Leepus | THE RIVER

Jamie Delano

Description

Leepus | THE RIVER is the second novel by Jamie Delano featuring Leepus and his peregrinations among the odd peoples and landscapes of Inglund. While it builds upon some characters and the environment introduced in Leepus | DIZZY, it is nonetheless a stand-lone story. In THE RIVER, Leepus embarks on board the Black Sow for an upriver odyssey into the murky heart of the wetlunds in support of a pal in trouble. Things get increasingly dark and intriguing as he is forced to juggle the blance of power between such competing interests as the OurFuture elitist youth militia; hardcore monk extremists, the Grey Brothers; and the mysterious Eeley Temple to achieve a ramshackle justice and stay out of the World of the Drownded.File under: Weird fiction. Ripping yarn. Alternate reality dystopia. Black comedy. Picaresque adventure. Brutal mystery. Poetic action.

Informations

• Publié par: Lepus Books
• Date de parution: 30 septembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780993390135
• Langue: English

Extrait

Contents

C. Anguilla quote
title
verso
chap 1
chap 2
chap 3
chap 4
chap 5
chap 6
chap 7
chap 8
chap 9
chap 10
chap 11
chap 12
chap 13
chap 14
chap 15
chap 16
chap 17
chap 18
chap 19
chap 20
chap 21
chap 22
chap 23
chap 24
chap 25
chap 26
chap 27
chap 28
“A writer serves her timeless craft aboard the Ark of Imagination, bound to voyage endless, plotting courses between No Place and Nowhere.”
Clio Anguilla
LEEPUS
THE RIVER



Jamie Delano
Copyright © Jamie Delano 2017
Jamie Delano has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988

First publication
LEPUS BOOKS
2017
ISBN: 978-0-9933901-3-5
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, localities, or persons living or dead is accidental.
All rights reserved.
You are welcome to share this digital edition with friends and other individuals but global distribution, for reasons of ideology or profit, may attract considerable bad karma if the prior permission of the publisher is not sought.

LEPUS BOOKS

lepusbooks.co.uk
1





A roil of ochre water at the Black Sow’s snout as she pushes against the stream. Diesel heartbeat throbbing deck steel. Owl light at noon. A dirty fleece of cloud spread low and heavy. Leepus blinks but his eyes won’t focus. A skeletal log snarled there in the briars overhanging the steep bank close to starboard and draped in a tatter of fabric? Or the waterlogged wreck of a drowned man?
He peers until the mystery falls too far astern to matter. And then he forgets it.
The engine grunting deeper now. Tide fall draining heavy between thorny shore and black mud bounding the channel to larboard. Reedbeds bristling the wide marsh beyond. Buntings flock down– disappear into tasselled cover. A harrier rides aerial contours– strokes the wheezy exhalations of sodden Inglund with feather fingers. Leepus takes out a weedstick. Before he can spark it the rain starts. He covers the hundred feet from bow to stern as quickly as wet steel decking permits without the reassurance of handrails. But he’s drenched when he makes the wheelhouse.
‘Stove’s lit below.’ Mallard squints ahead through rain-gobbed perspex. ‘Pretty might even have a brew on.’
Leepus anticipates the rancid fug of baby shit and diesel infesting the poky cabin– feels a bit claustrophobic. ‘It’s a smoke I’m after, Master, and your missus is disapproving. Says it sets the babby hacking.’
‘She knows about that, I reckon.’ Mallard lets three spokes of the wheel slip through his fingers and then holds steady. ‘Park your arse on the stool there. Fire one up for me too.’
Leepus perches and they smoke silent. Squalls sheet across greasy water. Lash the deck and the wheelhouse. Push draughts through its cracked tarpaulin. ‘It’s a wet fucking world,’ he ventures. ‘Gets on my tits sometimes.’
‘Wet’s good, griz,’ Mallard says expelling smoke, ‘for us as has their living from the delta. A boat without water’s a sad thing.’
‘Some gold in peddling, is there?’
‘Just sufficient to keep the prop turning. No richards running barges, man, but I’d rather be out on the meander and scraping by than harboured in some landlord’s serf berth drawing rations.’
‘Vessel like this isn’t come by for nothing.’
‘Mam ‘n’ Dad have the Sow before me. Go drylund a dozen years gone. Then they’re washed away that winter when the surge takes Black Cat Island.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ says Leepus.
‘How it goes.’ Mallard shrugs. ‘You never can tell what comes on the river.’
‘Right.’ Leepus nips his weedstick butt– watches their bow wave cross a lagoon to slop over a reef of eroded gables. ‘It’s that way with poka too, mate.’
∞
Three weeks go by since he chips into the King of Clubs’ Palace home game. A few ups and downs in the course of the play but a largely satisfactory outcome for Leepus.
The Leech his designated target– a loan shark who has it coming. Greedy bastard’s soon demolished but tempted to keep digging by an offer of easy credit. By the time he wakes up in a deep dark hole his future is irredeemably mortgaged.
Big Bobby makes his customary donation to the general wealth of the table– wobbles off cheerful at dawn nonetheless to attend to GreenField business. The farm boss’ daily life is lonely and lacking excitement. Dropping his buy-in is worth it to feel included. And to gorge on the many complimentary gourmet snax the king lays on to be friendly. Bobby blathers about food as if it’s important. Leepus thinks that’s a bit unhealthy.
The others round the table are all strangers. The one Leepus names ‘Mistress Glitta’ proves herself a useful player– cashes for enough to buy another armful of jangly bangles. The king’s content to settle for picking up tells on the dead-eyed chubby slaver that might prove advantageous in future dealings.
‘Ice’ – as the arrogant twat likes to style himself – has pimples and sports a snappy OurFuture armband. He responds badly to tactical needle. ‘Call me if you’ve got it, Bumfluff,’ says Leepus shoving on him for the fifth time. The impetuous youth is enraged by this repetitious lack of respect from ‘a worn-out parasitic turd’ and rashly does so– slinks home early to his SafeCity barracks embarrassed and embittered.
And then there’s the ‘Holy Ghost’. Some kind of clerical diplomat– a devious envoy on a twisted mission. At least that’s how Leepus reads him. The godly smelling fucker can’t bring himself to play a hand without a shufti skyward in search of guidance. Bastard seems to get it too. His chipstack grows high as a steeple. Leepus eventually brings it down. But not without resort to occasional prestidigitation.
All’s good on the home front too. Bodja and Peewit cosy and the rovers tranquil. Chilly’s unsettling influence neatly relocated to the bosom of the Empire and poor old Marcus safely dead and done with. Arturo Ajax tombed by the College– prefects extracting deservedly uncomfortable reparations. Leepus expects to put his feet up in his tower for a while now– enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet overlooking the day-to-day idyll of Shithole.
And so it goes for ten sweet days until Mike pops up and spoils it.
A flag on Leepus’ dead letter box when he checks it crunching the scrambled eggs Doll burns him for his breakfast.
‘ Got a bit of a dark game on here that you might want to stick an oar in,’ Mike suggests without preamble. ‘ Get your gumboots on, mate, and your scrawny arse well up the Ooze to a scabby camp called Dead Monk Landing. And be a bit sly about why you drop by and where you come from. Hedge against nasty blowback.’
‘Fukksake.’ Leepus suspends mastication– ditches his fork abruptly.
‘What?’ says Doll defensive from behind the steaming copper where she’s occupied mashing washing. ‘Gunna give me the bleedin’ arse-ache over your eggs now?’
‘Eggs are fine.’ Leepus frowns. ‘It’s the charcoal I’m not keen on.’
‘You say eggs on their own is boring. I try to give ‘em a bit of tasty.’
‘A pinch of salt would do it.’
‘Salt’s finished.’
‘Peddlas not docking by Shithole now, then?’
‘Mallard’s late.’ Doll heaves a bedraggled armful of sopping garments from copper to drainer– feeds breeches into the mangle. Evvy wevva slows ‘im down, but there’s word he’s likely in tomorrow.’
‘That’s handy.’ Leepus lights up a thoughtful weedstick. ‘Make sure my socks and drollies are dried. I fancy a nose upriver.’
∞
A slow week or so of stop-and-go. Now Leepus is lolling restless in a hammock. It’s strung across the Black Sow’s hold stuffed three parts full of the basics required for half-civilised living. There’s coals heaped and dented cans of bootleg biodiesel. Manky hanks of rope and shoddy cloth. A tower of galvanised buckets. Sacks of salt and flour. A score or so old truck batteries. A couple of barrels of rusty nails and a big shiny tin of caffy. Coils of cable and fence wire.
And that’s just the stuff he can be arsed to notice.
Of course most of the shit is shwonki. Urban salvage mined by skavvas. Imported staples and tacky hardware jacked from SafeCity warehouses and flogged out of waterfront pop-up freemarts. Every mile it’s hauled upstream among the swamps and dismal islands adds value to the booty. When it’s all sold and the hold is empty Mallard takes his nut to the eelers– pumps in a mess of squirming protein to carry back downriver for the nourishment of urban strivas.
And eels have a fragrance that lingers. Leepus lays down plentiful smoke to suppress the essential fishiness but too long below makes him queasy. Sleeping’s not easy either. Even when they’re riding out low water with the engine silent. Not when Pretty’s a bit frisky and Mallard’s doing his best to keep her happy. Outrageous squealing and grunting percolating the thin steel bulkhead. You might think there’s porks getting slaughtered.
Leepus eases precarious from hammock– creeps reluctant feet into clammy boots and slips on greatcoat. He feels a bit old and feeble sliding the heavy hatch back. The refreshing tide tang tumbling in rewards his effort.
Up on deck it’s a luminous grey world. Moonlight suffusing fog smother. It’s quiet. Drips and trickles. Invisible rivulets gurgling soft as slack water adjusts its level. Duck-dabble. Frog-plop. A suspicious egret croaks a challenge from hiding and then falls silent. Leepus sways along to the bow. The Sow’s keel grounded on the mud. Deck just enough off level to be disconcerting.
A rope coiled neat on the bow hatch. It makes a handy cushion to squat down on. He imagines there are figureheads more appealing as he lights another weedstick– digs out his fone and checks it. At least he’s got a signal. No update from fucking Mike though. It must be fifty times he pings her since he gets her summons. So far t