It’s like a needle, red hot, no not a needle, a sword, red hot, through my mind, through my brain, at once, the pain is staggering and I can’t stop it, can’t stop being lifted, being pulled, being thrown, I’m flying, I’m in the air like I belong, but instead of rejoicing I am crying because I’m blood, I’m dying, there’s a sword through my head, there’s one through my heart and even though I’m a small bird I do have a large heart breaking, bleeding and dying, so I keep saying close my eyes, close my eyes and let me die in peace, let me float in peace to meet but I can’t.
Because someone’s screaming.
“Open your eyes!”
“Open your eyes!”
Scream
“Open your eyes!”
So I open my eyes.
And then I close them again.
I know, at least, that I’m not a bird.
And I see the wolf, again.
***
I can feel my eyes are open but I can’t see. I can hear sounds all around me but I can’t understand what they mean. The pressure underneath my feet tells me that I’m standing but I don’t know how. Only the cold is known, and still constant.
I’m not a bird. I’m a man. And now I have two courses for revenge.
***
It’s cold, so cold as I rub my bare hands together to try and get just a tiny bit of warmth into them, my fingers that burn with pain because I can’t feel them. I’m pulling my worn shawl around my shoulders, trying to get some protection from the freezing cold and rain.
The doorway offers scant protection, but at least it’s there. I’m watching the dark figures approach, slowly on the frozen, empty road. They must have seen me but they make no sign, no recognition as they get nearer, as I can start to see the glisten of their eyes.
They’re almost upon me now, I can tell now, it’s a man and a woman, both dressed in heavy clothes, both with long drawn faces from the cold, both just focused on getting inside. Walking side by side but not touching, they reach me and I can feel the warmth from their bodies for a second, as the man brushes past me and they start inside.
I grab the man’s coat and try to speak “Can you help me, please” my voice coming out as a harsh croaking. It’s as if I’m suddenly visible, as if some cloak has been ripped off, they’re both there, helping me to my feet, holding me up, taking me inside. I’m struggling to walk, I wonder how long I’ve been sitting there, how much of the cold I’ve allowed to penetrate my bones, as I gratefully allow myself to be walked inside, towards a flight of stairs.
We’re sitting now, in a small room, all three of us around a table, mugs of coffee in our hands. I’m not even drinking, just allowing the warmth from the drink to enter me and make me feel alive again. They are looking at me, both, intently, not saying a word. It’s some time before I can speak.
“Thank you” I manage
“How long were you out there?” It’s the girl
I study her thin, tired face, some kind of beauty hidden there. “I don’t know” I whisper.
“Well OK,” she reaches forward and pats my hand with her gloved fingers, “you’ve got a chance to regain your strength. It’s been so cold here for so long, I don’t know how anyone can survive out there too long.” She coughs, hard, and it racks her fragile body, but she doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice. “I’m Jenny, by the way.”
The man nods, and says “Mark”. They’re both looking at me expectantly.
“Er, erm, I’m, er, John” I reply. At least I think I do.
“Where do you come from” asks Jenny; “Why are you here” asks Mark, their questions overlapping. It doesn’t matter as I don’t really know how to answer either of them, and they hang in the air with expectation. Finally Jenny shrugs and says “I’m going to bed”. She’s gone before I can say anything, leaving me sat with this unknown man, unsure of my next move.
He clears his throat and says “look, you’re welcome to stay here tonight. That’s all we can manage, I’m afraid, you know how things are.”
“Erm, you can sleep on the sofa over there” he offers, gesturing.
“You look really tired” he tries.
“Is there someone I can call to help you?” he asks.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asks.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks.
“Are you going to pay us for staying here overnight” he enquires.
[Where am I and why am I not answering]
“Listen” he sighs, “I’m going to get a drink, do you want one?”
[I can’t even answer that]
He gets up wearily, and walks past me. Come on, come on. His arm brushes mine, it’s just enough and I grab it and force myself to say “A whisky, please”
He stares at me. Without answering he turns away, as a shrill noise behind him starts. I don’t bother turning, staring at the empty space in front of me, through the window beyond, at the driving rain against the dark sky.
His voice is quiet but clearly audible behind me. “Hello, Mark Forth speaking”
[something in me chimes]
“Yes, that’s right…no, not right now…no, definitely not… yes, ok, I understand….yes, thank you, goodbye.”
I close my eyes and he’s sitting in front of me again, holding out a glass to me. I look at his eyes, searching, but they tell me nothing, so I take the glass and drink.
“Where are you from?” he asks. I drink and stare at the snow.
“What’s in the packet?” he asks.
The whisky tastes rich and warm.
“What’s in the packet?” he asks again. I think his eyes are bleeding. “I need to know what’s in the packet.”
“Do I know you?” I ask.
“Tell me what’s in the packet.”
“Why do I know your name?”
“You don’t know my name. You don’t know me. Give me the packet.”
I clutch on to it tightly. “I do know you. I’ve always known you. Do you have any pills?”
He stares at me for a moment, then with his left hand, fumbles in his worn black jacket and pulls something out. I look at it eagerly, but it’s only a packet of cigarettes. Slowly he allows one to slip out of the torn foil on the end, he taps it on the table and puts it between his lips. Before lighting it he holds out the packet to me. Shrugging my shoulders, I take one. His right hand is shaking when he lights both of our cigarettes. He studies me thoughtfully as the smoke fills up the small room. The table is cold to the touch.
“I have a pill for you” he says at last. “But you must show me what’s in the packet.” I swallow, and I nod. A small smile appears on his cracked lips. From somewhere in his jacket he produces a small envelope, that he slides across the wooden surface to me. My trembling hands take a moment to tear it open and shake out the familiar pill in front of me. It’s in my mouth and drowned by whisky, and I can feel its effect immediately as the clouds begin to clear.
“Now” he whispers, “the packet.”
I shrug and hand it over. “It’s still mine, you understand” I breath.
He’s holding the packet in his hands, looking at it, I can feel his warm, steady breath touch me across the room and I look at my own hands, broken, cracked and empty and wonder if I have betrayed something, for nothing.
Very carefully, meticulously, he unfolds its top and reaches inside, drawing out a white piece of paper. I have no idea what’s on it, as he scans it, intently, as he lets it fall back into the packet. With it still in his hands he looks up at me and shakes his head very slowly, a questioning look in his eyes.
“What” I ask, “what?”
His face has, if it’s possible, become even whiter than it was before, and I am sure that I can see a glistening, a tear maybe in his eye. It’s not my problem, I’m not sure what is, so I drink the rest of my whisky and ask “can I have the packet back please.” He doesn’t answer, he just starts laughing, heavily, loud, hysterically, banging the table with his fists, he’s starting
to cough and splutter as he’s laughing so much, but still he carries on, wiping the tears away from his eyes, coughing his guts up from too much smoking, spitting the whisky onto the dirty table, until finally he stops, throwing his head forward, resting it between his hands, muttering something between chuckles and sobs, and I can feel a presence next to me, it’s her, Jenny, I think, standing next to me, in a flimsy, dirty white nightgown, accentuating her figure. She’s shivering in the cold, goosebumps on her arms, as I watch her brush her long hair out of her eyes, I really want to reach out and touch her, but she ignores me. She whispers, but her voice is caught up, magnified in the silence
“What is it? What’s the matter? Why are you laughing? Mark, are you OK?” She’s up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, holding him, whispering in his ear, as I stand there. She glances at me with such a hostile look that I find myself recoiling, pushed up against the white stone wall.
“Oh shit”, she breathes, “oh shit oh shit oh…” and she doesn’t finish her sentence, there’s a huge crash and I’m flying, thrown across the room, trying to protect myself but I find myself on her, holding onto her, I can feel her skin, her breasts, touching me, she pushes me away, we end up side by side, hunched on the floor, and involuntarily she grabs hold of me, in her fear.
Across the room, where there was a wall, there’s a hole, rubble scattered around it. In front of it, where there was nothing, there stands what seems to be a giant robot, an iron clad man, with a helmet, a visor and an enormous gun. The gun is pointing at me.
“You will come with me” its mechanical voice confirms my impression, and my faint hope that he’s talking to the girl disappears when I find myself hauled up to my feet and held in an impossibly tight grip. As he’s dragging me to the hole, his head turns and he says, in the same, strange voice “Apologies for the inconvenience”. I feel kind of guilty, too, that I have brought this on them. I don’t know why.
I can’t really describe what’s happening to me now, I don’t really understand it, until I’m back here, where I find myself in what I guess is a jail cell. I find myself sitting down, on a metal bench against a wall in the small space. It stinks in here, that’s what I notice first. What I notice second is the bench on the opposite wall, close enough to touch, two figures hunched over, sitting on it, their faces covered and turned away, their clothes bedraggled. I’m trying to get up but I’m struggling so much, struggling to get to my feet and get over there, maybe something’s holding me down but I just feel so tired, like my body has no energy left, everything is so hard, until I let myself fall back onto the bench.
“Hey!” I say, “hey!” and one of the figures moves slightly, like it’s only just realised I’m here. I can see, now, a slit for the eyes, peering out cautiously, which seems to be followed by a long moan. Very slowly, a hand reaches up and pulls back the cloth covering the head, revealing a dark, face, covered in stubble, hair all over the place.
“You” it whispers, and I realise, to my shock, that I am looking at Detective Stephen Carver.
“You need to help me” he starts, “Ian’s dying”
“He was bitten” I reply, “he’s going through the change.”
“No!” he tries to shout, but it comes out more like a sob, “No, it’s not that! I’ve seen the change, and it’s not that, he’s dying, really, look, and they won’t help.”
I sigh. “Let me look at him, Stephen.”
The man studies me sharply, then he lets it go, reaching down and pulling the shawl from his friend’s face. Ian Morrell really is dying, I realise, his face drawn and red, covered in sores, puss and blood oozing from them. His eyes are open, but completely white, like the pupils have disappeared, and great clumps of his hair have fallen out.
“Shit” is all I can say.
“You” he whispers, “you did this to us. You got us here.”
“No” I say.
“It’s your fault. I will repay you.”
“That’s not what happened. I didn’t know what was going to happen then.”
I leave the silence in the air for a while. “I’m sorry about your friend, really.”
He’s not looking at me, he just grunts.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“Clearly”, he says, after a pause, “whatever you did to him, to bring him here, wherever, here is, after you had him bitten by a vampire, made this happen.”
Clearly, he’s probably right.
“Have you asked for help?”
He laughs. “Yes, I’ve asked for help. You know what they said?”
I hardly dare ask. “What?”
“They said, just let him die, it will save us a job.”
“They said that?”
He laughs bitterly. “That’s what they said. The one time I saw them. After banging on that door” he nods into the corner, “for half an hour, they came and they said that. And now I can’t move, either. They’re just letting us die.”
“But…do you even know who they are?”
He snarls at me “I don’t know who they are, I don’t even know where we are, you…”Ian Morrell moans, and Stephen looks down, with tenderness, he strokes his hair.
Morrell’s sighing, moving his arms about slowly, almost deliberately. The sores that cover his face make him almost unrecognisable, even worse, make his face seem like it’s melting, flowing away. Carver is stroking him, whispering to him, his hands shaking as he waits for the inevitable.
“Why” he whispers, “why did you do this to us?”
I guess I could even laugh at this, instead I just reply “Why? Well, let me ask you, why did you try to arrest me?”
He doesn’t look at me when replying, mumbling towards his friend “I told you already, someone had to take the fall. And we just didn’t like you, that’s all. That’s all there is to it. You were annoying, arrogant and rich."
I shake my head “isn’t everyone?”
“Maybe. Maybe just because you were ugly. Or we were paid. What do I care? I mean, what does it matter now? We’re stuck here, we’re going to die here. And it’s your fault.”
“Hey, hey, what makes you think we’re going to die here? Come on, we can still escape.” I can’t believe the stupidity of having to try and help this man, this enemy of mine.
“Escape” he whispers. “My friend, my best friend, is near death. I can’t even stand, I can’t even get up, can you? Of course you can’t. And we’re stuck somewhere, in a cell, somewhere I don’t even understand, do you even know where we are?”
I shake my head. “We’re Somewhere Else” I reply.
He laughs bitterly. “You see, I don’t even know what that means” and as he stares at me, I see his friend dissolve in his hands, finally, dissolve, and fall away onto the dirty grey stone floor in front of him.
Stephen Carver watches it happen, and starts sobbing silently. I’m holding my breath, I realise, but can’t let it go as I can’t help but share his personal grief.
Just before the door swings open, I manage to whisper “I’m sorry, Stephen.” He doesn’t look up as a tall, unspeakably thin man enters and stops between us, reaching down and touching him on the shoulder with a long bony finger. Stephen Carver stands up mechanically and leaves the cell, the man takes his place opposite me. I can only look at his shiny black shoes treading in the sticky remains of former Detective Ian Morrell.
“Well, well, well” comes the voice, and I tear my eyes away and upwards, to see this man in his shiny black suit. He is so thin, his face looks like it has been squeezed in a vice, his nose almost as wide as his entire face. His suit hangs on him like a bag, like it was made for someone twice as big, someone normal. His voice is deep, harsh and slow, though, like it belongs to someone else, maybe the man whose suit it is.
“Well, well, well” he repeats; leaning over, he touches me with his strange fingers and immediately I feel strength return to my muscles, instinctively I’m starting to get up but a look on his face stops
me, and I sink back against the wall.
He nods towards the door. “He’ll be dealt with, and pay for his crimes, don’t worry. And so, of course, shall you.”
“My crimes?”
He gives me a thin smile. “Tomorrow, my friend, that’s when you will be in court. Maybe you should sleep before then.”
Sleep. Now there’s a novel concept.
***
There’s a huge glass window at one end of the court, and all the chairs and desks are angled to face it. It makes it kind of weird, if you are standing, like I am, in the defendant’s box, because all you’re doing is facing this window, as are the judge, the lawyers and the jury, such as they are, and of course the spectators. All turned away from each other, away from me, all facing the window. In fact, more than this, they’re all in front of me, even the judge, so that none of them can see me without turning round.
And behind the window, the scene of someone being executed. In this case, of course, the someone is Stephen Carver, gone to join his friend and soul mate in the Great Detective Agency in the Sky. A live execution, pretty interesting, and though I’ll record it here, I do admit to being slightly ashamed about the ‘serve you right’ feeling that I get when I see him fall to his knees and beg for his life before he is disembowelled, and, screaming with pain, decapitated.
Everyone here cheers for that bit (I find myself joining in, caught up by the atmosphere), and even in his agony, Stephen Carver does turn round and does look at us, a total lack of comprehension on his face about his crimes, his reason for being there.
As his body crumples the glass explodes, like a bomb, shattering us all in tiny fragments, I find I’ve thrown myself down beneath the flimsy wooden defendants stand, yet peering out I see that everyone’s on their feet, reaching out, grabbing the glass, rushing forward, grabbing the disembowelled, headless body, dragging it out and tearing it to pieces.
“This”, I breath to myself, “isn’t good.”
“All rise” booms the judge and everyone laughs, including him.
“Ah yes” he continues, “now we have the case of the people versus the next intruder.” He coughs, “will you stand, please."
Everyone laughs again. The judge, wearing a white wig and a red gown, grabs a microphone from his desk and shouts “Play it again! Play it again, Barbarossa!”
More laughter.
Falling Page 16
