Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  And at last we find some people, sitting.

  There’s a few cars scattered across the bridge,

  Engines off, doors open, drivers absent.

  Those people on the bridge are at the edge,

  Sat and watching the sky; watching the sun.

  It’s a tranquil scene, and we pass them by,

  Stepping carefully around smiling folk,

  Muttering softly to one another,

  Mesmerised by all that light in the sky.

  I take the time to look at the river,

  Seeing it properly for the first time,

  And it’s disgusting: a brown flowing sludge

  Dragging all of Vox’s filth to the sea.

  On the other side of the bridge, there’s more

  People sat around, looking at the sea,

  Caught up in the calm claiming the city.

  Some of them greet us as we pass. ‘Hey there.’

  For a while, as we go, I’m enchanted

  By the way the city’s stopped, eyes turned up,

  And it’s a struggle to not watch with them,

  To stop, find a patch of sidewalk, and look.

  But I begin to notice some people,

  Various folks, different shapes and sizes,

  Still striding the streets about their business,

  Glaring, irritated, at those who’ve stopped.

  They’re a minority, but still a sign

  That the sun won’t solve all of our problems.

  That it won’t fix the city, its people.

  That, as I suspected, it just won’t last.

  People are always talking about change,

  But the truth is, nothing ever changes.

  You can turn our dark sun bright, but people

  Will still be people: stupid, demanding.

  You can turn our dark sun bright, but people,

  Some people, will carry on with their jobs.

  Give it a week and you would never know

  This even happened. People never change.

  We enter the city proper, the streets

  Coiling around towering apartments

  So tall that the sky becomes some white lines:

  Those spaces in between the tower blocks.

  There’s less light from the sky reaching these roads

  And there aren’t many watching, some walking,

  But most just going about their cycles

  Like nothing’s happened. Like the streets are dark.

  Dante looks like he wants to shake people,

  Tell them to wake the fuck up and notice

  The sun, but I know better than he does.

  I carry on and try to ignore them.

  ***

  Water runs down the Observatory

  As the last patches of snow melt away.

  It's getting warmer out by the minute.

  The clouds above are starting to look thin.

  I’m wondering what kind of sky is there

  Behind them, so far remaining hidden.

  I wonder if it’ll be like the sky

  In the picture: reds, yellows, oranges.

  This place is annexed onto the Uni’,

  But out of the way, in an open space

  Where its glass dome has vision of the sky

  In all its glory; space to see the stars.

  We’re directed there by happy students,

  Sitting around on benches and laughing,

  Proud of their work. We pass and we don’t laugh.

  Dante looks like he’d rather arrest them.

  But there’s only one guy that we’re here for.

  Professor Norton, the visionary;

  The man with the idea strong enough

  To have men murder each other for light.

  It’s a hell of a light, I give him that,

  Fills up the whole sky, the entire city,

  But I keep going back to Vivian

  And the fact that she’s not here to see it.

  The door’s open. Looks like we’re expected.

  Dante nods, ignites one more cigarette

  And makes sure he has his handcuffs ready.

  ‘No shooting anybody this time, Yorke.’

  It’s not like I have my gun, anyway.

  I follow him as he enters, careful,

  Drawing his own revolver, smoke leaking

  From his nostrils and forming white phantoms.

  Through a second set of doors, we find him,

  Sitting among science apparatus

  Designed to measure the stars in some way.

  His spectacles reflect the shining sky.

  The Observatory is filled with things

  That move: a map of our solar system,

  And others of galaxies, and models

  Of tides and stars and the places between.

  Dante makes a path through the cluttered room,

  Comes up to Norton with his revolver

  Pointed straight at the man, but there’s no need.

  Norton doesn’t stir, doesn’t notice us.

  Only when the cuffs click around his wrists

  Does he move, dazed, puzzled, like we’re strangers

  Invading his home. ‘What’s happening here?’

  ‘You’re under arrest, sir.’ ‘For what?’ ‘For that.’

  Norton sighs. He looks small, but still happy.

  ‘Very well. Time to go, then, officers.’

  Standing, with Dante holding his arms back,

  Norton blinks quickly, his eyes adjusting.

  ‘I suppose you have Magnusson,’ he says.

  I’m a way off, still near the entrance. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ ‘Magnusson is dead. I shot him dead.’

  ‘You killed him? Why?’ ‘He murdered Vivian.’

  Bowing his head, Norton looks reproachful.

  ‘Oh. I knew there were some casualties. But…’

  ‘He never told you?’ ‘He… took care of things

  While I designed the machines, the rocket.’

  ‘But you suspected?’ ‘I suppose I did.’

  I can’t find it in myself to hate him.

  Try as I might, I’ve got no anger left,

  Only a sort of pity for the man.

  Dante leads him across, and as he does,

  I realise that Norton will be the one

  Remembered for all the light in the sky.

  He’ll be famous for that, not for murder.

  Before they can reach the door, something shines.

  A pillar of glowing sweeps the stone floor

  And we all pause, looking for the light’s source.

  The clouds have opened up for us at last.

  I’m not expecting to see the colour

  That appears between those retreating clouds.

  I was imagining more white, maybe,

  Or the usual blackness, but not blue.

  More patches of blue emerge between clouds,

  More shafts of light touching the dark city,

  All visible through the great, domed glass roof.

  I have to look away from the sun, though.

  Free of the clouds, the sun has become fierce,

  A dazzling white like nothing else I know,

  As if every last light I’ve seen before

  Has been no more than a spark when compared.

  I shield my eyes and ask Norton, ‘Why blue?’

  ‘Because of our atmosphere,’ he tells us,

  ‘But does it matter?’ I guess it doesn’t.

  It could have been any colour at all.

  When we lead him into the parking lot,

  There’s a long parade of students waiting,

  Whistling and cheering and clapping for him;

  Such a celebration for the small man.

  He remains humble, smiling, his head low,

  Letting us guide him to the borrowed car

  Where we left it hours back, waiting for us.

  The students part, letti
ng us pass between.

  They’re still there when we put him in the back,

  Shutting the door behind him. He watches

  His students and the sky from the window,

  A sort of warm pride creasing his features.

  I’ve got one act of generosity

  Left in me this cycle, so I stop there,

  Say to Dante, ‘You take him in, Dante.

  It’s your turn. You take the credit for this.’

  Dante glances around at the students,

  And then to me. ‘What are you gonna do?’

  I shrug. ‘Guess someone has to tell Cancer

  What happened to his Heart. He won’t be pleased.’

  He leans against the car, hands me a smoke.

  ‘You just don’t want the fucking paperwork.’

  I take the cigarette and ignite it,

  Leaning with him and taking in the sky.

  The clouds are getting thinner and sparser,

  Overwhelmed by all the brilliant blue.

  I have to shield my eyes against the sun,

  That bright beacon drowning the world in light.

  ‘You know how much I had for the Hangman?’

  And it’s the first time I’ve talked about it

  With him, with anyone. ‘It took a month.

  They kept giving me more and more to write.’

  ‘Shit,’ says Dante. ‘Seriously? That much?’

  ‘I swear I wrote the same report three times.’

  ‘And that was just one man.’ ‘Yup. Only one.’

  ‘I’m fucked, aren’t I?’ ‘Sure as hell are, Dante.’

  We wait until the cigarettes are stubs

  Before Dante searches for the car’s keys

  And thumps me on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Yorke.

  Let’s go for a drink when this is over.’

  ‘Sure,’ I tell him, and that’s enough for him.

  He gets in and starts the engine, drives off,

  Students cheering in his wake, bright faces

  Reflecting the bright sun. I watch him go.

  ***

  I stop and ask a stranger in the street,

  ‘Got the time?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Twenty past ten.’

  And I like the way the sunlight bounces

  Off his watch: that timepiece become a star.

  I take my time the rest of the way there,

  In the knowledge that I’m already late,

  Probably too late, and that I’ve missed her.

  Hell, if she even remembered at all.

  I find Vox’s ghosts gathered in the park,

  Hundreds and thousands of them sat staring

  Upwards together, covering the ground;

  Quiet bodies, quiet people, watching.

  Even though it’s warm, I pull my coat close

  And make my way among them: countless ghosts,

  Wasted forms as far as my eyes can see,

  Some with fluttering fingers, clutching light.

  This is one of the few places in Vox

  The towers open up, leave a clear space

  Wide enough to let the sky in, glowing

  As it is right now, attracting the ghosts.

  I wonder if any organised this,

  Or if it was a wordless pilgrimage,

  One following the other to the park

  And filling it from gate to distant gate.

  I pass spindly claw trees housing more ghosts,

  Pale bodies sat in the upper branches

  And reaching up, cupping their hands to catch

  The sun, gather its bright light in their palms.

  They don’t seem to notice me as I go,

  Stepping over them, hat pressed to my chest,

  And I feel like the only living soul

  Here, like I’ve come to the Garden of Phos.

  Some of them are definitely dying

  Or dead. I step across breathless bodies,

  Some with wrists slit, some just wasted away,

  And a few hanging by rope from the trees.

  There’s a bridge across a filthy brown stream

  And I cross it, pushing past more bodies

  And watching those ghosts stood in the water,

  Letting the stream run around their ankles.

  On the other side, I come to the hill

  At the centre of the park, facing east,

  Facing the sea, and from here I can see

  The Lighthouse, Cancer’s home, scratching the sky.

  The ghosts here are sat shoulder to shoulder,

  Glinting eyes wide to let in the sunlight,

  Mouths wide as if they could almost drink it,

  Some weeping freely, but all so silent.

  I ascend the hill slowly, push through them,

  To where, against all the odds, there’s a bench

  That’s been left absent, ghosts sat around it

  But not on it, like it was left for me.

  And there, at the top of the hill, I sit

  And watch the sun with them, getting duller.

  The blue above begins to look less blue

  As I wait, the dark returning at last.

  I lean back, hat on my lap, and wonder

  If Rachel wanted to meet to confess,

  Or just because she wanted to see me,

  Or for some other reason I don’t know.

  Running one hand across my scar, I know

  It doesn’t matter any more. Not now.

  I’m too late. I wonder if she came here,

  Crossed the sea of ghosts, to sit where I am.

  The stillness in the park is infectious.

  I get caught up in the calm, the quiet,

  Find my thoughts turning to the shining sun,

  My palms turned up like I could catch the light.

  I don’t know how much time passes sat there,

  Only that the brightness in the sun fades

  And the wind rises, pushing the vague clouds

  Faster in white streaks across the deep blue.

  At once, almost like it’s a ritual,

  I take my hands and run them down my face

  As if I’m trying to push all the light

  Collected between them into myself.

  And when I lower them, there’s someone sat

  Beside me, who I mistake for Rachel

  Until I turn my head to see Shepherd

  Sat there instead, the scar on his face bright.

  ‘You’ve come to kill me, then,’ I say to him,

  But he turns to me. ‘Not this cycle, Yorke.’

  ‘Then what?’ ‘I came to thank you for trying

  To find the Heart. And because I like you.’

  ‘You like me?’ ‘Sure I do. You remind me

  Of me. It’s like looking in a mirror.’

  I don’t think I agree, but I don’t say.

  I keep quiet, lean forwards, watch the sky.

  The stars are starting to come out again.

  In among the blue are a few bright points

  Scattered here and there as tiny beacons,

  Winking one by one back into vision.

  The sun itself is starting to sink down,

  Becoming bearable to look at straight,

  Losing its glow, its sheen, its awesome shine,

  Reverting back into its old dark self.

  When I lean back again, Shepherd is gone.

  In his place is a brown paper package

  That glows slightly. I glance at it, then up,

  And then across to the distant Lighthouse.

  There’s another star, a point of bright light

  Glowing at the very top of its spire,

  And I frown, wondering what it could be,

  What it is that Cancer’s doing up there.

  For a while longer, I wait for Rachel.

  The ghosts seem to start to gather closer,

  Holding on to each other for comfort,

  Confronted by the return
of their hell.

  It’s my hell too, I realise. The dark

  Come back again after a brief reprieve.

  And it’s not just the light above fading,

  But the light in me, as well. I feel dark.

  I take the package, put it in my bag

  And stand, placing my hat upon my head.

  This time, when I make my way through the ghosts,

  I don’t need to push. They part, let me pass.

  ***

  When I reach the Lighthouse, the sky is red,

  Like someone’s stabbed the sun and made it bleed.

  I stop before the doors and stare at it,

  Watch the stars piercing the rising darkness.

  Above, at the top of the tall building,

  I can see that same illumination.

  This close, I can see orange flickering,

  Causing lengthy shadows across the glass.

  There’s a weight in my chest, a heaviness

  That makes my ascent up to the front doors

  Difficult, like my boots are made of lead.

  Still, I stamp every step, remove my hat.

  At the top, I find the dark doors ajar,

  Revealing the blackened interior.

  The inside of the Lighthouse looks empty,

  Like everyone, all the staff, have gone home.

  When I call out and knock, nobody comes.

  My voice echoes around the dark inside,

  Coming back to me. ‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Hey?’

  I push one of the doors aside, step in.

  From what little light there is left outside,

  I can see that the huge place is a mess.

  Someone’s smashed every single piece of glass,

  Dropped the chandeliers, shattered all the bulbs.

  It’s a beautiful disaster, the glass

  Reflecting the red sky a thousand times,

  Turning the whole huge entrance hall scarlet

  And making the weight in me heavier.

  I push glass aside with my boots, ascend

  The wide staircase and try to find Cancer.

  And even though I know where he’ll be,

  I take my time, searching every side room.

  Everything is red from the sky outside,

  And the story is the same: more smashed glass.

  Whoever broke the Lighthouse broke it all,

  Making sure that nothing was left untouched.

  It must take me the best part of an hour

  To get close to the top, to the glass roof

  Where once, according to Cancer, was lit

  A torch bright enough to ward off star-ships.

  I find myself slowing, the flickering

  Coming from above heralding a scene

  I can predict. But still, I want to see,

  I want to know what it is Cancer’s done.

  Even though there won’t be any answer,