day one of the sneezing season, so Gumbo YaYa says to all his listeners, keep a clean and sweet pair of nostrils about you. Coming up in the next hour the official news from Wanita-Wanita, plus all the stuff the Authorities don’t want you knowing about. You know that’s why you love the Gumbo so much. And now a hot twist from sixty-six, ‘Are You Experienced’ by the Jimi Hendrix Experience. Play some loving guitar for me, Jimi... Ya Ya!’

This will do. This ragged noise makes Coyote want to howl. Gumbo YaYa is a pirate DJ broadcasting a diet of 1960s classics along with classified information stolen from the cop-banks. All of which comes floating from some unknown location in Manchester. Gumbo YaYa is an anarchist trickster figure, strictly anti-authoritarian, and this appeals to Coyote’s psyche. Coyote leaves the radio to play and then turns on the cab’s headlights. They cut two dying, yellow paths through the air, illuminating a huge but withered oak tree. Coyote drags deep on the cig, looking at the new pack for its message; SMOKING MAKES YOU LOOK COOL – HIS MAJESTY’S IMAGE CONSULTANT. He manages a small grin, just to keep the fear at bay, and then looks back at the clouds.

Coyote loves the rain. It makes him think of the streets of Manchester. And he loves his Napalms. But best of all he loves his black cab.

You just can’t get hold of these cabs any more, not since Xcabs appeared on the scene. Xcabs! With their computerized, super-slick vehicles, all armour-plated yellow-and-black paint jobs. Designed by accountants, driven by retards. Xcabs were latter-day self-styled Knights of the Road, and there were a thousand rumours surrounding them. Coyote’s street-smarts told him that most of the rumours were true. For example, that the drivers were drained of all previous life-knowledge, fixed up with robo implants and a complex knowledge of the streets. That the overall system was run by some nebulous cab-creature calling himself Columbus. That the cabs had guns mounted on the front, just next to the headlights. That the drivers were in some way prescient, they knew you wanted a taxi even before you knew it yourself. Nowadays you called a cab, Xcabs turned up within less than a minute, guaranteed.

But not Coyote. He’s a real antique-scenario. Oh God, how he hates those Xcabbers.

He grinds his cigarette into the dirt road. Lights up another immediately, because suddenly he is thinking about Boda. Boda is one of the Xcab drivers, and she and Coyote have met up a few times at late-night cafes, and got to talking. Coyote had had to water down his image of Xcabbers – Boda came out shining in Coyote’s eyes. She was the genuine diamond, the one he had always been looking for. Coyote was dazzled by her presence, especially when she made up a song for him, just sitting there in that late-night cafe, the smokiness of her voice erecting his fur in tingles of joy. They had chatted until the street lamps went off, and it seemed to Coyote that the Xcabber was getting right inside his mind, speaking to him direct. It was like he had no secrets left. This made him think maybe she was one of the Shadowgirls, but

 he didn’t like to ask. Because weren’t Dogs and Shadows sworn enemies? And anyway, weren’t the drivers supposed to just live for the Xcab Hive and that was it? So why was this glamorous specimen talking to him then? And why the traces of Shadow reaching into Coyote’s mind? Surely Xcabs would have removed those wayward features. But he could see the fear in her eyes as she talked to him, like she was sinning against some kind of hidden code. So Coyote had kept his jaws closed on that score, regaling her, instead, with tales of his black-cab adventures. Boda had seemed to love all this; she had promised to pass some business his way, stuff that was too illegal for Xcabs. Xcabs couldn’t operate beyond the city’s boundaries.

This is the reason Coyote’s standing here, in the fading darkness, waiting for a pick-up miles from anywhere. Boda had given him the number to ring and a dark-tongued voice had answered his call: Proceed to The Floating Pig, carry on past it, taking the dirt track second on the left. Proceed three hundred yards down the track to the withered tree. Wait just there, four o’clock in the morning. Wait for fifteen minutes. If nobody turns up, leave. You catch that?

He caught it. Now here he is, standing around and waiting, the morning coming on strong in a mini-dress of orange. Why was Boda being so good to him? Coyote couldn’t answer. It had been ages since goodness had lapped at his bowl. Why now? All he could do was thank her with a kiss, and then proceed to his destination. But that kiss had sparked something within him, a recognition of the good times long gone, and those yet to come, like the mileage on a black cab’s clock; roads taken and untaken.

There is a noise to the right of him, out beyond where his headlights fade. He turns to look, but can see nothing, only the parched grass moving in slow waves like thickened tongues in the night. He goes for a deep sniff, letting the whole of the landscape into his nostrils. He catches the ozone bass of the rain clouds, and the tart mid-range sterility of the grass and earth, and some high, treble note he can’t place. But nothing dangerous, nothing human or half-human. Not yet.

He leans against the driver’s door, cig in mouth, listening to Gumbo YaYa introducing the next record, watching the clouds getting heavier, and thinking about his daughter, and about driver Boda, and the time, and how it is all running out, for him and for everybody else, all his big-money-grabbing so-called friends, unless this fucking fare turns up!

ghting up a small patch of earth. The earth was one step away from death around here, since the Bad Blood had fallen. Thanatos, the big papers had called it. The cheaper ones called it Limp, or Gaga or Mothballer. Christ! Did it matter what they called it? The world beyond the cities was a desert of dreams. It rained about once every six months this far out from the towns, and they say there are some holes in the world in these parts. Trust Coyote to get the job of driving through it all, on the dark roads, with maybe some bad passenger on board. If they ever make an entrance, that is. It was now 4.10 and still no sign. Sometimes Coyote thought that Manchester was the last wet place on Earth, and it was this that made him long for its dampened streets. He curses the fact that he is out here, maybe waiting on nothing, just some crazy rumour that Boda has heard. Maybe there isn’t a fare. The only legal transport that works the Limbo is the big monster trucks of Vaz International as they smooth their way from city to city. He had passed one on the way to the pick-up point: a massive juggernaut filled with firepower and flood-lights, a screaming steel banshee in the night that had almost caused Coyote to total his black cab into the darkness. This road isn’t even on any of the official maps. Of course Coyote doesn’t hold with official maps. He has the world inside his head. Like a dog urinating on lamp posts, Coyote marks out his territory as he comes to it.

Coyote is a map.

He lifts his snout to the wind, sniffing out the odours of storm, and then glances down at his watch.

4.12.

The sun is making a pink glimmer at the edges of his world. The day is fast approaching, and unless he delivers this fare within the next hour Coyote could well find himself out on a fragment, driving in Limboland, giving free rides to Zombies and other undesirables. It just wasn’t on. Didn’t they realize that time was death? If you got the seconds wrong...

Something screamed in the distance: a terrible keening, a high, scratching sound, like grit inside an eyeball.

Coyote fires up a replacement Napalm, sucks deep of the smoke and then looks out over the moors, watching for the parasites. Mostly they were called Zombies, sometimes Ghosts, sometimes the Half-alivers. Like most things these days they had many names. And Limbo was where they lived, but not from choice. Strict regulations kept them out of the towns and the cities. So this dried-up expanse of wind-beaten rock and earth had become a nesting place. But they couldn’t resist the warmth of human companionship, and the few passing cars were the perfect chance to hitch an illegal ride back home. Coyote isn’t too worried. He has a lot of dog in him, and a Dog can beat a Zombie, on a good day. Still, best to keep an eye and a nostril open.

He looks at his watch again. 4.15. The sun is definitely up and running along the edges of the night. Maybe it is time to call this ride off? Didn’t they say wait until 4.15 and then get out of there? Now it’s raining. Just his luck. It rains twice a year, Coyote catches a shower. But it wasn’t a Manchester kind of rain, more of a viscous flood of thick liquid; looks like being a real drenching session. Another scream from the darkness. There are only so many terrifying screams in the night that a young dogboy can take. Coyote places his paw on the cab’s door-handle, turning it to open...

But listen... listen and smell. Just now, just on the edge of a new day... he catches the scent of flowers.

Flowers! In this part of the world? On the moorlands? It just doesn’t make sense. Nothing can grow in such germ-ridden, festering soil. Bad Blood has rained on these lands.

So what exactly is this aroma?

Petunia. Jasmine. Rosemary. Primrose. Several other scents in there as well, intermingling – his usually all-knowing nose unable to distinguish the various elements. The smell is making him want to sneeze. Coyote suffers from hayfever, every year, no exceptions. Was this going to be a bad season?

Leaves shiver on the oak tree. Something dark nudges into Coyote’s vision. Shit, there weren’t any leaves on that tree, Coyote was certain of this. What, exactly, was shivering?

Two people appear out of the mist. A man and a child. The man is carrying a large sack. They don’t smell like Zombies; this is Coyote’s first reaction. They smell like a garden, an unruly rain-sodden wilderness.

that you can’t see anything of her, only the eyes. Eyes of bright emerald shining out from the darkness of her hood.

Coyote knows that the child is female, maybe ten or eleven, right on the edge of puberty. He can tell this from the smell, the smell of young girl. The scent is sweet and high, in relief against the smell of the rain, which is acrid and sour. The rain is making a sleek mess of Coyote’s fur. Coyote has the uncomfortable feeling that these people are bringing the rain with them. He can smell the flowers real strong now. His nostrils are being invaded. Coyote is sneezing. He squashes his cig underfoot, into the soft mud that is forming there, opens the cab door, gets in, turns off the good Gumbo.

Coyote knows his place.

The girl climbs into the back of the cab, plumping herself down on the leatherette seats. The man is banging on the boot with one hand, demanding it be opened. Coyote activates the boot-switch, and he feels the cab groan slightly under the new load of the sack. The man comes round to Coyote’s window. He has a face made out of soot. ‘She’s got the fare,’ he says. His voice is like mud being stirred up on a rainy day. ‘You know where she’s going?’

Coyote doesn’t even nod, he’s too busy spreading Sneeza Freeza on his nostrils. With his unjuiced other hand he activates the meter, the flag fall. This was what the old boys called the initial fare. It comes from way back, when a green flag had dropped down from the mechanism, indicating that the cab was chosen. Coyote still calls it that, even though the green flag has long vanished; that’s the kind of guy he is. The meter comes up all green and shiny: 3.80. Standard fare, one passenger. He hits the extras button for the sack-luggage. It comes up with a 0.60 for the weight. Then he presses the button marked L for Limbo, and the meter lights up a cool 400.20, which is what he charges for a pick-up outside the cities. Limbo-driving is very dangerous, and Coyote reckons he’s worth every penny.

‘Alexandra Park, Manchester,’ the man says. ‘You got that?’

Coyote ignores him.

Black cab sure is a beauty; just listen to that old engine ticking! Coyote feels the power coming on. The Knowledge. That’s what the drivers call it – the Knowledge of all the streets: where they all lie, how dangerous they are, what lies in wait in all the dark shadows. Coyote is running it already.

The back wheels spin up a cloud of mud as he moves off. The man is hanging on to the door. Maybe he gets some friction burns that day.

Like who the fuck cares?

4.22.

The day is already up, soon to be light; now it will be even more difficult to steal past the City Guards on duty, they will be checking all incoming vehicles for Zombies. Coyote is going to have to play this neat, maybe take a hidden door through Frontier Town. There can’t be many city dwellers with Coyote’s knowledge of the hidden roads into and out of Limbo. Time back he used to take some Vurt feathers to help him drive. But he came to know that his edge was crumbling. Nowadays, Coyote drives naked, featherless. The cab’s headlights pick up images of dead trees and the burnt out carcasses of cars. He is driving like a Zombie himself, totally at one with the knowledge of the real and its shadow.

Zombies were the curse of every driver’s life. Coyote had heard tales in the all-night cafes about cars found lodged in some slimy ditch somewhere down a back street of Manchester, the drivers’ bodies jammed in the seat, hands still clenched on the steering wheel. There were various stories about the state of the bodies. That all of their teeth had been removed. That their heads had been severed, and placed on the front of the hood like some Rolls-Royce Spirit of Ecstasy. That their genitals were found inside the petrol tank. Coyote doesn’t know what to believe. All he wants, all that he can do, his only skill, is to drive people from address to address, whether they be in Manchester, or in Limbo. And now here he is doing it, his favourite game: driving some strange fare towards Manchester, accelerating towards the thin gap that leads to a small country road that leads back towards the heat. Maybe this time the dream will happen, and Pleasureville will be lying in wait just around the next turning. If he could just deliver this fare.

4.41.

The dashboard clock is shining a bright green. It reminds him of the passenger’s eyes. So very pure. He bends around a little, to

 speak through the wire grill, ‘What want Manchester, miss?’ The question comes out like a low growl, because the Coyote is a halfdog and this is how he speaks, making human words out of a dog’s tongue.

The young girl doesn’t answer.

Coyote tries again. ‘You got ID?’

No answer. No matter; Coyote knew this was an illegal run anyway.

‘Strapped up proper?’

Again, no answer. But by twisting around Coyote can see that the safety straps are in place around that young body. ‘Weather bad,’ he tries. ‘Time of year?’

The young girl in the back pulls her anorak hood tighter around her face.

Okay, so she’s not a talker. She will just have to live with Coyote’s voice, that is all. Coyote likes to talk to his passengers.

‘What name, kid?’ he asks.

Maybe she’s not going to answer. There’s a full ten seconds or so, and then, finally, she says, ‘You can call me Persephone.’ Her voice is sweet and sticky. Like a dollop of honey.

‘Persephone. Name is nice,’ Coyote tells her.

No response.

Just the soft whispering of black trees on either side of the road. Now and again, the moon peeping out, a mute face from the clouds. But the sun is coming up, and Coyote’s driving down towards it. Maybe he’s free of the Zombies this run; those half-alivers hated the daylight. The noise of rain against the windscreen. The smell of flowers coming from the back of the cab. The air is cloying. Coyote feels a real big sneeze coming on. This hayfever is going to be the death of me.

Straining with his doggy eyes to steer a good clean path through the torrent of rain, he gets a sudden picture of Boda’s sweet face in his mind. He lets that vision draw him forth, back towards his Fallowfield flat. Then he gets the tingle; the fur on the back of his neck sticking up straight. Something’s about to go wrong, he knows it. Coyote’s looking all around, left to right, for trouble. Sees nothing. Then a loud, pulpy thud from the back of the cab, and the young girl starts screaming.

Coyote checks the mirror, just sees darkness, the girl moving away from the left side window. He turns his head, his nose taking in bad

smells. He can’t see what it is. ‘What happening?’ he calls out. The girl just screams some more. Coyote turns his head right round to see, and the car hits something in the road. What the fuck was that? Coyote spins his snout back to the front, only to see the hedge coming up close. He switches to hyper-dog mode, makes a cool swing on the wheel, turning the cab around to where the cat’s eyes are winking. Something hits the windscreen.

Jesus!

The face of a Zombie, squashed against the glass.

Now he’s got two of them, one on the back, one on the front, and the stench of half-life is making him retch. The one on the front is staring in at him. Its face is cracked and ragged, wet with rain, with bits of skin hanging off in black flags. Red eyes look at him, full of a terrible need for sustenance. The girl is making some kind of noise from the back seat. Dog driver just yells at her to keep away from the window, but already the front rider has got a finger’s grip on the door handle.

Should’ve taken that Vurt, mad dogger!

The only way forward is forward, so Coyote presses his foot all the way down, turning the world into a dark blur. The rider is still hanging on, though. Now its other hand is banging on the driver’s side window. Wouldn’t be so bad except it has some kind of rock in there. Coyote swerves the cab to the left and then a fast right again, driving on all fours now, like a true dog. But this Zombie is a seasoned hitcher. The rock comes down with a hard blow, making a web of cracks in the window. Another blow, and the window smashes. A shard of glass embeds itself in the taxi-dog’s cheeks. No pain, not yet, just the overwhelming sense of pride being punctured. That’s my cab window, Limbo-fucker! Get your filth off my life! Coyote works the lock and then knocks open the cab door – hard! – so that it flies back on a well-greased hinge, taking the Zombie with it. The thing is smashed against the body of the cab, and then the door swings around again. Coyote knocks it back again, but those hard-riding fingers are still gripping the door handle. Coyote pulls the door shut. The Zombie is pressing his broken face against the smashed-up window. Meanwhile Coyote is scrabbling about with one hand in the glove compartment. Where the hell did I put that thing? The Zombie’s head is reaching in to take a bite. Another blow, from the back this time, as the other Zombie makes a crack in the back left window. The girl is screaming.

years-uncut fingernails madly scratching at dog-flesh, drawing blood. Coyote finds what he’s looking for, and then raises his free hand towards the Zombie’s face. He stares deep into a pair of monstrous eyes for a tiny moment and then pulls the trigger. The pocket gun makes a sweet discharge; small fire from a taxi-dog’s fingers. A rich and hot splatter of Zombie flesh sizzles on Coyote’s face as he drops the gun to the cab floor, only to let the smoke clear on a broken nose and one clear and dripping eye looking back at him. The other eye is a messed-up pulp of blood and gelatine. The rider is still clinging, hanging on to the door frame with crooked fingers, screaming out messages of hate, its burning face still reaching in for the dogman.

Coyote does the only thing he can, bringing his jaws down hard–

Christ! I’ll need a bath after this!

–around what’s left of the Zombie’s sorry face. He has the satisfying feel of meat in the mouth, even if it is the taste of death he is rending from the bone. Coyote is total dog for just about two seconds as he bites clean through the blood and the flesh and the pain and the time and the bad smell of a bad day in a bad life, until the screech of a bullhorn calls out to his submerged self. A glimpse ahead blinds him with headlights and fear, but everything’s working now, the game is his. He opens his jaws to let the Zombie struggle free, works the wheel, turning the whole world to the left to let the oncoming behemoth of a Vaz truck squeeze past, a splinter’s breath, wrong side of the road, and then jabs a good elbow into the rider’s face, just the right moment, sending it flying loose from the cab. It splats against the steel-plated sides of the truck. Way to go. Zombie-breath.

He checks the mirror. A pale white arm is wrapped around the girl’s throat. Her anorak hood is protecting her somewhat, but hardly enough, and Coyote can see that she’s suffering. Maybe he should stop the cab, open the door, get out and confront the Zombie with his flame gun and his world-famous bite. Maybe give him the same message that his partner got: a faceful of pain. But can he stop the cab? Maybe there are other Zombies waiting for a free ride? And can he afford the time anyway? The sun is rising, and how is he going to get back into Manchester, in the daylight, with an illegal immigrant on board?

What kind of bad game is this, exactly?

But then a wailing comes from the back seat, and Coyote thinks he has lost his fare, which kills his soul; Coyote has never lost a passenger before. He glimpses the young girl in the mirror, and she’s smiling from under the hood. The Zombie is clinging to her body, but its face looks a mess, like the girl did something to it. Coyote can’t work out what has happened, only that the scent of flowers is smothering him. He can’t stop sneezing, and then he thinks, what a time to be sneezing.

‘Done well, kid,’ he says to her, receiving no answer, only the restful swishing of the windscreen wipers.

‘Okay back there?’ he asks. Meaning – if you want to push that Zombie out the window, go right ahead, but you’ll be doing it yourself. This road is just too dangerous.

Silence from the passenger, so Coyote glances at the clock, 5.30 it reads, and then he adds some more extras to the meter to take account of the cost of two broken windows and the pain of struggling with Zombies. Standard fare now reads 18.40. Extras now reads 1275.60. Zombies cost money. Coyote didn’t enjoy struggling with them, but if he had to, and if he turned out the winner, well then, he was grateful for the cash; the dream trip was coming up close. In the mirror he can see the passenger stroking the Zombie’s head, like it’s some kind of pet. Jesus! Can you believe this girl? What the hell am I carrying? And what did she do to the Zombie? Why is life so difficult for a top dog driver? And why am I feeling so completely sexy, all of a sudden?

Indeed the dog driver has an almighty erection. He can feel it nudging the bottom of the steering wheel, and it feels so good that Coyote thinks he can drive that cab no-handed. It must be something to do with the smell she’s giving off, stroking that dead Zombie like a well-fucked lover; the whole cab feels like a garden in the springtime, heavy with a fog of pollen. Coyote is sneezing with a hard-on, which is like coming from both ends. It tastes like summer is in his mouth and in his pants, and the night is turning into the golden flower of morning as he slides the cab down the throat of the hills towards the drop-off, twelve miles to go before the seeding point...

Frontier Town North.

The clingers to the centre have absolutely zero idea of what the boundaries are like. They imagine giant, electrified fences encircling the limits of the Manchester map. They imagine heavily armed City Guards patrolling the

circumference. Of course, at the four gates, the north, east, south and west gates, this was more or less true. But all the spaces in between are populated with chancers eager for extra cash. The further you went from the centre, the trickier the company. Frontier Town, they called it, this circular conglomeration of shanties and gypsy-dog camps. Edge-walkers. The people of the limits. Outlaws and roustabouts. Coyote pays an Asian dog-girl two black Vurt feathers to let him through her hidden road. Some small trouble then, with a couple of cop-cars patrolling the frontier. But the map and the road come together. The journey is foreplay, and he handles it with aplomb. He has to stop off a few times to let some more patrollers go by, and just to collect his fear and his bearing, but mostly he makes the driving easy, bringing the cab into a smooth entry.

Manchester was his lover.

Cruising home.

At one point, riding the Oxford Road, just past the University, an Xcab passes them, heading back towards Manchester Centre. With a sweet rush of blood to his head and yet more to his groin, Coyote recognizes Boda behind the wheel of the rival cab. He raises a wet paw to her wave, and he can hear her talking to him, in his mind; she’s saying something like Imperial driving, dogboy, like she can send these messages out, loud and clear. Like she has the Shadow. Maybe she was a Shadow. Maybe she was. He sends back the message, Got young Persephone girl on board. Just thinking it, and, sure enough, Boda comes back with, Good Limbo tripping, Coy. Maybe they could really get something together, Coyote and the Xcabber. Definitely. He would go find her in the taxi-rank later, once this fare is dropped.

‘Good Limbo tripping, Coy,’ the passenger repeats, like she too has been spoken to by Shadows.

The fare meter, all added up, thanks to the sorry little cop chase, now reads a very healthy 1597.20. Big money! Coyote’s ticket out of trouble. But listen to him sneeze. Also, the almighty hard-on. ‘Perfume heavy, flower-girl,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ the passenger answers. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Nearly there,’ he replies. ‘Alexandra Park, you want?’

‘Take me to the grass.’

right on to Claremont Road. The park was shimmering by, a brooding expanse of trees and shadows.

‘Just here, on the left, please,’ the passenger calls.

Coyote stops the cab by the park gate. 6.14. Spots of rain are hitting the windscreen. The dogman feels at home. ‘You okay, passenger?’ he asks. ‘No cab-lag?’ This is what some of the weaker travellers feel when pushed through bad fare-zones. One glimpse tells him that all is sweet with the young girl. He looks at the fare meter. ‘That will be one thousand, five hundred and ninety-nine pounds and forty pence, please.’

When it comes to asking for a fare, Coyote speaks pure English.

‘Got it right here.’ She pulls a flower, a black pansy, out of her anorak pocket.

‘What this?’

Persephone passes the flower through the grille, so that Coyote can hold it in his paws. The eyes of a poor dog captivated by petals of night. But still, will this pay for Pleasureville?

‘Some joke, passenger-girl?’ Coyote asks.

‘Try it,’ the young girl says. ‘Why don’t you?’

So Coyote feeds the flower into the credit slot on the meter. At 6.16 a.m. precisely the green light of the fare turns to a yellow 1599.40, and the words PAID IN FULL appear on the screen, and Coyote is amazed at the sight. The money has flooded into his system.

At that precise moment – Monday 1 May, 6.16 a.m. – a boy named Brian Swallow vanished from his feathery bed in Wilmslow. The parents, John and Mavis Swallow, didn’t notice their son’s disappearance until they awoke at 7.30. Brian’s room was empty, his blankets ruffled as though by a violent struggle. His window was locked, from the inside, as were all other windows and doors. They called the police. An Inspector Tom Dove came to see them. The parents told Tom Dove that they’d kissed their loving son before he went to sleep at 10.15 the night before, and then gone to bed themselves, locking all the doors behind them. The detective had looked around the boy’s bedroom, sniffed at the bed sheets, and then at the air. He had experienced this atmosphere too many times before not to know what it meant. Somebody, somewhere, was being exchanged for something from the Vurt. That wouldn’t make it any easier to explain to Mr and Mrs Swallow. Tom Dove sighed, and then broke the news to the distraught parents.

Coyote feels light-headed. The money is getting to him. He feels like an insider all of a sudden.

‘You like?’ Persephone asks.

‘I like. I do like. Good ride.’ He gazes at the paid-in-full sign for a while, before opening his door. He curses at the broken window, and at the pain in his right cheek, where the glass was digging in. Never mind all that. This fare was worth it. He moves around to the back door of the cab. The girl undoes her straps, pushing the now weightless body of the Zombie on to the cab floor. Coyote realizes that he’ll have to dump that sad and drained creature somewhere. Then the young girl gets out of the cab. She steps up close to Coyote. Her perfume is caressing his nostrils. He wants to sneeze, but manages to hold it back.

‘Thanks for getting me here,’ she says.

‘No problems,’ he answers.

Just a cold, rainy morning on the moors, a bad trip through Limbo, two crazy Zombies, one of them lying dead in the cab, some glass in the cheek, some half-dead flesh in the mouth, a big mother of a Vaz truck almost flattening me, a small loss of blood, a maze-game with the City Guards, a ride with the scent of flowers exploding my nose.

‘Let me pay you,’ Persephone says.

‘Already done.’

‘More than that.’ Persephone pulls down her hood.

Coyote looks at the young girl. Her face is very beautiful. He feels like a bee, drawn to that sight, that perfume. So tempting. He doesn’t

know where to look. He looks over to the trees of Alexandra Park. Does no good. He has to look back. Those sparkling eyes of green, they look just like two flowers staring deep into him. The girl’s young and full lips, like two trembling petals. ‘Kiss me,’ she says. This girl must be eleven years old at the most, but Coyote’s lips cannot help but descend to hers, tasting the pollen. He can feel her tongue pushing deep into his throat...

Jesus, nobody can have a tongue that long.

He is thinking about his unknown father, his dead mother, and his rarely seen daughter. And about his angry ex-wife, and about Boda’s sweet and tempting song. Some last feelings.

And then his mind explodes with blackness and colours.

...oh my God! The flowers are dancing... dancing...

One minute twenty-five seconds later, Coyote was dead.

My boss was called Kracker: Chief of Police, Jakob Kracker. The only man named – by his parents – after a certain brand of thin, dry wafer. All the cops called him the Biscuit Boy behind his back. It was Kracker’s voice, coming over my bedside telephone, that started me on this trip. It was early morning, 1 May of the year in question. His words took a hard journey towards my parched, wine-heavy brain: ‘Sibyl Jones... I’ve got a case for you.’ A body had been found, just outside the gates of Alexandra Park. I was to get over there immediately. This was a strange one, Kracker had said, but would say no more. What did I care? Death was my speciality. So I had dressed quickly and then made my usual detour into the second bedroom, where my love, my Jewel, lay sleeping. I had lifted the lid to his cot, blown him a kiss. Then I left the house and stepped into the Fiery Comet, riding it through the rain towards the park at Moss Side. I hated to leave Jewel alone, but a cop must work hard in bad times. I grabbed a cigarette from the dashboard pack with one hand. Napalms, of course. The message read: SMOKING MAKES YOU WRITE BETTER – HIS MAJESTY’S OFFICIAL BIOGRAPHER.

The taste of smoke in my throat. In these days of dry dust I can still remember that taste like the breath of a wicked lover on the lips and tongue.

 

ught from the landlord after my husband left. I had married early, age of eighteen, already pregnant. Had my baby girl, Belinda Jones, seven months later. My husband left nine years after that. And four days after my husband, my daughter, Belinda, ran away. She was nine years old, and that was no age for a young girl to go wandering. But wander she did, calling me some bad names for forcing her father to leave. This was her way of seeing it. I guess she loved him more than me, despite everything. But where did she go? Where? I had searched all over for Belinda since then, but no trace of her anywhere, not even her name or her destination. This has been one of the journeys of my life.

Now that journey was nearly at an end. Towards the dream...

The cop system was a bellyful of messages that long-ago morning as I drove my Fiery Comet over towards Moss Side. I wasn’t in the mood for official voices – all those coded tales of imminent or actual violence – so I had moved along from the police waves, until I picked up the Gumbo YaYa talking. The Manchester Cops had been searching for this hippy pirate for years, finding nothing but his voice floating down from nowhere...

‘Dearie dearie. Good morning, or what? That was ‘I Can Hear the Grass Grow’ by the Move, and there has been a sudden surge to the old Gumbo’s nostrils. Flowers in the rain, indeed. Big jump in the grain count. I can hear them jumping. This old hippy is sneezing already. Ya Ya! The flowers are spurting pollen all over the Manchester map. Gumbo never seen such a giant, golden step before. Spent some seconds accessing the data-feather; last such power-surge logged in the far-off and forgotten days of Fecundity 10. Of course we are nowhere near the all-time record count yet, but still, this is worrying. Must be a freak blip. Stay cool. Keep those nostrils clean with Sneeza Freeza. Send off today for the Doctor Gumbo’s own-brand nostril plugs. May John Barleycorn show mercy. The pollen count is 85 and rising. News just in from the street of a juicy murder. More on that when I access today’s cop-feather. You know they change the code every day but the good Gumbo, he can always find a window. And now my people, listen to this beauty from Scott Mackenzie, nineteen sixty-seven. And remember, if you’re going to San Francisco this year, be sure to wear something floral in your hair...’

Gumbo YaYa always seemed to know more about cop-cases than we did ourselves. He even had a phone-in line up and running, but whenever a cop called that number, the signal vanished into a mesh of darkness, which was the symbol of hiddenness in those days. A condom-virus was on the wave.

Through a veil of rain, I negotiated the sharp, fast left on to Wilmslow Road and then the right on to Claremont, riding the Comet towards a stranger’s death. It was 6.57 a.m. Just down the road I could see the police lights flashing, making red arcs in the rain, and the half-darkness, the black trees of Alexandra Park passing by to my left, the flickering lights of robocops moving through the leaves. One more scene of crime. My life. A crowd of dog-people were hanging around. Luminous cop ribbons were strung from lamp posts and cop-cars. One vicious dogboy had his jaws clenched around the ribbon. As I pulled up next to a black cab that was parked, half on, half off the pavement, I saw sparks fluttering in the morning rain. The dogboy yelped at the shock and then fell back into the paws of a young bitchgirl. A fleshcop brandished his gun at the crowd. I got out of the car and a young robocop officer came up close, beaming on me for identification. I walked over to where a crowd of cops were pressed around a dark shape on the ground. We were just opposite the side gate to Alexandra Park, Claremont Road entrance. A big dogcop was growling at a bunch of pissed-off, rain-dampened officers, telling them to shake some flesh. One of them sneezed.

‘What have we got, Clegg?’ I asked.

The dogcop turned at my voice. His dirt-brown fur was greasy-slick from the downpour. ‘Where’s Kracker?’ he asked. Clegg was the one cop who didn’t call the boss the Biscuit Boy. Sometimes he even used the word Master when referring to the chief. Now, Kracker wasn’t one for the dirty work. He usually put in a scowling appearance at the scene of crime and then rushed back to his desk. This time he hadn’t even shown his face. He had a good excuse; his wife was expecting their twenty-first baby any second.

‘He’s looking out for his new kid,’ I replied.

‘That’s a shame. So they send us a fucking smoke.’

Chief Inspector Z. Clegg was a fine, upstanding dogcop. His long snout and extra-rich sense of smell had sniffed out a whole batch of homicides and dogicides. He was half dog, half man, with a real hatred in his mind

for anyone with the Shadow in them. Me, for instance. I am a smoking-woman, which means I have an abundance of Shadow in me, mixed in with the flesh. All creatures have got a trace of the Shadow, but some of us have direct entry. Clegg’s intense dislike for the Shadow was pathological.

‘The victim’s got some dog in him, Zero?’ I asked. I said this because of the wet, glistening look in Clegg’s eyes. I’d seen it too many times on previous cases not to know what it meant.

Z. Clegg just nodded.

The Z stood for Zulu, but Clegg hated that name, so he called himself Z. I called him Zero, just to get the fur on his back erect. He really hated it. Zero was one of those dogmen who desperately tried to deny their canine side. Which was some kind of joke considering the patches of fur on his face, and the long whiskers that sprouted from each side of his cheeks. He really hated being called a dog. Maybe because the dog-people were considered the lowest of the low in society. Most citizens saw them as being only a claw-scratch above the people of Limbo, the so-called Zombies. Even a robo was seen to be of more worth than a dog. Zombies, Dogs, Robos, Shadows, Vurt and Pure; this was the scale of worth. Therefore most dogs ended up on the wrong side of the law. A dog who joined the cops was constantly under pressure. Not only from the pure cops but also from the mad dogboys on the street, who saw it as the ultimate betrayal. On top of that add Clegg’s dislike of the Shadows, and the fact that he wasn’t married, that he was never seen lusting after women, or men, or even dogs for that matter – and you’d find a picture of crossbreed loneliness building. I had a million the

theories about why Clegg acted like he did, all that twisted bitterness. None of them made our relationship any easier. But most of all Zero hated it when somebody with even a tiny bit of dog in them got killed. This was his one concession to the dog he carried around inside his mixed-up genes.

‘You got a name, Zero?’ I asked. ‘You got a time of death?’

‘Sure. The ID card in the cab calls him Coyote. Forensic clock puts the last gasp at 6.19 a.m.’

‘Ever heard of him?’ Zero knew all the dogs of importance, especially those on the dark side of the law.

‘Get to it, Sibyl,’ Zero growled. ‘Make me a happy man.’

I pulled a pair of steri-gloves onto my fingers, and then knelt down next to the body; early twenties, a smooth wave of black and white fur rising from his shirt collar, forming a sleek and spotted mask all over his face. Dogboy beautiful. Dressed in black jeans and a leather blouson, the jacket decorated with fan-club badges – Manchester City Vurtball Club, Belle Vue Robohounds, Rusholme Ruffians Basketball Posse. This victim was a Manchesterophile. Some wounds on the face – teeth marks and glass shards. Despite all this, the victim had a smile. It was captured on his dead face. Inside of the smile someone – the murderer? – had stuffed a bunch of flowers. Red flowers they were, rising on tall green stalks and then drooping back over his cheeks, softly. Clusters of red petals all tightly bound into long tassels. Their sticky smell was getting to me as I lowered my face back towards the body. Beyond the mouth of flowers a thin glaze of grease was smeared across the nostrils. His fur was shining, here and there, with spots of yellow powder.

‘Anybody touched the body?’ I asked.

Zero Clegg sneezed before answering. ‘You’re the first.’

I sniffed at the grease on his nose. ‘He was suffering from hayfever,’ I said. ‘This is Sneeza Freeza.’

‘This is really going to help us capture the perp, Jones,’ Zero answered. ‘You want to do that Shadow-search?’ He made it sound like some kind of disease.

Maybe it is.

This is why the cops employed me. I can read the minds of the living and sometimes, if we get to them early enough, I can read the minds of the dead, their last thoughts, whilst they still linger. This is what I was now trying, letting my hands of Smoke play over the corpse’s face, feeling my way towards his final seconds of life.

Contact. Dying moments coming through to me, dust to dust, Smoke to Smoke...

...taste is so sweet, so rich... can hardly breathe... so sweet... so full of the taste of honey... I am kissing flowers... her tongue is like a vine... and for a girl so young, so very young... it is the taste of... the taste of Eden... let me sleep there... let me sleep... sleep and grow... let me sleep and grow... Jesus! Nobody can have a tongue that long...

And then a burst of colour that made me weep.

...oh my God! The flowers are

dancing... dancing...

I was travelling inside a dead dogboy’s head, drifting from a spectrum burst into a fall of emptiness...

...think about me, Boda... sing that song one last time...

That last line of Coyote’s life drifting into silence... that name he called with such need. It was a sweet death.

‘What did you say?’ Clegg’s voice.

‘What?’ I was still feeling the passage into darkness.

‘You said it was a sweet death, Jones?’

‘Did I?’ I don’t know what I said. Maybe I just sent the message on the Shadow-paths, mind to mind, Shadow to Dog.

‘Is there such a thing, Smokey? A sweet death?’

‘There’s flowers in his head, Zero.’

‘I noticed.’

‘No, no. In his mind. Like an explosion... a burst of flowers... I...’

‘What’s wrong with you? All I want is a clue.’

‘I can’t describe it... an explosion of flowers...’

‘Some fucking use you are.’

I ignored the remark, reaching instead for one of the flowers in Coyote’s mouth. I made a move to pull it loose from the bunch.

‘You want to tell me how he died?’ Clegg asked.

‘That’s Skinner’s province.’

‘Don’t get me going, Smoke. You find a name in that brain? The murderer, maybe? Is that too much to ask?’

‘She was young. A girl, maybe. The name of Boda came up. That mean anything to you, Zero?’

‘No it doesn’t. And stop calling me Zero.’

The flower was not coming loose. Something was holding it tight inside the dogboy’s mouth. I gripped both hands around the stems of the full bunch, and then gave a good tug on them. No good. It felt like the roots of the flowers were being gripped by a hand equal to mine, somewhere deep in the throat.

‘Who the hell would stick a bunch of flowers

into a victim’s mouth?’ Zero asked.

‘They won’t come out,’ I answered, still struggling.

Zero pushed me aside. ‘Here, let me...’ He knelt down and grabbed the stalks out of my hand.

‘Zero! The prints...’

‘It just needs a good strong dog-pull... Jesus-Canine!’

‘Told you.’

‘Pissing bunch of flowers!’ The dogcop made an almighty effort. There was a tearing sound, and then Zero was falling backwards to land on his hindquarters, the bunch of flowers in his two front paws. ‘Bleeding flowers!’ he exclaimed, and then sneezed, violently. And I saw that the liquid in his eyes wasn’t just tears, not just tears of pain. ‘This damned hayfever!’ he snorted, desperately trying to get himself back on to two legs. ‘It gets earlier every year.’ He handed the flowers over to me and I made a quick examination of the ends of the stalks. They were ragged and juice-laden. I put my hands deep into the dead dog’s throat, feeling for something there. My fingers passed over a series of sharp needles. And when I pulled my fingers out they were smeared with sap. I looked over to Zero.

‘What’s going on, Smokey?’ he asked.

‘The flowers weren’t just placed in the mouth,’ I answered.

I had my fingers back down deep in the victim’s throat. I could feel where the roots of the plants were embedded, in his throat muscles. It was totally beyond my training.

‘What are you saying, Shadow-girl?’

‘I’m saying that I’m way past a girl.’

‘Cool down on the politics, Jones. Spill it.’

So I told him: ‘The flowers are rooted in his throat.’

‘This is one bad scenario. Smells crazy-bad to the good nose. Take a look at this, Sibyl...’ Using my first name, he was gesturing over to the cab. ‘Take a look at the meter.’

I looked into the cab. The driver’s window was broken, and a greasy smear was spread all over the door and the bonnet. I dabbed some onto my finger, sniffed at it. ‘Zombie juice, right?’ Zero said. ‘Looks like he ejected a hitcher.’ Then I saw the tariff, shining in luminous yellow.

‘Where was he delivering from?’ I asked. 

‘Australia?’

‘Further than that, Smokey,’ Zero replied, moving around to the boot. ‘Dog must have been picking up from Limbo. Must ave dealt with some bad Zombie. Boot-luggage was registered.’

‘You tried it yet?’

He shook his head and pulled out a tube of Vaz, squeezed some into the lock, worked his cop-key until the boot lifted with a slow wave. Just emptiness in there. ‘We got a call from the cops out in Frontier Town, northern sector,’ Zero said. ‘They traced him bringing in an immigrant. Lost him in the maze. Jesus-Dog! Sure was a mean dancer, that Coyote. Some big hero on the streets, so I’m expecting flak from this. I’m expecting another dog-riot. Kracker’s going to have my hide if I don’t deliver.’

The first dog-riot had taken place some years ago, fired-up by the random slaying of a young bitchgirl in Bottletown. Robo-Skinner and his team in forensics had found that the victim had been Shadow-raped. One more incident in the war between the Smoke and the fur. We had tried our best to keep it from the streets but Gumbo YaYa stole the knowledge from our Wave. He then proceeded to broadcast it over his station, and the dogs had risen up in protest, demanding justice, equality and revenge. Since then the dog-people had been on a fur-trigger; exploding periodically – on some kind of canine cycle – whenever a dog was taken out. Coyote was just the latest in a long line.

Zombies, Dogs, Robos, Shadows, Vurt and Pure. The ladder of worth falling into war, rung against rung.

‘You got any clues, Clegg?’ I asked.

‘You know what, Smokey? I’m reckoning this is a mist job. I’m thinking a Shadow did it.’

‘Right... I see...’

‘You got any other suspects, Smokey?’

‘Every time a dog dies, you think a Shadow’s done it.’

The dogcop ignored my remark. ‘Let’s try the back seat,’ he said. The door opened and a soft wave of yellow air drifted out into the street. Zero was holding his nose against the smell...

‘Jesus!’ I breathed.

‘You said it, Smokey... oh shit... not again – ’

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHCHOOOOOOOSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

‘Dog-Christ!’

The smell of flowers from the back of the cab. The air inside seemed to be glowing with the scent of a thousand blossoms. Sparkles of colour floating, and something else under that, like flowers on a wound... the smell of death submerged.

‘You ever smelt that before, Jones?’ Zero was wiping his nose with a sodden rag. ‘Some perfume, uh?’

‘No. Never.’ I looked over to the other cops. They were all sneezing now... soft explosions... cries... curses...

‘You want to close that door now? Please!’

I didn’t answer him. Something about that other smell, the hidden smell... I leaned into the passenger compartment...

‘One question, Jones. How come we’re all sneezing our guts out, and you’re just walking free? How come you’re not sneezing?’

Inside the cab...

...the world was a scent... I was climbing into it... changing senses... the sparkles of colour on the seat... same as on the dogboy’s face... look closely... yellow... intense... tiny... smear one onto my finger... it tickles... head fuming... foggy... underneath that... the hidden... there... the seat... a smear of grease... Sneeza Freeza?... No... not that... too purple... familiar... fingers in it... burning... cold... smell it... death... half-death...

I climbed out of the cab, to face Zero.

‘Jones?’

‘Bad news.’

‘Spill.’

‘He brought one through. A Non-Viable Lifeform.’

‘A Zombie?’

‘It was still alive, Zero. There were no last thoughts in there.’

‘A Zombie. Excellent. Well done, Sibyl. A Zombie killed Coyote. Couldn’t be better. We’ve got a bona fide street-hero killed by a Non-Viable. The way Bottletown is at the moment, any other scenario, any kind of Shadow-scenario, we could’ve had another dog-riot on our hands. Guess I just call up the Zombie squad, let those low-level cleaners deal with it.’

The fleshcops were sniggering and sneezing in turn. It was a joke to them now, this case. Zombies were high in the public’s mind, mainly because the half-dead were invariably ugly and brutish, and the whole image of some creature born from the desperate mating of a living person and a corpse was still reviled in those days. In fact, to the cops they were classed as a nuisance more than anything, something they had to clean up, like litter on the municipal road. Zombies were weaklings away from their Limbo, especially when the light shined upon them; that was the paradox of their hitching travels.

Zero shoved a Vurt cop-feather into his mouth, so that he could talk to Chief Inspector Kracker direct. And being made the way I am, Vurtless, it was all silence to me – just the happy grimacing of Zero’s face as he relayed the news to the boss, who was no doubt clinging to his wife’s hand at the moment of birth.

All I could do was watch and shiver from the sidelines. Coyote’s final message playing around and around in my mind, making patterns. Shadow patterns... that name he called out at the last... think about me, Boda... sing that song one last time...

Zero pulled the feather from his mouth, and then he was growling loud to the fleshcops, ‘Let’s clean up here, officers. It’s a wrap.’ The cops were already going through the motions, telling the tribe of dogs to clear the area, game was over.

‘Is this wise, Zero?’ I said.

‘What’s your problem, Smokey?’

‘I think you’re being a bit premature.’

‘Try me in bed one time, then we can talk about premature.’

‘What about the flowers?’

‘Zombie put them there. Coyote picked up a Zombie. The Zombie killed him, stuffed the flowers into his mouth.’

‘That deep?’

‘Shit, I don’t know how these Zombies work. They learn some strange arts and crafts out there in Limbo, I guess. What else they got to do?’ He was shouting at some voyeurs to get back home, ignoring me.

‘Kracker’s well happy with the Zombie angle. I reckon I’m with the chief on that.’ He snarled at the dog-tribe beyond the ribbons.

‘How about an autopsy?’ I asked.

‘Sure. I’ll book robo-Skinner for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘You think this is the most important death in town, Smokey? Listen, I’ve got a disappearance case on my hands already. The only son of the Inspector of Dripfeed got stolen by the Vurt this morning. Officer Dove’s on the case. You think maybe I should refuse him back-up? Also, I’ve got to organize a patrol of Bottletown. Kracker’s told me to clamp down on any sparks. No more riots. You hear me?’ He turned to the squad. ‘Okay, you officers, keep moving that shit away.’

I was a lonely figure around which a cop circus performed. I was two feet away from the body of Coyote. The ripped-out bunch of flowers was lying on the pavement. A fleshcop scooped it haphazardly into a specimen bag. One of the blooms fell free, rain washing away the petals, grains of yellow merging with the water, and some wayward thoughts flickering through my Shadow.

Thirty-six years old I was.

Days of cop-work. Days of Juice and smoke, mist and flesh. Days of wondering and wandering. Days of air.

All gone now, all gone...

Xcab driver Boda is travelling back towards Manchester, having made a good drop in the Bottletown zone. The time is 6.01 a.m., the same day. She had had some trouble some minutes before, whilst riding Claremont Road past Alexandra Park because a cop-van had pulled in from a side street, speeding like a dose of Boomer drug to the brain. The van was iridescent purple, with one-way windows, and the cop logo painted on the side – a glistening map of Manchester bound by handcuffs. It raced alongside Boda for a spell, forcing her into a bad kerb-jump, until the Xcab had sprouted long knives. Boda knew all about how the cops and cabs were supposed to be working together for the common good these days, so she had set the blades to caress level only. The cops didn’t feel a thing as the knives scratched five delicate lines in the purple paint job. Well, it would give the boys something to do when the shift was through. Boda had then asked Charrie for Boomer speed, which left the cop-van standing, and Boda was the queen of the road again.

‘Nice work, Charrie,’ Boda had said to her cab, and the words ALL PART OF THE SERVICE, DARLING had scrolled back across Boda’s taxi-vision. Boda is her Xcab name. Short for Boadicea. Just like Charrie is short for Chariot. Drivers were obliged to give up all their possessions, all of their hair, all their memories and treasures when they joined the cab-hive. Their pre-cabian lives vanished into a trail of road-dust, and one of the treasures given up was the original name, the parents’ name. Boda wasn’t the name she was born to, but it’s the only one she knows.

Boadicea’s chariot riding the waves of Manchester with customized blades sliding back into recesses.

The Wilmslow Road now, back into town.

The Oxford Road.

6.05 a.m.

Which is when she sees Coyote cruising by in his beautiful black vehicle. Imperial driving, dogboy she had sent out to him, not even knowing if that feeling would get through. But some hazy message had come back from the dogboy’s brain. Something about having a girl called Persephone on board, so Boda had sent back, Good Limbo tripping, Coy. The black-cabber brought out the best in Boda, he brought out the song of the road. Romantic shit, of course. But what the hell, isn’t she feeling good this morning?

Columbus comes onto the taxi-waves. STOP THAT SINGING, DRIVER BODA. And Boda did stop then, as she always did when Columbus came on line. YOU FEEL LIKE GETTING BACK TO THE ST ANN’S RANK SOMETIME TODAY, DRIVER? MAYBE PICK UP A FARE OR TWO?

‘Will do, Columbus,’ Boda answers.

It is 6.12 or so when Boda touches base at the St Ann’s rank, and she gets landed with another journey straight off: a

 clean run carrying a robocrusty back home to Chadderton, after an all-night Boomer session. The way he talks about it sure makes Boda hungry for some of that sweet stuff. Maybe later on... with Coyote in tow? Sure, worth a try. Boda makes that drop-off, gets flagged down on the way back, some loony hippy-dog wanting to make an early start at a Vurt Convention. She gets some crazy feelings about Coyote, just from the smell in the back; bad dog! Despite that, it was a simple journey, slick and smooth, no problems. Well, almost none. On the way back a small lump of something had lodged itself to the underside of her cab, some chancer hiker, hoping to parasite its way back into Manchester. That was the trouble with suburban fares; some of the smaller Zombies had managed to get that far. Now one of them was reckoning on an easy ride; it hadn’t reckoned on Xcabs’ in-car monitoring system. A red warning light blinked on the dash, and the words SYSTEM VIOLATION flooded into Boda’s taxi-eyes. SCENE OF VIOLATION... THE MANIFOLD. CAUSE OF VIOLATION... UNIDENTIFIED HALF-DEAD BEING. DO YOU WANT TO TERMINATE, DRIVER? Boda thought that yes, yes she did want to terminate. ‘Do it good, Charrie, babe.’ TERMINATION SEQUENCE COMMENCING. ‘Going through some turbulence, passenger,’ Boda said aloud. Her voice was picked up by the in-car system, transmitted to the hermetically sealed executive suite in back. ‘No need to panic.’ TERMINATION ACTIVATED. The Xcab shone fiery red for a moment, as the current flowed towards the manifold. One thousand volts of anger. Boda had tuned into the down-side camera. She saw something shit-coloured screaming, its pathetic claws burned to a crisp. Must have been some stray Ghost Cat clinging on for dear furry life. And then the lump of stuff falling off into suburban nothingness, bouncing like a sponge ball on the tarmac. ‘Chew on that, Zombie fucker!’ SYSTEM CLEAN, DRIVER. ‘You bet! Let’s ride.’

So they ride the grey roads together, Boda and Charrie, rider and chariot, joined into one being. She’s keeping her eyes on the traffic, her ears on the radio, but really Charrie is driving alone; Boda is too busy thinking about Coyote. The black-cabber had come in to her life three weeks ago at the Nightingales cafe, where all the cabbers hung out when off-duty. Coyote didn’t visit there that much, because the Xcabbers looked on him with suspicion, but this night he had, and he and Boda

 had got to talking. In fact they had got to beyond talking, but just sly looks from eye to eye, you know? Boda can’t be sure as yet, but she was certain that something good was developing between them. Something that Xcabs didn’t allow, especially not with a rogue black-cab driver. Xcabbers were supposed to marry only with other Xcabbers. This was their way of keeping the cab-genes pure. Columbus had come on super-strong, saying to Boda that she was a breath away from termination. Boda hadn’t listened. How could she listen? The road was getting too wild, especially when Coyote had told her he had actually visited Columbus a few times. None of the drivers had any clue as to where Columbus was, or even what he looked like, so Boda was curious to know more. Coyote had only hinted at deeper secrets but the fact that he had more freedom than her had really heated Boda’s desire. She had met up with Coyote four more times, and on the second time she had felt her thoughts drifting away from her mind into his, like she had the Shadow, or something. Cab-Christ! What is happening to me? Boda’s thoughts in the presence of dogboy flesh. It really was too much to bear. Coyote had responded to her secret whisperings, as though her mind was being shared. And on their last meeting, two nights ago, she had given him the clue to a Limbo fare. Xcabs were banned from driving over the boundaries. The internal map stopped at the edges of the expanded city, and all the Knowledge faded away there, Frontier Town, so that no Xcabber could venture forth. And on that passing of a fare, they had kissed over two half-empty cups of Chrism juice, and it was very juicy that kiss, full of potential. Boda had not been able to sleep that night, just from thinking about it. Maybe this taxi-dog was going to take her somewhere beautiful.

Boda is eighteen years old, a few boyfriends here and there, nothing special as yet; she’s just about prepared for something good. She lights up a Napalm with the in-car lighter. The pack message reads SMOKING IS GREAT AFTER SEX – HIS MAJESTY’S OFFICIAL MISTRESS.

7.04 a.m.

Boda takes another fare, easy fodder, and on the way back towards Manchester she tunes into the pirate wave...

‘Massive jump to the hippy-nostrils, unprecedented. Gumbo YaYa is sneezing already. I raise my flowers to the wind to smell the future... the future is a nose explosion. Grab your Good Gumbo fever masks, my children; this is going to be a harsh ride through the clouds of pollen. Not since the days of Fecundity

10 has such fieriness been felt, when the drifting seeds brought home a pollen count of 862, the highest ever for Manchester. Gumbo YaYa reckons this is going to beat that record. May John Barleycorn find you desireless. And remember, don’t believe the Authorities; only the Gumbo has the true reckoning. Pollen count, 125 and rising...’

Now Boda’s waiting on a new job. 7.29 a.m., St Ann’s rank, tenth in the column, some fifteen minutes or so from the next ride. She gets out of the cab and walks up to the third in line.

Boda – the way you walk, long and loose-limbed, like an angel with wings of smoke. And the way you look: hair shorn to the skull, skull laser-tattooed with twisting streets in black and white. A walking A-Z of bliss you are, all dressed in denim and felt, lace and polyvinyl chloride. Vazboot trainers on your feet and a cummerbund of velvet around your waist. A corduroy bag slung easy over one shoulder, holding all of your world; your antique Manchester map and your woollen hat, and your money, your cab-licence and your smokes.

The third-in-line driver’s name is Roberman. Roberman is a sleek and shiny robodog, a Doberman Pinscher by birth, but all the guys in the rank call him Roberman, because that is what he is. Not a trace of human in him, just a mess of dog-flesh and info, all mixed up in a tight bundle of muscle and plastic. This mixture was called hardwere by the gene-mechanics. There was no human trace in Roberman, but sometimes dogs can be more human than humans. Xcab employs him because of his dog-knowledge of the dark streets. Most of the guys in the rank don’t talk to Boda, because they think her too much of a loner, too distant, too twisted to bother with. Roberman is different. He makes a long series of low growls, none of which Boda understands, but the tears in his eyes tell a tale. She places her left hand on the door of his cab; this is all it takes for you to be inside of the cab system. Each Xcab comes complete with an in-car sound system. Roberman’s voice comes over the speakers, his keening yowls changed by the translator into English, all for the benefit of nervous passengers. This option is necessary if the driver and the passenger are of different races. ‘You heard the bad news, Boda?’ the voice-box announces.

‘I just got back. What’s happening?’

‘They killed a driver.’

are so protected. And because possession of an Xcab is a prize worth killing for.

‘Not one of ours, Boda,’ Roberman says, choking on it.

‘Not an Xcabber?’

‘Runner-dog.’

‘A dog driver?’

‘The black-and-whiter.’

‘Coyote?’

‘Made a bad Alexandra Park drop.’

‘Coyote... oh Jesus...’ Now Boda is looking up and down the street, looking for comfort. Can’t find anything. Nothing good.

Only the wind and the rain...

‘You okay, Boda?’ Roberman asks.

‘Yeah... yeah, sure... I’m... who did it, Rober?’

‘Cops smell neg-shit.’ Which means that the cops don’t know shit, but she’s not listening anymore. Sure, one hand kept tight to the cab, but the other hand is rubbing at her face for some reason.

‘You sure you’re okay, Boda?’ Roberman is asking.

‘Boda’s fine,’ she replies, making her voice work somehow. But inside, all she can think about is that black-cabber dogman. Just the last of his kind. Just the beauty of his life gone to nothing. Just the next best thing to a good lover that she’s met in a long while. And she hadn’t even...

‘The dogs are gonna fight against this. Gonna be trouble.’ Roberman’s voice speaking to her, and the rain falling down in lines of dull pain. Boda, you have no answer to give. Just the glistening bulk of St Ann’s Church in your eyes, and the vision of Coyote’s last wave, all the way from the window of that sweet black cab.

The sound of the Roberman sneezing violently, like he has the world plugged up his nostrils. The love song of a taxi dying in Boda’s heart, and the rain falling on her Manchester City Vurtball Official Supporters’ Club blouson jacket. Coyote had invited her to a game, presented her with a ticket for the semi-final, four days’ time.

She will miss that game now.

‘Roberman, we gave Coyote that fare.’

‘Don’t tell me about it.’

‘Roberman, we’re to blame. He picked up a girl called Persephone from Limbo. Delivered her to Alex Park. Maybe the fare killed him.’

‘Please, Boda. I really don’t want to know.’ Roberman looks scared as he says this.

At that precise moment, 7.34 a.m., Columbus the Xcab King was listening in to the cab-wave. He hears driver-Boda mentioning the name Persephone to driver-Roberman.

CAB-SHIT!

Columbus was scared suddenly. His one per cent of humanity comes into play, overriding the Vurt-logic. Driver-Boda must have spoken to the black-cabber Coyote about the ride. Boda knows about the visitor. She knows that Coyote delivered Persephone to the drop-off at Alexandra Park.

What could he do about this new situation? He needed to take Boda out of the equation. Columbus considered his options for less than a moment and then made a secret call. He then returned to the cab-wave...

Columbus comes onto the cab-line, interrupting the flow between Boda and Roberman. DRIVER-BODA, A WORD PLEASE, he says.

‘Switch?’ Boda can hardly even manage the boss’s call-sign through her tears.

GOT A FARE FOR YOU.

‘Switch, I’m feeling...’

ASKED FOR YOU BY NAME. I THINK YOU’VE GOT AN ADMIRER OUT THERE, A MR DEVILLE. YOU KNOW HIM?

‘No, I...’

PICK-UP AT HYDE ROAD, ARDWICK. DROP-OFF AT DUKINFIELD. BE CAREFUL DOWN ARDWICK. IT’S KIND OF

BLEAK, THIS TIME OF THE DAY.

‘I don’t think I can make it...’

YOU’RE AN XCABBER.

‘I just got some bad news, Switch.’ Boda’s voice is parched. She can’t get her head around the loss.

MAY I REFER YOU TO CLAUSE 7.2 IN THE DRIVER’S CONTRACT? WHICH STATES QUITE FIRMLY THAT ALL DRIVERS MUST–

‘I know what it states, okay?’

WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU, BOADICEA? YOU LOSING THE EDGE?

‘I’m going. Okay? I’m there already.’ Boda climbs back into Charrie and starts him up, her hands slipping on the controls.

GLAD TO HAVE YOU ONLINE, DRIVER.

Columbus disengages himself, and Charrie’s voice comes scrolling up to replace him as the ride starts. WHERE WE GOING, BODA?

‘Hyde Road.’

IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?

‘Just fucking drive, will you!’

Charrie falls silent. The cab moves with sadness.

Boda just wanted to drive; she wanted to drive away from the whole world...

Instead she makes it as far as Ardwick, where the rising sun casts a glimmering sheen on the waste ground around a bunch of abandoned factories. A man is waiting at the designated pick-up point. He’s the only person in sight, and he’s so thin Boda has to look twice before she sees him. An unknown figure, she’s never driven him before. She brings Charrie to a halt, speaks through the cab’s system: ‘Deville?’

The man nods. He looks edgy for some reason.

‘Get in.’

The passenger settles his bony shape into the back seat. Boda sees the Vurtball ticket that Coyote had given her, resting on the dashboard. She starts up the cab. Charrie hardly responds, just a slow chug-chug along the road.

‘Charrie, what’s wrong?’

I DON’T KNOW, BODA. I FEEL A LITTLE SICK.

‘What?’ 

Oh, come on.’

Belinda hears the passenger window sliding open.

‘Here will do nicely,’ says the passenger.

‘I’m not in the mood for games.’ Boda turns around to see the window opening between her and the passenger. He’s smiling at her. Boda presses at the window button, receiving a no-response answer. The window is now fully open. Boda turns back again.

A gun is levelled at her head. The passenger motions at her to stop the cab. Boda refuses, turning back to the dash, calling up the Switch...

WHAT IS IT?

‘I’ve got a loony on board, Columbus.’

OH DEAR.

‘Did you check this guy?’

YOU KNOW THE PROCEDURE, DRIVER. ACTIVATE DEFENCE MECHANISMS.

Boda presses at Charrie’s Shock Button, aiming the juice into the passenger compartment. Nothing happens. The passenger is just sitting there, smiling, the gun held straight and true. ‘What’s happening, Charrie?’

I CAN’T HELP IT, BODA, the cab says.

‘What?’

COLUMBUS IS HINDERING ME.

Charrie’s voice fades into darkness. The passenger presses the gun against the back of her neck. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks, trying to get her voice under control.

‘Keep quiet!’

‘Columbus, what’s happening here?’ Columbus doesn’t answer. For the very first time, Columbus doesn’t answer. Boda’s eyes are resting on the Vurtball ticket, like it was some ticket out of trouble. She reaches for it. It feels like she’s reaching for Coyote.

Boda grabs hold of the ticket, just as...

Just as the passenger presses down on the trigger. Boda’s head is slightly awry because of her move towards the ticket. The bullet drives a road into the side of her head, grazing the tattooed map. The bullet travels from there, a deflected line to the windscreen of the cab. The glass splinters into a web of containment. Emergency procedures. Charrie bursts into a sudden motion. The passenger and Boda are thrown back by the acceleration. Charrie drives himself forwards, makes a vicious U-turn. The passenger’s head collides with the passenger window, the gun falls from his hands.

‘Charrie? What’s happening?’

WE’RE GETTING OUT OF HERE! HANG ON, the cab replies.

The passenger window slides shut as the cab speeds back down Hyde Road, a left onto Brunswick, the passenger being thrown around in the back, locked in the cab-space. Boda gets her hands back on the wheel. Columbus coming on strong: BOADICEA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

THERE’S BEEN SOME MISUNDERSTANDING.

‘You bet there has.’

DRIVER-BODA. PLEASE EXPLAIN.

‘I’m on a new fare, Columbus.’

NEGATIVE. NO FARE REGISTERED. PLEASE EXPLAIN.

‘I’m making a pick-up.’

NO PICK-UP CALL REGISTERED. EXPLAIN.

‘Fuck you.’

THERE IS NO FARE, BODA. DO YOU REGISTER ME?

No choice.

No choice for the driver or the map.

The passenger called Deville is flailing around in the sealed compartment when a fast right on to Upper Brook Street sends him flying again, the cab speeding dangerously along the street as Charrie comes scrolling up: BODA, LET ME GO, PLEASE. STOP MESSING ABOUT UNDER MY DASHBOARD. TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF THE SIXTEEN PLUGS UNDER MY DASHBOARD.

‘What?’

UNDER MY DASHBOARD, THE SIXTEEN PLUGS, PLEASE DON’T PULL THEM OUT.

ee how the passenger is getting on. He looks like a dying goldfish behind the glass.

YOU’D BETTER NOT PULL THOSE SIXTEEN PLUGS LOOSE, BODA, BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE THE SWITCH IS CONNECTED TO, YOU. YOU WOULDN’T WANT TO LOSE COLUMBUS, WOULD YOU NOW?

‘What will that do to you?’

DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME.

Columbus comes on line, his words burning into the system. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, XCAB CHARIOT? YOU FANCY THE SCRAPYARD ALREADY?

I’M DOING ALL I CAN, COLUMBUS. EVERYTHING I POSSIBLY CAN.

Boda smiles. ‘I’m on the case, Charrie.’

Boda reaches down, under the dashboard, to where the system wires are plugged into the cab. She pulls the first one loose. Charrie screams then, and Boda moves her hands away from the board.

GOOD DRIVER, says Columbus. LET US NOT BE FOOLISH. But there is a waver in his voice that gets to Boda. Her hands reach back under the dash, to pull out the second plug, looking towards a manual overdrive. Chariot is calling out to her, over the diminishing waves, his voice growing darker and darker, the letters fading from Boda’s taxi-vision... DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME... BODA... DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT... BODA... DON’T YOU... DON’T YOU WORRY... DON’T YOU...

Ignoring the fading voice, even though it kills her to be doing so, Boda’s fingers are pulling on the ninth socket when Columbus kicks back.

OKAY, BODA. LET’S TAKE THIS EASY. THIS CHARIOT BELONGS TO ME.

‘We’ll see.’

The thirteenth plug...

YOU LEAVE ME NO CHOICE.

‘Is that so?’ The fourteenth plug...

BOADICEA JONES, YOU ARE HEREWITH TERMINATED FROM THE EXTRAORDINARY PRIVATE PERSONNEL TRANSPORTATION COMPANY. ALL OUTSTANDING SALARIES WILL NOW BE IMPORTED INTO YOUR SYSTEM.

Boda sees her credit meter glow to a sad and blue 227.60.

The fifteenth plug...

GOODBYE, DRIVER-BODA. NICEWORKINGWITHYOU. Columbus’s final words echoed by the faint voice of Charrie...

GOODBYE... BODA... NICE WORKING... WITH... MAYBE ONE LAST SHOCK BEFORE I VANISH?

Boda works the Shocking switch to the passenger compartment. Stunning volts. The cab gleaming. The passenger screaming from the back as he takes the lightning, and then falling, fading...

NICE WORKING WITH YOU... WORKING WITH YOU... NICE...

Chariot drifting to a standstill. The splintered windscreen blinded by rain. The Mancunian Way layered above her on concrete stalks. Cars speeding by. Boda pulls out the sixteenth and last plug.

This cab is Boda’s now. Alone.

The time was now 7.42 a.m. and something very strange was happening to the Manchester map. All the roads were twisting and turning in the Xcab system, breaking their connections with each other and then joining up into new shapes. There were 2,000 cabs. In the Xcab system, all connected, each to each. There were now 1,999 broken connections. The removal of a single cab from the Hive had caused this mutation, because the part was the whole. Gestalt system. Xcabbers city-wide thought they were taking fares to the correct drop-off, only to receive abuse and refusals to pay when the cab pulled up outside the wrong destination. Columbus went crazy with the strangeness; he didn’t know what to do. He felt ill. Like a virus had come into his body. That bitching Boda had removed herself from the Hive. Nobody had done that before. Columbus was at a loss for some few minutes whilst he felt some ninety-seven complaints come flooding in. Xcabs never got complaints! Jesus-cab! Columbus was overloaded for a while then, and he felt himself to blame for the mishap. If only he hadn’t tried to take Boda out. If only he hadn’t let his one per cent of humanity rule his feelings. Despite all these misgivings, he managed to get some semblance of

his former self back on line. He had a back-up map available, thank Barleycorn, but it would take a while to access it. He started that process, at the same time answering all the complaints personally. It took just under fifteen minutes for the new map to load. It was an early copy, a remnant from the first years of Xcab life and it would be full of gaps and omissions. It would have to do for now.

Once that replacement map was up and running he put a call out to all the cabs and told them to ride easy with the passengers, and then he declared that today would be a fare-free bonanza; anybody could travel gratis to any destination. Another first. No payments to be made. This was damage limitation in the Switch’s manual. And once all that was in place he then called up all of his empty cabs and told them to find that rogue driver. Columbus wasn’t that worried about Boda, it was the vehicle he wanted back. That cab called Chariot was part of his system, a vital organ of the body Xcab. The new map he had planned would be useless unless he was complete.

SHIT! WHY DID I LET THAT BITCH...

Columbus hated getting angry, it was too much like human behaviour. The situation wasn’t over yet. He had only six days until the new map came through from Vurt. Persephone was a short-flowering bloom. Six days in which to find his lost cab, and silence Boda.

Once and forever.

FUCK THAT IMBECILE PASSENGER! CAB-JESUS! HE WAS SUPPOSED TO KILL THE DRIVER, NOT MAKE HER ESCAPE THE MAP.

Columbus also had this problem: now that the Chariot was lost from the Xcab system, it was just another car on the streets. The Switch could trace the car through the city, but he couldn’t talk to it. He couldn’t direct it. Chariot was now a free radical. A maverick. Of course he had the location of the cab: the junction of Upper Brook Street and the Mancunian Way. Columbus sent four cabs towards that position. And he had the home address of Boda still in the banks: Dudley Road, Whalley Range. He sent another two cabs to stake out that place. Another three cabs to Alexandra Park, just in case Boda headed over to that black-cabber’s last fare-drop.

All points covered, and Boda being run down, but deep in his intersections Columbus felt the loss eating away at his road-soul.

then climbs back into Charrie. She works the controls until she manages to get him moving again. The road is sluggish, and the cab feels sick under her fingers, and it’s only after she’s driven some fifty yards or so that Boda realizes she doesn’t know where she is.

A stranger newly arrived in her home town, Boda’s Xcab mind-map is dead and buried. For the first time in nine years she is lost. A lost girl. The feeling makes her hands tremble on the wheel. She turns the cab into a side street and then parks. The street is called Cloak Street. Boda racks her brain for what this could mean, but can find no knowledge there. No clues. Her head-map is aching from where the bullet grazed her, and she rubs at the damaged roads there. Her fingers wet with blood. A faint light shines along the windscreen, and a voice of trembling words: WELCOME BACK, BODA. HA, HA, HA.

‘Charrie! It’s you.’

YOU DON’T GET RID OF ME THAT EASILY. LET’S DRIVE, BABY.

She gets a tight smile on her face; Xcabs will also be lost without her cab in the Hive. For sure Columbus will bring up some back-up copy, but until then Boda is free to roam. It may only be a few minutes, but that is all she needs. Ignoring her pained skull, Boda reaches over for her shoulder bag on the dash and pulls out a tattered, antique copy of the Manchester A–Z. She looks up Cloak Street in the index, locates her position, and then scans the first pages with their overall coverage of Manchester. Her eyes come to rest on a place called Whalley Range. That makes a connection. Her home. Her little bedsit with its posters of Kid Bliss and its broken Boomer bottles. Fifteen seconds later she’s turning the cab around into the adjacent lane, driving back along the Mancunian Way towards Whalley Range. She doesn’t know how to get from A–B, never mind A–Z, but with the map propped up on the dash, Boda is going to make a good road of it. Charrie’s voice in her mind, how can that be? WE CAN DO THIS, BODA.

‘I hope so.’

TOUCHY, TOUCHY.

Charrie is now driving free, along the way, turning and turning.

There is something in the air, something Boda can’t quite work out, some kind of heavy presence along with her pain. Chorlton Road, the sight of four Xcabs chasing after her in the mirror. Boda is working the wheel like a natural, but her nose is starting to itch, tears forming in her eyes. The scent of flowers penetrating her nostrils. She wants to sneeze. It feels like gunpowder up there, packed into her nose...

Now it is going to...

But then the feeling passes, and Boda is left with only a sense of emptiness and a headful of frustrated desires, and a wondering about what the next note will bring.

She does a handbrake turn onto Stretford Road. The first Xcab overshoots the junction, but the other three make the curve quite easily. From Stretford she makes Henrietta. Straight on towards St John’s, the trio of Xcabs following; the father, the son, and the Holy Ghost of her past life. Boda’s eyes are darting from the road to the mirror, from the mirror to the A–Z. The leading Xcab is nudging her rear bumper as she drives onto Russell Road, and then a right onto Dudley, where she lives. The smell of flowers coming from a nearby garden.

Once again Boda tries to sneeze.

The moment... the moment...

Flowers in the rain.

She is going to...

Sneeze!

Sneeze!!!

Come on, you bastard! Blow it out! Do it!

No. Not happening. Absolutely no good, no sneezing to be done.

This is not fair.

Boda is feeling like some kind of unexploded bomb.

She rides the curve of Dudley Road until her house is in view. Two Xcabs are parked outside her garden. Boda presses her foot down to the cab-floor. The cab streaks between the two vehicles, licking yellow and black paint off the sides of each one. She watches in the mirror as the two Xcabs try for a U-turn, getting caught up in the three cabs that were following. Two of the cabs smash into each other. Boda makes a left onto College Road. A right onto Withington. She hits the speed-till-you-

die button, checking the mirror. Two cabs following her. Left onto Wilbraham Road. It’s a fast route, Wilbraham; Boda burns the tarmac to escape the pursuers. The truth is, she hasn’t a clue where she is, or where to go. This girl is just driving. Another Xcab pulls out of Wilmslow Road, heading straight for her. Columbus is all over the system, tracking her every route. How can she possibly escape his gaze? Boda makes a hair’s-breadth adjustment to the steering wheel. Her cab peels by the intrusion, clipping the wing of the Xcab. And as the Xcab crumples under her impact, she can see the other cabs wandering lost for a second as the hive-map adjusts to the loss. Now she’s turning onto Kingsway, wherever that is; her A-Z has fallen from the dash with the turning. Boda Jones is lost in a village called Burnage, two Xcabs still desperate to catch up with her. She turns into a side street called Kingsway Crescent, stops the cab, activates the old Boadicea wheel-blades. The Xcabs are dancing their way into her rear-view vision. She reverses her cab at high speed into the front of the first Xcab. A satisfying crunch of steel on steel, as she pushes the follower backwards, bumper-locked, until she can make the new right back onto Kingsway. Boda takes two wheels to the pavement, shaves some paint off a parked car, rips two long slashes in the Xcabber’s tyres at the same time. The second Xcab drifts loose as the first Xcabber breaks down. Boda’s radio comes on. Boda is sailing. Back down Kingsway. Home free. No idea where home should be any more.

The scar on her head runs down a tattooed Kingsway, and the road she is travelling is equally wounded, a phalanx of crashed cars and burning houses. Her mind settles at last onto Columbus’s betrayal of her. What the fuck was that bastard up to? The boss had tried to have her killed! What was happening to the world?

‘Thank you, Wanita, for that rendering of the latest news. Your sweet voice can make poetry out of death, even, and isn’t that bad news about the taxi-dog? Coyote is down, people. The Gumbo has travelled in that fine black cab many the time when the Magic Bus was off-road. Call me old-fashioned but this hippy has always had a soft spot for the rugged individual, the rebel, the outsider. Coyote was a hero to me.’

‘And to me,’ Boda says.

‘His ride was so much more of a journey than the super-clean and efficient Xcabs. Who, by the way, are having a little trouble today with their ever-so-big metamap.’

‘You bet, Gumbo.’

cret cop-news for today? Zero results, as per usual. Oh yes, some splendid creature meets an ignoble end at the hand of yet another dog-voider, and what are the cops up to? Absolutely nothing. When a dog gets killed, the cops go to sleep. Ya Ya! Coyote was a fine specimen, and his murder will make waves in the canine kingdom. Meanwhile, back in the garden, pollen count is coming on strong. 195 and rising. This next record is for the memory of Coyote. May he find a big bone in doggy heaven. ‘A Day In the Life’ by the Beatles. I read the wave today, oh man. About a lucky dog who made the grave. He blew his mind out in a blacker-than-black cab. Mr Lennon, as usual, on the total case. Take it away, boys...’

The sound, then, of the Beatles making music out of death, and Boda listening with tears as she drives down Kingsway. Charrie comes into her mind again, SAVE THE TEARS, HONEY, he tells her. LET’S GET HIDDEN.

‘Like where?’

The blood from her scar flows south from Kingsway, down her neck into the dark realms of her clothing.

THERE’S ONLY ONE SAFE PLACE, DRIVER. ...