BLACK STATIC #42

by Andy Cox

  ***

  A week passed. I was up and down the Bury line every day, no sign of Neil or George. I began to think they’d deserted me. At first, I travelled in the afternoons to avoid the commuters, but not wanting to miss Neil or George, I started my journeys earlier each day. Soon I was mingling again with the workers; I saw the old faces. I was at Radcliffe for the first tram of the day with the cleaners and travelled home with the drunks on the last tram. I worked hard. I memorised the timetables. I read up on the history of Manchester’s trams. When I wasn’t working, I relaxed in the Squirrel, alone in the corner. I did not sleep. I lay on my bed and closed my eyes, and I could see were the suburbs sliding by: office blocks and warehouses, the backs of terraced houses, dense slopes of thorns and litter. I bought tins of grey and blue paint, the colours of Tramlink, and redecorated my flat. I received a letter from work but did not open it. They had my certificate. They had the proof. Ulcers do not heal overnight.

  ***

  One Tuesday morning, as I was sat on the platform at Prestwich, beneath the smudged newsprint of the sky, I heard a voice.

  “Writing your memoirs?”

  I had been making a few notes on tramway architecture.

  “Or a shopping list?”

  I looked up. George Crease was standing over me. A patterned cravat bloomed under his chin. “Mind if I join you?” He sat down next to me. My thigh looked like a twig next to his. “Monkey nut?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I find that once I start I can’t stop.” He cracked open a fibrous shell. “Addictive. Have you had a chance to think about what I said? New challenges, new horizons?”

  “Sort of. A little bit.”

  “A little bit.” He threw a nut into his mouth. His cravat was decorated, I saw, with small golden trams.

  “It’s a big decision,” I said.

  “I’ve seen the footage back at HQ. You’re on the line every day. Up and down. Morning till night. Devoted.”

  “It’s a hobby.”

  “Admirable. But let me be frank. You’re dithering. You need to move on. The bitching, the bureaucracy, the he-said she-said. It’s not for you. Think of all those tiresome meetings. And what happens if you get promoted? More tiresome meetings. There’s no end to it.”

  “That’s why I’m ill. I’m glad I’m ill.”

  “The office kills you piece by piece, moment by moment. There’s never a precise moment of death. It’s a crime executed so subtly, so stealthily, that everyone – almost everyone – thinks nothing is happening. We’re all implicated. Remember when you fell asleep during Fisher’s presentation on the new absence policy? I was told to tick you off. I hated doing it. You said you had an anxiety-related sleep disorder.”

  “It still troubles me.”

  “We forget, or learn to forget, each moment of horror and disgust. It becomes normal. If you knew your boss was going to inject you with cyanide, would you go into work? Of course not. But because the crime is stretched out over the long, trudging, indistinguishable years, you persuade yourself that you are not dying but living.”

  “I suppose so…”

  “You know so. I think of it as a kind of homeopathic death. A little dose of death each day. Diluted death, undetectable and adroitly administered, but death all the same. Who thrives in such a hell? Swankers, liars, ice queens and loudmouths. Think of Sheila Fisher, Leia Sutton. Think of fascist Pyke. Think of yourself and what you’ve become. We’re all guilty. Who’s your boss these days?”

  “Bagshawe. Joyce Bagshawe.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Sulky and bulky. Nags all day.”

  “There you go. It’s a con. Get out and about. See the world. Become a tram man.”

  “It can’t be that different on the trams. You have offices, too, and where there’s offices there’s boredom. You mentioned your HQ.”

  “You’re dithering again.” A tram pulled up along the platform. “Ah, the eleven twelve, my favourite.”

  I touched his arm. “Are you real?”

  “Quaint.”

  “You killed yourself. It was on the news.”

  “Quainter still. You haven’t been listening. Do you like my cravat? I think the colour suits you. You’d look handsome in our uniform.”

  “I’ve never worn a cravat and I don’t know anything about trams. What would I actually do?” The thought of collaring fare-dodgers did not appeal.

  “You know more than you think. Look at your notes. That’s quite a dossier you’re building up. You’re a seasoned traveller. You have the enthusiast’s perspective.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Be positive. Come with me, Martin. Let’s get warm. There’s a cold wind blowing in from Rochdale.”

  ***

  He led me into the underpass: black puddles, echoing footsteps, graffiti on the tiles – trev woz ere, bic. We stopped at a pale grey door. I presumed it belonged to a storage cupboard, but when George opened the door, instead of brooms, canisters, cloths, I saw a corridor, narrow and brightly lit, stretching ahead towards a glass door filled with soft orange light. I felt warm air on my face. The door, with its welcoming glow, made me think of the Squirrel. “This way,” said George, “let’s get out of the cold. Come on.” There were doors on either side of the corridor, many of them open: small offices and utility rooms; a portly man in overalls drinking tea; a smart young clerk, with greased quiff, typing furiously. There was a social room with sofas and low tables, disintegrating whorls of smoke. A slender woman, in a suit of grey and blue, with a silk scarf knotted round her neck (golden trams again), opened a door and smiled at us as she passed.

  “Hello George, how are you?”

  “Very well, thanks, Grace. You’re looking very chic today.”

  “Thank you, George. I try my best.”

  I caught her scent: apples. I wanted to ask George about these rooms and the people in them – who were they, what were they doing? – but we had already reached the door at the end of the corridor. Through the thick, textured glass I could make out green and brown shapes among blooms of yellow light.

  “The nerve centre,” said George as we stepped into what looked like a study or reading room or even a snug in the Squirrel. There were shelves filled with old hardbacks, the spines faded, titles illegible. I pulled out a volume – Change Management: Techniques and Processes – and flicked through the pages. The type was so small as to be unreadable. I put it back, pulled out another. The Assertive Administrator. This was richly illustrated with line drawings and tinted photographs. A female dangling from a rope, head slumped, flowers on a windowsill. A large man in a bath of strangely violet blood, wrists slit open like gills. I turned to speak to George but he was gone. The room had paintings as dark as beef broth and a cracked leather sofa heaped with cushions bearing the golden tram motif.

  Uhrusha. Gesundheit.

  Sat at a large ornate desk, Neil was writing in a ledger, his gingery tufts just about visible through stacks of dusty paperwork.

  “Oh hello Martin,” said Neil. “I’m glad you’ve come.” He stood up. “I’ve made this for you.” He handed me a papier mâché rook.

  “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps we’ll play one day. Sit down, sit down.”

  I sat on the battered sofa, sinking deep. The room, I saw, was the meeting point of three corridors, all similar to one I had just walked along. I heard the incessant clatter of typewriters, the hiss and whirr of a photocopier.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “Silence, please, Martin. I am processing.”

  A phone rang and Neil answered. “Good morning. You’re through to Neil Timpson, Manchester Tramlink. How can I help? Ah yes. I am pleased to report that there are no delays on the Bury line today. All on time. You’re welcome. Goodbye.” Neil peered over his papers. “This might take a while. You know me, always thorough. I’m sure you’ll understand.” The phone rang again. “Good morning. Neil Timpson, Manchester Tramlink. H
ow can I help? Certainly, madam. The system uses a 750vDC overhead power supply with single wire pantograph current collection. I hope that answers your question. You’re very welcome. Have a good journey. Bye.” He put down the receiver. “While I’m doing this, why don’t you take a look round? Make yourself at home. Avail yourself of our facilities. Ask questions. Everyone’s very approachable. I see you’ve already had a look at our learning and development library. I’d offer to make you a cuppa, but as you can see I’m up to here.”

  I left Neil pecking at his qwerty with one finger. I looked into various rooms and offices. In one room a man was studying CCTV footage: I saw images of myself at Heaton Park stepping into a carriage and at Whitefield eating a sandwich on the platform. A radio was on in the background – the crack and clap of a cricket match. Another room was full of beds, most of them occupied: a dormitory, I supposed, for shift workers. There were telephones everywhere, they were as common as light switches. I found a kitchen. The girl in the suit was brewing up.

  “Oh hello again,” she said. “Just in time. Want one?”

  “Yes please. No sugar.”

  “Are you new? I’ve not seen you here before.”

  “I’m just visiting. I’m with George.”

  “Oh yes. He’s so nice. Everyone likes George. I’m Grace, by the way.”

  “Martin—”

  A telephone rang. She answered it.

  “Good morning. Manchester Tramlink. Grace Stevens speaking. How can I help? Certainly. The minimum radius of curvature is twenty-five metres. Thank you, have a pleasant journey.” She replaced the receiver. “It never stops! Well it’s been nice meeting you, Martin. I have to get back. Hope to see you again.”

  I picked up my mug of tea and returned to the study.

  ***

  “The process has been successful, Martin,” said Neil. “Your portfolio has been activated. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t know I had a portfolio.”

  “We need you to verify this.” He handed me a rather scruffy sheet of paper. It was a letter or note of some kind. I recognised the handwriting. It was mine.

  “I think you’ll find it covers everything.”

  I read the note. It succinctly described my situation. I couldn’t have phrased it better myself.

  “It’s very good,” I said.

  “No need to sign it – we’ve done that for you.”

  “Thanks. Can I have a copy for my records?”

  “Of course,” said Neil. “I’ll log it. There’s just one more thing – a mere formality. I’ll hand you over to George.”

  George was at my side. “This way, Martin,” he said, “follow me.” He led me into the corridor behind Neil’s desk. I was excited and George seemed to sense this. He put his arm around my shoulder.

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “You will know what to do.”

  We had come to a pale grey door like the one in the underpass.

  “See you soon, Martin.”

  I opened the door and entered a place with no walls, no roof. I heard the door click shut behind me. I felt the variable air on my skin, the soiled immensity. I was on a platform, far from the grey benches and few idling travellers. I could not see the name of the stop. You will know what to do, George had said. I did. Number 1112 approached. I stepped off the platform, into the growing mass of metal and glass, and stopped dying.

  ***

  Born in London, Stephen Hargadon now lives and works in Manchester. This is his second story to be published in Black Static, the first being ‘World of Trevor’ in issue 40 (which was also his first story published anywhere). He is currently working on a number of short stories and a novel. He always has his ticket ready for inspection. Find out more at http://stephenhargadon.co.uk.

  CRIMEWAVE

  “Solid, entertaining but disquieting tales where evil is not an external entity, but an unavoidable component of the human condition, rooted in the depth of the human soul. I cannot recommend this anthology enough: simply, dark fiction at its best” Gumshoe

  Christopher Priest • Stephen Volk • Joel Lane • Kristine Kathryn Rusch • Melanie Tem • Tim Lees and many others

  Buy Crimewave 12: Hurts as a 240-page American Royal paperback or subscribe to four volumes for a significant saving: http://ttapress.com/shop/

  Crimewave 13 coming soon

  CASE NOTES

  PETER TENNANT ON BOOKS

  FRIENDS & FAMILY

  Tony Richards

  The Universal and other Terrors

  Daniel Mills

  The Lord Came at Twilight

  Tim Lees

  News From Unknown Countries

  Gary Fry

  Severed

  Savage

  Gary McMahon

  Reaping the Dark

  Where You Live

  Carole Johnstone

  The Bright Day is Done

  plus author interview

  Stephen Volk

  Monsters in the Heart

  Lynda E. Rucker

  The Moon Will Look Strange

  Conrad Williams

  Born With Teeth

  Joel Lane

  Where Furnaces Burn

  FRIENDS & FAMILY

  My biggest problem in putting together the Case Notes section of this magazine is deciding which books get reviewed and when. One rule of thumb I have is that writers whose work has appeared in the magazine will have their books reviewed, on the grounds that our readers will be interested in other stuff they’ve produced. Hence this issue’s overarching theme, in which I’m going to concentrate on the work of those we regard as friends and family.

  Tony Richards has had three stories published in Black Static, last appearing in #7 with ‘Pages From a Broken Book’, and I interviewed him in #9. His latest collection is THE UNIVERSAL AND OTHER TERRORS (Dark Renaissance Books paperback, 232pp, $17.95), which contains eleven short stories and one novella, each work complemented by an evocative black and white illustration by artist M. Wayne Miller.

  Title story ‘The Universal’ is one of several set in the fictional seaside town of Birchiam, with a newcomer to the town stumbling across the ruins of a Ministry of Defence installation where something went terribly awry, but what he learns of how reality is seriously out of whack and the infection may be spreading is even more alarming, in a quiet and beautifully paced tale that offers some genuinely disturbing visions of the macabre, with echoes of Lovecraft and, perhaps more appositely, King’s The Mist. ‘Aegea’ has a tourist who is visiting the Greek islands discover a beach where the sunbathers all look to be cast from the same mould, and his attraction to one of them leads him into peril in a story that offers a variation on the selkie or mermaid template, and which again is tellingly paced and adds on details until reader and character alike are overwhelmed by the outré, contrasting strongly the sunlit and idyllic setting with the pure horror of what is happening.

  ‘Beneath the Shroud’ is pleasingly ambiguous, as a driver gets lost in fog that manifests an anthropomorphic quality and with a neat twist as he reaches his journey’s end, in that we don’t know if the spirits that he interacts with are well-meaning or malevolent, the story a gentle piece, but strong in atmosphere and poignancy. At first brush it seems that fairies are ‘The Visitors in Marvell Wood’, but the children who see them are inexplicably changed, and when an adult attempts to intervene he suffers a similar fate, though with hints of a transmogrification into some other, superior, type of being, the story building well and with an agreeable protagonist, while deftly tapping into our fears of our own young, before delivering that unsettling end note. A young boy receives strange hints that something terrible has happened to his vain mother when she fails to respect the tradition of ‘Covered Mirrors’ in a Jewish household where a death has occurred, the story simply told and devastatingly subtle, with Richards making it even more powerful through the understated resolution.

  The unprepossessing ‘Mr. Smyth’
has no trouble persuading beautiful young women to spend the night with him, but shortly after they all die of natural causes; a police officer who investigates learns the awful truth behind what is happening in this beautifully constructed tale where we can actually feel a sliver of sympathy for the bad guy even while appalled by what he does, and with a chilling last line, the story even more unsettling in that there appears to be no way for the policeman to stop what is happening. ‘The Crows’ turn out to be omens of disaster in another story where the simplicity of the idea is counterpointed by the subtlety of its delivery, with an ending that only hints at what is to occur next. A young Abraham Van Helsing is the protagonist of ‘By A Dark Canal’, which records his first encounter with a vampire and how his failure to believe in this supernatural creature brought about a tragedy, Richards getting the period details just right and bang on target with his depiction of the slightly arrogant and disdainful Van Helsing, who is taught a well needed lesson in humility.

  We return to Birchiam for ‘The In-Betweeners’, which reads like an alternative version of ‘The Visitors in Marvell Wood’, with teenagers in lieu of children and alien insectoids for fairies, the tale told from the viewpoint of a man who discovers what is happening in the town, much to his cost, though again Richards doesn’t take the obvious route, offering up the possibility that the aliens may just be harmless observers even as their actions and sheer lack of humanity unnerve. Written for anti-fascist anthology Never Again, the story ‘Sense’ is told from the perspective of a Jew who supports a nationalist movement after he is attacked, only to find that the cure is far worse than the disease, the narrative a deft illustration of Niemöller’s “then they came for me” dictum and perhaps a tad obvious in the execution, but no less effective for that. Set in an Africa of the near future where wild animals are all but extinct, ‘The Very Edge of New Harare’ begins with a policeman investigating an apparent murder and ends with the discovery of something marvellous, but good as the setting is and the police procedural elements, the real thrust of the narrative is in the character of the protagonist, the decisions that are forced on him by breeding and circumstance, the question of how he will react when confronted by an apparent miracle. Think Children of Men as retold by Alexander McCall Smith.