Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  I watch it tumble down under my seat

  And I’m helpless, can’t follow it, too weak.

  ‘I’ll call Dante when we get in,’ says Fife.

  I recognise his voice, deep like it is.

  ‘You rest up, Yorke. Looks like you’ve been through hell.

  You’re lucky I caught wind you’d been brought in.’

  We pass a bunch of trucks, and they light up

  The city around us: trash everywhere,

  Gutters full, overflowing in the wake

  Of the big storm. Looks like I missed the worst.

  I notice I’m not shaking any more,

  That I’m not sweating and heaving, bleeding;

  That the skin across my hands seems darker,

  Like it’s lost the glow that used to be there.

  I’m left with a sort of black hollowness

  Instead. Like someone’s taken my insides

  And thrown them out. Like you could open me

  And there would be nothing to see: darkness.

  Guess I’m free of the withdrawals, at least.

  Fife turns a corner down a dark district

  I don’t recognise, through the last light rain.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. And then, ‘Where are we going?’

  Fife squints out at the road. ‘Back to my place.

  I wouldn’t normally, but what the hell,

  The wife’s at work and the kids are at school.

  And you need a shower, my friend. You stink.’

  I don’t disagree. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘The guys that arrested you.

  They’ve got a rep’ for corruption. I think

  Someone paid them to have you taken in.’

  ‘Report them,’ I tell him. ‘Pair of lowlives.’

  ‘Yeah, I would,’ he says, ‘but they wouldn't care.

  One’s the stepson of a commissioner.

  More trouble than it’s worth, if you ask me.

  ‘And hell, looks like they did you a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ ‘You damn well know what I mean.’

  I’m too exhausted to put up a fight.

  ‘Clocked it the moment I set eyes on you.’

  We spend the rest of the drive in silence,

  Skirting the suburbs, low-rise apartments

  And semi-detached ruins barely lit.

  He pulls into a driveway, glares at me.

  ‘You were never here, okay?’ he tells me.

  ‘Sure.’ He helps me onto my feet and stoops

  To keep one arm around my waist. My feet

  Refuse to follow orders. I stumble.

  In the dark of his house, he runs some taps,

  Screws a bulb into the bathroom socket

  And leaves me a rough-looking robe, a towel,

  And a promise to burn my clothes after.

  It takes me a while to remove my shirt.

  My fingers fumble around the buttons,

  But the worst is where my wound’s been leaking,

  Dried blood and vomit encrusting the cloth.

  One hand after another, I lower

  Myself into the water and sink down,

  Watching filth rise up from all parts of me;

  Feeling the sting of the heat as it hits.

  I let it drain away, watch it running

  Down the plughole, my swirling filth fleeing,

  And switch the shower on instead, huddled

  In the corner of the tub in a heap.

  There, I run a hand down my pointed ribs

  Where they jut around my sunken stomach,

  Notice how skeletal I am right now,

  How much I must look as if I'm starving.

  All those cycles in my dark apartment

  And I never noticed myself wasting

  Away, hooked bad on the Prometheus

  And fading one little shot at a time.

  My face against the base of the bathtub,

  I heave the last of myself, black mucus

  Trailing from my mouth until I’m empty.

  Then, there’s nothing left. I have nothing left.

  There’s the flickering bulb and I watch it,

  Buzzing and humming, set in the ceiling.

  Wonder how close I am to vanishing,

  To becoming another ghost in Vox.

  The robe is roughly twice as big as me,

  But it’s warm. The heat of the water lit

  A fire in me, gave me a little strength:

  Enough to stand, enough to walk; to breathe.

  Fife’s waiting in the kitchen with some pie,

  ‘Yestercycle’s remains,’ he says to me.

  I hand him his bulb, still warm, still glowing,

  And dig in. Turns out I’m pretty hungry.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I was gonna get in touch.

  Got something you might be interested in.’

  I drain a glass of water, another,

  And profess my undying gratitude.

  ‘Sure.’ He waves me off, but he’s smiling some.

  ‘But you remember the North girl, don’t you?’

  I stop eating. ‘Sure do. What about her?’

  He shrugs. ‘Something about her bothered me.’

  ‘Her case has gone walkabout,’ I tell him,

  And he’s the first guy yet who gives a damn.

  ‘Yeah. That bothered me too. Not quite right, that.

  Nobody’s got a clue where her case went.’

  I finish the pie and flex my fingers,

  Feel the life flushing back through to the tips.

  ‘So what? You been looking into it too?’

  He shakes his head, shuffles the bulb around.

  ‘I put my nose where it doesn’t belong,

  My department, I get that nose cut off.

  My family can’t take that kinda shit.’

  We both glance at the dull bulb above us.

  ‘Ah, to hell with it. If you still care, Yorke,

  Then maybe this’ll help.’ He strides across

  To a cabinet and searches through it,

  Returning with a small, wrapped-up package.

  One gift after another, these cycles.

  Of course, this one’s got its own glow as well.

  Inside the package is a small glass tube

  And the liquid in there is shining bright.

  I know I’m grinning. Just can’t help myself.

  ‘You son of a bitch, Fife. This is her blood!

  You took some of her blood!’ The tube is warm,

  And the blood inside is still a fierce white.

  He shrugs again, a big gesture on him,

  Refuses to meet my eye. ‘Yeah. I know

  It’s not protocol, taking evidence,

  But I’d never seen anything like it.

  ‘Something to show the wife and kids, you know.’

  The blood is brighter than the bulb above,

  Echoing its glow around the kitchen

  And amplifying my shadow tenfold.

  ‘Mind if I hold on to this?’ I ask him.

  ‘You’re welcome to it. A weight off my mind.

  I’ve got the rest of your stuff with me, too.

  You’re gonna have to explain something, though.’

  This cycle’s beginning to look better

  Than the last. He’s got my gun, torch, the Heart

  model. ‘What in the name of Phos is this?’

  ‘That’s what a Heart’s meant to look like,’ I say.

  ‘Seriously? That small?’ He weighs it up.

  ‘About a hundred times bigger, I think.

  Don’t suppose you’ve seen a Heart anywhere?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’ ‘Sure. Worth a try.’

  We sit a while, listen to the clock tick,

  Quarter to fourteen, and watch the girl’s blood.

  There’s something hypnotic about its glow:

  Something surreal, otherworldly
, divine.

  ‘What now?’ asks Fife of me, eventually.

  ‘I find who killed Vivian,’ I tell him.

  ‘And what about the Heart?’ ‘That too, I guess.’

  He makes to move. ‘You want dropped anywhere?’

  I consider the offer. ‘Sure. My place.

  I could probably do with some fresh clothes.’

  He helps me back into his car, starts up,

  Drives us back through the city and downtown.

  ‘Phos and fire, Yorke. Your apartment’s out here?’

  He pulls up next to the sidewalk, takes in

  All the dark of the streets and apartments,

  Thick like it is out here. Suffocating.

  I let myself out, give him some more thanks.

  ‘Sure. Whatever. Good luck. Give me a call

  If there’s anything you need, all right, Yorke?

  Let me know if you find out who did it.’

  Fife and his car fade away into Vox,

  Leaving me alone and tired and grateful

  And, despite everything, despite myself,

  Still yearning, still craving Prometheus.

  Still wearing Fife’s old robe, my things in hand,

  I ascend the stairway that takes me home.

  I’m fresh out of batteries, but this dark

  Is familiar. I know my way up.

  Cold feet against cold stone, I skirt glass shards

  And discarded needles, discarded ghosts,

  Up to my front door. I can hear the hum

  Of a radio from down the hallway.

  Even outside, I can hear his breathing.

  Someone’s waiting inside my apartment.

  I curse under my breath and draw my gun.

  I remember four bullets at last count.

  He’ll be listening out for the door creaking.

  I stand to one side, back against the wall

  And push it in, hinges snarling from rust.

  His first shot goes wide, through the empty space.

  Still, I call out, make it sound like I’m hit,

  And then fall silent, close my eyes and wait.

  I can hear him moving through the darkness.

  Wearing heavy boots was a big mistake.

  Never thought I’d appreciate the creak

  Of my floorboards, but here I stand, waiting

  And forming a mental map of his route

  By the way he treads through the apartment.

  When he gets close enough, I take a shot,

  Hear his own shout, hear his body dropping;

  Thump on my floor. I wait for him to die,

  Laboured breathing getting shallow, wheezing.

  When I’m sure he’s dead, I search his pockets,

  Find a torch, a knife, a badge and a gun.

  Closing the door, I light his torch, see him.

  ‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Santiago, you bastard.’

  Looks like I hit him full on in the chest.

  For a while, I’m not quite sure what to do.

  Then, I notice the dry blood on his knife,

  Near the hilt. ‘Fuck you too, Santiago.’

  I find some clothes and get dressed, take his coat

  And run some water to wash out the stain

  Made by the exit wound. It’s a nice coat,

  Sits comfortable across my tired shoulders.

  Son of a bitch saved me some cash, at least.

  I don’t need to buy some new batteries

  For my torch any more. I bin his badge,

  Put his gun in a drawer and drag him out.

  He’s pretty damn heavy for a dead guy.

  There’s a stack of half-dead ghosts down the hall

  And I drop him there. No one will notice.

  There’s never any lights turned on in here.

  My pockets are getting way too heavy,

  So I head back for a satchel, load it

  And get on my way. Got too much to do

  For sleep. Sleep is for the dead, anyway.

  Outside, I stride the streets again, past blocks

  Drowning in dark, considering Wilson.

  I should really go see Dante, but then,

  His photo store is on the way. Why not.

  ***

  The papers have picked up a new scandal

  For the cycle. All progress on the Heart

  Is way back on page seven with the sports.

  Funny how easy it is to forget.

  I guess maybe the news is just too big

  For people. It’s too much for them to take

  That the whole city could go up in smoke

  Any time. Smaller news is comforting.

  The docks are on strike again like clockwork.

  It’s a weekly event now. They complain

  About a lack of light, a lack of sight,

  Tell the rest of us they can’t work in dark.

  Some politician’s been accused of fraud.

  As far as I know, they’re all in on it,

  So this guy must have been pretty stupid

  To get caught out: flashing his cash too much.

  Regular news for regular people

  More concerned with the weather and themselves,

  How bright Joe next door’s bulbs are beside mine,

  Than the imminent looming doom in Vox.

  But, hell, who am I to be complaining?

  Gets me out of the papers, which is great.

  Given the choice, I’d be anonymous;

  Just another shadow walking the streets.

  ***

  This time, there’s an OPEN sign on his door,

  A metal plaque with raised letters hanging

  From the mail slot, cold against my fingers.

  Still, I’m polite enough to knock three times.

  ‘Mister Yorke!’ A shaft of vertical light

  Leaks out as he opens up, smiling wide.

  ‘Real good to see you again, sir. Real good.

  I got your note.’ He steps aside for me.

  Inside, it’s a neat little photo shop:

  Tools of the trade scattered round here and there,

  Lenses glinting on some work surfaces,

  Reflecting the small but warm bulb above.

  There’s some pictures hanging on the walls, too.

  Weddings, portraits, people looking happy

  And one of Wilson himself, looking proud.

  A small shop for a small but happy man.

  ‘I went and developed your reel straight up,

  Soon as I got it. I said to myself,

  Must be important if you’re on the case.

  Saw you all over the papers again!’

  ‘Sure.’ I’m more interested in the pictures

  Than any conversation with the guy.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he says as he grabs them,

  ‘But I had a quick look through. Just to see.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s on them?’ I take the envelope,

  Slide the pictures out, tilt them to the light.

  ‘Truth be told, Mister Yorke, don’t have a clue.

  I was hoping that you’d know what they are.’

  He shuffles around behind me to see.

  There’s twelve of them total, developed clean.

  Looks like Wilson’s got a talent for it.

  The pictures are clear, but not what they show.

  ‘What in hell’s name is that?’ I say aloud.

  The first eleven show a big network

  Of pipes, cables and tiny lights like stars,

  Wrapped around a bunch of blackened mirrors.

  No matter which way I hold the pictures,

  I can’t make any sense of what’s on them.

  It looks like a kind of machine, maybe.

  A bit like the set-up in Cancer’s vault.

  Wilson, the helpful guy that he is, says,

  ‘I had a quick look with a magnifier,

  And there’s some words printed on the m
irrors.

  Look. There and there. Like old language, y’see.’

  He’s right. There are some shapes that look like words

  In the old style. I’ve never seen white ink,

  But they’re there, white against the black mirrors.

  ‘Can you read them?’ ‘No, sir. Never learned to.’

  The twelfth picture is the most confusing.

  I spend a while trying to understand,

  But it refuses to make sense to me.

  ‘Any idea?’ ‘No, sir. Not that one.’

  It shows one of the mirrors, but this time

  Something’s being reflected. A white light

  Like a torch, half held over some water,

  Against a red and yellow and blue wall.

  There’s a lot of colour in the picture,

  And I can’t make sense of the perspective.

  ‘A misprint, maybe?’ I say to Wilson.

  ‘Sure could be. It depends on the camera.’

  Slotting the pictures in their envelope,

  I turn to him. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing at all! Just glad to be of help.

  Maybe we could go for a drink some time?’

  I head to the door. ‘Wilson?’ ‘Mister Yorke?’

  ‘Thanks for this. But I wasn’t here, okay?’

  He grins. ‘Sure! I get it! But hey, one thing.

  Let me know what those pictures mean some time?’

  ‘If I find out, I’ll let you know.’ I leave,

  Back into the black. He watches me go

  From the step of his door, waving at me

  Until I round a corner, out of sight.

  I know I should be hunting down the Heart,

  But… damn you, Vivian. Damn you to hell.

  Why do I need to know why you were shot?

  Why can’t I get you out of my system?

  Dante will have to wait a bit longer.

  I’m like a dog chasing a car right now.

  Hell if I know why, but I’d keep running

  Forever to know why you burn so bright.

  ***

  This time, there’s a different face at the door,

  Peering defensively over at me.

  It’s a face that looks weary of weeping

  And trying to seem civil. ‘Mrs North?’

  ‘I know you,’ she tells me, mumbling the words.

  ‘You’re the man from the police who came by.’

  I go to remove my hat, remember

  I lost it and nod instead. ‘That’s me, ma’am.’

  ‘What’s happened now? Have you caught him? The man?’

  ‘Caught who, ma’am?’ ‘The man who did it. Killed her.’

  Maybe coming here wasn’t a great plan.

  ‘No, ma’am. We’re still following up on leads.’

  There’s a short time in which I realise

  I should be explaining myself to her.