Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  Out what was happening, but it’s all there.

  That trust has been emptied for the Heart theft.’

  ‘By who?’ ‘That, I’m not sure of. But, I know

  How they did it, and where the money went.

  It was pretty clever, I must admit.

  Took them years to pull off, to take it all.

  ‘The money from Cancer’s trust has been used

  By students, but students that don’t exist.

  The money was funnelled to an account,

  One single account, until it was used.’

  ‘Whose account?’ ‘Anonymous, I’m afraid.

  Whoever did it was very careful,

  But not careful enough, because I traced

  The money and who got paid for the job.’

  ‘The police?’ ‘Sure. But mostly, just one guy.

  Again, would you care to place a wager?’

  I weigh up the few potential suspects,

  And come to a quick conclusion. ‘Garfield?’

  Shepherd claps and chuckles to himself. ‘Yes!

  Right again, Mister Yorke. It was Garfield.

  The man who went and organised the theft

  Is the same man investigating it.’

  Figures. There was something wrong from the start

  About the chief, the way he spoke to me

  And dealt with Cancer, all calm, collected,

  Like he knew something that we all didn’t.

  ‘He can’t have stolen it alone,’ I say,

  And Shepherd agrees. ‘Of course not. But then,

  Now’s your chance to ask him who else did it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Follow me, Mister Yorke.’

  Shepherd stands, and for the first time I see

  His face. I can’t help but stare at the scar

  There, wrinkled up in a river of flesh,

  Burned into one side of his heavy face.

  He catches my eye and turns serious.

  ‘You might be asking why I trust you, Yorke.

  And this,’ he points to his red scar, ‘is why.

  Vox has put its mark on us both, my friend.’

  Franklyn opens the door, and I follow,

  Head full of thoughts vying for attention.

  I’m dreading what’s going to happen next,

  Because I can guess what Shepherd has done.

  And there, wrapped up almost like he’s a gift

  And hanging upside down from the ceiling

  Over a black pool of water, Garfield

  Swings idly, conscious, gagged and looking scared.

  ‘For you,’ smiles Shepherd. The room is a dock,

  Wide and walled, private, with a gaping hole

  Leading out to the dark ocean beyond.

  Franklyn holds a bare bulb, plugged in somewhere.

  It’s a hell of a scene, every shadow

  Made massive and moving by the bright bulb,

  The black water reflecting and waving

  And Garfield above it all, swinging slow.

  I realise I have an audience.

  The dock is full of Shepherd’s paid heavies,

  Lolling on crates and watching proceedings,

  Dark shapes among dark shapes in the background.

  Montana tugs the gag from Garfield’s mouth

  And the chief starts coughing and spluttering.

  ‘Get me down from here! Yorke? Is that you there?

  Arrest these men! What are you waiting for?’

  I realise I’m angry. ‘Was it you?

  Did you send Santiago to kill me?’

  He falls silent, and that’s enough for me

  To know the truth. Shepherd got the right man.

  ‘Who paid you?’ I ask him, and I notice

  His gold tooth has been torn out. He’s a mess,

  Bruised and shaken by whatever they did

  To get him down here, strung up like fresh meat.

  He doesn’t reply until Shepherd says,

  ‘Answer the man, Garfield. We have your wife.’

  And even then he takes his time, weeping,

  Salty tears meeting the salt of the sea.

  ‘Someone from the Uni’, I think. Some man.

  We never met, instructions by phone call.

  I only worked out he’s from the Uni’

  Because he let slip about his student.’

  ‘His student?’ ‘Yeah. You know. The bright-veins girl.’

  ‘Vivian?’ ‘Sure. Whatever. He told me

  To bury the case, she was a problem,

  Called her “one of my students” and that’s it.’

  Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe I should have known

  The two cases were linked. It all leads back

  To the University. All of it.

  Vivian, the Heart, all because of them.

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell Garfield, and then Shepherd, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s enough?’ says Shepherd. ‘Yeah. That’s enough.’

  Except it’s not, but I don’t realise

  That I still had a question quick enough.

  Shepherd draws his gun, a shining pistol

  That looks more like an ornament, and shoots

  Chief Garfield clean through the top of his skull,

  Blowing his brains into the black ocean.

  ‘Sink him,’ says Shepherd, idly motioning,

  And they lower Garfield into the sea,

  Weighed down by rocks and still leaking crimson

  As he goes, vanishing quick and easy.

  ‘His wife?’ I ask Shepherd. ‘Already dead.’

  He shrugs. ‘Anyway. I still have to ask.

  Where have you been, Mister Yorke? We missed you.

  My men say you caught a train to Manus.’

  The way he can keep talking, casual,

  Like he hasn’t just committed murder

  In front of an officer of the law

  Sets me off balance. It’s hard to react.

  ‘Yeah,’ I tell him, dazed by Garfield’s murder.

  ‘Out of town. Manus. To see the ruins.’

  ‘Which ruins?’ ‘Cancer’s wreck. The boat, I mean.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘And did you find anything?’

  ‘Not much. But I did find that the Uni’

  Was out there a while back, excavating,

  Taking stuff from the boat and back to Vox.’

  ‘That's interesting,’ says Shepherd. ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘What now?’ I ask, as he holsters his gun

  Idly, like he didn’t just kill a man.

  ‘Go and find the Heart, Mister Yorke,’ he says.

  ‘Right,’ I say. Then, ‘Right,’ again. Shepherd laughs.

  ‘Franklyn, Montana, drive him where he wants.’

  The scarred man strides away, still laughing loud,

  And I don’t know if he’s laughing at me

  Or Garfield, or the whole damn mess of it.

  ‘Shepherd!’ I call after him, remember

  I left him Vivian’s blood to look at.

  ‘The blood?’ ‘It’s blood,’ he calls back. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all, Mister Yorke. Blood that glows brightly.’

  ‘Time to go, Yorke.’ Franklyn steers me away

  From the dock and back out, into the rain.

  It hits me at once in a chill of drops

  And wakes me from my dazed kind of stupor.

  I’m cursing at myself for not asking

  Garfield about any accomplices,

  Those officers guilty of helping him

  Steal the Heart and kill all of Cancer’s guards.

  I’m pushed back into Montana’s car

  And he starts the engine, lights the headlight,

  Illuminating the wall of mild rain

  Spattering the dark sea front endlessly.

  ‘Where to?’ asks Montana, backing the car

  And turning back out into the city.

  Ahead, t
he protesters are still going,

  Chanting their bleak mantra. ‘Give us some light.’

  ***

  There’s something important I need to do.

  I step out of the car, into the rain,

  Hands deep in pockets, ducking my head low

  And striding between the drops down the street.

  It’s a quiet district, not too wealthy,

  But made visible by those few store fronts

  That make enough to afford a front light:

  Often flickering, but a pleasant sight.

  The street is mostly empty, which is fine.

  I need some space to think, to consider

  All the information I have so far

  And what I should be doing about it.

  I know this sidewalk well, intimately,

  Because I grew up here. I know the road,

  The curve of the flagstones and every crack

  Along them, rain flowing down in rivers.

  The stores have changed, but the street never will:

  Dents in the thick brick masonry, the way

  The light falls out of the old grocery

  Door, the only one left with a window.

  I come to my destination and stop,

  Rain dripping down my face, soaking my boots,

  Because my father’s hat store hasn’t changed.

  I know those shadows, the depth of each one.

  I’m hesitant because it’s been two years,

  And I had no plans to ever come back,

  But I can’t think of anywhere better

  For what I need. I take a breath, step in.

  The bell’s the same, that half-broken tinkling

  Heralding my entrance. I wipe my boots

  Out of habit, dripping on the carpet

  And taking a look around at the hats.

  There’s a humble bulb buzzing at the back,

  Set to flash on when a customer comes,

  And it reveals the shadow of Lewis,

  My father’s apprentice, as he steps out.

  ‘Virgil? Do my eyes deceive me?’ he smiles.

  I always had a soft spot for the man,

  The same age as me and destined to be

  The one to take my father’s small business.

  ‘Lewis.’ I shake his hand. ‘I need a hat.’

  He’s a happy, warm guy, proudly shows me

  Around, is patient with me. I notice

  The tough skin on his fingers, the prick marks.

  I find the kind I’m looking for, broad brimmed,

  The style my father was in demand for.

  Lewis makes a few adjustments for me.

  ‘How have you been, Virgil? It’s been a while.’

  ‘Alive,’ I tell him, ‘and keeping busy.’

  ‘Of course. But…’ and he leaves that word to hang,

  That unspoken question, and the reason

  I didn’t want to come back here again.

  ‘There,’ he says, eventually, and hands me

  The hat. It’s a snug fit, comfortable, wide

  Enough so I can hide my eyes, my scar.

  I thank him, but he won’t accept money.

  I make to leave, open the door, dull bulb

  Blinking black automatically. ‘Virgil?’

  Comes his voice, out from the dark. ‘Where were you?’

  And I find myself paralysed by him.

  I can’t answer because I don’t know how.

  How is it right? That a man can not show

  For his own wife’s funeral? It’s not right,

  And I still can’t explain it. I don’t know.

  Summoning enough strength, I walk away,

  Let the door close behind me, bow my head

  And lose myself down the dark street. ‘Virgil?’

  I hear the door, his voice calling for me.

  ***

  Dante looks like he’s been to hell and back,

  Got a table to himself at a wall

  And keeping a tight hold of his coffee

  Like he’s been drowning and it’s a lifebelt.

  ‘Yorke,’ he says, nods, motions for me to sit.

  The diner’s mostly empty, vacant seats

  All in a row along the lengthy bar,

  Bored-looking waitresses standing idly.

  ‘You got my message?’ I sit opposite.

  ‘Yeah. Things have gone to hell back at HQ.

  Garfield’s gone missing, and so has his wife,

  And there’s still no sign of the fucking Heart.’

  I order a coffee as black as black

  And sit back, remove my hat, admire it.

  ‘I think I know who has the Heart,’ I say.

  Dante squints, shakes his head looking at me.

  ‘What the fuck happened to you, Yorke?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s been a funny cycle,’ I tell him.

  The coffee arrives and it’s way too hot,

  But I drink it anyway, feel the burn.

  ‘All right,’ says Dante. ‘Who has the damn Heart?’

  ‘The same guy who killed Vivian,’ I say.

  Dante drains his coffee, gives me the look

  He saves for unpredictable suspects.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I tell him, find the Heart

  Replica and put it on the table.

  He takes it, rolls it around in his hands

  And recognises it. ‘Norton?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. You remember that interview, right?’

  ‘The one you fucked up?’ ‘Yeah, that one. You see,

  I think he was nervous about something,

  Something bigger than Vivian, maybe.’

  Dante sighs, leans back, drops the replica.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ ‘Something he mumbled.

  Look. I’ve been out of town, at Cancer’s wreck.’

  ‘Cancer’s wreck?’ ‘Yeah. The place the Heart came from.’

  ‘You’re losing me.’ ‘All right. I’ll be simple.

  There’s a word that keeps coming up, you see.

  “Conversion”. Something to do with the Heart.

  And the only guy I’ve heard saying it—’

  ‘—is Norton. Yeah. I remember,’ he says.

  ‘So what’s it meant to mean? This “Conversion”?’

  I shrug. ‘No idea. But there’s a guy

  Who might. Knows all about Hearts. Magnusson.’

  Ordering a second coffee, I wait

  For Dante to process my theory.

  He plays with the Heart replica, turns it,

  Chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully.

  For a while, I’d considered telling him

  About Santiago, about Garfield,

  But this way is easier. He’s honest,

  Too honest maybe, and I’d rather lie.

  ‘Not bad, Yorke,’ he says, after a small while.

  ‘Better than any leads I’ve had so far.

  It’s a long shot, but hell, I’ll come along.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief, drain my cup.

  ‘You bring a car?’ I ask him, grab my coat.

  He slides out. ‘Of course I fucking well did.’

  Outside, the rain’s finally subsided,

  Leaving a gleaming sidewalk in its wake.

  Dante unlocks the squad car he borrowed

  And starts it up, engine turning, growling.

  We follow its headlight through the city,

  Igniting cigarettes, wisping white smoke.

  ***

  The University is real busy,

  A hive of students swarming around us.

  There’s a kind of close tension in the air,

  Like everyone knows something that we don’t.

  Dante doesn’t seem to feel it, strides on

  Down the hall like there’s no one else in it,

  Shouldering through without apologies.

  I’m caught up in his wake: bruised arms, sharp looks.

  I ta
ke the time to try and listen in,

  Catch snatches of idle conversation,

  But kids shut up when I’m close, like they know

  I’m an outsider here: an intruder.

  The reception is busy with students,

  But Dante doesn’t let the press stop him,

  Happy enough to push bodies aside

  And knock noisily on the wooden desk.

  I can’t spot Rachel. Maybe she’s not in.

  They’re all strangers behind the reception.

  I hang back, let Dante do the talking.

  The excitement in the air puzzles me.

  But, like in a dream, like I summoned her

  With my thoughts of her, Rachel then appears.

  She looks radiant, and I’m stuttering,

  Surprised by her sudden glowing presence.

  ‘Virgil,’ she says, holding on to papers.

  ‘What brings you back to the Uni’ again?’

  I take a breath, glance around at the kids

  Laughing, joking, caught in some excitement.

  ‘Did you catch a train?’ I say, studying

  Her face, the dance of the shadows on it

  As she frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘A train,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t—’ I shake my head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Guess it was in my imagination,

  After all. I dismiss the memories.

  ‘What’s all the excitement about?’ I ask.

  She looks around. ‘Last cycle of the term.’

  She’s probably right, but for some reason

  It doesn’t fit right in my head, seems off,

  Like I’m still missing something. But she says,

  ‘Meet me tomorrow,’ and I can’t think straight.

  There’s that smile again, slow as a sunrise,

  But not the dark star that we orbit here:

  The rise of that alien sun I saw.

  A bright emergence of warm brilliance.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘Yes. Come and meet me,’ she says.

  I glance about and Dante’s still busy.

  There’s nobody around listening to us.

  ‘Sure. All right,’ I say, and the words feel light.

  ‘East Park. Do you know it?’ ‘Sure, yeah I do.’

  ‘Okay. Around ten o’clock sound all right?’

  It does, and I let her know that it does.

  ‘I need to go now, but I’ll see you then.’

  She leaves, and I watch her go, heels clicking

  Across the stone floor, between bright glowing

  Patches where the white bulbs above reflect.

  Too bright for me; I need to keep squinting.

  And when she’s gone, has vanished entirely

  Among the turbulent crowds of students,

  Dante grabs me by the arm. ‘Come on, Yorke.

  Magnusson is in. We’re gonna talk now.’