The Book of Dave Read Free Page A

spent a blob or more building
it. However, for this, the midsummer's feast for the Hack's party, only one moto was to be slain.
    This was Runti, who now lay on his side, slack flesh squidging from under him, his tank slopping, his arse bubbling. His legs
were lashed with some of the better imported rope, a length of which was also slung over the top beam of the gibbet. At the
moto's head knelt Carl, together with his stepdad, Fred. Carl held a small knife that was hidden in the dense wattles of the
beast's throat. Fred was tall like all of the Ridmun clan, his hair lanky, his beard a lustrous, curly brown, his eyes a stony
grey, his lips sickle-sharp and sickle-curved. He was a dävine dad, so he called over the slaughter run:
    â€“ Leev on ri smiffeeld, leffpoltreeavenoo, leffchartaowse … rìfarringdunlayn …
    His stepson stroked Runti's stubbly brow as the run and its points were called.
    â€“ Tym 2 go nah, Runti, he said.
    â€“ Nó hwurtin, the moto lisped.
    â€“ Nah, nó hurtin, yul ardli feel í.
    This was true, because at that very instant Carl pressed the knife deep into the beast's neck and a maroon tide pulsed out
on to the bare earth. Púlupp! Fred cried to Fukka Funch, Sid Brudi and Ozzi Bulluk. The three dads began hauling on the end
of the rope; it came taut, and the moto's bleeding body was dragged jerkily towards the wooden frame, leaving an old irony
stain in its wake. Giss an and! Fukka shouted to the gang of Chilmen who were standing a way off, looking on both enthralled
and horrified.
    Reluctantly the Hack's pedalers detached themselves from the group, strolled over and grabbed the rope. All eight dads gathered
as much purchase as they could and pulled. Their muscles knotted, their backs creaked, the gibbet groaned. First Runti's hindquarters,
then his sagging tank lifted from the ground. Carl stayed by his head, whispering endearments:
    Iss orlrì, luvvi, doan wurri, ear we go, nó long nah, ittul B bé-er wen ure up on ve fingi.
    â€“ Itun hwurtin, Cwarl. Eye hwurtin sum, the moto protested, and one of his large hands sought out his musher's smaller one.
    â€“ Onli a lyttul, Runti, onli a lyttul, an itull soon B ovah an yul ave a nyce kip.
    â€“ Mwy nek hwurtin, Cwarl, ish hwurtin.
    The moto's whole body – which was the length of one and a half men and considerably bulkier – was now part-resting on his
crumpled neck. Then, with a great heave and a shout from the hauliers, the moto cleared the ground and swung free, a fat,
fleshy pendulum spraying pink mist.
    While all this had been going on, the Driver was coming along the bay from his semi, his back stiff, his bright orange trainers
glaring as the hem of his black robe rose and fell, his mirror flashing in the foglight, the sign of the wheel embroidered
on his breast commanding attention. Now he came up to the Hack's party and turned his back on them. The Hack, Mister Greaves,
was staring full into Runti's dying face.
    â€“ Ware2, guv, he said to the Driver in a cursory fashion.
    â€“ To New London, came the answer in Arpee with considerably more solemnity.
    â€“ Iss awlways a fyn fing 2 C a moto slorta, said Mister Greaves, grabbing the loose stuff of his long T-shirt with both hands
so that it stretched over his pot tank.
    â€“ Maybe, the Driver snapped. At any rate, it's a practice the Hamsters wouldn't wish to forgo.
    Carl looked up into the Driver's mirror and saw there cold black eyes under high, white, gull's-wing eyebrows. The lad bent
back to stroking Runti's muzzle, murmuring:
    â€“ Vare-vare, vare-vare, Runti, soon ovah, soon ovah …
    â€“ Why should they forgo it, Reervú? said Mister Greaves, setting his jaw and thrusting out his long, wispy ginger beard. His
nose was bulbous, his brows beetled, his cheeks were tenderized with old pox scars – yet he fronted up well. Still, the Driver
had got to him – so much so that he had shifted to Arpee as he bit and nibbled his