I find the strength to stand and grab the gun
Where he left it, lying on the table.
And when he walks back in from the bathroom,
He just stops there and folds his hands neatly,
Doesn’t say anything, standing, waiting,
Watching me with no expression at all.
Then, when I shoot him, he doesn’t call out.
He takes it like I’ve done him a favour,
Like I’m being polite, shaking his hand,
And it feels like nothing. Nothing at all.
Fifth Cycle
I lose track of how long I spend sat there,
Listening to the steady dripping echoes
Coming from some leak in a pipe nearby.
Guess I’m waiting for the lights to come back.
As if I could stay here with the mirrors
And watch that image repeat forever.
Six seconds. All I want is one more glimpse,
But it doesn’t come. The mirrors stay dark.
I stay for as long as I feel I can,
Until my hunger is a needling pain
And my fingers have turned numb in the cold.
Only then, I move and seek the cable.
My fingers trail the machines, metal, glass
And the tiny bulbous nubs of dark bulbs,
Dead without the power from the railroad.
We took Cancer’s Heart a long time ago.
Soon, I realise that I’m lost again.
The walls are thick with piping and cables
And I’m directionless, lost in the wreck,
Getting slowly hungrier and colder.
I encounter a door that feels different,
Sealed with a wheel instead of a handle,
And smaller. Possibly a kind of hatch.
I figure, what the hell. Might be a way.
Gripping tightly onto the rusted wheel,
I heave it, feeling how weak I’ve become,
How my wasted muscles are protesting,
And the acute sharpness of my hunger.
The wheel is fixed. It refuses to turn,
Locked in place by five hundred years of rust.
I slump down against the door, giving up,
Wondering if this place will be my tomb.
And, of all things, my thoughts turn to Rachel;
That moment back on the train, glimpsing her,
Imagining her there, following me,
And there’s a fraction of something bright there.
Like my thoughts of Rachel are a fraction
Of the wonder I felt for that image,
But constant, like she’s a fraction of light,
A lone star in the black sky of my thoughts.
So I stand again and kick the damn wheel,
Because I guess there is light, after all;
Some small points of light in my existence,
And they’re enough to keep this corpse going.
Groaning, resisting, the wheel starts to turn
As I kick it, balancing on the leg
Still hurt by my fall. But then, I’m all hurt;
I’m running out of places to be bruised.
Something clanks noisily inside the door,
Some aeons-old lock sliding back for me,
And the door begins to creak heavily,
Swinging towards me and leaking water.
I can hear it, feel it lapping at me
And filling the hall fast as it rushes,
Threatening to bowl me clean off my feet.
I grab hold of the wheel to stay upright.
Just my luck. The hatch opens to the bog.
The icy water reaches my shoulders,
And then, before I can take a deep breath,
I’m completely immersed and freezing cold.
I’ve got no choice and barely enough air
In my lungs to last long in the water.
I kick out, beyond the hatch in the black,
And try to work out which way is upwards.
Better to drown than starve, I’m supposing
As I push with my weary arms and legs,
And I can’t feel them any more. In fact,
All I feel is the burning in my lungs.
I realise that the wreck is ruined,
That I’ve flooded it, that no one will see
That moving image that I saw in there.
But I remember. I’ll never forget.
Just as I’m close to giving up, too cold,
Too tired, and out of air, and out of time,
There’s a light above me, like a dull star,
Made rippling by the surface of the bog.
I kick towards it, desperate to taste air,
Grabbing at the water with my cold hands
And watching bubbles rise up from my mouth,
Chasing that light with the last of my strength.
And there’s a hand dividing the water,
Reaching for me, taking hold of my hand
And tugging me towards that dull beacon,
Beyond the grip of the swamp, to the air.
He drags me onto solid ground, gasping,
Setting the lamp down on a fallen log
And helping me to sit up against it.
‘Inspector!’ It’s Michael. ‘Are you okay?’
Throwing water up and choking, laughing,
I grab the man by the wrist. ‘I’m not dead.
It’s a joke. A joke. Phos won’t let me die.’
I lose consciousness at last. Still alive.
***
‘You’re as tough as old boots, Virgil,’ she says,
In that way she does, with a scarlet smile,
And she takes my hand. ‘Like leather,’ she says.
I notice how small her hand is in mine.
***
I wake to the sound of rain drumming loud
On the roof that must be there above me.
I’m in a bed again, comfortable, warm,
But dark. Nothing like Cancer’s offering.
There’s a little light illuminating
The wooden floor, seeping under the door,
And by it I can see some empty frames,
Bits of furniture, the feet of statues.
I swing myself and stand, still unsteady.
He must have undressed me, found me a shirt
And pants to sleep in, dry after the swamp
Nearly claimed me, drowned me in a deep pool.
In the next room, I find Pastor Michael,
Humming to himself and working a lathe
By the light of his lantern. It’s a mess
Of wood shavings, warmth and pleasant noises.
He glances at me over his glasses
But doesn’t stop. ‘Welcome back, inspector!’
I find a chair that looks halfway finished,
But it doesn’t give way. ‘You made all this?’
‘Phos has a way of giving us each gifts.
I like to think I’ve got a way with wood.’
He finishes with the lathe, turns to me.
‘You, I think, are lucky. Very lucky.’
‘People keep telling me that,’ I tell him.
‘By all means, you should be dead, inspector.
I’ve seen your bruises, and the needle marks,
And the place you’ve been stabbed. Why aren’t you dead?’
I shrug as he boils a kettle for me
Over the fireplace, brewing some coffee
And making me a thick sandwich to eat.
‘You nearly drowned,’ he tells me, like it’s news.
The coffee causes me to shake, shudder
With its strength, but I feel the heat fill me,
And I’m surprised by how hungry I am,
Savouring the sandwich like it’s my last.
‘Why are you out here, inspector? Really?’
I’m sure I told him. ‘There’s been a murder.’
&nbs
p; ‘But why you? You should be in hospital.
Surely someone else can investigate?’
‘Because,’ I tell him, ‘there’s nobody else.’
And it all comes out. ‘Nobody else cares.
They can forget that a girl was murdered,
But I can’t. I need to find who did it.’
The pastor watches me finish eating,
Removes his square spectacles and cleans them.
‘And did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Looking for?’ ‘In the ruins. Cancer’s wreck.’
‘Yeah… I did find what I was looking for.
But it doesn’t give me any new leads.
It’s a dead end. I shouldn’t have come here.
I’d be more useful back in Vox, I think.’
‘Well…’ He sighs. ‘Maybe there weren’t any leads
Because they took them, cleaned up, when they left.
I watched them go, and their cars were heavy,
Trucks filled with bulky, covered instruments.’
‘You mean they took something from the ruins?’
‘I mean, it looked like they left with a lot
More than they arrived with. At least, I think.’
I finish up. ‘That’s pretty helpful. Thanks.’
‘No problem. Only, do me a favour?’
Michael moves around, searching his carvings.
‘Sure.’ ‘Don’t go pushing your luck, inspector.
Phos can be fickle. Enjoy His favour.’
He returns with a carven mark of Phos,
And I realise the church’s statue
Was made by the same guy. Pastor Michael.
‘For you,’ he says. ‘May Phos shine upon you.’
‘Thanks, Michael.’ ‘No problem. There’s a train soon.
I’ll drive you down to the platform, okay?’
‘Okay.’ He hands me my clothes, clean and fresh,
And goes back to his work, carving idols.
The sign of Phos is small, fits in my palm,
Hardly weighs a thing. When I’m fully dressed,
I grab some cash from my coat and leave it
On the dresser, kept in place by the sign.
***
I watch Pastor Michael’s silhouette fade
And dissolve into the dark as I go,
Another booth to myself on the train,
Content to be left alone: room to think.
I look through the contents of my satchel.
The Heart replica survived well enough,
And I take my gun apart to dry it,
But Vivian’s photos are a damp mess.
They’re a mush of unsalvageable pulp
And I throw the whole damn heap in the trash.
The last evidence that a bright sun rose
Now lies with Wilson, with the negatives.
***
It’s a relief to step down from the train
And join the milling crowds in the station,
Back in the familiar dark of Vox,
Immersed in the closeness of my city.
I slip past families reuniting,
Lost tourists and commuters pushing through.
I shake my head to clear it of the sleep
Still clinging on and clouding my judgement.
There’s a troupe of sharp businessmen queuing
To have their shoes shined, eyes following me
And glinting, reflecting the train’s headlamp.
They look predatory, like I’m their prey.
A couple of guards are clearing some ghosts
From the front of the train, aiming truncheons
And bruising spindly limbs, forcing them back
From the tracks, some caught underfoot, trampled.
On from a chauffeur holding a red torch,
Flashing it as a signal for someone,
I spy the exit tunnel and push through,
Past a guy loudly selling cigarettes.
I can’t help but smile, caught up in the stink
And sounds of my city, its deep shadows
And tall walls, endless multitude of folk
Going about their complex, networked lives.
On the edge of leaving the train behind,
I glimpse a pair of eyes I recognise,
Turning to meet mine before vanishing
Among the tight crowds trying to exit.
Only a moment, but I’m sure I saw
Rachel there. I call her name and push through,
But it’s difficult, the tunnel turned dark,
People cursing as I shoulder past them.
Emerging into the central hallway,
I wonder if I’m going mad, dreaming
I’m glimpsing Rachel wherever I go.
Standing on my toes, I can’t make her out.
The bulb here is dull, dusty, pretty weak
And any of those shifting silhouettes
Could be her, streaming from the main exit,
Beneath that tall black arch, between the gates.
Still, I rush through, trying to find her there
Among the people scattering like bats
From a cave, dispersing into the streets,
Catching cabs or retreating in the dark.
Turning on the spot, studying faces,
There’s nobody I recognise. Strangers
Surround me, ignoring me, streaming on,
Ignorant to my plight, my questioning.
I shake my head again, try to clear it.
Maybe I’ve finally snapped, given in
To the pressure being applied to me.
Frankly, I’m surprised that it took this long.
A shining, glinting car among the cabs
Swings round to where I’m standing, near the road,
And from it emerge my two favourite goons,
Unfolding like the car’s too small for them.
‘Boss wants a word,’ says one, laying a hand
Firmly on my shoulder and steering me
Towards the car. ‘About fucking time, Yorke,’
Says the other, ‘we’ve been waiting for hours.’
They bundle me roughly into the back
And pull out, drive into the city, south.
The car’s comfortable enough, I suppose,
And my two friends grumble to each other.
I have to ask them, ‘Do you guys have names?’
‘Sure,’ says one, ‘Franklyn. This is Montana.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Franklyn,’ says the other,
Steering a corner, heading deep downtown.
The streets begin to get busy with cars
And Montana curses, joins the traffic.
‘More fucking strikes,’ he growls, hands off the wheel.
‘Fucking docks. Where the fuck have you been, Yorke?’
I shrug. ‘Out of town.’ ‘Yeah, we guessed that much.
You’d better have a fucking good reason.
I’m sick of sitting in this fucking car.’
He slams one meaty hand down on the horn.
‘Sorry about Montana, he’s just tired,’
Says Franklyn. ‘You shut the fuck up, Franklyn.’
Outside, we can see people flashing lights,
Holding the traffic up with their protests.
Everyone looks tired and irritated:
The protesters, other drivers and folk
Trying to walk by. Nobody’s happy.
It’s a well of unrest in the city.
‘You hungry, Yorke?’ asks Franklyn. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Franklyn. What does this look like?
A fucking nursery?’ ‘But we’ve got food?’
Montana sighs. ‘Fine. Let’s have a picnic.’
The three of us eat some cold pie and watch
The traffic move by, slow as a cripple.
‘What does Shepherd want?’ I ask Montana.
‘Hell if I know. Not
our place to question.’
Eventually, the traffic starts moving
And Montana steers us down a dark street,
Headlight illuminating stacks of crates
And weather-beaten storage: warehouses.
They park up among a few other cars,
Shining new like this one, all in a line
Beside a dark warehouse, droplets sparkling
And glinting on each from the recent rains.
Stepping out, I can hear and smell the sea,
The crashing of waves, and the scent of salt,
And the chirping of whirling fishing bats.
I’m led across, to a guarded entrance.
Ducking in, Franklyn and Montana lead
Me up a set of creaking wooden steps
And into a dark office, lit up low
By the solemn glow of a fake candle.
‘Can’t you afford a real one?’ I ask him,
Shepherd, the anonymous shape sat there
In the shadows behind the single desk.
He chuckles. ‘Good to see you, Mister Yorke.’
I’m pressed roughly into a wooden chair.
‘My guys say you’ve been out of the city,’
He tells me. ‘You’ve been missing all the fun.’
‘Yeah?’ The fake candle flickers, on a loop.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he says to me.
‘Thought you’d like to be around to see it.’
‘See what?’ ‘Well, Mister Yorke, I found the source.
The source of the money, and where it went.’
Sounds like Shepherd’s been following some leads
Of his own. ‘Who paid for the Heart, you mean?’
‘Correct, my good friend. Would you care to guess?’
‘No. But I think I know who received it.’
‘Go ahead.’ ‘You were right about the cops.
I had one try and kill me twice this week.’
‘And yet you’re still here.’ ‘Yeah. I shot him dead.’
‘Bravo, Mister Yorke! You do have a spine.’
‘So, tell me. If the police took the Heart,
Then who paid for it? Who has the money?’
Shepherd, ever one for drama, pauses,
Still chuckling to himself. ‘It was Cancer.’
I can’t tell if it’s meant to be a joke.
I lean back in the chair, watch the shadows
Dance by the light of the ersatz candle,
But it makes no sense in my head. ‘Cancer?’
‘That’s right. Cancer. They used his own money.’
‘Who?’ ‘Allow me to explain, Mister Yorke.
Mister Cancer, being the man he is,
Set a scholarship trust up some years back.
‘You know. To help students out at Uni’.
It took a while for my men to figure
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