Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  We finally find who we’re here to see

  In an office at the end of a hall

  Carpeted red, walls covered in paintings

  Of Phos, lit under softly glowing bulbs.

  A stocky elderly woman greets us,

  Bows slightly and shows us the sign of Phos.

  Dante returns the gesture. I just nod.

  She’s a priest, wearing His star-shaped gold badge.

  ‘This is Lady Sophia,’ says Dante.

  ‘And Sophia, this is Inspector Yorke.’

  We’re bid to take seats, and I’m suspicious,

  Wondering what kind of lead we’re here for.

  I’m suddenly caught by the idea

  That this is some kind of intervention

  Put together by Dante, and I twitch,

  Ready to run at the first sign of ‘help’.

  But Sophia smiles at us, is formal,

  Folds her hands. ‘You didn’t have to come down.

  I could have told you this over the phone.

  Even though it’s good to see you, Dante.’

  It’s strange seeing Dante with Sophia.

  He seems vulnerable in her presence,

  Like he’s at school and she’s the headmistress.

  He looks small, unable to meet her eye.

  ‘Tell us what?’ I ask. Dante’s gone quiet.

  Sophia turns her attention on me

  And there’s something that tells me she’s clever;

  Maybe her posture or the way she speaks.

  ‘Inspector Yorke,’ she says, like she’s tasting

  My name for its flavour across her tongue.

  ‘I have heard and read a lot about you.’

  A pause, then she says, ‘I won’t waste your time.

  ‘A few hours ago, I had a visit

  From a friend of mine. Please understand, though,

  He’s a nervous man, which is why you’re here

  Talking to me instead of with him now.

  ‘This friend of mine came to me for advice.

  He told me that he had seen something bad,

  Something important, but quite dangerous.

  He told me he saw the theft of the Heart.’

  I lean forwards in my chair. ‘Who did it?’

  Sophia shakes her head. ‘I still don’t know.

  When he told me that much, I advised him

  To call my friend, you, Dante, straight away.

  ‘He refused. I said that I would for him,

  At which point he got scared and went to leave.

  Before he did, I begged him to tell me

  Who did it; that I would keep it secret.

  ‘He shook his head, and this is what he said:

  “Don’t call Dante. He did it. They did it.

  I saw them stealing the Heart, taking it,

  And if you say anything, they’ll kill me.”’

  I resist the urge to smile, laugh out loud,

  And look to Dante for his reaction.

  His eyes are wide, and he says, ‘What the fuck?

  He saw me taking the Heart? He saw me?’

  Sophia says, ‘That’s only what he said.’

  There’s a quiet. I let them consider

  The accusation. I have no doubts here:

  Dante’s innocence is not in question.

  I cough, clear my throat to break the silence.

  ‘Sophia,’ I say. ‘Not meaning to pry,

  But this witness you have. Is he a, uh…’

  Sophia finishes my question ‘…ghost?

  ‘Yes,’ she says. The tension in the room drops.

  Dante curses, then apologises.

  ‘Waste of time,’ he mumbles. ‘Come on, Virgil.’

  We stand and make our excuses, nod thanks.

  Outside, Dante spits and curses some more.

  ‘Complete waste of fucking time. Fucking ghosts.’

  I shrug. ‘Nice to be out of the office.’

  We pass through thick crowds, back towards the car.

  ‘Hey, Virgil.’ Dante ignites his cigar.

  ‘Thanks for that, back there. For not doubting me.’

  I stop. ‘You didn’t steal it though, did you?’

  For the first time this cycle, we both laugh.

  ***

  There’s a sudden bright flash in the distance

  Like someone’s fired a flare into the sky,

  But much quicker, too fast to be a flare,

  And I wonder if I imagined it.

  ‘You see that?’ I’ve stopped in the street to stare,

  But it’s gone. Nobody else has seen it.

  They all carry on, eyes fixed on the ground,

  Marching almost in unison away.

  I’m struck by the way they look like shadows,

  Like absences, voids where people should be.

  I am surrounded by black silhouettes,

  Another shadow among the many.

  From out of nowhere a guy punches me

  In the gut, hard, making me double up.

  The pain is like a hot knife run through me

  And I find myself struggling to inhale.

  I glimpse his coat, hat, as he disappears,

  Try to shout out, ‘Hey! Stop!’ but I just choke,

  Cough heavily and try to follow him.

  I stumble through thick crowds, vision swimming.

  Dante’s somewhere nearby. He went ahead,

  But I can’t spot him, can’t call out to him.

  The pain in my gut was bad already,

  And now it feels like I’ve swallowed hot coals.

  The crowds look more and more like silhouettes,

  Like they’re blending together, one shadow,

  And I drift between them holding my gut

  Like I’m trying to keep the pain sealed in.

  I can still see his hat further ahead,

  Turning to see if he’s being followed,

  But I keep low, hide among the shadows,

  Gritting my teeth and trying to keep up.

  My gun feels too heavy when I draw it,

  And I can feel myself start to slow down,

  Like my strength is draining away from me,

  Leaking slowly out of some unplugged hole.

  I push onwards past people turned shadows,

  Sending a few sprawling onto concrete,

  Leaves of paper whirling round in my wake,

  Patches of white against the rising dark.

  Feels like the city is getting darker

  Around me as I falter, catch my breath

  At last, coughing some nameless black fluid

  And staining the street. I force myself on.

  I see him turn into an alleyway,

  And I catch up just in time to watch him

  Climb over the fence at the end, jump down

  And vanish into the consuming dark.

  The world around is turning monochrome

  As I stumble at last up to the fence,

  Unable to raise my gun and shoot him

  Because I have no strength left in my arm.

  My nameless, wordless assailant is gone.

  I peer unsteadily into the black

  And it feels like someone glares back at me,

  Maybe him, maybe ghosts, maybe no one.

  ‘Virgil!’ I hear a voice, sounds like Dante,

  But a thousand kilometres away.

  I turn slowly, overwhelmed by the pain,

  Trying to make my mouth form a reply.

  He’s there at the start of the alleyway,

  Looking down, shocked at something on the ground.

  My knees give way at last, buckling because

  There’s no strength left in them, either. I kneel.

  From what little light there is, I can see

  A long trail of black reflective liquid

  Leading away from me, meeting the street,

  Like a river meandering darkly.

  I look down at my han
d and there’s more there,

  Staining the bandages and my fingers.

  I drop my revolver and try to stand,

  But I have no more control of myself.

  ‘Dante,’ I call out as my vision fades.

  ‘I think that’s my blood. I think he stabbed me.’

  Through the pain, I feel Dante pick me up,

  And then nothing at all. I join the dark.

  ***

  Funny where your mind goes when you’re dying.

  My eyes are fixed on the dining table,

  A single corner of the cloth cover

  Where there’s a lipstick stain, scarlet on white.

  And I’m wondering if it’ll wash out,

  If my wife will take it to the laundrette

  Or if we’re gonna need a new cover.

  All I see is that scarlet lipstick stain.

  She wears it each cycle, her favourite shade;

  I’ve memorised the way she smiles, so red.

  She’s got her very own noose beside mine,

  And it doesn’t occur to me she’s dead.

  Third Cycle

  ‘It’s time for you to wake, Inspector Yorke.’

  Feels like I’ve been run over by a train.

  My eyes refuse to open when I try.

  That’s fine; I can see the room anyway.

  There’s some dark shapes, but it’s mostly brightness

  Forcing its way past my eyelids. At last,

  I manage to get a glimpse of the place.

  All wealth; I’m lying in a four-poster.

  ‘You are lucky to have such a wise friend,’

  Continues the voice that dragged me from sleep.

  ‘He was clever enough to bring you here.’

  I turn my head and feel my neck complain.

  ‘Water?’ There’s a man with me, got dark skin,

  And though my memory’s all broken-up,

  I think I recognise him, who he is.

  Cancer offers me a glass of water.

  I’m croaking, rasping, trying to sit up,

  But my throat feels as rough as sandpaper,

  And the pain in my stomach holds me down.

  ‘Where am I?’ I manage, sipping water.

  ‘Good question,’ he says. His eyes are dark, too;

  Two pools of black circled with glinting white.

  ‘You’re in my house, inspector. “The Lighthouse”,

  It’s called. Do you know what a lighthouse is?’

  The water makes me choke, splutter, wretched,

  The movement making my gut strike fresh pain

  Through me, like I’ve been stabbed over again.

  Cancer takes the water from me, explains,

  ‘A long, long time ago people used them

  To guide boats away from rocky waters.

  They would light towers like this up, brightly:

  Enormous candles at the top of cliffs.’

  He continues on while I remember

  What happened. The feel of the knife through me.

  My fingers run across the wound, bound tight,

  Metal staples holding my insides in.

  ‘We come from a place where light isn’t rare,

  You see. Where things like wood, matches and gas

  All burn not quite as hot, but visibly.

  Can you imagine light so abundant?

  ‘It seems almost wasteful, don’t you think, Yorke?

  May I call you Virgil? Is that okay?

  You lost a lot of blood. How are you now?

  I had my best man come and repair you.’

  They must have put me on strong painkillers,

  Because my head feels better than ever,

  Like I’m floating among clouds in the sky.

  ‘Sure,’ I manage. ‘Thanks. I feel… great, I guess.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. His dark skin confuses me.

  He looks strange, like a shadow come alive.

  ‘Now, where was I? Ah, of course. The Lighthouse.

  This place is a lighthouse like no other.

  ‘Once upon a time this house burned brightly,

  But not for simple sailing boats, oh no,

  For boats capable of crossing the stars.

  To warn them, “Stay away from that dark world!”

  ‘My lighthouse is no longer lit, Virgil,

  Because there are no more boats to warn off.

  Five hundred years ago we landed here,

  And five hundred years ago we, well… stopped.

  ‘And now what do we have left of all that?

  Remnants. Old lightbulbs, a last few candles,

  And the objects used to power those boats,

  The Hearts. Three of them. And mine is missing.’

  His face changes, creases, becomes annoyed.

  ‘You and I both know you’re being set up.

  You’re an addict, and now you’ve been injured.

  But you’re the luckiest fool that I know.

  ‘There’s a reason I asked for you, Virgil.

  You’re something of a lucky charm to me.

  You see, I lost someone to the Hangman.

  And you, you lucky fool, well, you stopped him.

  ‘I’ve seen the reports. I know what happened

  Back then. You’re a hero because of luck,

  And I need you to be lucky again.

  I need you to return my Heart to me.

  ‘Of course your chief, Garfield, is in on it.

  There will be a lot of money involved.

  Remember, Virgil, there are two more Hearts,

  And two other jealous owners like me.

  ‘The press, the papers are saying one thing,

  But I’m saying that it was one of them.

  Aquila, Corvus: one of them did it.

  One of them paid to have Cancer stolen.’

  It’s a lot to take in, but filled with drugs,

  My mind feels sharper. I process quickly

  While he helps me out of bed. I’m quite weak,

  Legs trembling, but I can just about stand.

  ‘I’m going to let you back out, Virgil,

  But that stabbing was not an accident.

  You’re a target, my friend. You’re being watched.

  They’re relying on you being a fool.

  ‘In fact, I’m counting on you to be one.

  I need you to be a fool. Just lucky.

  Be my lucky charm and find my Heart, please.

  And when you do, don’t tell them. Come to me.’

  He helps me into some pants and a shirt,

  Buttons it up for me, finds me some shoes,

  Ties the laces. Then he grabs my arm tight

  And pushes a needle into a vein.

  I don’t know what it is, but it’s not Pro’.

  It’s a clear liquid that makes me awake,

  So awake, and completely free of pain.

  I could hop and skip out of here right now.

  ‘I have another gift for you,’ he says,

  Unlocking a heavy wooden cupboard.

  I’m busy feeling like a dynamo,

  On the biggest caffeine kick of my life.

  In a moment, I’ve taken the place in.

  The room is extravagant, filled with lights,

  Walls covered floor to ceiling in mirrors,

  Chandeliers like huge clusters of diamonds.

  Everything here is coated in silver,

  From the dressers, the chairs, even the floor,

  Which is covered in a silver carpet.

  Everything is reflective and shining.

  ‘Here,’ says Cancer, and then I realise

  That his skin makes him the only shadow

  In the room. The only piece of darkness.

  He’s holding a cigarette out to me.

  Feeling like a million bucks, I grin,

  Take the cigarette, place it in my mouth.

  There’s something about the taste already,

  Some s
trange flavour I’ve never met before.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he says, and ignites it for me.

  ‘There’s not many of those left any more.’

  I inhale, and it’s like tasting colour,

  Brilliant, deep, rich, and impossible.

  I forget to exhale until he says,

  ‘Check the end, Virgil,’ lifting an ashtray.

  I do, and there’s light there. Glowing embers.

  I’ve never seen glowing embers before.

  Some part of me not caught up in the high

  Tells me that this cigarette is special.

  I put it out, find something to wrap it

  And slip it, careful, into a pocket.

  Cancer is simply stood there, watching me,

  Smiling at my reaction. ‘Time to go,’

  He tells me. ‘Go and find my Heart, Virgil.

  You have six hours until that shot wears off.’

  On light feet I am guided through the house,

  Past bowing servants and endless hallways.

  At the front doors, someone hands me my coat

  And hat, freshly laundered, smelling real sweet.

  ‘Oh,’ Cancer says, as I step into Vox.

  ‘Inspector.’ He looks serious again.

  ‘If I find out that you’ve taken Promo’

  Again, I will end your life. Understand?’

  I smile and nod at him, reassuring,

  And watch as the doors to the Lighthouse close.

  I admire the slender line of light there,

  Getting thinner until it vanishes.

  ***

  The papers have turned mad, almost frantic.

  Someone’s spilled the news that the Hearts are bombs,

  And it gets worse as I read down the page,

  Religious extremists getting involved.

  Threats and demands are being made by all:

  Manifestos claiming Phos is evil,

  Or that Phos hates us, wants us all to die,

  Or that we just plain don’t love Phos enough.

  A few groups are even making big claims,

  That they have the Heart, that it’s their weapon,

  That the whole city is at their mercy.

  The paper stinks of confusion, panic.

  Any one of those groups might have the Heart,

  Or maybe it’s one of Cancer’s rivals,

  Or anyone else in the damn city.

  For all I know, could be that I took it.

  I have a rare moment of clarity,

  Stood halfway down a busy block in town,

  Paper at hand, watching faces pass by.

  I realise just how alone I am.

  Cancer reckons my department’s corrupt,

  In on it, and if he’s right then that means

  Vox is on the verge of going to hell

  And I’m the only one stood in the way.

  I drop the paper and look at the sky,