And just then there was a knock at the door.

  Standing in the doorway was Grim’s aunt, dressed up for the funeral, in a new green sarifan that had already come unwound across her stomach. She was drunk.

  ‘Let’s go down, Grim,’ she said. ‘It’s almost time to go.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Grim replied.

  ‘Come out and say goodbye then. And the public prosecutor’s arrived too. He wants to talk to you about something.’

  The funeral feast was laid out on the table in the main room. Grim’s kinfolk were sitting round it – his uncle, his aunts, a couple of cousins and even a little nephew from the country. It occurred to Grim that there could have been more food on the table, and fewer bottles of rice volya.

  As he walked in, the prosecutor, with a glass in his hand, who was sitting under the image of Manitou, was just concluding his farewell speech.

  ‘… times were different from ours. In those days, brothers, people had cast-iron rhinoceroses, and the Urks went after them with bamboo bear spears. Because there was treachery, of course, on all sides. But that doesn’t cancel out the heroes’ great deeds at all – on the contrary. And our folks today should remember that their turn will come soon. It’s not everyone who could do what Khor did – lose both legs and still feed a family. So here’s to his memory. Fly to the chambers of Manitou, Khor, and may outer space be sweeter to you than volya. And may all be well with us too. And it will be, because our faith is the true one. Manitou is on our side.’

  ‘Manitou is on our side,’ they repeated raggedly round the table.

  After drinking up they all got to their feet – now, according to custom, they had to get a move on, in order to catch up with the spirit flying off into outer space. Grim exchanged kisses on the cheek with faces reeking of onions and volya, gave his country cousin his old baseball cap, with the intertwined letters ‘BB’ on it, as a present, promised one of his unknown relatives to visit more often, and was left alone with the public prosecutor.

  With his dreadlocks and grey beard, the prosecutor looked exactly like one of those warriors who had almost finished off Grim and Chloe on the road. Except that he was dressed differently – he didn’t have any black armour on, and instead of field camouflage fatigues, with leaves and branches, he was wearing urban fatigues, featuring a brick wall with dried-up gobs of spit, small pits and various drawings: a heart pierced by an arrow, a spastika with its arms blasphemously straightened out and the Siberianism ‘beaver’ (with the item named depicted above it, so that no doubts could remain). He had a parapublic medal hanging on his chest, and two earrings dangling from his left ear – probably to improve his contacts with the younger generation, Grim concluded morosely.

  The prosecutor set two chairs face to face, sat down on one and pointed to the other for Grim.

  ‘Sit down,’ he ordered.

  Grim shrugged and sat down – he had no reason to object.

  The prosecutor took a bone pipe out of his pocket, clicked his lighter and took a pull. The air was filled with a smell of burnt rags and some other kind of nauseating muck. The prosecutor beckoned Grim towards him with his finger and turned the stem of the pipe towards him.

  ‘I don’t want any,’ said Grim.

  ‘I’m not asking if you want any or not,’ the prosecutor said with a grin. ‘I wish to blow your brains clean as a matter of legal procedure. Or else you won’t understand a thing.’

  ‘It’s against the law,’ said Grim, making his final attempt to resist.

  ‘I am the law,’ said the prosecutor.

  He wrapped his fist round the pipe, grabbed Grim’s ear abruptly with his other hand and pulled him towards himself. When Grim’s face was close to the pipe, the prosecutor pressed his lips to his fist and breathed into it hard. Grim was forced to breathe in the plume of smoke that shot out of the stem, and the acrid fumes seared his lungs. He started coughing. And when he recovered his breathing and looked up, nothing in the world was the same.

  Firstly, the world was terrifying. It had become incredibly dangerous. Danger, bright and iridescent, emanated from everything: from the windows, with the Orkish capital city lurking behind them, from the table, heaped up with leftovers and empty bottles, from the dresser with the cheap blue spirits glasses, and even from the icon with the image of Manitou – a symbolic representation of a black hole with an accretion disk and two narrow fountains of grace being emitted into the void. It didn’t look like Manitou was on Grim’s side at all.

  Secondly, the world had become not only dangerous but also blatantly, unspeakably vile.

  Thirdly, it had become irrevocably hopeless, a dead end. There was nowhere to hide. And nowhere to run to either.

  But what seemed most terrible of all was the prosecutor – sitting opposite him, with a drawing of a woman’s crotch on his chest and a medal pinned directly onto its hairs.

  Grim suddenly realised that the condition that had terrified him was habitual and comfortable for this man. He entered it voluntarily. More than that, Ganjaberserks entered it every time they were advancing into battle, towards death. It was incomprehensible. Grim felt absolutely powerless to resist that kind of spiritual power.

  The prosecutor was apparently well aware of what was happening to Grim. He took another pull on his pipe and asked,

  ‘Right then, do you get it now?’

  Grim nodded, and then he nodded again several times, afraid that the first time hadn’t expressed his thought clearly enough. The nods drifted towards the icon with the black hole in a staccato rhythm. But one or two of them got through to the prosecutor anyway.

  ‘Then let’s have a talk,’ the prosecutor said. ‘I know about you and Chloe. Everyone who watches the news knows it too. Of course, Chloe’s gone up in the world pretty sharply. She’s in the Green Zone now, and that discomongler’s with her.’

  ‘Discoursemonger,’ Grim corrected him.

  The sound of his own voice dumbfounded him and he immediately started explaining, stumbling over the words, that he hadn’t meant to offend the prosecutor at all by correcting him, but quite the opposite, he only corrected the people he respected and loved, and his own mum, when she was alive, used to say ‘fishcoursemonger’, and he couldn’t get her out of the habit. Fortunately, he soon realised that the only word he had spoken out loud was ‘discoursemonger’.

  But the prosecutor seemed to have heard everything anyway.

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck,’ he explained.

  Grim glanced at the medal and believed him immediately.

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. The prosecutor carefully studied a poster hanging on the wall with the profiles of Torn Durex and Torn Skyn superimposed on each other above a slogan in gold:

  TIMME DUH MAN DESIDENDEN, BRÜ

  HITHERØ ABOR THITHERØ!

  The poster was a rarity, because very few of them had been printed when they were planning to hold an election between Skyn and Durex, the latter at the time being still young. In the end, the transfer of power was effected in a different manner: Torn Durex thumped the previous Kagan on the ear during a parade, and the Ganjaberserks and Right Protectors immediately swore allegiance to him. Of course, the Orkish intelligentsia was outraged by it all to the very depths of its collective soul, but in those days Slava was being bombed almost every day, the paper manitou was falling in value at a terrifying rate, and they tried not to argue with the topside stylists.

  Many years had passed since then, but to this day the elderly Orks still recalled the time when democraship seemed just around the corner. This poster was regarded as slightly rebellious, and it was only hung on the wall in the very boldest liberative homes with contacts in the Yellow Zone.

  Grim was about to start explaining that he hadn’t put it up, it was the deceased cobbler Khor, who had managed to get that high up without any legs when the other cobblers came to his place at night, gave him a hoist up and immediately went away again – but when Grim was already completely tangled in his web of lies, again, it turned out that he hadn’t even opened his mouth.

  The prosecutor waited for him to realise that and started speaking.

  ‘They showed you in the news too. But only once, the very first time. And in all the repeats it was just Chloe, all by herself. That was what they decided up there,’ – the prosecutor nodded upwards. ‘And even though the discomongler promised both of you a pass for the offglobe, you haven’t actually got one. Because no one’s going to let you into the Green Zone – the first ring of security is ours, and you haven’t been put on the lists. And if they won’t let you into the Green Zone, then how are you going to get up there? In short, Grim, no one up there’s interested in you.’

  Grim agreed with every word – even slightly before, it seemed, it reached his ears.

  ‘According to my information, they’ve only issued a pass for you to the Yellow Zone. That is, you could go to them and be an orktivist. If I were you, I wouldn’t do that. Because the war’s coming very soon. And you won’t have long enough to qualify for a pass to the Green Zone.’

  The prosecutor took another pull on his pipe. The pause allowed Grim to arrange everything that he had just heard somewhat more tidily in his head. The prosecutor was saying very rational and clear things.

  ‘And then,’ the prosecutor continued, ‘what’s so good about being an orktivist? Fair enough, upper discomonglers are clever people all right. But ours, the ones in the Yellow Zone – they’re just crap, they stink. One of them made a discovery recently. Urkaine, he says, is a cryocolony of Big Byz.’

  ‘A cryptocolony,’ said Grim, surprising even himself.

  ‘Yeah, right, like I said. The way they control us, he says, is by allowing one man to hide everything he’s nicked, but not allowing someone else to the same. It took less than a thousand years for that jerk to catch on. Where do they get grass like that from?’

  Grim guessed that the phrase about grass was a Ganjaberserk joke – the prosecutor wanted to show that he was talking to him like one of his own.

  ‘Being brain-dead is bad every which way,’ the prosecutor continued. ‘Did you know that Rott? He used to live in our district at one time.’

  Grim shook his head. He’d only ever seen Rott once in the news. It was just before the last war.

  ‘The lad joined the orktivists. Got himself registered in the Yellow Zone. They gave him a T-shirt – “Witness of Tyranny” – issued him his own personal camera, everything tip-top. He wandered round Slava for a whole year, with the camera flying over his head. The moment he saw a turd, he’d run up to him from behind and lash him up the backside with his foot. The turd turns round, and he sees everything straight off, he understands, and there’s nothing he can do about it, he just smiles and salutes. Well, the lad did plenty of showing off, right enough. But in all that time nothing more intelligent ever occurred to him. And they never gave him a pass up there. And when the war started, they did for the chump on the first day. And it wasn’t even the turds, mind, it was the porters from the market; they were pissed off with watching him in the news every day. Is that what you want?’

  Grim shook his head again. He hadn’t realised at first who the ‘turds’ were, but then he remembered that was what the Ganjaberserks called the Right Protectors. The Right Protectors also had a whole heap of insulting names for the Ganjaberserks, of which the most affectionate was ‘butts’. The two branches of power clearly didn’t like each other – despite the official clichés about their ‘separation and symphony’.

  ‘Then listen. Soon there’ll be another war. And what’s more, it’s going to be a tough one, they’re making almost twenty kinds of uniforms. So we want to draft you into the ranks. And give it wide publicity, so the people can see that not all of our lads have sold out yet. So they’ll show you on the manitou, we’ll take you on as an orderly for the Urkagan. You’ll be delivering the orders. Your own “Urkaine” moped. Almost all the orderlies come back, if they don’t let their chance slip away. And afterwards you’ll start on a career that will carry you higher in the offglobe than all those yellow and green turnip tops, including my own daughter. Don’t you believe me?’

  Grim shrugged.

  ‘Look. If you join the orktivists … Well, let’s say, even if they let you up there – what are you going to do? Go prick-fishing with your lips? You haven’t got a manitou to your name, who needs you up in those parts? So you’ll just be somebody’s errand boy. But follow our line and you won’t believe how much you can earn, if you’ve fitted in right. And there …’ he nodded upwards ‘… it all goes into the accounts. And they have a law – steal a hundred million manitou, and you’re an honorary citizen of London outright, and an Orkish investor. That’s what all the serious Global Orks do. Figure it out, what’s better, kicking turds up the backside until they wring your neck, or getting into serious business? Quietly, without any stink?’

  ‘Getting into serious business,’ Grim managed to repeat.

  ‘That’s what I think too …’ The prosecutor took another pull. ‘There are two paths through life, Grim. You can strive towards Manitou in your imagination. Or you can fly to Him like Uncle Khor. In a sputnik. But you can also ascend to him while you’re still alive – straight up to London. And not suck dick for your food, but stand above the river for real, with your own bollocks in the window …’

  The prosecutor started coughing and flapped his hand in front of his face to drive away the smoke.

  ‘Just recently I saw this Global Ork off on his way up there,’ he continued. ‘I won’t mention the name. It’s not that I know him personally, I was just detailed to guard him. A serious man, motorenwagen black all over, no way of telling where the window or the door is. And up in front, a public prosecutor on a motorbike. Me, that is. We reach our destination. It doesn’t seem like anything special – a crooked palm tree at the side of the road and a rice field. This guy hasn’t even got any things with him, just a small bag. The way he’s dressed is nothing special either, a cavalry cloak, like they wear topside. You or I could dress like that. Only there’s a chain on his chest, with a little gold gas can hanging on it. And it’s not as thick as a finger, either, it’s slim and really tiny – simply to point out that he’s in the gas line. We wait. I reckon there’s only a minute left until the appointed time, but there’s no one there. I start getting nervous, but he’s just standing there calmly, smiling – I can see this isn’t his first trip. And as soon as it’s time, this kind of triangular door opens up in empty space in front of us, and lowers itself down onto the ground, making these kind of steps. And I can see that there’s a little room inside there, with chairs. But if you look from the outside, there’s nothing there at all. In other words, a porn actor’s personal trailer, can you imagine that? And it’s our Orkish chum that’s got the use of it! He climbs inside, waves to me to say everything’s cool, the door closes – and that’s it.’

  ‘I’ve seen that too,’ says Grim.

  Apparently he could already speak.

  ‘So you’ve seen it, it’s good,’ the prosecutor responded. ‘That means you know the way this world works. That’s the way clever people travel to London. But not everyone can do that. You have to start small. Do you want to be a Global Ork? We’ll teach you how. But first you have to spend a bit of time in the barracks with the simple folk. And just before the war we’ll shift you over to Durex’s headquarters! Don’t be afraid, he won’t shag you – they pick up the queers for him through a different connection. You’re only needed for propaganda. Have you got all that?’

  ‘I’m under eighteen,’ said Grim.

  ‘We’ll register you on the sly. Don’t you fret, we know how to fix things. Here, take your draft notice, I’m delivering it in person.’

  The prosecutor got up off his seat, leaving the sheet of brown paper in Grim’s hands.

  ‘You seem like an intelligent lad,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all got through to you. If it didn’t, it will, when you read that again in the morning. The address and the time to arrive are in there. I wish you a soldier’s luck. And I’m off to the district office.’

  The sun appeared in the window again. The prosecutor got up and walked towards the door. His head was caught in the beam of sunlight, and for a moment Grim imagined that the thick tangle of musty dreadlocks had turned into the fluffy, silver curls of the Byzantine discoursemonger.

  When the prosecutor went out, Grim collapsed straight onto the floor. For some reason he felt like lying on something hard for a while.

  The prosecutor’s weed gradually released its grip. The sinister component that rendered the world repugnant and terrifying passed off quickly, but the leaden torpor stayed with him right up until his relatives came back from the Swamp of Memory.

  They returned satisfied and touched. Some were crying. It turned out that when the funeral procession was passing through the village before the cemetery, they met a Byzantine child-dealer coming the other way. That was a sure sign that in the next life the sputnik would raise the dead man up to the offglobe.

  ‘In a black cloak, with a little metal case,’ his aunt told him tenderly. ‘With a gauze mask over his face – as if to say: I can’t bear to smell your stench. The country folk have already put their brats out on the tables for him. And everyone’s trying everything to jump the queue and hand him their little pisser to be examined, they’re almost fighting even … Or else he buys one, two if you’re lucky, and then nothing from him for a solid year. Ooh, Grim … What are you doing napping on the floor? Did you finish up the volya on the table?’

  Then she turned serious, hoisted Grim up onto his feet and led him upstairs, so the relatives sitting round the table and making a racket wouldn’t disturb them.