In a surge of violence, I smash it,
Send the stem spinning into the ocean,
Wonder what the fuck I’m doing back here.
I’ve got a job I need to do. My plan.
I cut myself deep as I try to stand,
Pulling shards out of the skin of my hands,
Watching my dull-glowing blood crawl down me.
For a moment I’m at the edge again,
One step away from my oblivion,
But I walk away as always, this time
Needing something to bind my weeping hands.
I take the long route to my apartment
To throw off the whisky’s worst, sober up.
I take a cold shower, find my good coat
And head out to an uptown bar. Hopeful.
I’ve played this moment out so many times,
The same performance over and over,
But this might just be my time. I’m allowed
My brief reprieve, my hours caught up in hope.
***
I head to a blues bar I remember,
Hoping I’m right, hoping to get lucky.
It’s one of the places I like round here,
All lit up in blue for the atmosphere.
Barman knows his way around whisky, too,
Gets the temperature right, saves the flavour.
Not that it matters too much in the end.
Ten down, it all tastes the same anyway.
Doorman eyes me up, lets me slide inside
Because he knows me, my reputation.
Round here I’m a kind of celebrity,
Even if I look halfway to the grave.
I enter and there she is at the bar,
Radiant as a spark against the blue.
I cough, clear my throat, check my reflection
And head over, trying for dignity.
Rachel gives me one of her polite smiles.
Looks like she’s halfway through a tall cocktail.
She doesn’t make a move to head away,
Which I choose to take as a compliment.
‘Inspector,’ she says. ‘A sight for sore eyes.’
I remove my hat, order a whisky,
Ask what she’s drinking, but she shakes her head,
Taps the cocktail, tells me she’s good for now.
‘Call me Virgil,’ I say, taking my time
With the whisky, sipping at it slowly.
There’s some music and it’s not unpleasant,
Just background noise, something smooth, relaxing.
She looks almost as tired as I’m feeling,
Holding on to her drink like she’s fallen
Into the ocean and it’s a lifebelt.
But hell, she looks full of life, full of youth.
I realise I’ve been staring at her
And so does she, smile turning embarrassed.
‘So,’ she says, ‘what’s a guy like you doing
All the way over in a place like this?’
Funny. I guess I consider this bar
A classy place, bright and respectable,
While to her it’s a place to hide away.
Somewhere to drink alone, escape the world.
‘Where’s your friend?’ she asks, looking for Dante.
‘Home,’ I tell her. ‘He’s got some kids to watch.’
She finishes her drink, asks about me.
‘You got anybody at home, Virgil?’
‘No family,’ I tell her. ‘Just whisky.’
It’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out
Depressing, like there’s truth in it, and hell,
Maybe there is. I've got nobody else.
She laughs anyway, makes me crack a smile,
And it feels unfamiliar, a piece
Of the old Yorke making an appearance.
I place my empty glass down on the bar.
We talk a bit, but she works me out, says,
‘So you’re here to ask me about Norton?’
I frown, don’t reply, let her weigh me up.
‘Buy me a drink,’ she tells me, taps the bar.
Looks like the drinks are on me, and that’s fine.
After a while, she’s got me trying drinks
I’d never go near: colourful cocktails
That taste like fruit and strong, strong alcohol.
I lose track of what we’re talking about,
Find a calm, cloudy numbness in my head
And stay there, somewhere on the edge of content.
I get caught up in the drinks, in her eyes.
Even when I start shaking, getting bad
Cravings, realise I haven’t eaten,
Realise I want, need, Prometheus,
I stay, getting worse but still in control.
Only when the lights go out and stay out
Do I remember myself, who I am.
I come crashing back to reality,
Suddenly aware of what’s going on.
The situation is a sucker punch,
Forcing me out of my seat at the bar,
Hearing the whimpers of the lost and scared
Suddenly plunged into complete darkness.
Something is very wrong here. Critical.
The power’s never gone out, not in Vox.
Through the cloudy numbness of alcohol
I can feel Rachel’s hand reaching for mine.
‘Shit,’ I tell her. ‘I need to deal with this.’
The barman is appealing for order,
Checking the fuses again, the lightbulbs,
But he can’t find anything wrong with them.
I get a shock when something meets my face,
But it’s Rachel pressing her lips to me,
Telling me to go, like I’m some hero
That can fix the dark, banish it away.
Outside, the situation is bad, worse.
Looks like the whole block is out. I can hear
Wailing, screaming, people running past me.
A thousand noises heralding chaos.
I find my way down the street, on through crowds,
Warm, breathing bodies not sure what to do,
Milling about in big herds like cattle,
People made stupid by the lack of light.
Nobody can find a glow, power’s out.
Torches are stolen, smothered and broken,
Ruined in sudden outbursts of panic.
The loudest are praying wildly to Phos.
I find a phone box, but it’s surrounded,
So I fire my revolver in the air,
Use noisy words, ‘Police! Get out the way!’
And make myself a path through to a call.
‘This is Yorke. What the fuck is happening?’
Head office sounds just as bad as out here,
Loud voices, phones ringing. They put me through
To a higher-up and I don’t know why.
‘This Yorke?’ It’s a voice I don’t recognise.
‘This is Yorke.’ I have to shout to be heard.
‘Shit, son. Been trying to get hold of you.’
‘What’s happening? Why’s the power gone out?’
‘I’m sending a car to get you, okay?’
I tell him where I am and try again,
‘Look. You’ve got to tell me what’s happening.’
‘Sit tight, son. We’re bringing you in for this.’
He hangs up and I slam the receiver,
Nearly breaking the damn phone as I do.
I step outside, caught up in the chaos,
Unable to think clearly, still too drunk.
Shit. I shake my head, try to clear my thoughts,
But all I can think about is Rachel
All I can think about is Vivian.
All I can think about is my next fix.
***
I’m in the back of a heavy squad van.
It’s too dark outside. Our escorts are bright,
Clearing us a pat
h through the endless crowds,
Flashing red, revealing frightened faces.
There’s a tall man sitting opposite me
I think I should recognise, but can’t place.
He’s smoking a cigar, gold tooth glinting,
The edge of his grey moustache stained yellow.
We listen to the sounds of the city
Going to hell. Sounds like a reckoning,
Like people having their last hope taken,
Cursing up at the sky: our absent star.
There’s more rumbling and we’re free of the dark
And the crowds, surrounded by silhouettes.
Here’s a district that still has some power,
Filling up with wandering refugees.
I run a hand down my face, try to think,
Try to hide my hunger and sober up.
I recognise him now, my companion.
He’s the chief, Chester Garfield, my boss.
‘You up to this, son? It’s gonna be tough.’
His suit is well cut, tailored, expensive.
I still don’t get it, what’s happening here.
‘Up to what, sir?’ At least he’s talking now.
‘He asked for you by name. “Inspector Yorke,”
He told me. “Bring him. He can get it back."’
He leans in towards me, reeking of smoke.
‘Reckon you can find it? Be honest now.’
Feels like I’m missing something important.
Might be the alcohol making me dumb.
I can’t join the dots. It’s real frustrating
And I’m all out of patience. ‘Find what, sir?’
The chief leans back, is hidden in shadow.
He tells me, but makes it sound trivial.
‘There’s been a break-in at a Heart vault, son.
Someone’s gone and killed a lot of people.’
It takes me time to process properly.
Outside, we pass through a reinforced gate
Of the kind meant to keep everyone out,
Not divide the hungry from the wealthy.
‘But I’ve got a case, sir. Vivian North.’
He tilts his head to one side, observes me.
‘You’re off the North case. This is your case now.’
Our van stops. ‘Come on now, son. He’s waiting.’
***
I am like a cowering animal,
Trying to escape from the wide white eyes
Watching me pass by, some alive, some dead,
All staring at the scar around my throat.
My head’s a tangled-up mess of cravings
Getting worse, telling me to run away,
Get out from this light place filled with corpses.
I want, need, food and sleep and liquid light.
There’s flashing cameras and people moving,
Loud voices and lengthy shifting shadows.
I’m being led down a long corridor
Made red by coloured bulbs or maybe blood.
Garfield is telling me things as we go,
But his voice sounds like it’s under water;
It’s booming and muffled at the same time.
All I do is nod and follow behind.
There’s a huge room at the end like a hall
And it’s the brightest place I’ve ever been,
The widest space I’ve ever seen at once,
Like we’re stood at the centre of a star.
For a moment it feels like I’ve gone blind,
My eyes so overwhelmed there’s nothing else,
Until, like a disembodied shadow,
A silhouette approaches through the light.
If I squint, I can just about see him.
He offers a hand covered in dark skin
To me, maybe as a sort of greeting,
But I don’t react in kind, take that hand.
‘Inspector,’ he says. ‘About time you came.’
My eyes start to adjust so I can see
What this room is. Looks like this is the vault:
Thick stone walls, only one way in or out.
Right now, there’s a crooked scar through a wall;
A great rent leaking the warmth of the place,
Surrounded by tumbled-down blocks of stone
And dozens of dead people thrown like dolls.
The hardest part to look at in the room
Is the centre, where there’s a mass of pipes
Arranged like the frayed ends of bits of string
Around a vacant cradle made of glass.
‘I’ve never been left in the dark before,’
The man is saying to me. ‘Before now.’
‘They tore out my Heart.’ He’s angry, snarling.
‘They stole it from me. My Heart. My damn Heart.’
I can see him better now, and he’s mad,
Face clenched up tight, knotted, gnarled in fury.
I don’t understand how his skin is dark,
Like it’s been badly burned or painted black.
‘Yorke,’ says the chief, ‘this is Mister Cancer.’
They’re both staring at me, appraising me,
Waiting to see how I’m going to deal
With this catastrophe. Like I know how.
This is so far beyond me. I don’t know
What I should be doing or where to start.
All I know is what my body’s saying,
And right now it’s saying I need to run.
I look them both in the eye and wonder
How they can’t see I’m falling apart here.
Don’t they know I’m as much a disaster
As that hole torn clean through the wall back there?
‘I need to sleep,’ I say, and my words slur.
Cancer’s expression shifts. He looks unsure,
Glances at the chief for affirmation
That I’m better at my job than I look.
Even though I’m standing dead on my feet,
Garfield’s reaction seems way off to me.
He smiles, says, ‘Virgil’s had a long cycle,
Ain’t that right, son?’ His hand grips my shoulder.
‘Sure,’ I say, ’cause it’s what he wants to hear,
And I move away, retreat from the light,
Shiver into the dark among the dead,
Back where I belong, away from this place.
‘Yorke,’ calls Cancer. ‘You need to find my Heart.’
I stop, the twitching wreckage of a man,
Shout back over my shoulder, ‘Call Dante.
He can take care of this for now. He’s good.’
I somehow find my way out of the vault
And back into the dark of the city.
My head’s a frenzied mess of addiction,
Forcing me on despite my need for sleep.
My skin feels like it’s crawling round my flesh
And every breath I take feels like my last,
Like I’m back on that chair, noose round my neck,
Gasping and gasping, mouth wide and desperate.
There’s a guy I know up this end of town.
He’s expensive, but makes sales on demand.
I don’t remember the walk to his door,
Just my face against the rough wood of it.
I give him every cent I have on me.
Even my cigarettes, still damp from rain.
Hell, I try to sell him my coat, my hat,
But the rest is enough for one small phial.
It glows between my shuddering fingers
And I don’t make it to my apartment;
Huddled up in some forgotten corner
Of the city, piled high with trash and me.
Difficult to find a vein in the dark,
But I can be persistent when needed,
And I’ve had practice. So much damn practice.
The needle feels at home puncturing me.
I inhale sharply, hear my booming he
art,
Imagine it’s Vox’s bright Hearts pumping
Light across the city and within me,
Bringing with it a rushing ecstasy.
I forget that my name is Virgil Yorke.
I forget that I am not a city,
That I am not Vox. I become the streets,
The sky and everything else in between.
***
He doesn’t look like anything special.
Your average Joe: smart round spectacles,
Neat suit, balding. Middle-management type.
He doesn’t say much, either. Hums a tune.
I let it happen. Let him string me up.
The pistol he has only punctuates
The unsaid. We both know what’s happening.
Another cycle, another hanging.
Second Cycle
Don’t know what time it is when I get home,
But the phone’s ringing and keeps on ringing.
I let it go, find something edible
And feel the ache in my bones as I sit.
It feels like I’ve been chewed up and spat out,
But the booze is out of my system now,
The Prometheus a warm afterglow,
And my head’s together enough to think.
I’m in a hell of a bad position.
I should be out there now, finding the Heart,
But it’s too big a mess. I’m overwhelmed.
I can’t get Vivian out of my head.
The phone starts ringing for the seventh time,
So I pick up, just to see who it is.
Of course it’s Dante. ‘Shit, Yorke, about time
You woke up. I’m coming over, okay?’
I mutter, 'sure,' hang up, make my own call.
The operator directs me on through
The DEA, and from them I find Fife.
He sounds surprised to be hearing from me.
‘Yorke? Shouldn’t you be looking for the Heart?’
‘Look. What about the North case. You on it?’
There’s a pause. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not any more.
Your department now. Did nobody say?’
I rub my temple, try to stop the pain
Spreading through my head before it gets far.
I fumble around for some batteries,
Gotta be a few left over in here.
‘Nobody’s saying anything,’ I say.
‘Yeah, nobody ever does,’ he tells me.
‘Look, Yorke. You need anything, let me know.
Can’t have sons of bitches stealing our Hearts.’
‘Sure.’ He hangs up and the phone rings again.
I let it go, keep on searching around
Until I find a pair of batteries
And my torch, hefting the heavy metal.
I slot the fresh set of batteries in,
Cuff it until it emits a weak glow,
Dark Star Page 3