Transmissions

by Dominic Lyne

think when looking at your reflection. He shrugs, finishes drying and returns to his room. He pauses to look at the TV screen. Another murder, the face and name of the victim in the top right behind the reporter’s head. He turns and gets dressed, pausing briefly to look out the window.

  The story is still running when his eyes return to the screen. Another picture, the same name. Gabriel Cooper. It means nothing to him but whoever he was he was rather pretty. Should have been more careful, he thinks. Bet he’s left a few broken hearts. As he shrugs his shoulders, Tomas turns off the TV.

  John:

  Memory

  I don’t know how I got here, my feet just led me down the changed but familiar streets and here I am, stood in the darkening world looking down a route of memories. Such memories, all of them pouring back from the recesses of my mind. It’s been almost three decades since I was last here. Thirty years have passed; aged across my skin like it has the appearance of this place. So much history, so many lives crossed. A pocket of history, my history, London’s history.

  I sit down against the side, looking at the entrance. A sigh, this was where I met her, all those years ago. Looking at it now through my fifty-five year old eyes I can’t help but let my mind redesign the scene. Let the memories clean away the decay of time and perfect it back to as I remember it the dearest, that one day when we first met. The day that changed everything. The day I fell in love.

  I was eighteen back then, the year was 2065, little did we know that in two years this tube station would be closed and our memories boarded away underground. The world was in a state of change, filled with tension and insecurity, a world growing in fear every day but despite this we were carefree. We were young; we had our freedom, our own little world within the world itself. I remember it so well, that first meeting. I’d been sat alone on the train, minding my own business, simply looking out of the window at the darkness passing by. The train had stopped along the way letting on the ever-changing flux of passengers, all of these new faces had been oblivious to me until we were about to leave the station. Then I’d turned and looked around my interior surroundings only to have my breath stolen from me by the beautiful girl sat on the seat opposite, she’d blushed so red when she’d been caught looking at me. Yes, that’s right; she’d noticed me before I did her. When our eyes met I saw heaven within hers. We both turned away at the same time, our faces burning. I wanted her from that first moment. She got off at a stop before mine, we smiled as she departed, my heart felt like it was breaking as I watched her leave. What would be the chances of our paths meeting again?

  Meet they did, as if by fate on the same day, the return journey to our homes. She glided into the carriage like a mermaid would rise from the depths. Our eyes met again and she looked away in embarrassment, opting for an empty seat a few rows ahead of mine. I couldn’t let her get away this time and as the train began its movement into the darkness I bit my tongue and moved to sit next to her. So much confidence I had back then. The confidence of youth, of love. I just sat next to her and introduced myself. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I said, ‘but let me introduce myself. I’m John.’

  She giggled, took a quick look out of the window before turning back and saying, ‘I don’t mind at all.’ A blush. ‘I’m Emma.’

  ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Emma.’ I offered my hand.

  ‘The same could be said for you.’ She smiled her beautiful smile and shook the outstretched hand.

  I pull myself up from the floor and walk over to the boarded entrance. A tear can be hidden well in the rain. Yes, it’s raining, the drizzle has become a hearty pour so I force a gap in the entrance and squeeze my way in. Let it not be said that fifty-five year olds have no stamina. The darkness hits my eyes, the smell of damp up my nose. From the pocket of my beaten up coat I pull out the pocket torch I keep in there and turn it on. Its faint beam illuminates dully across the void, the tunnel stretching off into the unknown darkness. I walk forward slowly, watching my step, surveying the scene. How beautiful it still is. A testament to it, beautiful even in its decay. The memories continue to pour forwards, so many moments shared in this one section of track, not only for me but for others. This empty space contains so many silent spectres of the past, thousands of memories implanted on the surroundings, never to be seen again but forever present, living silently in the shadows. Happiness, sadness, love and deceit all trailing through here along the tracks still embedded on the floor.

  We’d had our first kiss here. A stolen kiss on the seats of the train as it glided gracefully along. We’d known each other for a few months before that, getting closer, falling deeper and deeper into love. Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. I found it here, in this place. Underground. I sigh again and let myself crumble to the floor. I know why my body chose to come back here, not for the love of memories but for its metaphor of life. Even this place has lived, died, laid in wait. Everything decays but the memories remain. The life for Emma and I had continued for three years until I ran, ran from my responsibilities and duty. I left her alone and pregnant with our daughter. Our daughter Mary. Throughout the years I have learnt details about the fate that was bestowed upon dear Emma. She died aged twenty-six; cancer had rotted her body from within. She died like she had lived, alone. So much pain at that news. I often think about my daughter and what she has become, what she has grown into. She is but a void.

  My life collapsed when I found out about Emma’s death, despite her pain being my fault I crumbled, I lost everything. Years on the street have welcomed me, aged me, decayed me. Yet there is one thing it cannot touch, the beauty of my past, of my history, my memories. All of those are locked within the walls of my body. Pockets of my history. People never die; they live on as silent ghosts in the places they loved. And here, in this place, my most beautiful memories lay to rest.

  Tomas:

  Therapy

  The lips on her sixth head move. He knows he should be listening but the vision of a seven-headed humanoid beast distracts his mind. Sat back on her couch she breathes out a stream of cigarette smoke from her second. He realises the pill was a bad idea.

  ‘So Tomas,’ she says, cutting through his thoughts. ‘Where were we?’

  He shrugs his quiet reply.

  ‘We can sit here in silence if you prefer, but as you know that is not the way these sessions work.’

  He bites his tongue. She’s right, bitch. Adjusting his own position he tries to remain as composed as possible. ‘May I smoke?’

  ‘You know you can. No formalities here.’

  He manoeuvres a cigarette from the pack and works it into his lips. The beast leans forward and offers a light with her tentacle arm. The flame ignites from its tip and he breathes it in through the stick. Inhale. Hold. Count to five. Exhale. ‘What do you want to know?’ he says through the smoke.

  ‘How about we talk about your feelings?’

  ‘That’s very generic.’

  ‘Is it?’ Her necks begin to merge together, one head melting into its neighbour. A fourteen-lipped mouth continues. ‘Everything can be summed up when we understand the reason for our actions.’

  ‘Right.’ He closes his eyes and inhales through cancer again. ‘That simple?’

  ‘Simplicity is never the answer. So, tell me about.’ She pauses at the wrong moment and lights a new cigarette for herself. ‘Tell me about your day.’

  ‘My day? Which day?’

  ‘Any day that stands out as important.’ Another pause. ‘The day you knew you could do it.’

  Tomas shivers and flickers his eyes open. Spitting visual venom in her direction. She avoids its acid hit by shaking her multi-face into one. She smiles warmly. Bitch.

  ‘Take me through that day. That moment.’

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’

  ‘Define “love”.’

  He bites his lip. She sits there in her ‘norm
al’ appearance; hiding the beast he knows hides under the surface. ‘How can you? I can’t. I just know I never felt that way for anyone. Ever. Could never again.’

  ‘That is a limitation.’

  ‘That’s an honesty. He was perfect. It was never meant to end the way it did.’ A pause. The vision blurs and distorts, the world melting around him. ‘It was never meant to end that way. He was perfect. Even in his death. He just laid on the floor and I hugged him. Curled around his back until his body froze and the blood soaked the carpet.’

  ‘And you did not call anyone for help?’

  ‘Who could have helped? He was my world and he lay there broken. Shattered.’

  ‘It could have been prevented.’

  ‘It was the way it had to be.’ Click. Flame. Inhale. ‘After that everything was different. How can the world remain the same once its core has gone?’

  The eyes open. Bed. Memory. Dream or reality? Flashback. He pulls himself free of his covers and runs naked to the bathroom. Bent over the toilet he heaves. Muscles contract but there is nothing to force out. He hasn’t eaten for days. Self-medicating and this is a part of the withdrawal. Another pill will cure this, he thinks. He pops one from its packaging and swallows dry. Another pill cures the sickness, but the pain remains hidden under euphoria.

  His