Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  In the shape of a crescent, red on white.

  I put my badge away in a pocket.

  ***

  My father taught me a few things in life.

  Never shave against the grain, never smoke,

  Have pride in what you do no matter what,

  And above all else, don’t die by yourself.

  He was the kindest guy I ever knew.

  Raised me by himself, put his entire life

  Into his business: a haberdasher

  Making the best damn hats you ever saw.

  I know all there is to know about hats

  From him. He used to make them without light,

  Putting them together by touch alone;

  The skin of his fingers too thick to prick.

  It was never profitable enough

  To send me off to University,

  Which damn near broke him down. Too proud a man.

  He passed on the same week I joined the force.

  I was away on some rookie mission

  When I should have been sat at his bedside.

  He died alone, and I remain ashamed

  Of myself. One more shadow haunting me.

  My dad taught me a lot of things in life.

  If you meet a girl worth saving, save her,

  Make her remember you. Make her your own.

  And above all else, don’t die by yourself.

  ***

  I take a break, escape from the office

  And find myself heading down flights of stairs

  Into the cold, the air-con hissing ice

  At me as I pass, pulling my coat close.

  They’re busy getting nowhere fast upstairs,

  Running in circles, running into walls,

  Too many cops making bad suggestions

  And no real progress. They’re all lost up there.

  I pass broken bulbs nobody’s replaced

  And others close to dying. Dark patches

  And short flickering havens in between.

  In places I have to switch my torch on.

  It’s only when I get to the basement

  I realise why I’m down here at all.

  This is the morgue, where our victims are shelved,

  Cut open and taken apart for clues.

  At least they have something of a budget

  Here. Enough for some stable bars of light

  Humming bare and pale in the constant chill,

  Somehow making the place feel much colder.

  I attempt to ignite a cigarette,

  But no repeat scratching makes a match work.

  I’m left shivering, breath steaming, dead smoke

  Dangling sadly from the edge of my mouth.

  I feel nervous, like I’m out on a date,

  About to meet a girl, set eyes on her.

  In a way I am, except this girl’s dead.

  I’m down here to find Vivian’s body.

  One of the attendants tries to help me,

  But doesn’t understand my descriptions.

  He looks through his files, but can’t find her name,

  Can’t find any girl filled up with glowing.

  He’s got no memory of her coming,

  Of shelving her, of hearing about her.

  But he’s a helpful guy, sympathetic,

  Keeps on looking anyway, just in case.

  We go in deeper, walls made of metal

  And patterned by dozens of square steel doors,

  Pulling on shelves and reading through toe-tags,

  Looking for a mistake that’s just not there.

  ‘This is the only place she could have come,’

  I tell him, and he agrees, searching notes.

  He can’t find any record of a call

  Asking for someone to come pick her up.

  After a while, he stops, shrugs his shoulders,

  Asks me if I’m sure. Truth be told, I’m not.

  I’m beginning to question myself now.

  It’s looking like Vivian’s disappeared.

  I try to strike some more matches and think,

  But it’s real hard. My head’s a complete mess.

  I start to wonder if I made her up;

  If Vivian North even existed.

  The case seemed crazy enough. Glowing girl

  Found dead down a dead-end back alleyway,

  Bright enough to leave a mark in my mind.

  Maybe she was a figment of my dreams.

  Prometheus makes you hallucinate,

  Makes you feel such intense euphoria

  And paranoia, wholeness and madness.

  Maybe Vivian was another trip.

  Just as it feels like I’m losing myself

  To total self-doubt, I strike one more match

  And feel the heat of the flame as it works,

  Igniting my damn cigarette at last.

  I lean against a cold wall and inhale,

  Hold, letting the cigarette do its work.

  Another drug to keep me going straight.

  Another drug to balance them all out.

  Of course I didn’t imagine the girl.

  The reason I can’t seem to forget her

  Is because of how real she was to me:

  A piece of brightness in my dark city.

  I remain surrounded by the deceased,

  Neatly shelved away in rows, as I smoke.

  Feels like I’m another dead man down here,

  Just one cycle from being shelved myself.

  ***

  ‘Grab your hat, Yorke. We’ve got a lead. Let’s go.’

  Dante pushes the door ajar and waits.

  I find my hat beside a filled ashtray,

  Grab it and follow him to reception.

  ‘What kind of lead?’ I ask, as he signs forms,

  Secures us another squad car to use.

  We’re led through to a sparsely lit compound

  Filled with rows of shining, proud vehicles.

  Dante’s gracious and waits while I throw up,

  Empty what little there is inside me,

  Keep heaving until I’m hollow again.

  The ache that goes down to my bones is back.

  I stumble into the passenger seat

  As Dante starts up, puts our car in gear,

  Drives up a ramp and into the city.

  It feels good to get out of the office.

  ‘Friend of mine,’ says Dante, ‘gave me a call.’

  He doesn’t elaborate, instead says,

  ‘Mostly just wanted to get out of there.

  Nobody’s getting a fucking thing done.’

  I wind the window down and suck in air

  Like I’m thirsty for it, watch passing cars

  And try to blink away the noisy blood

  Thundering in my ears, deafening me.

  ‘When was the last time you ate anything, Yorke?’

  I don’t reply, try to listen to Vox,

  But I can’t hear over the car’s engine,

  Over my own blood beating at my skin.

  It feels like my blood’s trying to break free,

  Trying to shake its way out of my veins.

  Feels like my bones belong to someone else,

  Like they’re all at odd angles and weird shapes.

  The car suddenly screeches to a halt,

  Throwing me forwards into the dashboard,

  Slamming my forehead against the metal.

  It feels like my skull cracks from the impact.

  ‘Shit!’ Dante curses only once, sharply,

  Then is silent. He’s staring at something.

  ‘What the fuck, Dante?’ I groan, hold my head.

  He hisses. ‘Shut up. Look. Just fucking look.’

  Even though my head feels like it’s on fire,

  My forehead like I've been hit with a brick,

  I take a glance out of the front windscreen,

  Then have to do a double-take, eyes wide.

  It looks like the road is w
hite and flowing.

  Except, it’s not. It can’t be. I focus,

  Try to make out what it is moving there,

  And, gradually, it starts to make some sense.

  Rats. Thousands of them, by the look of it.

  A multitude of squirming white bodies,

  Running and crawling in one long river

  Of vermin across the road before us.

  Dante cuts the car and I realise

  That the noise I imagined was my blood

  Is really the rats. They’re a hellish choir,

  Crying out to one another, screeching.

  ‘What in the name of Phos…’ Dante mutters.

  We watch them until they finally clear,

  The last of them vanishing in the dark,

  Out of the car’s headlight, out of our sight.

  Dante turns to me. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  I don’t know what to tell him. Just some rats?

  An apparition? Some kind of white plague?

  I’ve never seen, known, anything like it.

  ‘Shit,’ he says, and he sounds shaken, rattled,

  Which is a very rare thing in Dante.

  He starts the car up again and drives on,

  Shuddering slightly like he’s feeling cold.

  I wonder what it’s like to be born blind,

  Like rats are; evolved to live without light.

  They live out their whole lives on smell alone,

  On touch, taste, sound. They don’t need sight to live.

  I guess maybe the rats are better off,

  Living blind. Not knowing what light is like.

  The blind seem to thrive in Vox. They live well,

  Unencumbered by our communal greed.

  There’s a blind guy lives down the hall from me,

  Who sits all cycle listening to music.

  Sometimes I’ll go round and listen with him,

  Because he’s the happiest guy I know.

  We had a real bad case a few years back:

  Some son of a bitch was blinding newborns,

  And it took us way too long to catch him.

  The cop who did shot him dead at the scene.

  We never found out what his motives were.

  Way I saw it, the darkness made him mad;

  He thought he was doing them a favour,

  Saving them from the dark before they grew.

  Not that I agree with any motive

  That results in blinding newborn infants.

  Just that I can see how easy it is

  For a sick mind to come up with that plan.

  I try to straighten the rim of my hat.

  It got bent up when my head hit the car,

  And I can’t seem to get it back in shape.

  Sometimes I wish I’d been blinded at birth.

  ***

  Dante parks up alongside a meter

  And digs through his pockets for change, grumbling

  And slotting enough to give us an hour.

  People pass us by, coats and hats held close.

  The air is tense, muggy, wind drifting warm.

  Feels like there might be a storm coming soon.

  Businessmen, bankers, beggars in between

  All rush on, going home, finding shelter.

  Here, there’s a little light, enough to see

  The thin bars dividing us from the ghosts

  At the ends of alleyways, off from streets,

  And far away from these dull sidewalk lamps.

  ‘Darker every time I’m here,’ says Dante,

  Glancing around the street, locking the car.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. I don’t know. I’m never here.

  Even this place is too uptown for me.

  He leads us against the tide of people,

  Pushing a path past street vendors, salesmen.

  I grab a paper from a street seller

  And run my fingers across the headlines.

  There’s a portrait of me on page seven.

  I find my features raised up in paper,

  Feel the curve of the scar across my throat,

  Wonder how they got it so accurate.

  ‘Dante,’ I call, and he stops, turns to me.

  ‘Not far,’ he grumbles. He looks impatient.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘We’ve gotta talk. The North case.’

  Dante sighs. ‘Not our case any more, Yorke.’

  He carries on, but I catch up to him,

  Stay at his shoulder. ‘I know, Dante. But—’

  ‘Forget about it, Virgil. Not our case.’

  ‘She’s missing. I couldn’t find her body.’

  Shouldering past a group of labourers

  Looking tired, greased black faces and shovels,

  Dante growls at me. ‘Get your head on straight.

  Somebody else is on it now, okay?’

  ‘But they’re not, Dante. Who is? Who’s on it?’

  ‘Hell if I know. Come on, quit worrying.

  This. This is important. A Heart is gone.

  Yorke, this could make your whole fucking career.’

  My patience is badly starting to fray.

  ‘Make your career maybe, Dante. Not mine.’

  This is enough to make him stop. He frowns.

  ‘We’re not all you, Yorke. We’re not all heroes.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about my career.’

  ‘No.’ He shakes a finger at me. ‘You don’t.

  But guess what: I do. And I’ve got kids, Yorke.

  People who depend on me to do good.’

  I open my mouth, but he interrupts,

  ‘We can’t all catch serial killers, Yorke.

  I don’t get many breaks on this damn job,

  And I intend to find that fucking Heart.’

  He stamps away before I can reply,

  Nearly knocking a sweeper off his feet,

  Fists clenched tight, trying to avoid listening

  To anything else I might have to say.

  At a shop I pick up some cigarettes,

  Some ginger ale to calm my damn stomach

  And a couple of cigars, one for me,

  One for Dante as a peace offering.

  The man behind the counter stares too long,

  Recognises me, so I get out quick

  And catch up to Dante along the block

  Beside the huge shape of a cathedral.

  It’s visible only in small patches,

  Lit at points by imitation candles,

  Revealing huge, jagged architecture

  Like light is trying to push a way out.

  Dante’s looking up at it, hesitant.

  He holds this holy place in high regard:

  A superstitious man, knows his scripture,

  Worships on the tenth cycle, every week.

  I’ve never been comfortable worshipping.

  Always had the sense my prayers go nowhere,

  That I’m just kneeling, talking to myself.

  I’ve never felt the warmth of God’s great love.

  I offer Dante my peace offering

  And he takes it without a look or word,

  Thoughtful. ‘We’re here,’ he says. ‘This is the place.’

  There’s seven steps up, carved out of some stone.

  Heading in fills me with a sort of dread,

  Like my absence at church has branded me

  Heretic, excommunicate, unclean.

  The door is heavy, metal studded wood.

  Inside, there’s more imitation candles:

  Tacky things that bear little resemblance

  To the real deal. All orange filaments

  Mounted in specially flame-shaped glass bulbs.

  They’ve got an automated flicker, too,

  Making the place tremble, lengthy shadows

  Cast over everything from tall pillars,

  With the walls behind hidden in darkness.

  It’s a nice effect, gotta give it that.

  With n
o walls to see, makes the place endless,

  Apparently vast, all attention drawn

  To the bright-lit altar at the centre.

  There stands Phos, our star-faced god, radiant,

  Resplendent and utterly glorious,

  Watching over the almost-empty pews,

  Arms raised, palms up in love and acceptance.

  Whoever constructed Him was inspired.

  Embedded in the statue are bright lights

  Radiating out from His smiling face;

  The face of a brilliant burning sun.

  Intricately arranged tubing glows white,

  Weaved into a complex pattern, a web

  Shaped like the fire and light a bright star makes,

  In twists and spires all across the white stone.

  We approach and it’s easier to see

  The offerings heaped around His bare feet;

  Some burned-out batteries and burned-out bulbs,

  Coils of cable and even old lighters.

  There’s a few folk knelt around, worshipping,

  Some in the pews and some up front with us.

  Their prayers are a low whispering, muttering

  Out of respect for the place and their god.

  Dante raises his hands up to his face

  And arranges them in the sign of Phos,

  Fingers become the light of His star face,

  Spreading His loving illumination.

  We head past the altar and further through

  The cathedral, much to my great relief.

  I’m glad to be away from that statue,

  Away from the fierce piercing eyes of Phos.

  Even back here I feel like I’m corrupt,

  Like I’m an affront to this holy place.

  Like the dark in my head is the devil,

  The pain in my gut, getting worse, his curse.

  As we walk, boots loud on the cold stone floor,

  I consider begging Phos forgiveness,

  To purge me clean of my resident dark,

  Fill me with light brighter than any drug.

  But despite my latent superstition,

  I’m just not built to be a man of faith.

  My head’s wired wrong, I’m too close to the ground;

  Too much of a sceptic to accept God.

  I glance over at Dante, envious.

  I wish I had his faith, his certainty

  In Phos, the universe and everything.

  That there’s a purpose, a plan, for us all.

  A dusty cleric directs us further

  Through bright and richly decorated rooms,

  Shelves filled up with the wealth of the holy;

  Reflective icons made of glass and gold.

  It’s almost a sign of the times in Vox;

  The rich get richer while the poor suffer,

  Become ghosts and fade away in the dark.

  At least our clergy can live comfortably.