Note I still need to get the damn thing fixed
And take a quick glance round my apartment.
The place is way worse than I imagined.
Looks like a squat or some kind of drug den.
No time to clean up. I sigh, grab my coat,
Head on downstairs to meet Dante outside.
He’s leant against a wall, smoking, looks wrecked,
Like he hasn’t slept. Maybe he hasn’t.
‘Shit, Yorke. We’re pretty damn fucked,’ he tells me.
I don’t disagree. He hands me a smoke.
We stay in silence for a little while,
Listen to the sounds of the city’s streets.
No end of loud voices, engines, sirens,
But no more panic. Sounds like it’s died down.
‘They’re diverting power from the others,’
Says Dante, like he knows what I’m thinking.
‘One city, three Hearts. We’re fucking lucky.
Anywhere else, we’d be completely screwed.’
Dante’s eyes are bloodshot, lids drooping low,
Looks like he’s running on coffee alone.
‘And you’re all across the papers again.
Congrats.’ He spits. ‘You fucking idiot.’
‘Not my choice,’ I tell him, sucking smoke deep.
‘Yeah?’ Dante doesn’t believe me. ‘But why?
Why in hell’s name would they put you on this?
Everyone knows you’re washed-up. It’s not news.’
‘Hell if I know,’ I mumble. ‘But look, thanks.’
‘For what?’ ‘For covering for me.’ He nods,
Stamps out his cigarette, rolls up his sleeves.
‘Sure, Yorke. So, you want the good news or what?’
‘Good news?’ By his tone, I’m guessing it’s not.
‘We’re fucked because whoever took the Heart
Knew what he was doing. It’s a clean job.
Real professional. Left nothing behind.’
‘Shit. So what, then? Do we have anything?’
‘Not a fucking thing. Twenty-five dead guards,
An empty cradle and a wall that looks
Like someone ran a fucking train through it.’
He’s brought his own car, left the headlight on
So we can see the street and passing cars.
It’s only weak; shivering fragile light
Just bright enough so we can see ourselves.
If we stay here too long, ghosts will show up:
Wasted folk made ghouls by light starvation,
Drawn to the headlight by desperation.
They get violent real easy round here.
‘So where do you wanna start?’ Dante asks.
‘I don’t.’ ‘Shit, Yorke, be serious for once.’
‘I am. We’ve gotta do something else first.
Need to find out who’s on the North case now.’
‘Come on, Yorke—’ he starts, but I interrupt.
‘Hell, I know how important the Heart is,
But we’ve got some information to share.
The professor knew something, remember?’
For once, Dante shrugs, agrees with me, ‘Sure.’
‘So let’s head to HQ, pass that along,
And then get on the Heart. Is that all right?’
He shrugs, squints at me. ‘You look like shit, Yorke.’
‘So do you.’ We get in the car, start up
And pull out just as the first ghost turns up.
She looks hungry, thin, spindly arms held out,
Covered in sores. We leave her in darkness.
***
Might be the last of the Prometheus,
But I feel good for once. I have control.
Enough clear space in my head to think straight.
Dante’s right: I’m washed up. Something here’s wrong.
Why the fuck am I on this case at all?
This question feels important, feels weighty.
Those early hours at Cancer’s vault were wrong;
The chief shouldn’t have been letting me go.
So what, then? I try to think more, think deep,
But Dante turns a corner hard, swerves round,
Yells, swears at the ghosts in his way out there,
Blocking the road, gathered round some machine.
Remnants of the blackout are everywhere
And nobody’s out clearing up the roads.
Nobody cares enough now it’s over;
Back to staring at bulbs behind closed doors.
There’s a crunch and hiss from the car’s engine,
Smoke billowing up, out from the front grill.
The car rattles, shudders like it’s dying,
Stuttering and failing along the street.
‘Shit,’ growls Dante. He stops the car, exits,
Inspects the engine and curses some more.
‘Second fucking time this month. Piece of shit.’
He kicks it. ‘We’re walking the last blocks, Yorke.’
I watch out while he unscrews the headlight
To keep it away from the hands of ghosts.
We’ve broken down in the wrong neighbourhood;
Rent’s low here because there’s no easy glows.
I keep one hand on my gun as we go,
Striding through the dark because if we light
A torch here we’ll get stabbed or shot for it.
We tread down cracked roads, crunch through broken glass.
I don’t know why I keep my eyes open.
Some human instinct in the dark maybe;
Eyes wide, ready to catch any small glint,
Any sign there’s something beyond the black.
We pass laboured breathing, stinking bodies,
Other cops shouting, hailing, greeting us,
Some lost folk, people running, walking slow,
And the silent, present only in warmth.
Dante doesn’t give a damn, powers on,
Announces himself with his heavy feet.
I’m subtler, like to go quiet, evade,
Avoid others. Much less trouble that way.
Two blocks on, past what sounds like some road works,
A dark café filled with unseen diners
And an invisible fight between friends,
We come to one of the precinct’s back gates.
There’s a man on duty who tips his cap,
Lets us through. He’s lit by the small green glint
Of light leaking up out through the keyhole,
And even that seems bright after our walk.
The office is a mess of yelling cops,
Shouting at each other about cases,
Paperwork, guns, the city, the darkness,
The everycycle chaos of our work.
We head to our department, Homicide,
Well aware of being watched as we go.
These guys know who I am, recognise me
As the cop who solved the case they couldn’t.
Our own office is no less of a mess;
Colleagues and superiors shouting out,
Trying to be heard over ringing phones,
Thumping boots, humming fans and each other.
I find Santiago behind his desk,
Feet up, smoking a cigarette, eyes high,
Watching his ceiling fan turn overhead.
‘Virgil,’ he says, without looking away.
I knock on his desk. ‘Who’s on the North case?’
‘What?’ ‘You heard me. Who’s got the North case now?’
He looks at me at last. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Santiago, I don’t have time for this.’
‘Sure.’ He swings his feet round and shuts his eyes.
‘Look. Last I heard, DEA have it now.’
When he opens his eyes, he’s serious.
‘Not that it matters.’ ‘But—’ ‘But nothing, Yorke.’
Dante steps up. The two of them are friends
Of a sort. They have an understanding.
‘We’ve got some leads that need passing along,’
He says. ‘Important leads, Santiago.’
Our colleague shuffles through some paperwork.
‘I don’t know. I’ve got nothing. But look, guys,
There’s a man turned up, been asking for you.
Came from the University hours back.’
My breathing stops short. ‘Professor Norton?’
But Santiago shakes his head. ‘Sorry.
Some doctor, I think. Didn’t take his name,
But he’s pretty jumpy. You should see him.’
I exchange a glance with Dante, who shrugs.
Santiago gestures to the back rooms.
‘He’s in one of the interview holdings.
Someone’s with him I think, got him calmed down.’
‘Santiago?’ I say, loud to be heard.
He’s picked up the phone, but covers it, says,
‘What?’ ‘The North case. Find out who has it, right?’
‘Sure,’ he waves me away. ‘Sure. Whatever.’
We find the doctor waiting as promised,
Sitting nervous in an interview chair,
Hands wound tight around a now-empty mug.
I shut the door and the room gets quiet.
‘Detective Inspector Yorke!’ He stands up,
Reaches out a trembling and sweaty hand,
Shakes mine and then Dante’s in a hurry,
Like he’s got some place important to be.
‘I-I tried calling but I couldn’t get—
Nobody could get through to you, no time—
So I came down and— I’m very sorry
To trouble you like this, but I’m not sure—’
‘Slow down,’ says Dante. ‘Sit down. Calm down, sir.’
‘Of-of course.’ He does as he’s told. ‘But I’m—’
‘What’s your name?’ I find a chair opposite.
‘Doctor Magnusson, sir. I work at the—’
‘You work at the Uni’. Sure. We’ve been told.’
He’s a small guy, hunched up tight in his seat,
Blinking fast behind his round spectacles
And trembling constantly. He looks damn scared.
‘So, how can we help you, doc’?’ asks Dante.
‘Look, I…’ He takes a deep breath, tries again.
‘You must find Cancer immediately.
The Heart. I don’t think you quite understand.’
‘What is it we don’t understand, doctor?’
‘Well, ah, I am one of the few people
In this city who has studied the Hearts.
I know what they are and what they can do.’
‘All right. So what’s with all the urgency?’
‘I-I am quite worried that, ah, Cancer
May have been taken by persons who don’t
Know what a Heart is and what it can do.’
Dante’s got his notepad out, pen scribbling,
Taking notes. There’s something about the doc’
That’s contagious. It might be his panic.
I can feel my heart start beating faster.
‘How do you mean?’ Dante asks, carefully.
Magnusson removes his glasses, shaking,
Trying to wipe his sweat from the lenses.
‘Listen,’ he says, grimly. ‘The Hearts are stars.’
Dante stops writing. He looks up. ‘Huh? What?’
‘The Hearts are stars. They are, ah, compacted.
Contained, you might say, at the moment of,
Ah, supernova. They are… raw… power.’
I can’t contain the concept in my head.
It’s too big. Don’t know why I never thought
About what the Hearts were made of before.
Always just assumed something bright, I guess.
‘You’re saying,’ says Dante, ‘the Hearts are stars?’
He seems as lost as I am, maybe more.
‘Yes, well, yes. But. Okay, yes, they are stars,
And you need to understand. Please listen.
‘The Hearts are nearly impenetrable.
The containment used is, ah, beautiful.
Technology I barely understand,
Far before our time, you see. Before us.’
I close my eyes, run a hand down my face,
Try to un-hear the bad word he just said,
But it’s too late. I lower my head down.
‘Doc’,’ I say, hoarse. ‘What do you mean, “nearly”?’
‘Ah, yes. That’s what I mean, Inspector Yorke.
There is quite a slim possibility
That a particularly determined
Team might be able to breach the, the, ah—’
Dante’s voice is a growl. He’s stopped writing.
‘Right. So, a breach. And then what would happen?’
A lengthy quiet takes over the room
As Magnusson comes up with a reply.
‘Annihilation,’ he says, quietly.
My hands are shaking. Might be withdrawals,
Might be the hangover. I hope it is.
I press them against the rough wood table.
‘Of what?’ asks Dante. ‘A block? The city?’
The doc’s voice is nearly a whisper now.
‘The physics are… ah… astronomical.
I-I really can’t even fathom how—’
I stand, lean forwards over the table.
‘The whole city?’ I ask, looking him straight.
He shakes his head slowly, sadly, trembling.
‘Inspector Yorke… much more than the city.
‘A-a breach would necessarily mean
The breach of all the other Hearts we have.
The combined release of energy would…
No-one, Inspector Yorke, could even dream…’
He begins to mumble. I get closer.
The weak bulb hanging above flickers once.
‘We wouldn’t… we wouldn’t live to see it.
We would be turned to dust, or less than dust.
‘A breach would… would… unleash a violence
Like nothing else. It would be an event
Leaving no Vox, no dark star and no… us.
Nothing to mark that we were ever here.’
***
Dante puts a team together to help
Because neither of us know what to do.
I remain disconnected and absent,
Like I’m an observer, not taking part.
I sit by and watch cops, men, swarm like rats,
Fighting for space, fighting for attention,
Crying out to one another, screeching,
Unable to reach a kind of order.
Even as I’m summoned to see the press,
They’re still arguing, with no progress made.
Dante sits at the centre of it all,
Cradling his head as if it’s too heavy.
***
I’m led through to a dull conference hall
Where reporters are sat in rank and file,
Seniors up front, freshmen at the back,
All hands raised high like they’re praying to Phos.
There are some fans, but the heat is still bad.
Too many bodies crammed in together.
I remove my hat, wipe sweat from my brow
And find my place on stage, front and centre.
There’s a collection of hot white spotlights
Aimed at the stage, at my face, at my scar,
Revealing every blemish, every flaw,
And keeping me pinned like I’m under fire.
Their faces are dark. It’s a sea of hands.
Some of those hands are waving up at me,
Others clicking, vying for attention.
A few are still, holding tape recorders.
There’s a sudden flash, a puff of grey
smoke
And a man shouting that I need to pose.
I’m startled, trying to clear my vision.
I hate all this: the cameras and the press.
I find some place inside myself to hide,
Leave my tongue running on automatic
And give them all the regular answers:
Vague, non-committal and reassuring.
We’re gonna find the Heart. Of course we are.
We’ve got a bunch of leads we’re working on.
It’ll be back by the end of the week,
We’re sure. Don’t worry yourselves, we’re on it.
At some point during the press conference,
I remove my coat and find the badge there:
A solid imitation-gold crescent.
I place it on the table before me.
Don’t know why it has my attention now,
But it does. I’m wondering why I’m here,
Why I’m still doing this damn job at all,
And that badge is the best answer I have.
It’s cheap, easy to make, easy to forge,
And they’re dime-a-dozen down some precincts,
But I used to have lots of pride in mine.
It meant something to me, some long time back.
Hell, there’s still something there now, as I stare,
Admiring the cracked edges, and the dents.
It’s a badge hard won and harder to keep.
Guess I’m a man of the law after all.
Some reporter’s been asking me something
While I’ve been lost in thoughts about my badge
And repeats himself again, sounds annoyed,
Shouts, ‘Why would someone steal one of the Hearts?’
I pick my badge up and squeeze it tightly,
Until it hurts and I might be bleeding,
And I don’t tell him that the Heart’s a bomb.
I don’t tell him anything true at all.
‘We’re looking at a number of motives,’
I tell him, tell them all, tell the city.
‘Nothing we’re able to disclose right now.
But you can rest easy. We’re on the case.’
He’s persistent, our man among many,
Keeps trying. ‘But why would someone want it?’
And they all seem interested, keep quiet,
Wait for my reply, all hands still raised high.
I stand up. ‘We’ve answered enough for now.
Thanks for your questions.’ I put my hat on,
Turn away, hear the crowd’s dismay rising,
Demanding more of me than I can give.
Their calling voices rise to a climax,
Become a wordless rush of noise instead:
The city’s collective accusation
Of dissatisfaction, howling for more.
Outside, I finally open my hand,
Already bound once and bleeding again
Dark Star Page 4