Dark Star
Page 7
Look at all those points of light up there: stars,
And wonder why ours is the way it is,
The only dark star among the countless.
I pull my collar up to hide the scar,
Hail a cab from the edge of the sidewalk
And check my revolver: four bullets left.
I direct the driver into the dark.
***
‘Where you headed?’ The driver coasts the streets.
I'm huddled up on the leather back seat,
Rolling a coin round between my fingers.
It’s a good question. Truth is, I don’t know.
The cab’s a rattling piece of junk, jarring
My thoughts. Cracked, dusty windows, clouded up
By the warmth of my breath, hide the city.
Can’t tell where he’s driving, where we’re going.
I hold the coin up to my eyes, see it
Glint, catching the edge of the cab’s headlight.
Heads for Corvus and tails for Aquila.
One of them’s gotta know something, surely.
The cabbie watches the coin spin with me,
Caught by the tip of my thumb, flicked up high,
Just short of the cab’s shaking canvas roof.
I snatch it out of the air, catch it clean
And hold it tight, fingers wrapped around it.
Heads for Corvus and tails for Aquila.
I spend too long staring at my closed hand.
‘You gonna check that, friend?’ asks the cabbie.
Funny, the way you know which side you want
The coin to come down when it’s in the air.
I keep my hand closed, put the coin away.
‘Uptown,’ I say. ‘Take me to the Uni’.’
***
I pull the handle and lo and behold,
The door swings open. My lucky cycle.
I tug the keys out from the ignition
And take a quick look about the dark lot.
There’s no Uni’ staff around to stop me
From giving it a closer look over.
Call it a hunch or whatever you like,
But something bothered me about this car.
Last time I was here I couldn’t place it.
But now I’m back, haunting the empty lot,
I know what it is. The make and model:
Same kind I saw dead outside the North house.
This one’s got two headlights over the grill,
One empty, like the car’s blind in one eye.
It’s a mess, nearly more rust than metal,
But could be the Norths collect these old cars.
There’s a chance I’m wrong. I don’t trust myself.
Could be I’m joining dots that just aren’t there.
But right now I’m thinking that this car here
Belongs, or belonged, to Vivian North.
Balancing my dull torch on the dashboard,
I check under the seats and the glove box,
Turning up a whole lot of nothing. Dust.
Two cigarette stubs in a black ashtray.
I back out, ignite my own and inhale.
Guess I was expecting an easy clue,
Some sign of a struggle, maybe some blood.
The car’s as clean as a fresh alibi.
I try the trunk last, hauling it open.
There’s a bunch of dark shapes inside, boxes,
And it takes me a while, cuffing my torch,
To get enough light in there to see by.
Looks like notes. Hell of a lot of them, too.
I rifle through, running my fingers down
Barely legible scribbled lines. Class notes.
History class. I find her name, at least.
Getting involved in absorbing the notes,
I don’t notice that my nose is bleeding
Until the blood is running down my face,
Dripping dark patches across white paper.
I wad some useless sheets and press them up,
Catching the blood and trying to ignore
The blunt ache returning to my stomach
And the hunger there, barely kept at bay.
It takes my torch dying for me to think,
To wake up and realise there’s nothing
In the notes. They’re just academia.
A part of her course. They’re empty of use.
I throw the papers I’ve gone through back in
And take a breather, leaning on the car.
Running a finger across the stab wound
Makes it sting. Cancer’s shot is wearing off.
In a surge of frustration, I throw notes
To either side, sifting through them, searching
For anything. The papers just slide back.
Feels like I’m hunting for a grain in sand.
My fingers brush up against something hard.
There’s a shape among the papers. A case,
Made of leather. It fits into my palm,
About the same size as a piece of fruit.
With my torch out of juice, I can’t see it.
I run my hands over it, find the catch,
Open it up and try to understand
What comes tumbling out. I almost drop it.
Feels like paper, but not paper. Plastic.
It’s a reel of camera film: negatives.
I hold the film between my hands and laugh.
It hurts, but I laugh, relieved, anyway.
Could be anything at all on that film.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s a good sign,
That I haven’t just wasted my time here.
I coil it, careful, back into its case.
Locking the car’s boot and each of the doors,
I pocket the keys. Pays to be cautious.
Leather case in hand, I head towards light,
Out of the black lot and up a stone ramp.
Security check me over again,
Even though I was here two cycles past.
Huge men with short memories pat me down,
Squinting at my badge like it’s counterfeit.
I’ll never get used to the lights in here.
The University is way too bright,
Naked bulbs making me vulnerable
Out of the dark, leaving nowhere to hide.
She’s there at the front desk, just like I’d hoped.
‘Inspector Yorke,’ she says. ‘Good to see you.’
This time, when Rachel smiles, it’s personal,
Like she’s genuinely glad to see me.
‘Thought I’d drop by,’ I tell her. My shadow
Is draped across the white floor beside me,
At least twice my height, my echo in dark.
Hard to look at her. I keep my eyes low.
‘You’re here to see the professor,’ she says
Matter of fact, like she can read my mind.
I follow her and become her shadow,
Treading down long halls empty of students.
He’s not in. Hasn’t been for a cycle.
Rachel opens his office anyway,
Leans against the frame of the door, watching
Me open drawers I’m not meant to open.
‘He’s done something, hasn’t he?’ Rachel says.
I find what I’m looking for in his desk.
It’s heavy, an awkward shape, made of glass
And metal. ‘What’s that?’ she asks. ‘What is that?’
‘You’ve sure got a lot of questions,’ I say.
Rachel shrugs, smiles, tilts her head, observes me
And plays with the set of keys she’s holding.
‘I can’t work you out, Virgil,’ she tells me.
There’s the idol of Phos still on its shelf
And I turn it around before leaving,
Averting His gaze from my act of theft,
Stealing the professor’s Heart replica.
‘Let h
im know I want a word,’ I tell her
As she locks his office, leading us back
To reception and beyond, heels clicking.
My tongue feels like it’s been tied into knots.
‘Don’t be a stranger, inspector,’ she says
At the door, and it causes me to pause,
Heart in hand, halfway between bright and black.
I turn around, but she’s already gone.
***
I stride through the city in the darkness,
Hat tipped like I’m hiding my eyes from it.
In one hand I have the Heart replica,
And in the other, the camera film reel.
At a crossroads I stop, watch passing cars,
Barely visible vehicles rumbling,
Little more than wavering cones of light,
Flashing windscreens, pale faces, white knuckles.
There’s a ghost across the way, chasing them,
Fingers curling uselessly around glows,
There for fleeting moments, then vanishing.
The wild, wide whites of his eyes are glinting.
Igniting a cigarette, I observe
A quick two-seater clip him, throwing him
Bodily onto the sidewalk, broken,
Slender limbs unmoving, any cry masked.
I stamp the stub of the cigarette out,
Crush it beneath my boot, and carry on.
Funny to think that without Vox’s Hearts,
We would all be turned to that. Less than dead.
***
Wilson’s place is down a quiet back street.
I locate it by running my fingers
Across closed shop fronts and locked-up doorways
Until they meet the curled number sixty.
Number sixty at the back of nowhere;
Doesn’t look like Wilson is doing well.
Still, it’s discretion I’m needing right now.
There’s a bell-pull beneath the shop number.
No amount of ringing, of loud knocking,
Summons the man. Guess it’s past trading hours.
I make myself comfortable on the step,
Rummage around for some paper, a pen.
I scrawl a message for him on a scrap;
Disassembling the words, mouthing letters
And pressing them backwards across the note.
Always something I struggled with in school.
When he finds it, he’ll read the other side;
The ridges formed of the valleys I make,
Fingers making sense of the words I write
Backwards now, licking the tip of the pen.
‘Need these developed quick. Thanks – Virgil Yorke.’
I check it to make sure it’s legible,
Then slip it into the leather film case,
Pushing it inside through the hinged mail slot.
***
Halfway down a block, I notice the noise
Made by the guy following me. His steps
Are almost in time with mine, but softer.
He’s listening out for me in the darkness.
What gives him away is the way he stops
Every time I do, quiet to hear me,
And when I continue on, so does he.
We’re caught together in a kind of dance.
There’s some twinkling in the dark up ahead;
Some lights that mark my transition away
From these unseen streets to brighter districts,
Made aglow for patrons blessed with some wealth.
I lead my tail on through gathering crowds,
A mix of ghosts being kept separate
And ordinary folk heading uptown,
Streaming on through the open gates ahead.
I’ll be damned if I’m getting stabbed again.
I take my time, pretend I’ve not noticed,
Queue up with the rest and find my ID.
I can lose my tail on the other side.
The men on security look tired, bored,
Barely glance at my ID, at my badge.
It’s easy to distinguish Vox’s ghosts
From the rest. There’s a hunger about them.
I need to find a corner to hide in,
Somewhere I can back up against a wall,
Draw my revolver and keep watch over
The crowds; try and spot who’s following me.
People pass by without a single glance,
Caught up in their own lives, eyes wide open,
Staring lustily up at the street lamps,
Barely paying each other attention.
Striding down the street and through open doors,
I enter a busy establishment,
Shoulder-to-shoulder with men wearing suits
And women in sparkling, sequinned dresses.
There’s laughter in the air, endless voices,
Shouting, clacking, the crisp scent of fresh cash,
And the kind of musk I associate
With greedy and desperate people: gamblers.
Looks like I’ve walked into a casino.
I carry on between black felt tables,
Cards and faces lit by dim glowing bulbs,
White dice and white teeth reflecting the light.
Hunched figures perch on tall stools, some standing
Instead, all looming over dark tables.
Chips sweep away, dollars changing owners,
Victors hissing, clapping, cheering, eyes wide.
They haven’t bothered with a bulb above.
All attention is drawn to the tables,
To the stakes, the spin of the glowing wheel,
The turn of the cards, the roll of the dice.
I head towards the back of the wide room,
To the darkest recesses of the place,
Passing a weeping man, empty pockets,
And a quiet bar, empty of patrons.
There, I find the edge of a couch and wait,
Watching out for any kind of approach.
A puzzled-looking man joins me, ignites
A cigarette, stares at his empty hands.
‘The wife’s gonna leave me,’ he says, softly.
I shake my head, frown, try to say nothing,
But I don’t get it. I don’t get this place.
‘Why are you here, then? Why gamble it all?’
His eyes are just as empty as his hands.
He looks at me without understanding,
As if he had no choice in the matter.
As if his money ran away from him.
Someone else approaches, in uniform.
Looks like a member of staff. She’s smiling,
But it’s polite. ‘Hi, Mister Yorke,’ she says.
‘You’re expected upstairs. Follow me, please.’
I don’t take my hand away from my gun.
‘You’re gonna have to explain,’ I tell her.
‘You’re expected,’ she repeats, politely.
‘You have an appointment upstairs, right now.’
Two huge men seem to materialise
From the dark to stand either side of her,
Each easily the size of a phone booth.
I remove my hand from my revolver.
Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice.
Trying to conceal the Heart replica,
I follow the girl back through the packed room
And up a wide flight of dimly lit steps.
We reach a heavy-looking door and stop.
I’m told to wait outside, and the two goons
Take the opportunity to search me.
They find both the replica and the gun.
Of course, when I’m finally ushered through,
My two new friends come with me, looking stern.
They haven’t quite introduced themselves yet,
But I’ve got great names for them in my head.
This room looks and feels a lot like downstairs,
But private. There’s only one table here.
The first thing to catch my eye is the stakes;
They’re betting batteries at this table.
It’s lit by a low-hanging ring of light
At eye-level, yellow and comfortable,
Causing jewellery, nails and cards to glow,
As if they’re producing some light themselves.
I’m led round to one of the game’s players
And deposited there, stood in the dark,
Wishing I was anywhere else right now
And cursing my luck. I watch the next hand.
When it’s done, he turns to me, hard to see.
His silhouette is broad, and he looks bald,
But that’s just about all I can make out.
When he speaks, his voice is deep, accent strong.
‘Mister Yorke,’ he drawls. ‘Real nice to meet you.’
One of my hands is twitching, so I clench
It tight, clench my jaw tight, try to ignore
The pain in my gut, slowly worsening.
‘You wanted to talk to me?’ I ask him.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘You and I share an interest.
Thought it might be worth us having a chat.
Face to face, friendly like. Please, take a seat.’
The girl returns with a chair, and I sit,
Caught in conversation with the bald man.
The game goes on quietly behind him,
A complex network of slow exchanges.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘How can I help you then, sir?’
‘You can knock that off right away,’ he says.
‘While in here, you’re not a man of the law.
You’re just Yorke. Mister Yorke. You understand?
‘I’m hoping that you and I can be friends.
Good friends, who can help each other out. See,
I’m a resourceful, influential man,
And you… you are a man in need of help.’
I’m beginning to get the impression
That my coming in here was no mistake.
Maybe my tail was one of this guy’s men.
I get to the point. ‘What is it you want?’
He sighs through his nose. ‘I want Cancer’s Heart.
I want you to find it, bring it to me
And walk away a very wealthy man.
Clear enough? I want Cancer, Mister Yorke.’
I’m in no position to say no. ‘Sure.
The Heart. Whatever you want. Who are you?’
This causes him to chuckle. ‘You don’t know?
You should talk with your DEA friends more.
‘I’m a man of many means, Mister Yorke,
And one of them is the distribution
Of a narcotic called Prometheus.
I’m a drug baron, Yorke. A real bad man.
‘I’ve got friends who call me “The Hand of Phos”,