Rubber Covered Brake Unloaded Castors

Sian did not see the turtle at first because he was being attacked by nearly a dozen cruel-looking black-backed gulls. She veered away from them. Their coarse, raucous chorus, like that of deranged cabalists, rang out across the empty beach. Odi, however, went straight for them.

One or two of the gulls noticed in time to turn and rasp, but to no avail; the Yorkie hit them like a soggy cannonball, and in a firework of feathers, all were in the air.

Sian caught up with Odi.

"Bad dog! she said. "Those birds could have turned you inside out.

Then she saw the turtle. To be more exact, she saw the meatless skeleton of a turtle, lying ramshackle in the surf, bedecked in claret seaweed and what seemed to be a piece of bin liner tangled in its ribcage. The keratin scutes that gave the shell its distinctive armour-plate pattern were gone, but the cartilagenous structure beneath was still intact, making it, unquestionably, a turtle.

She jumped backwards, involuntarily, raising the back of her hand to her mouth. Odi pottered around the jumbled bones, poking his nose in between them.

"Come away, Odi! Come on. Leave it alone.

Odi looked at her, puzzled, then yelped as the skeleton began to move of its own accord. Awkwardly, with the stuttering motion of a clockwork toy, it stood up on what had one been its back limbs. They were small - only effective as rudders in the water - and the turtle, once upright, could only hobble. Its tailbone acted as the third leg of a tripod, keeping it just-balanced. The skull, which was about the size of Sian's fist, looked left, then right, at Odi, then at Sian. The turtle stretched its forelimbs. There were no real arms to speak of, but a hand sprouting from each shoulder blade, with four fingers, each the length of a car aerial, and a thumb about half as long.

Odi growled like a model trainset. The turtle raised a single finger to where its lips had once been, then delved carefully into a pocket of tattered binliner that was caught round a lower rib. From this it withdrew a damp packet of John Player Special cigarettes. With the strange nimbleness of a spider, its fingers opened the packet and half-extended a cigarette. This was then offered to Odi, who tentatively sniffed it and declined with a snort of a woof. The deathstick was offered to Sian. She remained rooted to the spot.

Swash rushed in. After waiting several moments, the turtle withdrew its offer and took the cigarette itself, clamping it between upper and lower jaw. It replaced the packet in the binliner pouch, and after a brief rummage, pulled out a half-full book of matches. It lit the cigarette and puffed. Sian now saw that the rest of the binliner was suspended within its ribcage, and tied up in a crumpled spiral around the top of its spine. When the turtle puffed on its cigarette, the binliner expanded, crackling.

Then the turtle spoke. Not with a voice that was detectable to the ear, not even with recognisable words, but in a way that nevertheless entered Sian's consciousness and began to take the shape of a communique.

"Thank you for saving me from those obstreperous dinosaurs. Normally, I could take them, but they caught me by surprise and I am very tired from travelling.

The binliner contracted, and smoke plumed from the turtle's eye sockets and nostrils.

"You're welcome, said Sian, out loud.

"Ah! said the turtle. "You speak in tongue-word! How wonderful! Then my journey has not been a waste of time. Dear mammal, I have come in search of much needed nourishment.

"Nourishment? said Sian.

The turtle went on: "Where I come from, tongue-word is both very rare, and necessary for sustenance. I understand that this is a very strange concept for you, being a mammal and thus one of those who derives energy and nourishment from meat or plant matter, but please believe me. The tongue-word harvest was wretchedly poor this year, and many face starvation. They elected to send me - for I am a young and sprightly fellow - on an unprecedented journey to find a land where tongue-word is fecund. You have many I presume, if you can afford to use it for communicative purposes?

Sian looked behind her, to where the beach met the road, and scanned the area for other people. It had been a fiercely windy and rainy afternoon; there was no one about.

"We have quite a lot of words, yes, she said, turning back to the turtle.

"Ah, good, good, so I see, said the turtle, rubbing its skeletal hands together and producing a sound like crickets. "Now, it is vital that I do not interfere with goings on here too greatly if I can help it. Can I trust you to keep this a secret between you and I?

Again, without thinking, Sian looked helplessly around her.

"I guess.

"Excellent, excellent. I am quite extraordinarily grateful to you, dear mammal. I don't expect to get something for nothing, of coure. In return for your services, I will reward you with spending cloth.

The turtle adjusted its gown of seaweed.

"You mean money?

"Money. Yes! Money! Here, let me show you.

From its pouch it plucked a crunched up, waterlogged five pound note, which it held it out for her to take.

"See! Here you are.

Sian looked at Odi, who cocked her head skeptically. Sighing, and with a trembing hand, she took the note from between the turtle's fingers and straightened it out. It was brown at the edges, and slightly torn, but when she held it up to the light the watermark was clearly visible.

This made her even less comfortable. Nevertheless, her main concern was resolving the situation as quickly and painlessly as possible. Helping the turtle out seemed the most straightforward course of action.

"OK, you ready? she said. "Dog cat boat car cart rat float swim jump run climb trip fall stop start on off -

"No, no, no! the turtle's voice rang in her head. "Stop, please!

Sian stopped.

"Those are far too bitty, said the turtle. "They're OK for a snack or a quick snaffle, but won't make much of a meal. I need them in chains, if you have any.

Odi, at this point, lost interest and trotted off to roll in the sand.

"Chains, said Sian. "How do you mean chains?

"Strings. Like you did just then, but wound tighter.

"You mean a sentence? Jim and John jumped over the great brown bear?

"Yes, a little like that, said the turtle. "But my people's dietary requirements are very specific. Most of these 'sentences' of which you speak are too - how can I put this - unrefined? There is a roughness to them that our digestive systems will take umbrage with. Tell me -

The turtle drummed its fingers on the top of his skull, and stuck out its lower jaw so the last quarter of the cigarette pointed up at the sky.

"Tell me. You get these tongue-words from your head? But also, I think that you sometimes get them from parchment? Like this.

The turtle rooted in its pouch again and produced, fot the second time, the packet of John Player Specials. With a bony tap, it indicated the lettering on the front.

"We write them down, yes, said Sian.

"For storage, of course. If you could perhaps get some more parchment for me and allow me to sample the tongue-words, I can tell you when it is right. Then you will know, and be able to find more.

"Can you read?

Sian looked round for Odi. The terrier was just a little way down the beach, running in circles.

"Read? said the turtle, poking itself in the eyesocket.

"No, Sian sighed, "that would be too easy, wouldn't it. Alright. I'll come back tomorrow with some paper, and we can try and find whatever it is you like.

"Most gracious mammal! exclaimed the turtle, stumbling forward on its ill-suited ankles. "You are very kind. I will wait here and bury myself in the water if I am intruded upon, or if any dinosaurs return.

"You do that, said Sian.

With a cracking of joints, the turtle saluted her, then began the arduous process of turning round so that it could hobble into the sea. Sian shook her head, then brushed the ribbons of hair out of her face. It had started raining. Salty spit. She trudged after Odi, who was covered, nose to tail, in thick, sugary sand.

~

After washing the dog, who stood in the bathtub looking as wretched as any subject of Goya's Black Paintings, Sian made herself tea and sunk into a gulch of deep contemplation. She did not want to return to the turtle. It was, after all, a living skeleton possessed of some sort of telepathic power. She had no way of telling whether or not it was lying, whether or not its demands would increase, or grow more demented the more she tried to satisfy them. After mulling over the subject for some time, she turned to her sister, Sarah. Sarah was not easily fazed; she took the news of the turtle, his binliner lungs and monetary bribe, without a wisp of incredulity. When Sian had filled her in on everything, they discussed their options. Sarah wanted to get a look at the turtle first, but Sian reminded her of its very careful request that she keep shtum.

"What about the camera obscura? said Sarah. "We could spy on him without him seeing us.

The camera obscura atop Tan Ygopa hill was an anachronism. Although it had only been built since the sea levels had risen and the tide advanced inland, the device was a relic of the Victorian age. To all intents and purposes a tourist attraction, it was a darkened chamber that allowed, through the principles of pinhole cameras, a panoramic view of the surrounding beach front.

Sian shuffled uneasily.

"Come on! said Sarah. "This way we'll find out what he's really up to.

Sian agreed, but remained wary. The two of them unhooked their coats and went outside, into a blast of wind. Buffeted, they fought their way along the road and climbed the hill, entering the camera obscura when they reached the top. There was no one else in the chamber. Sarah swept back her hair and looked up at the panoply playing out across the walls and ceiling. The beach seemed empty. Several gulls hung in the air as if suspended from a mobile.

"Can you see him?

"Yes, said Sian, immediately. "There.

Sarah took hold of the controls and zoomed the camera in on where her sister pointed. The turtle was there all right, still draped in its garment of seaweed. They watched it for several minutes as it plodded clumsily backwards and forward across the sand, smoking its cigarette, one hand behind its back, the fingers wriggling so that the limb looked like an upturned crab.

"He's waiting for me. Like he said he would, said Sian.

"And chain-smoking, Sarah added. "Looks a little nervous too. Are you just going to leave him out there all night?

"I don't want to go back there at all. It's creepy. But I'm afraid if I don't it'll come looking for me. I might wake up to find it at the end of my bed.

"Listen. We'll go back to the house and we'll get some old papers and books and things. Then we'll both head down there. I'll wait further down the beach, out of sight, while you read to him. If there's any problem, run, and we'll get help. Otherwise, we'll hopefully find out what kind of words he wants to hear.

"And then what?

"We'll find more of them. If he pays you for them, what's the trouble?

Again, Sian grudgingly concurred. They left the chamber and returned home, this time with the wind behind them. There they gathered up a selection of old magazines, tabloids, paperbacks and scrap paper, loading them into a backpack that Sian hoisted onto her back.

"See if you can get him to tell you if you're hot or cold, said Sarah. "Look out for particular letters, or types of word. Maybe he likes names, or questions, or long words.

It took some time. The turtle became quite animated as Sian, fighting to keep the pages from blowing away and spinning out to sea, rattled through a melange of quotations. It rocked from foot to foot, frantically scratched its bald skull, paced back and forth, and occasionally spread its fingers out like wings - or rather, a framework of wings. It smoked with the urgency of an International War Room.

"It was a hot night, all the bars were full with fans from all over the world -

"Too wriggley, too thin!

"Adele spread her towel, sat down and proceeded to smear her lean frame with Ambre Solaire.

"There are scraps in there. There are odd components, diluted.

"Tips and tricks for beautiful skin. Learn the Beauty secrets of the elite and have the clean clear skin you've always dreamed of having.

"It's a mash! A gruel!

Then:

"Coca-Cola.

"Longer!

"Twelve times five hundred pack of eighty gram copier -

"No!

"Rubber covered brake unloaded castors.

The turtle stopped pacing. It spun on its right foot, in an arc that almost sent it toppling backward. Tottering to a standstill, it pointed at Sian and dropped its cigarette down the front of its ribcage.

"That's it! What is that? What do you call it?

Sian examined the sheet at the top of the scrap paper pile. It was an old invoice from the office where she worked.

"Supplies, I guess, she said.

"Supplies! said the turtle. "You must bring me more of these supplies. Here.

It scrambled to produce another saturated note from its pocket. Sian took it, wearily, and began repacking the literary offal.

"OK, OK. Wait right here then.

The evening light was thickening. She rendezvoused with Sarah on the other side of the nearest groyne, and the two spent a few moments plucking long licks of hair from between their lips.

"Three two-syllable words, one of one syllable, and one of three, said Sarah, upon examining the invoice, "none of which are very exciting.

"Fairly meaningless, unless you're interested in office chairs, said Sian.

"Rubber and covered almost rhyme. It's basically all descriptive apart from castors.

"Rolls off the tongue easily.

"Yes. Yes, of course! It's a trochaic pentameter. Dada, Dada, Dada, Dada, Dada. It's poetry. Leave this to me, Siany. I've got to take those audio books back to the library anyway. I can find you dozens of these things.

"You sure?

"I think so.

"But you should be job-hunting, not wasting time on errands for me and a dead reptile.

"Don't worry. It's earning us money anyway, right? And I'd rather be hunting down pentameters than decent career moves for ex-military staff.

When Sian arrived home from work the next day, her cheeks flushed and the hair round her ears stuck in chaotic rivulets to her skin, Sarah was sat at the dining table, chewing a pencil, with a stack of jacketless books in front of her, each infested with torn strips of post-it note.

"Any luck?

"Not much. Not among the more obvious poets, anyway. Blake's Tiger Tiger is supposed to be trochaic, but each line is only three trochees followed by a strong syllable. 'Ti-ger, Ti-ger, Bur-ning, Bright.' See? And then some of the lines are in iambic tetrameter, so the rest of it reads according to that pattern, with the first syllable missing. 'La-Ti, ger-Ti, ger-Bur, ning-Bright'. One book claimed that all Sapphic verse was written in trochaic pentameter, but it turns out the third metrical foot is actyally a dactyl, while some sources reckoned the second was a spondee - hey! I rhymed - 'reckoned' and 'second'. It's hard to tell who's right because the stresses in words are often so subtle - you could really read them either way.

"So you couldn't find anything? said Sian.

"Be patient! It was dead tough, you know. If the poetry was interesting, I got too wrapped it in the words to notice the meter. If it was dull, I found myself daydreaming. As I say, I didn't have much luck, but I've found something that might suffice. Poe's The Raven is written in trochaic octometer. If we ignore the line breaks we could easily serve it up in portions of pentameter, like so: 'Once upon a midnight dreary while I'. Then 'Pondered weak and weary over many' - when you get to that part, ignore the commas or it will skew the rhythm. Also, skip the next part, because 'a quaint and curious volume of for' is nigh-on impossible to read in trochees. Go straight to 'While I nodded nearly napping sudden', and so on. You can get at least six out of the first stanza alone, and the whole poem's about eighteen stanzas long, so that's easily a hundred. Think that'll be enough?

"I can only hope.

"Well, take this copy. I've done the first four or five. See if they're any good, and if they are, I'm sure you can work out the rest. Oh, and also, I want you to test this list.

She handed Sian a piece of paper, on which was written:

I am a nervous sailorboy I am.
To a man they were killed by a goat.
Damn you, swineherd. Kill me.
He's just a stalker of capsicum.

"Iambic, anapestic, spondaic, dactylic. Different kinds of rhythms. He might like them too.

"I don't know, said Sian. "I'll try them, but if this pretty much covers all kinds of rhythms, you'd think he'd have picked up on them earlier. I think he was after a very specific sequence.

Sure enough, the turtle was absolute in its tastes. Not only did it refuse to take any interest in Sarah's alternatives, shaking its skull so hard it nearly threw itself to the sand again, but it also expressed disatisfaction with the portions of Poe.

"These aren't bad, it said, tapping its lower jaw, "but are poor models compared to the one you gave me yesterday. They seem oddly unfinished, as if they were put together with spare parts.

"But that's OK if it doesn't upset your stomachs, right? said Sian. "You can't have expensive meat every day. Sometimes you've got to have mince.

"Uh, yes, said the turtle. "That is, I have no idea what you're talking about, but I think I understand your point. Nevertheless, although these ones aren't bad, I'd be very grateful if you could find a few more of superior quality, like that first one.

"Picky! said Sarah, when Sian filled her in. "He must be able to detect, somehow, that we've chopped up The Raven.

"The meaning must have something to do with it then, Sian agreed. "He's not just looking for a series of sounds.

"And yet, 'rubber covered brake unloaded castors' is hardly profound. So we're not talking spiritual truth. We're talking images, anything -

"- complete.

In the living room, Odi was yapping. This was not unsual; she would often yap when people walked past the window, or lingered on the road in front of the house.

"We have to come up with more like the first one, said Sarah. "We can get a production line going, using that as a model. I'll say a trochee that's a material. Then you say one that's a past tense verb, like 'bottled' or 'mottled'. I'll do a one syllable noun, and you follow with 'unsomethinged'. An adjective. I'll finish with a final trochaic noun. OK, let's try. Velvet -

"Addled -

"Sheep -

"Unblemished -

"Pastures. Sorry, I was drawn by the rhyme. But that's a good one. Let's keep going. Metal -

"Plated -

"Tit -

"Unbalanced -

"Robots. Voila!

"Let me start one, said Sian. "Wooden -

"Shouldered -

"Hand -

"Untethered -

"Livestock. This is fun. Who cares about -

She stopped. Odi's barking had become more incessant.

"Was that a tap on the front window? said Sarah.

Sian scraped the chairlegs as she stood up.

"I'll go see.

She saw, as she went to the hall, a shape at the door. It hovered at the height of a person's head but was too thin to be that. Odi jumped down from the chair near the lounge window and ran to Sian's feet, where she crouched herself like a scorpion, growling. The tap came again. It was the object at the door, striking the frosted glass.

"Open it, said Sarah, lingering behind them.

Sian took a firm hold of the handle, and twisted. Sarah jumped back. Odi ducked between Sian's legs. The figure - if it could be called a figure - stood on two splintery garden canes that made up all but a foot of its height. The rest of it was seagull, its knotty legs tied by wire to the top of the canes. Its head hung at an unlikely angle, suggested the neck was broken. Its eyes had been eaten out of their sockets. Each wing was decorated with a fan of five lolly sticks.

"You'd better have a good reason for this, said Sian.

"Oh, I do.

Its voice was in her head, like the turtle's, but it was not the turtle in some other form. It was a newcomer. Sian looked to Sarah. Sarah nodded, confirming that she was also receiving the voice.

"You'll both come with me, if you please, said the gull.

"We won't, said Sian.

"You will. My colleagues will be here shortly to pick us up. Mammals, like you, but with greater authority.

The gull paused, perhaps for effect, then leant forward on its cane legs as if to look Sian right in the eye. The lolly sticks were clenched, and the wings bent inwards. It was putting its hands on its hips.

"I mean the police. Or did you think they'd let a little bit of arms dealing slide, cuff round the ear and send you home with a tut-tut and a note to your parents?

"We've had nothing to do with arms dealing, Sarah protested.

"No? Then Rubber Covered Brake Unloaded Castors means nothing to you?

"The phrase I gave to the turtle, said Sian. "He said it was food. For his people.

The seagull danced on its canes, swinging its head about.

"Oh ho! Playing the innocent. That's fine. Ah, here we are.

Behind him, in the road, a police car was pulling up. Through the back windows, Sian could just make out the turtle, its mouth no longer gripping a cigarette, its head dejectedly fallen. Two officers alighted from the vehicle and strode over to join the gull, their footsteps barking in the gravel.

"Look at the state of you! said one of them, looking the creature up and down.

"It was all I could throw on, came the reply, presumably now passing through the minds of each of the assembled.

"What's the situation then? said the other cop.

"Found the supplier, or one of them. Saw her talking to him down at the beach, bag full of papers. Heard the exchange. Serious stuff. Full trochaic pentameter, easy to get hold of in this part of the world, of course. Deadly when he combines it with the other components we know he's been stockpiling. Girl here made a reappearance today with a whole bunch of them - lesser quality, mainly off-cuts of other sentences. Our friend didn't seem too happy, so he sent her back for more. Trailed her here, then decided it was time to call you lot in and wrap it up.

"Anyone else involved?

"Possibly the other girl. At a long shot, the dog. Could be a whole ring. We'll see when we take them in for questioning.

"I acted alone, Sian interrupted. "Sarah tried to stop me.

"We'll see about that, shall we? said the seagull, swaying precariously on one cane and wagging a lolly stick at Sian. "When we get you down to the station.

Epilogue

It was all that Sian could do to make sure Sarah was released. The police were sympathetic to her insistance that the turtle had misled her - a story that the turtle, who had mumbled his apologies to Sian in the back of the police car, wholeheartedly corroborated. But, they explained, the issue of security was too much of a hot coal at the present time, and they couldn't simply release her if charges could be brought to bear. They would be singled out and brought to task by politicians and officials looking to run up points with a fearful, crime-conscious public. The judge and jury were similarly understanding, though, giving the same reasons, they suggested that a period in the prison city of Norwich was the greatest lenience they could extend to her.