Poison City

by Paul Crilley

  A man remembers when his brother stole his girlfriend, thirty-two years ago. He gets a kitchen knife, travels to the other side of the city, and drives it into his sibling’s heart, screaming about lost love and what might have been.

  A nun who teaches at the Our Lady of Fatima Dominican Convent School runs naked through the streets, screaming that she’s in love with a woman who used to live next door to her.

  An anorexic teen eats her family. She keeps going until her stomach lining ruptures and she dies from internal bleeding.

  A television presenter who gained exactly 0.4 of a kilogram in the previous month goes on a rampage at the local television studio, locking his co-presenters in the editing suite and setting fire to the building. He then proceeds to cut the fat from his body with a blunt knife, weighing himself after every cut, muttering about it not being enough. It’s never enough.

  A failed businessman steals his neighbour’s jeep and rams it into the closest ATM. When he still can’t get the money out he shoots himself in the head.

  The Playhouse, Durban’s oldest theatre, is only about ten blocks over from the Rift.

  It’s an unassuming, old-fashioned building, fronted by a small portico supported by columns plastered with posters for upcoming plays and ballets.

  The street is eerily quiet compared to the rest of Durban. No gangs here. No screeching cars. No fires. The street is deserted, quiet.

  Calm.

  Has to be Mother Durban’s doing.

  I try the front doors. Locked. I consider using my gun to shoot out the glass, but something makes me pause. There’s an air of respect here. Doing something like shooting the doors to gain entrance seems . . . sacrilegious.

  ‘There’s another entrance round the side,’ says Armitage.

  We head down a dirty, cobbled alley. Apartment blocks tower up to either side. Washing lines straddle the air above the alley, strung up between cracked and broken windows.

  The side entrance to the Playhouse is an ornate door at the top of five steps. Armitage is ahead of me. She pushes it open and we enter a narrow hall. The lights are on. The walls are lined with posters advertising The Nutcracker, Aladdin, Swan Lake.

  The passage leads into a wide atrium, an area where people can wait for the plays to begin. Leather couches, cramped tables and chairs. A long bar to the left.

  There are three different stages in the playhouse: the Loft, the Opera Theatre and the Drama Theatre. We climb the set of stairs that leads to the Opera Theatre, picking this one because it’s the biggest stage and the most likely place we’d find Mother Durban.

  We move along the rotunda that leads to the theatre itself. Concealed lights cast a warm glow across the red carpets. I can hear sounds as we approach a door. Loud voices, drums, heavy echoes.

  I hesitate, wondering if we should be doing this. I feel like we’re interrupting something private. Like we’re stepping into a church during a stranger’s funeral.

  ‘Ah . . . I’ll wait here,’ says the dog. ‘Don’t think I’d be welcome inside.’

  I nod and gently push the door open. Armitage and I step inside.

  The theatre is huge. We’ve entered right at the back, and a thousand seats spread out below us, a semicircle of high-backed chairs leading downwards. Painted Elizabethan buildings flank the brightly lit stage. A starry sky twinkles above actors performing to an entirely empty house.

  ‘There,’ whispers Armitage, pointing.

  Ah. Not entirely empty. There’s someone seated in the front row, a shadowy figure with head craned back, watching the play unfold with rapt attention.

  We make our way down the sloped floor, heading towards the figure. My eyes are drawn to the play as we do so. The actors are running around, clashing in groups while red and orange ribbon, blown by wind machines, sway across the stage.

  I suddenly realise I’m watching a play about what’s happening in Durban right at this moment. The riots engulfing the city, the fires burning through the streets.

  As we draw closer I see that the figure watching the play is an African woman. But then I blink and she’s suddenly Indian. Then a white housewife. Then a small black kid. Another blink and she looks like a Dutch settler, sitting in old-fashioned clothes. And then she’s an elderly Zulu tribeswoman, laughing with delight and clapping.

  I suppose it makes sense. Mother Durban is made up of the entire history of the city. The souls and memories of all its inhabitants reside in her.

  The face that finally turns to look at us is that of a smooth-skinned African woman. She looks like she’s about twenty-five. Her mouth is turned down, a crease in her brows showing her annoyance.

  ‘You are interrupting my show,’ she says.

  I glance at the stage. In the time it’s taken for her to acknowledge our presence, the sets and actors have changed. Now there are two people and a dog approaching a painted facade of the Playhouse itself.

  I realise with a jolt that the actors are supposed to represent us. I watch as they enter the building. The lights fade to darkness. A moment later they come on again to reveal the actors and Mother Durban’s double, standing against a painted backdrop of the stage itself.

  The three actors turn to look at us.

  ‘The story is waiting,’ says Mother Durban, and the words come simultaneously from her and the woman on the stage. ‘What will you write?’

  ‘We . . . want to track someone,’ I say. ‘The person responsible for what’s happening right now.’

  ‘You mean Lilith?’

  Armitage and I exchange looks.

  ‘Yes. Can you tell us where she is?’ I ask.

  ‘I can.’

  I wait. But Mother Durban says nothing. Instead she feels around in her seat and pulls out a box of Smarties. She pops the lid and tips the contents of the box into her mouth, staring at me expectantly.

  ‘Well . . . will you?’ I ask.

  ‘Perhaps. What can you offer me in return?’

  I stare at her in amazement. ‘We’re trying to save your city. We’re trying to stop the Night from taking over.’ A horrible thought occurs to me. ‘Unless . . . unless you want the Night to win?’

  ‘No. I do not want that. I’m quite happy with my city as it is.’

  ‘Then tell us.’

  ‘If you pay. Nothing is free, Mr London.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Fine. What’s the price?’

  ‘The price is always the same. That which is most valuable to you.’

  She gestures at the stage. I glance across, only half-interested. But something in the layout of the set makes my head snap around.

  It’s an exact replica of Timothy Evan’s house.

  I look at Mother Durban uncertainly, but she smiles benignly and gestures back to the stage.

  An actor enters the room from the wings and someone who had been sitting on the floor surges to his feet and grabs him.

  There follows an exact re-enactment of what happened earlier that evening. I can feel Armitage’s focus shifting between the play and myself. When Evans tells me my daughter is still alive, she reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it tightly.

  When the play reaches the point where Evans tells me the name of the fae who took Cally, Mother Durban raises her hand in the air.

  The play stops abruptly, as if a pause button has been pushed on a DVD. Mother Durban turns to me.

  ‘That is the price you must pay for the knowledge you seek.’

  I blink, unsure what she’s talking about. I look back to the frozen tableau, see the actor representing me staring at Evans with disbelief and hope clear on his features.

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘Oh, London,’ whispers Armitage. ‘I’m so sorry, pet.’

  I turn to her. ‘What?’

  ‘Not too sharp, is he, honey?’ Mother Durban gets up and comes to stand before me. Except now she’s a little Indian girl, about ten years old. She gestures me closer.

  I crouch down and she puts a hand to my ear, leaning in to w
hisper. ‘The price is always the same, no matter who asks. I want that which is most valuable to you. In your case, the memory of who took your daughter.’

  I lean back, stare at her in shock. ‘No.’ I shake my head, straighten up. ‘No. You can’t.’

  She shrugs and goes back to her seat. ‘Your choice.’

  ‘You can’t . . .’ I turn to Armitage. ‘She can’t.’ Back again to face Mother Durban. ‘Three years!’ I shout. ‘Three years I’ve thought my daughter was dead! I’ve only just found out she’s alive! Found out who did it! And you want me to just . . . forget that? Give it away?’

  ‘Your choice,’ repeats Mother Durban. She gestures at the stage.

  I turn and see that the sets have been cleared, leaving behind empty boards. ‘But you must decide soon. The play has not ended this night.’

  I take a step forward, yank my gun out. Hold it in a trembling hand. ‘Just tell me. Tell me where Lilith is!’

  ‘London, don’t,’ warns Armitage. I feel her hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off. I’m trembling with fury. With fear.

  ‘Tell. Me.’

  Mother Durban looks at me calmly. She reaches up and curls her fingers around the barrel, moving it to her temple ‘Best to make sure,’ she says softly.

  I put my finger on the trigger. Can feel it easing slowly inward.

  ‘Gideon,’ says Armitage quietly. ‘Come on, love. Don’t be a silly bugger.’

  I grit my teeth. Mother Durban stares into my eyes.

  I scream in anger and frustration, throw my gun aside. ‘What is it with you people?’ I shout. ‘Why can’t you just do something good? Why do you always need a piece of someone’s soul?’

  ‘It is not a price worth charging if it is not worth giving.’

  I point a shaking finger at her. ‘Fuck you and the bike you rode in on, you sanctimonious bitch.’

  I turn to Armitage. ‘I can’t. I won’t. The world can fucking burn. I won’t give up the name.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to,’ she says softly.

  ‘Why not?’ I’m shouting again. Can’t seem to make myself stop. I’m pleading with her. ‘Ask me! Tell me I have to do it!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘No. It’s all down to me, isn’t it? Fucking marvellous.’

  I stalk away from them, pacing in circles just below the stage. I can’t do this. I can’t lose hope again. I’ve just got it back. I can find her. I can get her back. We can be a family again. Me, Cally, Becca—

  I freeze. No. Not Becca. I can’t save her. She died thinking our daughter was dead, murdered by some sick fucking bastards who got their kicks out of torturing kids. She’ll never know the truth.

  But I do. I can get Cally back. I know I can. All I need to do is walk out that door.

  I approach the door with the red EXIT sign above it. I pull it open, step out of the theatre, into the hallway. The door swings shut behind me.

  Just keep walking. Find Cally. Leave the country. Go back to London. Start a new life. Leave everyone to sort out their own mess.

  Except, this isn’t their own mess, is it? I caused it.

  I drop to my knees. After all this. After everything I’ve been through. Everything I’ve given away.

  I sold my soul for this name. Fuck, I sold out humanity for the name. And oh, sweet irony, if I want my humanity back I have to give the name away again. I shake my head. Where’s the justice there? Where’s my justice? Can’t I have something for myself, just this once?

  I start to laugh. I can’t help it. It’s all a big fucking joke, isn’t it?

  I see Cally’s face. What would she look like now? After three years. If I walk away now, what would she say when I told her how expensive her freedom was? Would she be grateful? Would she understand? When she’s older and the world is gone to shit. When Night has taken over and humanity is . . . what? Wiped out? Enslaved? What would she say to me? Because all that crap Lilith fed me about being fair, about letting the good survive, that was obviously all bullshit. She never intended to keep her word.

  Unless everyone in Durban deserves punishment.

  I run that thought back again. What was it she said? Lilith? The guilty will be punished. The innocent will be spared.

  And there you have it. I straighten up. She’s not breaking her word at all. She meant it. Because who, when you got right down to it, wasn’t guilty of something, at least in their own minds? Whether it’s cheating on a spouse, not paying their taxes, lying to their kids about being too busy to play.

  Everyone’s guilty of something. It’s the human condition.

  Lilith tricked me.

  No, I’d let her trick me.

  Ah, fuck. I slump back against the wall, rub my face wearily.

  I can feel it inside. I’m going to give her the memory.

  I have to. I can’t sentence humanity to death in Cally’s name. What kind of fucking justice is that?

  I pull myself to my feet, push open the door. The stage has changed again. A painted backdrop of the hallway I’d just been in. As I walk into the theatre, my actor is moving towards me. His face is blurred, almost featureless. I don’t stop as he leaves the stage, still walking. We move towards each other, neither of us slowing. I can see Armitage and Mother Durban watching behind him as we meet . . .

  . . . A sensation like pushing against the wind. I look behind me and see him glancing over his shoulder at me. I don’t know what this means. It’s symbolic of something, but I have no idea what. That the story is ongoing? We’re all acting out parts?

  I shake my head, turn back to Mother Durban. Now she’s a tall Asian woman, watching me expressionlessly.

  ‘Do it,’ I say.

  ‘London—’

  ‘Armitage, it’s fine. I have to.’

  Mother Durban nods. ‘You realise it is not just your memory? But that of the man who told you. Whoever knows. None will remember.’

  I nod. ‘Figured as much. Get it over with.’

  Mother Durban puts her hands on my temples, closes her eyes.

  I try to hold on to the memory. I repeat the name over and over in my head. But it’s no good. I can feel it slipping away, like water through my fingers.

  I don’t forget that I once knew the name. I just forget what it is.

  I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. Good, I think. At least I still know she’s alive. I just won’t know who has her. Or where.

  And then it’s done. An empty space in my head that fills up with thoughts of regret and anger, with guilt and sadness. Mother Durban steps back and I scrabble through my memories, hoping she left something, anything.

  She didn’t. All I’m left with is the knowledge that I once knew how to save Cally and I gave it away.

  ‘Lilith is beneath my streets,’ says Mother Durban. ‘There are storm drains that lead to the sea. In the place you call Whoonga Park. They will take you to her.’

  I feel Armitage’s hand on my arm, pulling me away. I pick my gun up from the floor and follow after her, out into the corridor, then back out onto the streets. Armitage says nothing. Hell, even the dog is quiet for once.

  Whoonga Park is an inner city area off limits to the likes of you and me, a dry, scruffy piece of land squashed between the M4 and the train tracks.

  The place is a nightmare. Even the police tend to stay away. Every now and then you read news reports about ‘clean-ups’ and ‘evictions’, but it never lasts. The hundred or so vagrants who live there – the homeless, immigrants, the dying – all gravitate back to the spot like bacteria to an open wound.

  I’ve only ever seen Whoonga Park in passing. Every time I look I see a huge group of people milling around like mindless zombies, shuffling back and forth across the tracks, smoking their drug of choice and looking like extras from The Walking Dead. They always look like they’re in some kind of trance. Blank eyes, vacant expressions.

  Until they rise to action. Until an intruder walks into their midst. Then they go apeshit crazy, feral animals
protecting their territory.

  Armitage, the dog, and I stand on the bridge that crosses the rail tracks. Over to our left I can see the addicts, shuffling around, sitting around small fires. But the area to the right of our location is clear, the train tracks pushing right up against a steep bank.

  ‘The storm drains are over there,’ says Armitage, pointing towards a freeway overpass beyond the vagrants. ‘To the left of that flyover.’ She points to the right. ‘Reckon we head along the tracks by the bank and loop around behind them. No need to intrude, eh?’

  I nod. I’m surprised the vagrants are still here. I thought they would have joined in the riots. They’re getting even worse. The cops have given up and word on the police radio is the Defence Force is on its way.

  Which means more guns and more deaths. Time is running out.

  There’s a hole in the wall above the bank that borders the track. We duck through and slide down the grass into the gravel the rusted rail tracks are resting on.

  A few of the whoonga addicts turn at the noise. We duck low. After a few seconds they turn away.

  Armitage raises two fingers and points ahead. The dog doesn’t even wait for us, probably thinking he’s got more of a chance on his own. He moves into the darkness, vanishing from sight.

  Armitage and I follow the railway lines for about two hundred metres, moving parallel to the vagrants. Once we get past them we cross over the tracks, moving towards the shadows of the concrete pillars supporting the overpass. They’re covered in graffiti, pictures of an odd-looking rowing boat, signatures and tags one atop the other until all that’s left is a confused mess.

  The dog pads back to join us.

  -The opening into the storm drains is up ahead. Keep quiet, though. There’s a few of them sleeping in the entrance.-

  We move beneath the flyover. There’s no light here. Just shadows and darkness. We pass over broken rubble and old playing cards. Empty bottles and discarded syringes.

  I hear a scuffing behind me. I freeze. Turn around. My eyes scan the darkness, but I can’t see anything. The massive support pillars can obscure a multitude of sins, though.