It was. But not in that way.

Then Mandy reached out to me. In her hands she held a scrap of clothing. It was a black cloth, made dirty by some other substance, some kind of dark fluid.

Blood.

Beetle's blood. And that was a piece of his favourite jacket, the black cord jacket, with the six buttons up the sleeves, and the double vents, and the tailored waist.

Mandy's hands were smeared with Vaz and blood. Like she'd been stroking his black clotted hair.

But it was the cloth that held me. There amidst the blood and the dirt hung a lump of glitter. It was hard and slightly rounded, flickering green and violet, with a long tongue of gold protruding. The thing was fastened to the cloth with a tarnished brass pin and I knew it then for what it was.

Snakehead.

Dreamsnake trophy.

He cut that fucker off!

That was too much. Had to get out of there.

I opened up a birthday card in Pleasureville. The sun was overhead, birds were singing, kids playing. The Postman was already whistling along the road to the next letterbox. Felt like a holiday, like a birthday. But whose birthday? I opened the card and read the message scrawled there in blood-thick ink.

I could hear her voice calling, through the ink:

"Happy birthday, Scribb! Bet you never realised, uh? You were always forgetting. Me, I'll never forget. Sorry I couldn't get my present to you, but will this do? Until we get back together? Don't stop looking, Scribb. I'm still waiting. We'll be together one day. Promise? Your loving sister, Des."

There were tears in my eyes. Must have been the first ever tears in Pleasureville. Nobody cries there. I wanted to keep the card so I reached into my pocket for something to exchange, to leave behind.

I pulled out Beetle's baccy box. I clicked it open and pulled out the Tapewormer feather. This I shoved back into my pocket. Then I closed the box and laid it down on a nearby streetbench.

I looked up at a cherry tree. Its berries were ripe and bulbous under the eternal sunshine, and just then Pleasure started to stick in my throat, like a jagged chicken bone so I went back down again, pulling the jerkout cord.

The third time I came down, I came down to the breakfast table. I was back in my new flat, shovelling a bowl of JFK flakes down my throat. I came down with the spoon halfway in my mouth and the crispness of the flakes against the coldness of the milk made me feel like a king, like life was actually worth something, worth getting up for. That good, those flakes.

Twinkle's eyes were looking at me, from the other side of the table. "Happy birthday, Scribb," she said.

"How did you know that?" I asked.

"Beetle told me."

"Beetle!"

"Calm down, partner," she said. But I was on my feet anyway, the cereal bowl tipping over and spilling its milk all over the tablecloth.

"Where is he?" I demanded, everything coming back. I was back in the alley for a second, hearing the gunshots, listening to the dogs howling, seeing Beetle's shoulder explode, feeling the wall scraping my elbows away, as I fell... as I fell...

"Where the fuck is he?!"

I was screaming, and it wasn't very dignified.

Well listen; fuck dignity. Fuck dignity to death.

"He's in your room," Twinkle said.

"What's he doing in there?"

"He wants you." This is a love story. You got that already?

Took me a long while to realise; all those presents that I was getting.

How many people have you had that are willing to lose something, just so that you can carry on for a little while?

Count them.

That low, uh?

Listen, I'm an expert on this.

I went into my bedroom, and found the Beetle there. Mandy was with him. She was sitting beside the bed, on an old wicker chair, painted green. It wasn't my paint; I'd moved into these Whalley Range rooms only three weeks ago, on the run from the cops, and the Riders. Here we find ourselves.

I loved that chair.

Beetle lay in the bed. That old damp and tattered bed with its mattress full of bugs, and its springs all loose and rusted.

How I loved that bed. Its short respite.

The Beetle was lying in my bed with his eyes closed, a feather stuck halfway down his throat.

"What's he on, Mandy?" I asked.

"Tapewormer. What else?" She sounded well pissed off. "All he does these days is ride that feather back. It gets kind of boring, Scribble... for a way-ahead girl."

Yeah, I guess it does.

I pulled back gently, on the sheets, revealing the wound. His shoulder was a sprawling mess, but the strips of flesh were held together and bandaged with some kind of web. Looked like a nest of dog fur. The blood was congealing behind there. Some kind of healing, maybe. My eyes were wet. I could barely look.

"What is that stuff on him?"

"Dog people put it there," said Mandy. "Said it would help."

I looked close. His wound was tight-bound with strands of fur, crisscrossing, making a hold against the blood flow. The fur was glued in place with dog spit. Made me feel nauseous, except that it was saving him. Well, I could only hope so.

"Why are they doing this, Mandy?" I asked. "Why are the dogs helping him? He hates the dogs!"

Mandy just shrugged.

I looked deeper into the Beetle's wound and saw tiny snakes moving there, a rainbow of worms, baby snakes. They took me back some way, like the maggots we bought by the handful, Bee and I, when we were just two kids planning a fishing trip. It made me pull back.

"Christ, Bee..." .

He made no sound.

I turned to the new girl. "Mandy? What is that?"

"Where?"

"In his wound..."

She was leaning in.

There's nothing there, Scribble. What's wrong?"

And when I looked back the wound was clean, under its bed of fur.

"Beetle... Beetle..." My voice was searching, and I guess the Beetle must have picked up on it, down in the darkness, because he was mumbling words around the feather. They came out clogged by the Vurt, so I pulled that feather out, jerking him away from the dream. Just like he used to do with me, when I went in alone. The play was shifting, and I knew how bad it felt, to have your dream dragged from your mouth.

He came back to us with a slow rising, as though he was used by now to being dragged back, maybe by Mandy, as though he was riding the feathers real easy these days.

"What is it, my man?" he drawled.

I managed an answer, but it came out awkward.

"Is there no end to the trouble, Bee?" I asked, with a breaking voice.

"No end... Scribble..." replied the Beetle, slovenly, from the depths of his pain. His eyes weren't even open. "Not since the schoolyard. Remember that?"

His eyes were slitted, crusted, just a glimpse of eyeball showing through, between the twin layers of bloated skin.

"I remember, Bee. You used to bully me something rotten."

"Aye. Good days. Good days..." He was drifting off again.

"Beetle!"

His eyes flicked open, halfway, pushing apart the lids. "How's Murdoch, Scribb," he asked. "Is she dead yet?"

"I don't know," I answered.

"Maybe she is. Maybe we finished her."

"No, not yet," said Mandy. "I didn't see that."

"What did you see?" I asked.

"That was some bad theatre, back there."

"What are you after, Mandy?" I asked.

"What's it to you?" she answered.

"It's everything."

"Don't give up the fight, Scribble," said the voice. It was the Beetle's voice.

"How could I?" I replied.

"Keep on finding them. The Brid and the Sister. And the Thing. Don't give up on me."

"Bridget was in the Slithy Tove," I told him.

"What do you mean?"

"Bridget was in the Slithy Tove. I saw her there."

I was expecting him to say I was going off the edge someway, that I was feeling the pull too much, the pull of Tapewormer. Which is like willing the past into life.