Dark Star

by Oliver Langmead

  But you can call me Shepherd. I’m Shepherd,

  And right now I’m offering you money.

  A lot of money. More money than Phos.’

  I do recognise the name, but right now

  I can’t place it. Some news column, maybe.

  My blood is surging strange, palpitations

  Making me twitch at the mention of Pro’.

  ‘And if it’s not money you’re wanting, well,

  I’m sure I can provide… other rewards.’

  Ah, hell. Does everyone in this city

  Know I’m addicted to Prometheus?

  He quits talking at me, leaves the offer

  In the quiet for me to consider,

  Like I have any choice in the matter.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m gonna need your help, though.’

  He claps his hands together, rubbing them.

  ‘I knew you and I would see eye to eye.

  You’re not as dense as I’m told, Mister Yorke.

  Any help you need, name it and it’s yours.’

  I figure I might as well use Shepherd.

  It’s not like I have any other leads.

  ‘I’m gonna need my things back,’ I tell him.

  ‘And anything you might have heard yourself.’

  ‘These ears hear a lot of interesting things,

  But I’d wager what you’re needing to know

  Is that I don't know whoever did it.

  And trust me, I know a lot of people.

  ‘If there was a bounty put on the Heart,

  Then you and I would not be chatting now.

  Which leaves two possibilities: the cops,

  Or our fine military. Take your pick.’

  Looks like Shepherd’s had the same idea

  As Cancer. A police operation.

  Well that’s just great, exactly what I need,

  Having to investigate my own kind.

  There’s the Corruption Department, of course,

  But they’re a big joke. They’re corrupt themselves.

  Cops don’t snitch on other cops as a rule;

  Everyone’s got dirt on everyone else.

  I wring my hat between my hands and say,

  ‘All right,’ and then, because I’m curious,

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard about this dead girl,

  Vivian North, found veins full of glowing?’

  There’s a pause as he considers her name.

  ‘Prometheus?’ he asks. ‘No,’ I reply.

  ‘Never heard of her. How’s she relevant?’

  I shrug, not sure of that question myself.

  I stand. ‘Guess we’re done then, Mister Shepherd.’

  He doesn’t shake my hand. ‘You keep in touch,’

  He says. ‘Leave me any messages here.’

  His goons, like two moving statues, guide me

  Away through the dark, his voice following:

  ‘Double-cross me and I’ll see the next knife

  Tears that smile across your neck right open.

  I hope to hear from you soon, Mister Yorke.’

  Looks like I’m making a fine collection

  Of threats this cycle. So many nooses

  Around my neck it hurts to bow my head.

  Inside, I’m hanging, choking already.

  They push me through a back door and down steps

  Made of dripping, rusted metal, creaking

  Under my weight, and hand me my things back:

  My gun, the Heart model, and something else.

  Among the heaps of trash in the alley

  I unwrap Shepherd’s glowing parting gift.

  Son of a bitch has given me Promo’.

  Seven full phials of the fucking stuff.

  I curse his name every way I know how,

  And then my own because I can’t drop them.

  I can’t throw them away. I need this shit

  Because without it I’m a fucking wreck.

  When I’m done swearing at Shepherd, Cancer,

  Garfield and even poor damn Vivian,

  And I’m all out of insults, I hiss and

  Nearly crush the phials between my fingers.

  I imagine the warm liquid leaking,

  Running, dripping down my wrists, down my arms,

  And I feel a strong rush of vertigo.

  My body won’t let me waste the damn stuff.

  Instead, I pocket the Prometheus,

  Making sure there’s no glint, no shine showing,

  And rejoin the masses in the main street,

  Feeling a sharp stab of pain from my wound.

  Guess it’s been close to six hours since Cancer

  Gave me that shot. I'm starting to feel bad.

  It’s no worse than my normal cravings, though.

  Nothing I can’t handle with willpower.

  I figure it’s about time I go find

  The only guy whose name I haven’t cursed.

  Pressing my free hand to my aching gut,

  I walk Vox, hunting my partner: Dante.

  *

  I walk astride the sea front, following

  My shadow as it is: struck before me

  Across the concrete sidewalk, made moving

  By the slow stream of traffic beside me.

  I’m another figure among many,

  Coat drawn close against the spray of the sea,

  Glittering, faceted flecks of ocean

  Throwing themselves at us as we pass by.

  The storm that’s been brewing two cycles now

  Is close. There’s a rising wind in the warm

  And a tension with it: a dark promise.

  Knowing my luck, I’ll be caught out in it.

  Headquarters is just ahead, down the road.

  It’s there that I hope to locate Dante

  And catch up with the case I’m neglecting;

  Probably about time I chase the Heart.

  Two blocks away from my destination

  And my luck, just as expected, runs out.

  Sometimes I reckon that I’m still paying

  For crimes I committed in a past life.

  The roadblock looks like it’s routine enough:

  Officers going about their business

  Among the flashing red lights, the cars parked

  To make sure everyone’s checked as they pass.

  There’s a bunch of uniforms taking names,

  But the guys who spot me are wearing coats,

  Wide hats, silver badges and concealed guns.

  They're smiling like they’ve won the lottery.

  ‘Yorke, right?’ says one, hand placed on my shoulder,

  And before I’ve worked out what’s happening

  They’ve got me over the hood of a car,

  Going through my pockets. ‘Hey! What the fuck?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’ It doesn’t take them long

  To find the bag full of Prometheus,

  Grab the rest of my stuff, force me to kneel,

  Slap a pair of bracelets around my wrists.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? I’m a cop!’

  ‘You’re a fucking junkie, is what you are.’

  One waves the bag. ‘Ten years for this, I’d say.’

  ‘I’m a fucking detective, you morons!’

  The written reports will say I fought back,

  That they had to beat me in self-defence.

  Hell, I’ve beat a few crooks in cuffs before,

  But the kicks to my chest feel personal.

  And when they’re done, they haul me to my feet,

  Drag me round and throw me in a squad van

  To bleed. I get a glance at the markings:

  DEA. Fucking great. They’re Drug Squad cops.

  Through the pain in my gut, my new bruises

  And the wretched hunger under my skin,

  I manage to see the humour in it.

  This cycle’s been one long bad joke on me.

  I shuffle ba
ck into a black corner

  And try to not die as the van starts up,

  Knocking me from wall to wall as it goes.

  I concentrate on the pain to stay sharp.

  ***

  We learn quick: fire is fucking dangerous.

  When the air in the city gets this close,

  People get twitchy, tend to run and hide

  Away from high spires and open spaces.

  One bad lightning strike and the city burns.

  How are you meant to fight what you can’t see?

  A really big blaze, you can feel the heat,

  Get blinded by the smog, the writhing smoke,

  But something smaller, the strike of a match,

  There’s nothing to see; no way of knowing.

  Hold a flame up to light, you might notice

  Fluttering heat in the air, but that’s it.

  Stories say that stars are made of bright flames,

  That old candles burn with visible fire,

  That the face of Phos is a shining blaze,

  But I can’t imagine a flame like that.

  Fire is the destroyer, the great absence.

  It devours, turns brightness into blackness,

  Swallows all the progress we people make

  And shits out nothing but ruins, ashes.

  I watched a guy as he burned to death once,

  Watched the heat rising from his searing flesh,

  His skin peeling itself back, blood steaming,

  Open mouth streaming white smoke. A slow death.

  Nobody dared get close to help the guy.

  No telling where the fire was in the place;

  Its wretched effects were all we could see.

  We formed a perimeter near the heat.

  And when the firemen arrived, it was done;

  Everything was already burned away.

  They still chucked some water on in buckets.

  Just in case, they said to us. Just in case.

  Big men wearing big coats and hard helmets:

  They’re just as helpless as the rest of us.

  One bad lightning strike and the city burns;

  We all burn; our whole fucking world burns down.

  ***

  The arms around me are enough to wake

  Me from my delirium, caught in thoughts

  Of fire, thunder, rain and lightning: the storm.

  They drag me out from the back of the van.

  Warm rain soothes my skin, washes my bruises,

  Soaks through my broken coat, into my boots.

  I’m too weak to walk, so they carry me

  Between themselves, like I’m a sack of flesh.

  There’s nobody watching the pilgrimage.

  Nobody to stop them as they take me

  Across the dark lot, through the rising storm

  And towards a glimmering white lantern.

  They discuss where they should be holding me,

  And the consensus is that I’m a corpse

  And should be put with the rest of the dead.

  They let my feet drag down every damn step.

  We begin our descent, through open doors

  And past shadowed, inhabited chambers

  Divided from us by vertical bars,

  Housing wasted and crooked silhouettes.

  Our journey to the bowels of the station

  Takes us past other officers, tall men

  Rattling the cages of addicts, dealers,

  Each busy awaiting trial or release.

  The wasted faces behind those black bars

  Have a hunger I recognise: my own.

  I see me a hundred times, reflected

  Worse than any mirror; I see myself.

  The lights get worse the deeper we go down,

  Slowly spiralling past the station’s pens,

  Until the addicts become skeletons,

  Bones covered in thin skin, barely breathing.

  We pass the last bulb, a cracked dim beacon,

  And a flickering torch is lit instead,

  For the last set of steps, rusted railings

  Leading us into the deepest darkness.

  Here, there’s a stench, like panic, like cattle

  Penned in too close together. Animal.

  Those crouched behind the bars don’t look alive:

  A network of spindly limbs gathered up.

  Yet, they stir under the gaze of the torch,

  Unfolding themselves, crying out weakly,

  Begging for another lick of the light.

  They’re the restless almost-dead: Vox’s ghosts.

  Hard to tell how many there are down here.

  Maybe hundreds. They stink like a thousand.

  The sweep of the torch reveals more and more,

  Huddled up together, wrapped in torn rags.

  Those with some remaining sense shuffle back

  As the door to their cage opens outwards,

  But some crawl forwards, fingers uncurling,

  Only to be kicked back, out of the way.

  They drop me in there like an offering,

  Their laughter echoing around the cage.

  ‘Try to get some sleep, Yorke. We’ll be back soon.’

  The door rattles shut behind me, key turned.

  They leave, and I am surrounded by dark,

  The dead shuffling, whimpering and stinking,

  Fingers searching me for food, for stray glows,

  But I’m dark. I have no light left for them.

  My hunger is absolute. A huge weight

  Pressing down on my chest, consuming me.

  I’m craving Prometheus. Any light.

  The tiniest reprieve from my shadows.

  There’s a sticky damp around my stab wound

  That’s probably blood, mingling with the rain

  Clinging on to my coat, into my skin.

  My head’s too full of craving to feel hurt.

  I’m holding on to consciousness, awake

  But wondering how, how I carry on.

  Even here, in the depths of hell, I live.

  Maybe I’m just too damn stubborn to die.

  I find some strength and push myself backwards

  Until I find a wall, sat in some damp

  Between spindly bodies twitching, dying,

  And lament my lost hat. I liked that hat.

  Without my everycycle dose of Pro’,

  A brand new hell confronts me: withdrawals.

  These cravings now are nothing when compared

  With the hours ahead. I’m starting to sweat.

  Soon, that sweat will turn to shaking, wracking

  Pains, and a consuming delirium.

  I’ve seen it happen to other addicts.

  Never seen one make it through. They give in.

  My itching thoughts search for a solution,

  Desperately trying to find me a fix,

  And they come across possibility.

  Something to ease the pain of passing through.

  I search my pockets and find the tissue

  Wrapped around Cancer’s gift. The cigarette.

  By some divine luck, it’s intact and dry.

  I spend a moment giving thanks to Phos.

  Of course I don’t have a fucking dry match.

  They’re all soaked and made useless by the rain.

  I hang the cigarette between my lips

  And catch the smallest sample of its taste.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, and my voice sounds hoarse, broken.

  Still, the whimpering and weeping stops short.

  The ghosts are listening. Well I’ll be damned, then.

  ‘Don’t suppose any of you’ve got a flame?’

  There’s a shuffling sound, the ghosts moving round,

  Repositioning themselves to hear me.

  I don’t understand why. ‘You know, a match?’

  Maybe it’s been a while since they heard speech.

  There’s the noise of more movement a
round me,

  And some spindly collection of fingers

  Winds its way up my arm, locates my hand

  And presses something there, something tiny.

  I roll it between my fingers to feel

  And it’s such a small thing. A slight remnant.

  Some ghost has just given me a match head.

  The quiet in the cage is expectant.

  I can feel the bad tremors beginning

  Under my skin, and my heart protesting,

  Demanding liquid light. To hell with it.

  I find a rough patch of concrete to use.

  It takes one quick motion to strike the match,

  And I can feel the flame burning my hand,

  But I hold it up to the cigarette

  And inhale before it can disappear.

  The flavour fills me. It tastes like it glows:

  Warm, a comfort, a small point of wonder.

  And by the glowing of its strange embers

  I can see the glinting of all their eyes.

  They’re gathered around me, completely still,

  Hypnotised by it. My congregation

  Of ghosts, caught up in the same strange wonder.

  None of them make a move to snatch it up.

  For the next few moments I’m at the edge,

  Hanging on to my last seconds of light

  And looking down at the oblivion,

  The blackness waiting to swallow me up.

  The ghosts are whispering among themselves

  And it might be language, but I’m not sure.

  I don’t care. I hold on to the feeling,

  To the cigarette, until it’s all gone.

  Only then, I fall down inside myself,

  Into the blackest recesses of me,

  Lost in my ravenous, howling hunger

  And the pain pushing its way through my veins.

  ***

  I drag his bleeding body for three blocks

  Until a routine patrol picks me up.

  I’d have called them, but my throat is messed up,

  A ragged smile drawn across it in blood.

  They tell me I shot the Hangman six times

  With his own gun, emptied it into him,

  But I don’t remember. All I recall

  Is the long walk, the weight of his body.

  I think I planned to take him to the sea,

  Weigh him down and watch him sink in the dark,

  But it’s not clear. I’m not quite thinking straight;

  Painting three blocks of sidewalk in his blood.

  Fourth Cycle

  ‘You got a spare smoke, Dante? I’m all out.’

  Except, it’s not Dante driving the car,

  Just someone who looks a lot like he does,

  Hunched behind the wheel like the car’s too small.

  The driver passes me a cigarette,

  But the damn thing won’t stay between my lips.