Dark Currents

by Sulivan, Tricia; Nevill, Adam; Tchaikovsky, Adrian; McDougall, Sophia; Tidhar, Lavie

  Falling water drums against the darkening bay window. I sit sideways on the window seat below, nestled in a blanket on old leather cushions, the radio in my hands.

  Wight. South-west three or four, backing south-east five or six later. Slight or moderate. Showers, rain later. Good, becoming moderate or poor later.

  Across the room, half-in half-out of the doorway, he eats thin rice noodles from a bowl.

  “You should turn that off, Cassie.”

  Plymouth. South four or five, backing southeast five to seven, perhaps gale eight later. Moderate or rough, occasionally very rough. Showers, rain later. Good, becoming moderate or poor later.

  “Please turn that off.”

  The rain keeps falling.

  No ships can be seen from the sea wall. When the sun returns, ships will come, I tell myself. Ships stocked with goods, with food, with people. But for now the horizon is a shield of vapours, a lonely place, and the seas beneath churn and mix. Below grey waves I see them blossoming; black flowers on ancient vines, coming up from some unimaginable depth to feed on our light. Rising slowly, rising, always rising, like negatives of snowdrops in the time before the spring, shooting up as portents of what is to come. From a pocket I draw out my radio, turning the long wave dial until I find the signal, nervously listening for the news, knowing it must be coming soon.

  Lundy. Westerly veering north-westerly four or five. Moderate. Showers. Moderate.

  The flowers beneath the waves turn to me like sunflowers with their faces to the sun. The radio hisses. I watch the tide move ever inwards, bringing dark vines towards the shingle of the beach.

  Fisher. In north, easterly five, increasing six to eight, in south, variable, becoming north-easterly four or five, occasionally six later.

  Encroaching flowers of midnight bloom below the surface, their petals spreading wide in a riot of deep black as they fill the oceans before turning inwards, shrinking, dying from sight.

  In north, moderate, in south, moderate or rough. In north, rain, in south, rain, fog patches. In north, poor, in south, moderate, occasionally very poor.

  If it be not now, yet it will come.

  The ink has stained my skin in a fingerprint.

  Against the cliffs by the sea wall, one door stands unlocked; a solitary café that opens its doors to the people who remain through the winter. I stand at the doorway for a moment wondering why I want to go inside. I can feel electric fires running but they don’t warm me, just dry my skin. From behind the counter a woman in a charcoal apron looks up and half-smiles.

  Inside the café there is a strange silence. I hear the sound of metal teaspoons hitting porcelain, the whine of metal chair legs shifting on the vynil floor.

  “Tea?”

  The woman at the counter hovers by a large metal water heater. I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say. She pulls down on the heater tab and steaming hot water begins to flow. I watch the ritual unfold as she pours milk, stirs, taps the spoon against the mug. She walks around from the counter and puts the offering down on a table next to me, and I remember now that I’m supposed to sit down here, sit down and drink it.

  I sink into the wooden chair and wrap my hands around the mug. There are people in here, but I try not to look at them. They sit in pairs, wrapped in coats and scarves, and they look the opposite of me in my damp shoes.

  In the mug a teabag floats forlornly in a sea of brown liquid. It’s hot to drink but tastes of nothing.

  Down by the churchyard an old man sits on a damp bench, a tray of food on his lap. I stand by the railings and watch as a group of boys in hooded sweatshirts and baseball caps descend, chirping and cawing, grabbing chips from his grasp and spilling them, eating them from the ground before flocking away down the street, looking for new victims. He waves his cap after them in anger and yells, but they are already gone.

  The church bell tolls noon. I fumble with numb hands for my radio.

  There are warnings of gales in Viking, Forties, Cromarty, and Rockall.

  I walk beneath the railway bridge, feeling its rusting girders creaking under the weight. A section of road has been fenced away, tarmac and stone ripped up to dig a hole deep into the earth, but there is no one here, just abandoned tools lying still by the crater. This place smells like burning.

  I walk on to the other side where steps lead up to the platform, and there, perched on the edge of the bridge, I see the hooded boys leaning over, staring down at the town in the failing light, looking for pickings. As the sound of a train approaches they break and run flying from the wall, down the steps and past me, away; I don’t look back to see where they go, just listen as the train pulls in, its wheels screaming against the tracks, feeling the rumble overhead as it slows.

  Doors slam as people step away from their carriages. I wait at the bottom of the stairs for them to come, and one by one they filter down, no more than half a dozen, all shrouded in winter coats and scarves and hats. I wait as each person passes me by, but there is no one here for me, nobody returning.

  I wait while the train pulls away again, the noise moving slowly above me, darkness falling quickly all around. It is almost evening. Panic rises within and I reach for my pocket.

  High south-west Norway, one thousand and thirty-four, moving slowly south-eastwards, expected Skagerrak one thousand and thirty by same time.

  I clasp the radio in my hand as though holding it tight will make good news come.

  Irish Sea. Westerly veering north-westerly five to seven. Rough or very rough, showers, moderate.

  There is a roaring sound, but there are no more trains. I stand between the burning brick walls that curve up and over me and I try to remember who I waited for.

  Stornoway. Wind north west, seven miles, one thousand and four, rising slowly.

  I have more hours before it comes. I turn for home.

  “I can’t take you doing this anymore, Cassandra.”

  He is emptying the batteries out of my radio. I watch him walk into the bare light of the kitchen, and I hear them strike the bottom of the bin like tiny bullets.

  Outside, the storm rages. Winds blow in from the surface of the sea, choirs of invisible birds straining at the telephone wires, plucking and sounding them in an cacophony of fear.

  He comes back, turning over the sketchbooks and canvasses that lie piled up like bodies throughout the room. He pulls out a half-drawn still life of a bowl of violets and pushes it into my lap.

  “This one. Just finish this one.”

  I reach out and trace my finger over grey lines that tell of where bright purple flowers should blossom on the page.

  “You have to finish something. You can’t go on this way.”

  My eyes dart to the radio on the bookshelf, silent. It would be so nice to see the sun again.

  He only calls me Cassandra when he’s angry.

  My eyes move to a table in the corner of the café, tucked away by a tall curtained window; an old picture of a green landscape hangs on the wall. No one sits there, just two empty rattan chairs and a faded table cloth. In my mind I see a man sitting with a newspaper unfolded, but I look again and there is nothing, just table, chairs, tablecloth.

  On the table next to me, two lovers in flashes of red are sitting close together, oblivious to anything but each other. I want to warn them, to tell them to run for higher ground.

  “How are you doing, Cassie?”

  The woman in the charcoal apron is standing over me. I open my mouth but nothing comes, and she puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll get you another cup, pet. Don’t you worry, alright?”

  She takes my half-empty cup away. The lovers put on their hats and coats and leave, arms intertwined.

  Table, chairs, tablecloth. Always the same yet different, and always the grey sea beyond the window, grey and squirming.

  The living room smell damp. Yellowed plaster crumbles on the walls, and I walk through the house, tracing every crack with my fingers, feeling them widen beneath
by touch. One by one I count them. The same as yesterday.

  In the kitchen the stove gives out a feeble warmth, and nothing is left to stoke it, so I wrap myself in a pale blue blanket and fill the kettle with water. After an age, steam rises and clings to the cold walls, and I make tea. Across the room sits the kitchen table, two chairs, tablecloth, and I try to remember the missing figure, newspaper, plate, something filling the void.

  Sole. Westerly veering north-westerly five to seven. Rough or very rough. Showers. Moderate, occasionally poor.

  In the living room the blue fairy lights strung across the bay window are reflected back, blurred and distorted by the raindrops against the background of the midnight street. The clothes airer by the radiator sags to one side, and I run my hand over a shirt that hangs from it, still wet. Nothing will dry in this house.

  Rockall. Westerly veering north-westerly five to seven, occasionally gale eight for a time. Rough or very rough. Squally showers. Moderate.

  A blank canvas is propped against the bookshelf. I imagine how it would feel to paint ships gliding beneath the sun with sails in full bloom, great vessels of raw sienna with sheets of white, presiding over bright waves of cobalt teal.

  Malin, Hebrides.

  Tumbling waves, all blues and greens and teeming with life, white foam on the surface sparkling, iridescent.

  West or north-west six to eight. Very rough or high.

  I want to live to see those ships in the sun.

  Squally wintry showers. Poor, light icing.

  Gale force eight veering westerly imminent.

  It is coming.

  The mug has gone cold in my cupped hands. Light is fading outside, dropping down to meet the squalling sea. The woman in the charcoal apron is cleaning the counter, looking at me with sad, impatient eyes.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to go?”

  The pier is silent but for the lapping of the tide against rusting pillars. The faded colours of the amusement rides look tawdry now, and all is battered by the winds that blow in without mercy, ice cold and vatic. There was a time when these wooden planks stood warm and dry and children ran up and down them in the sun. Now this skeleton in soaked to its very bones.

  At the end of the pier I see the hooded boys sitting on the railings. They don’t know what is to come. As I draw near they spread their arms out wide and take off into the air, screaming.

  There are warnings of gales in Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Baily, and Fair Isle.

  By the railings I look out to the dark seas and I see them clearly now, in bloom, filling the whole ocean with their dark vines, moving with unstoppable currents to reach every inch of every shoreline. Their roots are deeper than the fissures of the ocean floor and older than the sun whose light they have sucked from the world.

  Low Faeroes nine-hundred and seventy-eight losing its identity by oh-six-hundred tomorrow.

  No one else can see, nobody understands what it means, what it has been warning of. Like trails of ink dropped into water they spread, stirring, coalescing until the seas themselves are stained black.

  Low one-hundred miles north of North Utsire nine-hundred and seventy-three expected three-hundred and seventy-five miles north…

  I stand upon the railings and drop the radio into the waves. Ancient tendrils reach up and clasp it, bearing it away on tides of thorns. There are no more warnings. The great dome above the Earth has thundered shut forever.

  Dark waters rush in to me from every side.

  It is here.

  Follow this link to read the author notes

  Bells Ringing Under the Sea

  Sophia McDougall

  “Why won’t you talk about her,” you said. “Was she such a terrible person?”

  “She really kind of was,” I said. “Wish I’d never met the woman.”

  Awful thing to say, of course – worked that one out even before your face crumpled and you curled in on yourself and wouldn’t say a thing to me the rest of the evening. But saying anything that would make you leave the subject alone for five seconds was almost worth it.

  It was sort of true. She was terrible. She contained terrors. She was all shine and motion and rip currents and undertows and sharks.

  Mostly, she was terrible to herself.

  Not only, though.

  God, ten years gone and the fights I still have with her. Sweating on the interstate, loading the van, queuing for takeout – takes someone asking why I’m running around with a face like a slapped arse (not that they put it that way, out here) before I even notice I’m doing it.

  Mel, I’ll be thinking, that’s another reason why you fucked up. Will you just admit how fucking unfair this all is? Why did you ever even marry me in the first place?

  Not that it’s just me bullying her, though — in my head she gives as good as she gets.

  And I don’t beg her to come back. Always choked the impulse off before it could draw breath, though there was a time I used to walk around the house a lot just hearing myself saying, “please”.

  And now I can’t find a nice word to say about the poor cow, can I; it all sticks in my craw along with the “Mel come back” stuff. So this is why I’d rather just go on fighting with the woman in my head and not actually say anything.

  But I guess that isn’t going to wash. Hasn’t for a while, in fact. So I ought to think about what I am going to say.

  I could tell you a bit about the wedding, I guess.

  It was kind of a cliché, honestly, but that only makes it easier to get the basics across: a list of fairly standard things for the kind of people we were then. Barefoot on the beach. Candles on the white sand and beads around Mel’s neck and the full moon and the stars out and all of that. Sticks of incense burning, though all you could really smell was that lemony mosquito repellent, but I kind of loved that smell back then and even now, some summer nights when I catch a whiff of it drifting from a neighbour’s back yard… it gets under my lungs and yanks at something so hard I want to scream or smash things or cry or drive into the ocean, and once in a very, very great while I do those things.

  Except never that last one.

  Anyway, the wedding: pretty much the second the rings were on our fingers Mel grabbed my hand and ran straight into the sea in her wedding dress (which was only a patterned sundress she’d picked up from a market stall that morning, after all, but still). And we whoop and kiss and float in each other’s arms. We’re so incredibly pleased with ourselves. We are amazing. Marriage is amazing.

  Then she tips herself over and slips down deep, glossy black water closing over pointed toes, and doesn’t pop back up. So there am I, the new Mr Melanie, left bobbing alone on the dark surface with the floating petals from her wreath of moon daisies, for minute upon minute, saying, “Okay Melanie, it’s not funny,” like she could even hear me.

  So eventually of course a small hand yanked hard on my foot and then slithered up my leg to pinch my arse. Then I’m all enveloped in giggling wet Melanie who’s kissing and nipping at the back of my neck and I never feel like coming out of the water.

  Jesus Christ, Melanie.

  She’d been practising holding her breath since she was tiny, she told me. Long before she ever thought of being a diver. Sitting in the windowsill at the old place in Cornwall, staring out at the sky and not breathing just for the sake of not breathing. Pushing herself farther and farther away from the world. Then worming her way down to the bottom of the local pool and clinging onto the lowest rung of the ladder in the deep end, for seconds and later minutes, there in the chlorine blue, until stars hovered in front of her eyes. Dreaming of Lyonesse.

  Maybe that was actually a big part of her problem; I mean that shit cannot be good for the developing brain. Maybe half of all the bollocks that happened on that awful trip, out in the mist and under the waves, was straightforward brain damage. On her part. I guess on mine, it would have had to be some kind of hysteria.

  Except that doesn’t make a damn thing any better.

&
nbsp; … afar off as it were in the element, huge and mighty hills of water, tumbling one over another in such sort as if the greatest mountain in the world had overwhelmed the low valleys or marshy grounds. Sometimes it so dazzled the eyes of many of the spectators that they imagined it had been some fog or mist coming with great swiftness towards them, and with such smoke as if the mountains had been all on fire; and to the view of some it seemed as if millions of thousands of arrows had been shot forth all at one time, which came in such swiftness, as it was verily thought that the fowls of the air could scarcely fly so fast: such was the threatening fury thereof.

  I offered Mel a toke a day or two after I met her, on the beach at Noosa. She shook her head. She didn’t touch weed, she said, because it made her hallucinations worse. Hallucinations which, incidentally, she suffered from all the time.

  “But not now,” I protested.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, breezily. “They look as real as you do,”

  “How do you know they’re not,” I said. I didn’t mean to be a dick about it, I just had no idea how you’d navigate so much as a trip to the supermarket let alone go skipping from ocean to ocean, when there’s flayed-skull type things glaring at you out of the air all the time.

  “Context,” she said.