Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  Feels like I’m a stain on the carpet, like

  I’m insulting the place with my presence.

  Dante scowls at his reflection, glares down,

  Doesn’t like the sight of himself, head bowed.

  I wonder if they’re rich enough to have

  A candle. Always wanted to see one.

  North looks drunk, dark liquid swirling at hand.

  He doesn’t understand us, why we’re here;

  Doesn’t look like he’s ever seen a cop.

  We follow him through to his main office.

  ‘I’m real sorry, Mister North,’ I tell him,

  And it takes him a while to comprehend.

  He offers us drinks, then money to leave,

  As if the news will go along with us.

  We sit quiet until he understands.

  He doesn’t shed a tear, just stares at us,

  Drains his glass in gulps and keeps on staring,

  Not quite sure how to react. What’s proper.

  We ask the questions that need to be asked

  While he’s calm, and get a lot of nothing.

  North doesn’t know if she was in danger.

  It doesn’t sound like they spoke much at all.

  I ask to use the bathroom, and Dante

  Gives me a look like I just shot the dog.

  North doesn’t seem to give a damn, points out,

  Down the hall. His eyes are glazing over.

  Bathroom’s as big as my whole apartment.

  I fumble a while, try to find the switch,

  One arm clenched around my torso like I’m

  Trying to stop my stomach from spilling.

  It all comes out in a catastrophe.

  One long stream of black and red debris.

  I’m a heap of heaving bones clutching tight

  To the bowl until I’m empty, hollow.

  My ribs ache and my heart is a dull thud.

  There are more mirrors here and I can’t hide

  From myself. I find a tap, splash water

  On my face and drink until I can’t breathe.

  I take my time walking, recovering,

  Passing white doors, more mirrors, more crystals,

  Until I come across an open room,

  Door flung wide. There’s a woman on the bed.

  She’s sobbing into the sheets, staining them,

  Mascara running in lines down her face.

  I spend too long standing there. ‘Mrs North?’

  ‘Shit.’ She notices me. ‘Get the hell out!’

  Dante’s waiting for me by the front door

  With the hook-nosed man. I can hear shouting

  Somewhere else in the house. Some argument.

  ‘We done?’ I ask Dante. He scowls at me.

  Back in the car, we escape the district.

  Dante’s relief is obvious. ‘Ah, hell,’

  He sighs, and he isn’t sounding too mad.

  One ordeal down and just one more to go.

  ‘Dead end,’ he tells me. ‘The Norths know nothing.’

  That’s fine. Less leads and suspects to work through.

  ‘There was one thing, though.’ Dante looks thoughtful.

  I trust his thoughts. ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah. Notice the books?’

  Now that he mentions it, there was something.

  I can’t place it. ‘What about them, Dante?’

  ‘Printed in ink,’ he says. ‘No normal books.

  All printed words. The Norths can read off ink.’

  We listen to the engine for a while,

  Think about what that means. Maybe nothing.

  Printed books are an ancient novelty

  The wealthy like to indulge in sometimes.

  I turn, grab the paper from the back seat,

  Read it with my fingers, feel the words there

  And try to imagine reading with eyes.

  It strikes me as difficult and clumsy.

  We pass a gate with no need for IDs.

  They don’t care who leaves, just who they let in.

  Back to the comfortable dark of downtown.

  My stomach still feels like it's full of knives.

  ***

  Dante directs us beyond the blackness

  Of downtown, past those places I frequent.

  There’s a sudden needling beneath my skin

  Like yearning– as if my veins are hungry.

  The withdrawals fade away for a while

  And I emerge, clear, from inside myself

  For the first time in hours. Feels good, like I’m

  A drowning man who found a gasp of air.

  We stop for gas before heading deeper

  Uptown. Dante fills the car while I smoke.

  There’s some guy watching me across the way,

  Frowning, lit by his headlight. I glare back.

  He strides over before we can get gone,

  This frowning short guy wearing spectacles.

  Instinct makes me put my hand on my gun,

  But he raises his hand, tells me his name.

  ‘Wilson,’ he says, ‘I’m John Wilson. Big fan.’

  I look for Dante, but he’s gone to pay,

  Left me trapped. I shake this John’s hand and scowl

  But he doesn’t take the hint, keeps talking.

  ‘Thought I recognised you. It was the scar.

  Pretty messed-up case, but you sorted it.

  Real nice to meet you, Mister Yorke. Real nice.

  Hope you don’t mind, but I’d love a picture.’

  I stamp out my cigarette. ‘I do mind.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, fumbles around. ‘Sure, I guess.

  But hey, listen. I’m a photographer.

  Take my card, just in case.’ He offers it.

  ‘Come by. One for your kids, maybe.’ He winks.

  I don’t correct him, just pocket the card,

  And it’s enough to make him leave, waving.

  ‘Real nice to meet,’ he calls. I grind my teeth.

  Dante finally comes back, gets a look

  That tells him he took too long. He grumbles,

  Puts the car into gear and drives away.

  I start to feel like I’m drowning again.

  ***

  About the time we wind up getting close

  To Vox’s mind, her University,

  A ringing starts in my ears like someone’s

  Finger’s dragging round the top of a glass.

  Dante says something I miss and parks up,

  Leaving our car huddled up in the dark

  With a dozen others. It’s a bleak sight:

  Empty black cars lined up like morgue corpses.

  One catches my eye and I spend too long

  Shining my torch through one of the windows.

  It’s an ancient model, long abandoned,

  The keys still dangling from the ignition.

  I have to cuff the back end of the torch

  To stop it flickering. Damn thing’s broken,

  Erratic, never glows well. Got a crack

  Across the lens the same shape as my scar.

  They’ve got a sweet deal here: tuition fees

  Set so high they can afford the best bulbs.

  Nothing fancy, chandeliers or mirrors,

  Just pure white bulbs scattered liberally.

  The ringing in my ears starts to get sharp,

  Heightens and reaches a painful climax.

  I shake my head and it quietens down.

  Dante calls over. ‘Get a move on, Yorke.’

  We pass another security gate,

  Big men, bigger fists, looking serious.

  They don’t let any common trash through here,

  Common trash like us without our badges.

  Dante’s mad, on the verge of violence,

  Hates this place because he can’t afford it

  For his kids, doesn’t make enough for them.

  Doesn’t make enough to give them a chance.
>
  For once I’m the one helping calm him down,

  Hand on a shoulder, muttering comfort.

  I hate being here for my own reasons,

  But I’m coming down way too hard to care.

  We pass vast pillars, mirrors and portraits,

  Stone floors polished to a reflective shine

  And lights so bright I imagine that this

  Is what it’s like standing right next to stars.

  We’re greeted at reception by a girl.

  She’s elegant, sharply dressed, called Rachel.

  For a moment I forget why we’re here

  Until Dante, irritable, starts up.

  He asks for anyone we can talk to

  About Vivian. Rachel smiles at him.

  It’s what I figure a sunrise is like:

  A gentle emergence of brilliance.

  We’re escorted through to someone’s office.

  A short man, dressed well. One of her teachers:

  Andrew Norton. And, he’s a professor.

  We all shake hands out of formality.

  I look him up and down. Pointed grey beard

  And face lined like a map of the city.

  I turn and thank Rachel as she leaves us,

  Watch her shoes click across the shining floor.

  Words travel between Dante and Norton

  But I’m not listening, I’m too distracted.

  The room’s filled with things I don’t recognise,

  Strange-looking bits of old machinery.

  I get up and look around while they talk,

  Glancing over rusted metal objects,

  Rows of half-broken books covered in dust,

  Heaped-up papers, diagrams and designs.

  Sat on one shelf is something out of place.

  It’s a hand-carved wooden idol of Phos;

  Face of a star, arms spread in welcoming.

  Didn’t think he was a religious man.

  It strikes me enough that I interrupt.

  ‘Hey, professor, why have you got this here?’

  I lift Phos up from the shelf carefully,

  A victim of my dad’s faith, even here.

  Dante halts mid-sentence, lowers his pen.

  Norton smiles like I asked the right question.

  ‘Just as a reminder, Inspector Yorke.’

  And he leaves it there, makes me ask, ‘Of what?’

  ‘There are people, waifs, “ghosts”, in this city

  Who believe that we have always been here

  In the dark. It’s far too easy for me

  To forget quite how few know what I know.’

  I look at the idol, our star-faced god.

  ‘Tell me, inspector. What do you believe?’

  Good question. I don’t know what I believe.

  I’m not superstitious. ‘In hell, I guess.’

  Norton gets up, rummages through a drawer.

  Dante has his head bowed like he’s in prayer,

  But I know he’s counting down in his head:

  Exercises his therapist gave him.

  ‘Do you know from where Vox gets its power?’

  Norton finds what he was searching round for.

  ‘Sure. The Hearts: Aquila, Corvus, Cancer.’

  ‘But have you ever seen one up close?’ ‘No.’

  It looks like it might be made of crystal,

  Or that it might be some kind of machine..

  ‘Well, neither have I. This is all I have.

  One to one hundred scale. This is a Heart.’

  I forget Phos and approach the model.

  Try, somehow, to understand it, its shape.

  ‘Doesn’t look like anything,’ I tell him,

  But he’s looking at Phos, admiring Him.

  ‘That statue is my constant reminder

  That while I may know our great histories,

  The common man does not. He only knows

  The dark in which he was born. Your hell, Yorke.’

  The professor is too much. ‘Yeah. My hell.’

  The ringing in my ears returns in force.

  Dante raises his head and glares at me.

  ‘So, about Vivian,’ he tries again.

  I shake my head some more, but the ringing

  Isn’t going anywhere: here to stay.

  Can’t get those words out of my head, either:

  Your hell, Yorke. Your hell. I stare at the Heart.

  ‘Vivian,’ says the professor, thoughtful.

  ‘Bright girl. Hard working. Sad to hear she’s gone.’

  He seems sincere enough, but not surprised,

  Like he knew about her before we showed.

  ‘Any rivals?’ asks Dante, forging on.

  ‘None come to mind.’ Then, Dante quickly drops:

  ‘Can you think of a reason someone might

  Leave her with her veins full of liquid light?’

  And this seems to surprise the professor

  More than the news of Vivian’s murder.

  ‘Pardon?’ He frowns, mumbles. ‘The use of drugs

  Is strictly not permitted on campus.’

  Me and Dante exchange a glance. He knows

  Something’s struck home with the good professor.

  ‘Looks like someone filled her veins up with light.

  Maybe not Prometheus. Much brighter.’

  Both of us try to gauge his reaction.

  He looks like he’s too warm, starting to sweat.

  ‘The conversion alone would…’ he mutters.

  Then, louder, ‘That’s simply not possible.’

  ‘What’s not possible?’ I ask, lean forwards.

  ‘Well, from what little I do understand,

  Prometheus is very volatile

  At high rates of dilution, let alone…’

  ‘Look. The drug at that concentration burns

  Through flesh. Maybe even through muscle, bone.’

  Dante shakes his head, taps his pen sharply.

  ‘We have a body that says otherwise.’

  The professor looks trapped, takes way too long

  To come up with a reply. ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘Professor,’ says Dante, like he’s closing

  In on prey, ‘what, exactly, don’t you see?’

  We wait while he regains his composure.

  ‘I am happy to help you gentlemen,

  Any way I can. However, right now,

  I have matters to attend to.’ He stands.

  It’s too late for him. Dante’s on his case,

  Knows that something’s up, something’s rattled him.

  Dante stays right where he is, keeps going.

  ‘This is a very important matter.’

  ‘Certainly…’ The professor hesitates.

  There’s a pause and I use it to think fast.

  I stand as well, put my hat on, gesture

  And turn to depart. ‘Dante. We’re done here.’

  We join a stream of students in the hall.

  Dante looks at me like I wrecked the case.

  I can hear him follow, can feel his rage,

  His eyes burning through the back of my skull.

  ‘What in the name of Phos was that, Virgil?’

  He hisses. ‘You know we fucking had him!’

  ‘We had something,’ I say. ‘But not enough.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You saw him. He knew something.’

  I stop, make sure nobody’s listening in.

  ‘Trust me,’ I tell him. ‘You know me. Trust me.’

  ‘Trust you?’ Dante spits, stains the stone below.

  ‘You’re a fucking junkie, Virgil. You’re fucked.’

  I grit my teeth, take the insult because

  It’s no lie. ‘Sure, but you’ve got to trust me.

  I’ve got a better plan.’ Students trail past.

  ‘He was never gonna tell us enough.’

  ‘Shit.’ Dante sighs, searches round for a smoke.

  It’s as good as I’m gonna
get from him.

  We make our way out, past the reception.

  Rachel smiles at me as we pass her by.

  Someone’s keyed the squad car. Dante kicks it,

  Curses, lets out some of his frustration.

  We drive in silence the rest of the way,

  Joined in mutual hate for our city.

  ***

  An hour on and I’m at the city quay,

  Standing at the edge of an empty pier,

  Fresh bottle of whisky at hand, untouched,

  Eyes closed, listening to the waves wash below.

  I don’t bother signing off any more.

  Don’t care what they pay me or if they do.

  Never enough for Dante’s family,

  Always enough for my fucking hobbies.

  I shine my torch down on the black water

  Until its batteries die, fleeting light

  Revealing nothing, reflecting nothing.

  Don’t know what I’m looking for, anyway.

  Feeling around in the dark with my hands,

  I find the edge and swing my tired legs out

  Over the ocean, think about its size,

  How big it’s meant to be, how small I am.

  I can hear it rushing around the pier,

  Our dark planet’s unpredictable tides

  Eroding the edges of our city,

  Slowly turning Vox back into debris.

  I know how this cycle’s going to end.

  I do this once every week: sit here, tired,

  At the end of my tether, feeling like

  I might just pitch over into the black.

  Here comes my big ultimatum again.

  Either I walk away now and get clean

  Or let myself fall, swallowed by the black.

  This is my fleeting weekly victory.

  Each attempt, I get up, take a shower,

  Head to an uptown bar, smile, drink, until

  The craving gets too bad and wind up right

  Back where I belong, veins full of glowing.

  I don’t know why I keep telling my lie:

  That I can fix the mess I made of me.

  Truth is, I’m broken like the rest of Vox.

  Most common cause of death is suicide.

  In school they try to teach you how to cope

  With the constant dark, tell you to find light

  And avoid being immersed in blackness.

  They fairly know what it does to a man.

  The city’s not what made me this way, though.

  After the ‘hanging’, my case, my big break,

  A dark took up residence in my head:

  Some unmovable piece of nothingness.

  I guess I figured it was physical,

  That I could fill it up with liquid light,

  Fill myself up like poor dead Vivian.

  Turns out I was right. An hour a cycle.

  Before I know it, the bottle’s half gone.