Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  ‘Is your husband in, Mrs North?’ I ask.

  ‘Only me. Why are you here, officer?’

  ‘I was just…’ I find myself trailing off,

  Glancing down the street at the other homes.

  Maybe I should have gone to the Uni’.

  Easier than disturbing anyone.

  She sighs, opens the door wide, welcomes me

  Back inside her house, bursting with glowing.

  I’m caught up in the light, shading my eyes

  Against the chandelier, whirls of crystal.

  She looks impatient, waiting. ‘Spit it out.’

  I’m sure she’s appraising me, my bruises,

  The way my cheekbones protrude from my face.

  ‘There’s something I hoped you’d look at for me.’

  I give her the courtesy of staring

  And taking her time to make up her mind

  About whether or not to indulge me,

  Remembering the last time I was here.

  ‘Come through,’ she says at last, leading me on

  Past faceted mirrors, grand old portraits

  And shelves full of books, normal and printed.

  ‘We can discuss this in the library.’

  The library is a comfortable place,

  Lit warmly by lamps instead of white bulbs.

  A fireplace crackles darkly to one side

  Among the tall cases, heavy with books.

  Mrs North offers me a leather chair

  Beside the fire, clears some books from the desk

  And pours herself a glass of something dark.

  She takes a seat opposite, looking small.

  I put the envelope down between us,

  Note the way her hands shake as she reaches,

  Slides the photos out and glances through them.

  She looks fragile, like a cracked piece of glass.

  ‘There’s a few words on some of them,’ I say,

  ‘In the old style. I was wondering if…’

  ‘If I can read them?’ She doesn’t look up,

  Considering the pictures one by one.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ She sips from her glass.

  ‘They’re Vivian’s, I think.’ ‘I think so, too.’

  At one, Mrs North peers closer, squinting.

  ‘Do you know what it is that she studies?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Don’t know why I never found out.

  ‘She studies Archaeology,’ she says,

  Present tense again, maybe out of hope.

  ‘And these are pictures of Cancer’s ruins.’

  Sometimes I wish I’d paid more attention

  Back in school, learned a bit more than I did

  Instead of skipping classes, chasing girls,

  Retaining my ignorance. ‘I’m sorry?’

  She sighs again, leans back. ‘You are sorry.

  A sorry lot that could let her be killed.

  She was a wonderful girl, officer.

  Do I really need to explain Cancer?’

  I was never one to be great with words,

  Consoling people. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say,

  Like they told us to over and over

  During training. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  But it turns out I really am sorry

  And the words come out honest anyway.

  Mrs North’s face loses its sharp angles,

  Softens, its lengthiest shadows fading.

  ‘Cancer, the man, the family, is named

  After the Heart. Cancer, the Heart, is named

  After the great vessel it once powered.

  These are pictures of that vessel’s ruins.’

  I remember Cancer’s speech about boats

  That could cross the stars, that our ancestors

  Used them to travel here and settle down.

  ‘Where are they? The ruins, I mean. In Vox?’

  ‘No, officer. Quite a way outside Vox.

  Past some of the outlying villages.

  There’s a train, I believe. Are you going?’

  Sure looks that way. ‘Sounds like a lead to me.’

  Maybe there’s a crime scene out there somewhere.

  The place Vivian’s veins were made so bright,

  Or a reason why. A bloodstain, bullet

  Or some other clue. Any clue at all.

  I’m following up on a buried case

  With zero backup, barely any leads

  And a whole different major case to solve,

  And for the life of me I don’t know why.

  ‘First, though. The words on the mirrors. Can you…?’

  She laughs at me, and it comes out bitter.

  ‘Those? They’re not mirrors. They’re video screens.

  Light-emitting… Oh, what does it matter.’

  She takes a closer look through. ‘Archaic

  Language. Quite a lot that’s either nonsense

  Or doesn’t make sense outside of context.

  There are one or two repeated words, though.’

  I wish I had some paper and a pen.

  My memory will have to do for now.

  ‘Go ahead.’ ‘You see here?’ She points for me.

  ‘It says “conversion” there and “convert” there.’

  ‘Anything else?’ ‘Not really. Some babble.

  That word seems important though, I would say.’

  I gather the pictures up, ‘Thank you, ma’am,’

  Notice there’s one still in the envelope.

  ‘Oh.’ I drag it out. It’s the funny one,

  All vivid colour, strange-looking torch light;

  An odd reflection caught on a mirror.

  ‘Don’t suppose you know what this is?’ I ask.

  It still looks like it could be a mistake,

  The flash of the camera caught reflecting

  Colour off a surface. But I suppose

  It’s worth letting her have a glance at it.

  When she looks at it, she begins to laugh,

  And this time it’s genuine, warm laughter,

  Like I’ve told her a joke. She drains her glass.

  ‘You poor man. Don’t you know? Can’t you see it?’

  And she has to show me, point each bit out.

  ‘You see there? The water? That’s an ocean.

  And that, behind it? That’s a sky and clouds.

  And this… this is a star. It’s a sunrise.’

  ***

  The casino is a lot quieter

  At this time in the cycle, dark tables

  Made empty by an absence of patrons.

  I pass a vacant wheel turning idly.

  There’s an uneasiness among the staff,

  Like I’m a threat to the peace of the place.

  I can feel their eyes watching me go by,

  Not sure how to deal with me returning.

  I’m only here for a passing visit

  Before I head to Vox Central Station,

  Because Shepherd might be able to help

  Solve something for me that no one else can.

  His goons are easy to spot, at the bar,

  Their fists the size of sledgehammers clenched tight

  At my approach, tiny eyes sizing me.

  They don’t have a single word to greet me.

  ‘Tell Shepherd I need to know what this is.’

  I place the bright tube of blood on the bar

  Between them, and neither bats an eyelid.

  They share a glance, glare at it, then at me.

  Shrugging, I turn to walk away. ‘Hey, Yorke,

  Where did you get this? Doesn’t look like Pro’.’

  ‘It’s not,’ I say to them. ‘That’s a girl’s blood.’

  There’s a pause, and I turn back to see them.

  One has the tube, fingers casting shadows

  In thick slabs of dark across the other.

  ‘Bullshit,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen a lot of blood

  And none of it’s ever glow
ed like this does.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘So, ask Shepherd what it is.

  He’s meant to be an expert on Pro’, right?’

  They’re staring at me again. ‘Right,’ says one.

  The other pockets the tube. ‘Right,’ he says.

  ***

  The clerks at the bank have their own desk lamps,

  One apiece. They look after themselves here.

  Even while serving those of us begging

  For glows, they warm their hands on points of light.

  There’s a desk for those who want batteries,

  Currency converted into power,

  And another for bulbs: strip, bell, white, red.

  Get in line, wait an hour, take your pick.

  I’m needing cash. Got enough light to last,

  And the queue for money is the shortest.

  Sure enough, I’m still getting paid wages.

  The clerk slips me a hundred past the bars.

  I run my fingers across the fresh notes,

  Read the raised denominations, embossed

  In a way that’s meant to be hard to forge.

  They all look the same, otherwise: white sheets.

  There’s a guy selling cigarettes outside

  And I grab a pack, join those on the steps

  Sucking on smokes, ask one to ignite mine.

  There’s a contemplative quiet out here.

  Most sat out here are staring at the sky.

  It’s that time in our cycle when our sun

  Is visible, or rather, its absence.

  On a clear cycle like this, you can see.

  There’s a black hole moving across the sky,

  Taking up space where there should be star-shine,

  Like someone’s taken a piece of the sky

  And painted it black or hollowed it out.

  I move along, find a phone booth and call

  My department, ask for Dante by name.

  He answers, says, ‘Shit, Yorke, thought you were dead.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I tell him. ‘So did I, for a while.’

  I let him know I’m headed out of town,

  And he’s fine with the idea. ‘Why not.

  You’re nothing but a pain in the ass, Yorke.

  Keeps you out of my way, out of the case.’

  I have to laugh. ‘It’s nice to know you care.’

  ‘I’m serious, though. This case is screwed-up

  And there’s people here screwing it up more.

  Someone’s making sure it doesn’t get solved.’

  ‘Yeah… I figured that’s why I got that knife.’

  Dante shouts at someone in the background

  Before speaking to me again. ‘Look, Yorke,

  You take your trip outta town and stay safe.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks, Dante.’ ‘Fuck you for getting stabbed,

  Though. Now I have to face this mess alone.’

  ‘You’re not alone.’ ‘Sure as hell feels like it.

  Let me know when you’re back in town, okay?’

  ‘Right.’ I go to hang up, but he stops me.

  ‘One more thing. If you see Santiago,

  Tell him to get his ass back here right now.

  Nobody’s seen him since yestercycle.’

  From where I am, I can see our dark sun,

  Our hole in the sky. I can see it pass,

  Swallowing starlight as it travels by.

  ‘Sure,’ I say to Dante. ‘I’ll let him know.’

  ***

  Vox Central Station is a mess of noise.

  Engines thumping, steam hissing, shrill whistles,

  The sounds of the crowds and the distorted

  Crackling announcements over all of it.

  Spread out from the dark, arched central hallway,

  Lit by a single flickering dull bulb,

  A dozen hallways filter travellers

  Towards platforms and trains. Away from Vox.

  The place I’m headed to is called Manus.

  One of those villages far out from Vox,

  Receiving little or no energy

  From our three Hearts. They live in a deep dark.

  I push through crowds of people, commuters,

  Vacationers and visitors and friends,

  Carrying heavy luggage, bags filled up

  With pieces of their lives, destinations.

  I follow ridges set into a wall

  Down one hall, taking me to a platform,

  And after a while in the dark, there’s light

  In the form of a bright railroad headlamp.

  The platform is packed with people shouting,

  Waving tickets, conductors ushering,

  Bodies pushing and vying for some space:

  A kind of chaotic mess of boarding.

  And beyond them all squats the train, darkly.

  It’s an enormous black engine, belching

  Steam from its great chimney, whistle howling,

  Empty coaches inviting company.

  I wait my time, watch for an opening

  In the crowds, enough space to move on board

  Through those trying to escape the city,

  But without the means to afford tickets.

  Without the trains, there’s no other way out.

  A car, you run out of fuel pretty quick.

  Walking, and you’re lost in a few cycles.

  The rails keep other settlements tethered.

  I spot a gap and push past a couple

  Embracing, hand my ticket to the guard

  And get let on board, up the metal steps

  And through to a mostly empty carriage.

  There’s an empty booth and I take a seat,

  Shutting the door behind. There’s a window,

  Which make these carriages fairly ancient.

  I ignite a smoke, watch the platform move.

  I see the faces of those left behind,

  And from here they look like they're fading stars,

  Small round points of glowing vanishing fast

  And turning dark as the train powers on.

  There are no lamps set in the carriages,

  But there’s enough light being reflected

  From the powerful lamp guiding our way,

  Set into the front engine, to give sight.

  I sit back, smoke another cigarette

  And barely notice as we exit Vox.

  There’s no difference in dark, unless you look

  For it, turning from close, walled in, to vast.

  ***

  I think I forgot how to sleep normal.

  The clacking rhythm of the train lulls me,

  Makes me drowsy, watching the dull flashing

  Shadows cast by telegraph poles outside.

  There’s nothing else to see. Only shadows

  And the glinting reflections cast in drops

  Of rain as they trail down the window glass,

  Streaking long pale lines as they slowly drag.

  I’ve been left alone in my closed-off booth,

  And the train seems to be mostly empty.

  I see no one pass through the corridor,

  Only vague human shapes shifting at stops.

  And as we get further away from Vox,

  There’s more time passing between every stop

  Until it feels like I’ve always been here,

  Hungry, and bruised, and tired. So very tired.

  I close my eyes, and when I open them

  There’s a guy sitting opposite, reading

  A book and ignoring the rain outside.

  Another moment lost, and he’s vanished.

  The rain stops and starts again just as quick.

  I must be drifting away between blinks,

  But no amount of sleep is curing me

  Of the ache that goes right down to my bones.

  More time passes and my hunger gets bad

  Enough that I leave my seat, search for food.

  The r
ocking corridor is nearly black,

  Lit by the meagre glow from the windows.

  There’s someone else stood at the other end

  And for a fleeting moment I glimpse her,

  Caught in the flash of the train’s bright headlamp

  Reflecting from a surface in the dark.

  ‘Rachel?’ I rub the sleep from my tired eyes

  And stumble down the distance in between,

  To the end door, dividing coach from coach,

  And by the time I get there she’s long gone.

  The next coach is empty, as is the next,

  And when I reach the dining coach at last,

  I’m questioning myself and what I saw.

  Some half-dreamed figment in the dark, maybe.

  I order a tall glass of something strong

  And a dish that doesn’t sound revolting,

  Take a seat to one corner and admire

  The low glow of the bulb warming this coach.

  There’s a scattering of others in here.

  Tired-looking travellers eating cold meals,

  Nursing half-drained glasses and cigarettes,

  And avoiding each other’s hollow eyes.

  The whisky is weak and way overpriced,

  And my meal tastes like trash, but I’m surprised

  By how grateful I am to have them both.

  Hell, I even go back for a dessert.

  I ask the guy at the bar how long left

  Before Manus and he shrugs, checks his watch,

  Pours me another glass and drains his own.

  We don’t talk, but we do drink, and that’s fine.

  My eyes keep wandering towards the door,

  Like I’m expecting Rachel to walk in,

  And I wonder about her, who she is,

  Why she takes up so much space in my thoughts.

  The drink eventually takes hold of me

  And my hand finds its way back to my throat.

  What I’d give for a shot of Pro’ right now.

  Something to take the edge off the cycle.

  The train shudders onwards, ever onwards,

  Cutting a line through the black with its lamp,

  And even hundreds of kilometres

  From Vox, I can’t escape the dark in me.

  ***

  I’m the only one stepping off the train

  And onto the lonely wooden platform.

  Beyond the train’s headlamp, I’m confronted

  By a vast, unfamiliar darkness.

  The conductor’s kind enough to ask me

  If I’m sure this is where I want to be.

  The middle of nowhere. A nothing place.

  Even the stars have abandoned me here.

  I watch the train until I can’t see it,

  And then I’m immersed in the emptiness

  And, for the first time in what must be years,