felt the tug and responded in the same way, tugging back on the plaits that joined them. They were twinned crusties, sharing the same haircut. Six feet of thick entwined hair stretched between them, and you couldn't see where one ended, and the other began. Over the years their hair had knotted, and knotted hard, until separation was an unthinkable torture. They would walk the world together, never less than six feet apart. Now there's love for you.
"You want English Voodoo?" asked Tristan. "You know where to find some?" Beetle said. "No. Not at all."
"You telling the truth?"
"I got rid. Pretty quick. I don't like that stuff. It's not natural." "But you had some?" I asked, shaking from the knowledge.
"I told you, the once. I don't do Vurt any more. Period. And may I suggest, young kid. . ." Tristan stared directly at me. "That you keep off that stuff yourself. It's a killer."
"You heard of Icarus Wing?" I asked.
"What's that? Some new killer feather? Man, they just can't leave it alone." "No. It's a man. A man's name. He's a feather seller."
"Like I said, I don't work those areas any more."
Suze had gone silent. She was adding some new herbs to the pot. A fresh brew of Haze floated into the room.
"For old time's sake, Tristie," asked the Beetle. "It means that much, yeah?" Tristan replied. "We lost someone. To the Vurt."
Tristan went quiet again. And when he did speak, this was all he could come up with; "That's a bummer, Bee."
"You really not got any Voodoo, Tristan?" asked the Beetle. Tristan's reply was the softest whisper; "Years ago. Years ago." "Just wondered."
"Wonder not, Bee. English Voodoo fucks. It leads to bad things." This was too much for me. "Someone good," I said. "Desdemona." "Who's Desdemona?" asked Suze.
"Scribble's sister," replied Beetle. "We lost her. To the Voodoo."
"Uh uh, I get it," said Tristan. "Swapback time. It doesn't work, Beetle. I've never known it work."
"Scribble's on a mission trip," the Beetle told them. "And we're all getting dragged along. He's set on finding her. He'd give his all. Wouldn't you, Scribb?"
Tristan and Suze looked towards each other. I saw their hair as a river, flowing from each to each.
"Only a fool goes into English Voodoo," said Suze. She was looking straight at me. The robopuppy had come up close to me, licking my face. I was doing my best to discourage her, but that dog just kept on licking. "Karli likes you," Suze added. I was covered in dog spit by now, so I couldn't argue. "Tell us," she repeated, and something in her voice got to me, some kind of recognition. Like I'd known her for ages, without ever meeting. What was that feeling?
"You'd better tell the story, Scribb," the Beetle said to me. "You're better at it than
I am."
So I told them.
It went like this. . .
ON THE WASHING
OF DROIDLOCKS
Brother and sister walking it home from a club; vanless, way past the last bus time, no money for an Xcab. We were halfway down the Wilmslow Road when we heard a screaming. A woman screaming, and we took that walk, right into a fist fight
A guy was clutching a woman, shaking her. She was screaming, over and over, face twisted towards the indifferent traffic.
"Get off me! Stop hitting me! He's hitting me! Get him off me!" "I think we should stop," said Desdemona.
"What?"
"I think we should do something."
Oh wow, like thanks, sister.
"What's going on here?" I said, my voice doing its best to sound cool and hard.
Totally failing.
"We just found this woman, man," said the guy, a black guy. "We was just driving along." ,
His car was parked just forward a small way, one wheel mounted upon the pavement Another guy, a white one, was hunched up in the driving seat. There was a woman in the back seat, and she was kind of rocking, you know, back and forth like a snake victim.
"She was screaming by the road," the black guy said. "Just screaming. . . you know?"
"He's lying," announced Desdemona, and it wasn't exactly pleasing. "I am not fucking
"You want English Voodoo?" asked Tristan. "You know where to find some?" Beetle said. "No. Not at all."
"You telling the truth?"
"I got rid. Pretty quick. I don't like that stuff. It's not natural." "But you had some?" I asked, shaking from the knowledge.
"I told you, the once. I don't do Vurt any more. Period. And may I suggest, young kid. . ." Tristan stared directly at me. "That you keep off that stuff yourself. It's a killer."
"You heard of Icarus Wing?" I asked.
"What's that? Some new killer feather? Man, they just can't leave it alone." "No. It's a man. A man's name. He's a feather seller."
"Like I said, I don't work those areas any more."
Suze had gone silent. She was adding some new herbs to the pot. A fresh brew of Haze floated into the room.
"For old time's sake, Tristie," asked the Beetle. "It means that much, yeah?" Tristan replied. "We lost someone. To the Vurt."
Tristan went quiet again. And when he did speak, this was all he could come up with; "That's a bummer, Bee."
"You really not got any Voodoo, Tristan?" asked the Beetle. Tristan's reply was the softest whisper; "Years ago. Years ago." "Just wondered."
"Wonder not, Bee. English Voodoo fucks. It leads to bad things." This was too much for me. "Someone good," I said. "Desdemona." "Who's Desdemona?" asked Suze.
"Scribble's sister," replied Beetle. "We lost her. To the Voodoo."
"Uh uh, I get it," said Tristan. "Swapback time. It doesn't work, Beetle. I've never known it work."
"Scribble's on a mission trip," the Beetle told them. "And we're all getting dragged along. He's set on finding her. He'd give his all. Wouldn't you, Scribb?"
Tristan and Suze looked towards each other. I saw their hair as a river, flowing from each to each.
"Only a fool goes into English Voodoo," said Suze. She was looking straight at me. The robopuppy had come up close to me, licking my face. I was doing my best to discourage her, but that dog just kept on licking. "Karli likes you," Suze added. I was covered in dog spit by now, so I couldn't argue. "Tell us," she repeated, and something in her voice got to me, some kind of recognition. Like I'd known her for ages, without ever meeting. What was that feeling?
"You'd better tell the story, Scribb," the Beetle said to me. "You're better at it than
I am."
So I told them.
It went like this. . .
ON THE WASHING
OF DROIDLOCKS
Brother and sister walking it home from a club; vanless, way past the last bus time, no money for an Xcab. We were halfway down the Wilmslow Road when we heard a screaming. A woman screaming, and we took that walk, right into a fist fight
A guy was clutching a woman, shaking her. She was screaming, over and over, face twisted towards the indifferent traffic.
"Get off me! Stop hitting me! He's hitting me! Get him off me!" "I think we should stop," said Desdemona.
"What?"
"I think we should do something."
Oh wow, like thanks, sister.
"What's going on here?" I said, my voice doing its best to sound cool and hard.
Totally failing.
"We just found this woman, man," said the guy, a black guy. "We was just driving along." ,
His car was parked just forward a small way, one wheel mounted upon the pavement Another guy, a white one, was hunched up in the driving seat. There was a woman in the back seat, and she was kind of rocking, you know, back and forth like a snake victim.
"She was screaming by the road," the black guy said. "Just screaming. . . you know?"
"He's lying," announced Desdemona, and it wasn't exactly pleasing. "I am not fucking
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