‘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.
I watch it tumble down under my seat
And I’m helpless, can’t follow it, too weak.
‘I’ll call Dante when we get in,’ says Fife.
I recognise his voice, deep like it is.
‘You rest up, Yorke. Looks like you’ve been through hell.
You’re lucky I caught wind you’d been brought in.’
We pass a bunch of trucks, and they light up
The city around us: trash everywhere,
Gutters full, overflowing in the wake
Of the big storm. Looks like I missed the worst.
I notice I’m not shaking any more,
That I’m not sweating and heaving, bleeding;
That the skin across my hands seems darker,
Like it’s lost the glow that used to be there.
I’m left with a sort of black hollowness
Instead. Like someone’s taken my insides
And thrown them out. Like you could open me
And there would be nothing to see: darkness.
Guess I’m free of the withdrawals, at least.
Fife turns a corner down a dark district
I don’t recognise, through the last light rain.
‘Thanks,’ I say. And then, ‘Where are we going?’
Fife squints out at the road. ‘Back to my place.
I wouldn’t normally, but what the hell,
The wife’s at work and the kids are at school.
And you need a shower, my friend. You stink.’
I don’t disagree. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Look,’ he says. ‘The guys that arrested you.
They’ve got a rep’ for corruption. I think
Someone paid them to have you taken in.’
‘Report them,’ I tell him. ‘Pair of lowlives.’
‘Yeah, I would,’ he says, ‘but they wouldn't care.
One’s the stepson of a commissioner.
More trouble than it’s worth, if you ask me.
‘And hell, looks like they did you a favour.’
‘A favour?’ ‘You damn well know what I mean.’
I’m too exhausted to put up a fight.
‘Clocked it the moment I set eyes on you.’
We spend the rest of the drive in silence,
Skirting the suburbs, low-rise apartments
And semi-detached ruins barely lit.
He pulls into a driveway, glares at me.
‘You were never here, okay?’ he tells me.
‘Sure.’ He helps me onto my feet and stoops
To keep one arm around my waist. My feet
Refuse to follow orders. I stumble.
In the dark of his house, he runs some taps,
Screws a bulb into the bathroom socket
And leaves me a rough-looking robe, a towel,
And a promise to burn my clothes after.
It takes me a while to remove my shirt.
My fingers fumble around the buttons,
But the worst is where my wound’s been leaking,
Dried blood and vomit encrusting the cloth.
One hand after another, I lower
Myself into the water and sink down,
Watching filth rise up from all parts of me;
Feeling the sting of the heat as it hits.
I let it drain away, watch it running
Down the plughole, my swirling filth fleeing,
And switch the shower on instead, huddled
In the corner of the tub in a heap.
There, I run a hand down my pointed ribs
Where they jut around my sunken stomach,
Notice how skeletal I am right now,
How much I must look as if I'm starving.
All those cycles in my dark apartment
And I never noticed myself wasting
Away, hooked bad on the Prometheus
And fading one little shot at a time.
My face against the base of the bathtub,
I heave the last of myself, black mucus
Trailing from my mouth until I’m empty.
Then, there’s nothing left. I have nothing left.
There’s the flickering bulb and I watch it,
Buzzing and humming, set in the ceiling.
Wonder how close I am to vanishing,
To becoming another ghost in Vox.
The robe is roughly twice as big as me,
But it’s warm. The heat of the water lit
A fire in me, gave me a little strength:
Enough to stand, enough to walk; to breathe.
Fife’s waiting in the kitchen with some pie,
‘Yestercycle’s remains,’ he says to me.
I hand him his bulb, still warm, still glowing,
And dig in. Turns out I’m pretty hungry.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I was gonna get in touch.
Got something you might be interested in.’
I drain a glass of water, another,
And profess my undying gratitude.
‘Sure.’ He waves me off, but he’s smiling some.
‘But you remember the North girl, don’t you?’
I stop eating. ‘Sure do. What about her?’
He shrugs. ‘Something about her bothered me.’
‘Her case has gone walkabout,’ I tell him,
And he’s the first guy yet who gives a damn.
‘Yeah. That bothered me too. Not quite right, that.
Nobody’s got a clue where her case went.’
I finish the pie and flex my fingers,
Feel the life flushing back through to the tips.
‘So what? You been looking into it too?’
He shakes his head, shuffles the bulb around.
‘I put my nose where it doesn’t belong,
My department, I get that nose cut off.
My family can’t take that kinda shit.’
We both glance at the dull bulb above us.
‘Ah, to hell with it. If you still care, Yorke,
Then maybe this’ll help.’ He strides across
To a cabinet and searches through it,
Returning with a small, wrapped-up package.
One gift after another, these cycles.
Of course, this one’s got its own glow as well.
Inside the package is a small glass tube
And the liquid in there is shining bright.
I know I’m grinning. Just can’t help myself.
‘You son of a bitch, Fife. This is her blood!
You took some of her blood!’ The tube is warm,
And the blood inside is still a fierce white.
He shrugs again, a big gesture on him,
Refuses to meet my eye. ‘Yeah. I know
It’s not protocol, taking evidence,
But I’d never seen anything like it.
‘Something to show the wife and kids, you know.’
The blood is brighter than the bulb above,
Echoing its glow around the kitchen
And amplifying my shadow tenfold.
‘Mind if I hold on to this?’ I ask him.
‘You’re welcome to it. A weight off my mind.
I’ve got the rest of your stuff with me, too.
You’re gonna have to explain something, though.’
This cycle’s beginning to look better
Than the last. He’s got my gun, torch, the Heart
model. ‘What in the name of Phos is this?’
‘That’s what a Heart’s meant to look like,’ I say.
‘Seriously? That small?’ He weighs it up.
‘About a hundred times bigger, I think.
Don’t suppose you’ve seen a Heart anywhere?’
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’ ‘Sure. Worth a try.’
We sit a while, listen to the clock tick,
Quarter to fourteen, and watch the girl’s blood.
There’s something hypnotic about its glow:
Something surreal, otherworldly, divine.
‘What now?’ asks Fife of me, eventually.
‘I find who killed Vivian,’ I tell him.
‘And what about the Heart?’ ‘That too, I guess.’
He makes to move. ‘You want dropped anywhere?’
I consider the offer. ‘Sure. My place.
I could probably do with some fresh clothes.’
He helps me back into his car, starts up,
Drives us back through the city and downtown.
‘Phos and fire, Yorke. Your apartment’s out here?’
He pulls up next to the sidewalk, takes in
All the dark of the streets and apartments,
Thick like it is out here. Suffocating.
I let myself out, give him some more thanks.
‘Sure. Whatever. Good luck. Give me a call
If there’s anything you need, all right, Yorke?
Let me know if you find out who did it.’
Fife and his car fade away into Vox,
Leaving me alone and tired and grateful
And, despite everything, despite myself,
Still yearning, still craving Prometheus.
Still wearing Fife’s old robe, my things in hand,
I ascend the stairway that takes me home.
I’m fresh out of batteries, but this dark
Is familiar. I know my way up.
Cold feet against cold stone, I skirt glass shards
And discarded needles, discarded ghosts,
Up to my front door. I can hear the hum
Of a radio from down the hallway.
Even outside, I can hear his breathing.
Someone’s waiting inside my apartment.
I curse under my breath and draw my gun.
I remember four bullets at last count.
He’ll be listening out for the door creaking.
I stand to one side, back against the wall
And push it in, hinges snarling from rust.
His first shot goes wide, through the empty space.
Still, I call out, make it sound like I’m hit,
And then fall silent, close my eyes and wait.
I can hear him moving through the darkness.
Wearing heavy boots was a big mistake.
Never thought I’d appreciate the creak
Of my floorboards, but here I stand, waiting
And forming a mental map of his route
By the way he treads through the apartment.
When he gets close enough, I take a shot,
Hear his own shout, hear his body dropping;
Thump on my floor. I wait for him to die,
Laboured breathing getting shallow, wheezing.
When I’m sure he’s dead, I search his pockets,
Find a torch, a knife, a badge and a gun.
Closing the door, I light his torch, see him.
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Santiago, you bastard.’
Looks like I hit him full on in the chest.
For a while, I’m not quite sure what to do.
Then, I notice the dry blood on his knife,
Near the hilt. ‘Fuck you too, Santiago.’
I find some clothes and get dressed, take his coat
And run some water to wash out the stain
Made by the exit wound. It’s a nice coat,
Sits comfortable across my tired shoulders.
Son of a bitch saved me some cash, at least.
I don’t need to buy some new batteries
For my torch any more. I bin his badge,
Put his gun in a drawer and drag him out.
He’s pretty damn heavy for a dead guy.
There’s a stack of half-dead ghosts down the hall
And I drop him there. No one will notice.
There’s never any lights turned on in here.
My pockets are getting way too heavy,
So I head back for a satchel, load it
And get on my way. Got too much to do
For sleep. Sleep is for the dead, anyway.
Outside, I stride the streets again, past blocks
Drowning in dark, considering Wilson.
I should really go see Dante, but then,
His photo store is on the way. Why not.
***
The papers have picked up a new scandal
For the cycle. All progress on the Heart
Is way back on page seven with the sports.
Funny how easy it is to forget.
I guess maybe the news is just too big
For people. It’s too much for them to take
That the whole city could go up in smoke
Any time. Smaller news is comforting.
The docks are on strike again like clockwork.
It’s a weekly event now. They complain
About a lack of light, a lack of sight,
Tell the rest of us they can’t work in dark.
Some politician’s been accused of fraud.
As far as I know, they’re all in on it,
So this guy must have been pretty stupid
To get caught out: flashing his cash too much.
Regular news for regular people
More concerned with the weather and themselves,
How bright Joe next door’s bulbs are beside mine,
Than the imminent looming doom in Vox.
But, hell, who am I to be complaining?
Gets me out of the papers, which is great.
Given the choice, I’d be anonymous;
Just another shadow walking the streets.
***
This time, there’s an OPEN sign on his door,
A metal plaque with raised letters hanging
From the mail slot, cold against my fingers.
Still, I’m polite enough to knock three times.
‘Mister Yorke!’ A shaft of vertical light
Leaks out as he opens up, smiling wide.
‘Real good to see you again, sir. Real good.
I got your note.’ He steps aside for me.
Inside, it’s a neat little photo shop:
Tools of the trade scattered round here and there,
Lenses glinting on some work surfaces,
Reflecting the small but warm bulb above.
There’s some pictures hanging on the walls, too.
Weddings, portraits, people looking happy
And one of Wilson himself, looking proud.
A small shop for a small but happy man.
‘I went and developed your reel straight up,
Soon as I got it. I said to myself,
Must be important if you’re on the case.
Saw you all over the papers again!’
‘Sure.’ I’m more interested in the pictures
Than any conversation with the guy.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he says as he grabs them,
‘But I had a quick look through. Just to see.’
‘Yeah? What’s on them?’ I take the envelope,
Slide the pictures out, tilt them to the light.
‘Truth be told, Mister Yorke, don’t have a clue.
I was hoping that you’d know what they are.’
He shuffles around behind me to see.
There’s twelve of them total, developed clean.
Looks like Wilson’s got a talent for it.
The pictures are clear, but not what they show.
‘What in hell’s name is that?’ I say aloud.
The first eleven show a big network
Of pipes, cables and tiny lights like stars,
Wrapped around a bunch of blackened mirrors.
No matter which way I hold the pictures,
I can’t make any sense of what’s on them.
It looks like a kind of machine, maybe.
A bit like the set-up in Cancer’s vault.
Wilson, the helpful guy that he is, says,
‘I had a quick look with a magnifier,
And there’s some words printed on the mirrors.
Look. There and there. Like old language, y’see.’
He’s right. There are some shapes that look like words
In the old style. I’ve never seen white ink,
But they’re there, white against the black mirrors.
‘Can you read them?’ ‘No, sir. Never learned to.’
The twelfth picture is the most confusing.
I spend a while trying to understand,
But it refuses to make sense to me.
‘Any idea?’ ‘No, sir. Not that one.’
It shows one of the mirrors, but this time
Something’s being reflected. A white light
Like a torch, half held over some water,
Against a red and yellow and blue wall.
There’s a lot of colour in the picture,
And I can’t make sense of the perspective.
‘A misprint, maybe?’ I say to Wilson.
‘Sure could be. It depends on the camera.’
Slotting the pictures in their envelope,
I turn to him. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing at all! Just glad to be of help.
Maybe we could go for a drink some time?’
I head to the door. ‘Wilson?’ ‘Mister Yorke?’
‘Thanks for this. But I wasn’t here, okay?’
He grins. ‘Sure! I get it! But hey, one thing.
Let me know what those pictures mean some time?’
‘If I find out, I’ll let you know.’ I leave,
Back into the black. He watches me go
From the step of his door, waving at me
Until I round a corner, out of sight.
I know I should be hunting down the Heart,
But… damn you, Vivian. Damn you to hell.
Why do I need to know why you were shot?
Why can’t I get you out of my system?
Dante will have to wait a bit longer.
I’m like a dog chasing a car right now.
Hell if I know why, but I’d keep running
Forever to know why you burn so bright.
***
This time, there’s a different face at the door,
Peering defensively over at me.
It’s a face that looks weary of weeping
And trying to seem civil. ‘Mrs North?’
‘I know you,’ she tells me, mumbling the words.
‘You’re the man from the police who came by.’
I go to remove my hat, remember
I lost it and nod instead. ‘That’s me, ma’am.’
‘What’s happened now? Have you caught him? The man?’
‘Caught who, ma’am?’ ‘The man who did it. Killed her.’
Maybe coming here wasn’t a great plan.
‘No, ma’am. We’re still following up on leads.’
There’s a short time in which I realise
I should be explaining myself to her.
‘Is your husband in, Mrs North?’ I ask.
‘Only me. Why are you here, officer?’
‘I was just…’ I find myself trailing off,
Glancing down the street at the other homes.
Maybe I should have gone to the Uni’.
Easier than disturbing anyone.
She sighs, opens the door wide, welcomes me
Back inside her house, bursting with glowing.
I’m caught up in the light, shading my eyes
Against the chandelier, whirls of crystal.
She looks impatient, waiting. ‘Spit it out.’
I’m sure she’s appraising me, my bruises,
The way my cheekbones protrude from my face.
‘There’s something I hoped you’d look at for me.’
I give her the courtesy of staring
And taking her time to make up her mind
About whether or not to indulge me,
Remembering the last time I was here.
‘Come through,’ she says at last, leading me on
Past faceted mirrors, grand old portraits
And shelves full of books, normal and printed.
‘We can discuss this in the library.’
The library is a comfortable place,
Lit warmly by lamps instead of white bulbs.
A fireplace crackles darkly to one side
Among the tall cases, heavy with books.
Mrs North offers me a leather chair
Beside the fire, clears some books from the desk
And pours herself a glass of something dark.
She takes a seat opposite, looking small.
I put the envelope down between us,
Note the way her hands shake as she reaches,
Slides the photos out and glances through them.
She looks fragile, like a cracked piece of glass.
‘There’s a few words on some of them,’ I say,
‘In the old style. I was wondering if…’
‘If I can read them?’ She doesn’t look up,
Considering the pictures one by one.
‘Where did you get these?’ She sips from her glass.
‘They’re Vivian’s, I think.’ ‘I think so, too.’
At one, Mrs North peers closer, squinting.
‘Do you know what it is that she studies?’
‘No, ma’am.’ Don’t know why I never found out.
‘She studies Archaeology,’ she says,
Present tense again, maybe out of hope.
‘And these are pictures of Cancer’s ruins.’
Sometimes I wish I’d paid more attention
Back in school, learned a bit more than I did
Instead of skipping classes, chasing girls,
Retaining my ignorance. ‘I’m sorry?’
She sighs again, leans back. ‘You are sorry.
A sorry lot that could let her be killed.
She was a wonderful girl, officer.
Do I really need to explain Cancer?’
I was never one to be great with words,
Consoling people. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say,
Like they told us to over and over
During training. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
But it turns out I really am sorry
And the words come out honest anyway.
Mrs North’s face loses its sharp angles,
Softens, its lengthiest shadows fading.
‘Cancer, the man, the family, is named
After the Heart. Cancer, the Heart, is named
After the great vessel it once powered.
These are pictures of that vessel’s ruins.’
I remember Cancer’s speech about boats
That could cross the stars, that our ancestors
Used them to travel here and settle down.
‘Where are they? The ruins, I mean. In Vox?’
‘No, officer. Quite a way outside Vox.
Past some of the outlying villages.
There’s a train, I believe. Are you going?’
Sure looks that way. ‘Sounds like a lead to me.’
Maybe there’s a crime scene out there somewhere.
The place Vivian’s veins were made so bright,
Or a reason why. A bloodstain, bullet
Or some other clue. Any clue at all.
I’m following up on a buried case
With zero backup, barely any leads
And a whole different major case to solve,
And for the life of me I don’t know why.
‘First, though. The words on the mirrors. Can you…?’
She laughs at me, and it comes out bitter.
‘Those? They’re not mirrors. They’re video screens.
Light-emitting… Oh, what does it matter.’
She takes a closer look through. ‘Archaic
Language. Quite a lot that’s either nonsense
Or doesn’t make sense outside of context.
There are one or two repeated words, though.’
I wish I had some paper and a pen.
My memory will have to do for now.
‘Go ahead.’ ‘You see here?’ She points for me.
‘It says “conversion” there and “convert” there.’
‘Anything else?’ ‘Not really. Some babble.
That word seems important though, I would say.’
I gather the pictures up, ‘Thank you, ma’am,’
Notice there’s one still in the envelope.
‘Oh.’ I drag it out. It’s the funny one,
All vivid colour, strange-looking torch light;
An odd reflection caught on a mirror.
‘Don’t suppose you know what this is?’ I ask.
It still looks like it could be a mistake,
The flash of the camera caught reflecting
Colour off a surface. But I suppose
It’s worth letting her have a glance at it.
When she looks at it, she begins to laugh,
And this time it’s genuine, warm laughter,
Like I’ve told her a joke. She drains her glass.
‘You poor man. Don’t you know? Can’t you see it?’
And she has to show me, point each bit out.
‘You see there? The water? That’s an ocean.
And that, behind it? That’s a sky and clouds.
And this… this is a star. It’s a sunrise.’
***
The casino is a lot quieter
At this time in the cycle, dark tables
Made empty by an absence of patrons.
I pass a vacant wheel turning idly.
There’s an uneasiness among the staff,
Like I’m a threat to the peace of the place.
I can feel their eyes watching me go by,
Not sure how to deal with me returning.
I’m only here for a passing visit
Before I head to Vox Central Station,
Because Shepherd might be able to help
Solve something for me that no one else can.
His goons are easy to spot, at the bar,
Their fists the size of sledgehammers clenched tight
At my approach, tiny eyes sizing me.
They don’t have a single word to greet me.
‘Tell Shepherd I need to know what this is.’
I place the bright tube of blood on the bar
Between them, and neither bats an eyelid.
They share a glance, glare at it, then at me.
Shrugging, I turn to walk away. ‘Hey, Yorke,
Where did you get this? Doesn’t look like Pro’.’
‘It’s not,’ I say to them. ‘That’s a girl’s blood.’
There’s a pause, and I turn back to see them.
One has the tube, fingers casting shadows
In thick slabs of dark across the other.
‘Bullshit,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen a lot of blood
And none of it’s ever glowed like this does.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘So, ask Shepherd what it is.
He’s meant to be an expert on Pro’, right?’
They’re staring at me again. ‘Right,’ says one.
The other pockets the tube. ‘Right,’ he says.
***
The clerks at the bank have their own desk lamps,
One apiece. They look after themselves here.
Even while serving those of us begging
For glows, they warm their hands on points of light.
There’s a desk for those who want batteries,
Currency converted into power,
And another for bulbs: strip, bell, white, red.
Get in line, wait an hour, take your pick.
I’m needing cash. Got enough light to last,
And the queue for money is the shortest.
Sure enough, I’m still getting paid wages.
The clerk slips me a hundred past the bars.
I run my fingers across the fresh notes,
Read the raised denominations, embossed
In a way that’s meant to be hard to forge.
They all look the same, otherwise: white sheets.
There’s a guy selling cigarettes outside
And I grab a pack, join those on the steps
Sucking on smokes, ask one to ignite mine.
There’s a contemplative quiet out here.
Most sat out here are staring at the sky.
It’s that time in our cycle when our sun
Is visible, or rather, its absence.
On a clear cycle like this, you can see.
There’s a black hole moving across the sky,
Taking up space where there should be star-shine,
Like someone’s taken a piece of the sky
And painted it black or hollowed it out.
I move along, find a phone booth and call
My department, ask for Dante by name.
He answers, says, ‘Shit, Yorke, thought you were dead.’
‘Yeah,’ I tell him. ‘So did I, for a while.’
I let him know I’m headed out of town,
And he’s fine with the idea. ‘Why not.
You’re nothing but a pain in the ass, Yorke.
Keeps you out of my way, out of the case.’
I have to laugh. ‘It’s nice to know you care.’
‘I’m serious, though. This case is screwed-up
And there’s people here screwing it up more.
Someone’s making sure it doesn’t get solved.’
‘Yeah… I figured that’s why I got that knife.’
Dante shouts at someone in the background
Before speaking to me again. ‘Look, Yorke,
You take your trip outta town and stay safe.’
‘Sure. Thanks, Dante.’ ‘Fuck you for getting stabbed,
Though. Now I have to face this mess alone.’
‘You’re not alone.’ ‘Sure as hell feels like it.
Let me know when you’re back in town, okay?’
‘Right.’ I go to hang up, but he stops me.
‘One more thing. If you see Santiago,
Tell him to get his ass back here right now.
Nobody’s seen him since yestercycle.’
From where I am, I can see our dark sun,
Our hole in the sky. I can see it pass,
Swallowing starlight as it travels by.
‘Sure,’ I say to Dante. ‘I’ll let him know.’
***
Vox Central Station is a mess of noise.
Engines thumping, steam hissing, shrill whistles,
The sounds of the crowds and the distorted
Crackling announcements over all of it.
Spread out from the dark, arched central hallway,
Lit by a single flickering dull bulb,
A dozen hallways filter travellers
Towards platforms and trains. Away from Vox.
The place I’m headed to is called Manus.
One of those villages far out from Vox,
Receiving little or no energy
From our three Hearts. They live in a deep dark.
I push through crowds of people, commuters,
Vacationers and visitors and friends,
Carrying heavy luggage, bags filled up
With pieces of their lives, destinations.
I follow ridges set into a wall
Down one hall, taking me to a platform,
And after a while in the dark, there’s light
In the form of a bright railroad headlamp.
The platform is packed with people shouting,
Waving tickets, conductors ushering,
Bodies pushing and vying for some space:
A kind of chaotic mess of boarding.
And beyond them all squats the train, darkly.
It’s an enormous black engine, belching
Steam from its great chimney, whistle howling,
Empty coaches inviting company.
I wait my time, watch for an opening
In the crowds, enough space to move on board
Through those trying to escape the city,
But without the means to afford tickets.
Without the trains, there’s no other way out.
A car, you run out of fuel pretty quick.
Walking, and you’re lost in a few cycles.
The rails keep other settlements tethered.
I spot a gap and push past a couple
Embracing, hand my ticket to the guard
And get let on board, up the metal steps
And through to a mostly empty carriage.
There’s an empty booth and I take a seat,
Shutting the door behind. There’s a window,
Which make these carriages fairly ancient.
I ignite a smoke, watch the platform move.
I see the faces of those left behind,
And from here they look like they're fading stars,
Small round points of glowing vanishing fast
And turning dark as the train powers on.
There are no lamps set in the carriages,
But there’s enough light being reflected
From the powerful lamp guiding our way,
Set into the front engine, to give sight.
I sit back, smoke another cigarette
And barely notice as we exit Vox.
There’s no difference in dark, unless you look
For it, turning from close, walled in, to vast.
***
I think I forgot how to sleep normal.
The clacking rhythm of the train lulls me,
Makes me drowsy, watching the dull flashing
Shadows cast by telegraph poles outside.
There’s nothing else to see. Only shadows
And the glinting reflections cast in drops
Of rain as they trail down the window glass,
Streaking long pale lines as they slowly drag.
I’ve been left alone in my closed-off booth,
And the train seems to be mostly empty.
I see no one pass through the corridor,
Only vague human shapes shifting at stops.
And as we get further away from Vox,
There’s more time passing between every stop
Until it feels like I’ve always been here,
Hungry, and bruised, and tired. So very tired.
I close my eyes, and when I open them
There’s a guy sitting opposite, reading
A book and ignoring the rain outside.
Another moment lost, and he’s vanished.
The rain stops and starts again just as quick.
I must be drifting away between blinks,
But no amount of sleep is curing me
Of the ache that goes right down to my bones.
More time passes and my hunger gets bad
Enough that I leave my seat, search for food.
The rocking corridor is nearly black,
Lit by the meagre glow from the windows.
There’s someone else stood at the other end
And for a fleeting moment I glimpse her,
Caught in the flash of the train’s bright headlamp
Reflecting from a surface in the dark.
‘Rachel?’ I rub the sleep from my tired eyes
And stumble down the distance in between,
To the end door, dividing coach from coach,
And by the time I get there she’s long gone.
The next coach is empty, as is the next,
And when I reach the dining coach at last,
I’m questioning myself and what I saw.
Some half-dreamed figment in the dark, maybe.
I order a tall glass of something strong
And a dish that doesn’t sound revolting,
Take a seat to one corner and admire
The low glow of the bulb warming this coach.
There’s a scattering of others in here.
Tired-looking travellers eating cold meals,
Nursing half-drained glasses and cigarettes,
And avoiding each other’s hollow eyes.
The whisky is weak and way overpriced,
And my meal tastes like trash, but I’m surprised
By how grateful I am to have them both.
Hell, I even go back for a dessert.
I ask the guy at the bar how long left
Before Manus and he shrugs, checks his watch,
Pours me another glass and drains his own.
We don’t talk, but we do drink, and that’s fine.
My eyes keep wandering towards the door,
Like I’m expecting Rachel to walk in,
And I wonder about her, who she is,
Why she takes up so much space in my thoughts.
The drink eventually takes hold of me
And my hand finds its way back to my throat.
What I’d give for a shot of Pro’ right now.
Something to take the edge off the cycle.
The train shudders onwards, ever onwards,
Cutting a line through the black with its lamp,
And even hundreds of kilometres
From Vox, I can’t escape the dark in me.
***
I’m the only one stepping off the train
And onto the lonely wooden platform.
Beyond the train’s headlamp, I’m confronted
By a vast, unfamiliar darkness.
The conductor’s kind enough to ask me
If I’m sure this is where I want to be.
The middle of nowhere. A nothing place.
Even the stars have abandoned me here.
I watch the train until I can’t see it,
And then I’m immersed in the emptiness
And, for the first time in what must be years,
Feeling some discomfort in the darkness.
I close my eyes and try to hear my way,
But it’s no use. I don’t know where I am.
There’s just the wind, and the baleful howling
Of something wild way off in the distance.
Santiago’s torch has some life left
And it’s been better looked after than mine.
By it, I find my way to a dirt road
And tread the tracks, on the way to Manus.
I pull my coat close, intimidated
By the limitless black to either side.
There are no buildings out here for the torch
To find; no comforting closeness of walls.
There’s a fence, and I stop to shine the torch
Into the field there, watch the waving grass
And the flabby blind white cows as they graze,
Calling out, softly, to one another.
They’re a pleasant sight, and I watch them move,
Rubbing up against each other, soft flesh
Meeting soft flesh, content in their small field.
Content to live not knowing what light is.
Further along the track lies the village,
A rough collection of wooden buildings
Looking fragile, like they might blow over
In a strong breeze; like they’re made of paper.
There’s noise coming from what looks like a church,
So I pocket the torch and step inside,
Join the congregation of mourning folk
Dressed in black and gathered round a statue.
Their idol of Phos is carved out of wood,
And while not as bright as the one in Vox,
There’s still something shining behind His head,
Extending His lengthy jagged shadow.
I’m expecting a coffin, someone dead,
But there’s no such thing. Beneath Phos’s feet
Is an ugly-looking piece of blown glass,
Blackened around the edges, slightly cracked.
‘You’re new in town?’ says a guy, approaching.
He’s speaking softly so no one’s disturbed.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask him, whispering.
With a gesture, he leads me back outside.
He’s short, round like he’s eaten a few meals,
Wisps of grey hair uncoiling in the wind.
The sign of Phos is pinned to his jacket.
‘I’m Pastor Michael. You’re from the city?’
‘Sure am,’ I say. ‘What’s going on in there?’
His eyes don’t meet mine. They rest on my scar.
‘We’re a simple folk out here, sir,’ he says.
‘We mourn the loss of our best filament.’
I suppose I really should have figured.
They mustn’t get too much light in Manus,
So far removed from Vox, it’s an event
When a bulb dies. No easy replacement.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name?’
Michael’s suspicious, which is fair enough.
Guess they don’t get too many visitors.
‘Detective Inspector Yorke,’ I tell him.
‘Welcome to my village, Inspector Yorke.
Welcome. But, if you don’t mind me asking,
What brings you all the way out to Manus?’
I ignite a cigarette and inhale.
I explain I’m here to look at the wreck,
The ruins of Cancer, and he reacts,
Says, ‘I thought we were done with all of that?’
Over the wail of someone from inside.
‘All of what?’ ‘Listen. We’re a quiet lot.
We just want to be left alone, all right?
Can’t you understand that?’ I shake my head.
‘You’re gonna have to bring me up to speed.’
‘So you’re not with the University?’
‘I’m not.’ He takes a while to weigh me up,
Caught in the slender strip of leaking light
From a crack in the door of the small church.
He sighs, at last. ‘Got a spare cigarette?’
‘You smoke?’ ‘Not very often, inspector.’
Leaning his head, he lets me ignite his,
White smoke drifting from between his fingers.
‘They came a few months back. A noisy crowd
Of students and academics, big cars
And bright lights, unloaded from the railroad,
Disturbing the cattle and crushing crops.
‘It took them another three months to leave,
And we’re still repairing the mess they made.
Of course they threw round plenty of money,
But the people here don’t care much for that.’
‘What were they doing?’ I ask. ‘I’m not sure.
Something to do with the ruins, I think.’
‘It sounds like a kind of expedition.’
‘I’d say so, but I didn’t ask questions.’
Vivian must have arrived with that team,
Which would explain her photos well enough.
‘I need to see the ruins,’ I tell him.
‘But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’
I stamp the stub of my cigarette out.
‘There’s been a murder,’ I say, ‘a young girl,’
And as I do, people start streaming out,
Their service complete, and Michael moves off.
‘I’ll take you there,’ he tells me, ‘in a while,’
And starts shaking hands, offering comfort.
People stare or glare at me as they leave,
Like I’m here to smash bulbs and scare cattle.
I take the time to ignite a new smoke
And watch them huddle, vanish in the dark.
Leaning back against the church, I wonder
Again about the colourful photo.
It’s occupied my thoughts for a while now:
That reflection I still can’t make sense of.
I realise, leaning there, a big part
Of why I came here is to look for it.
Maybe up close I’ll be able to see
Properly what it is, what Mrs North
Called a sun rising. I know part of me
Wants to find the reflection, prove her wrong,
But I think that I want her to be right.
I want there to be a place where the sun
Can make a sky blue, an ocean sparkle.
Where a sun can rise, and be made of light.
***
When I was young, my father would take us
On trips outside the city, to visit
My grandparents where they lived, in the dark
Outskirts of one of the coastal port towns.
We’d skim flat stones across the black ocean,
Eat by the light of my grandfather’s lamp,
That singular, yellowed, ancient beacon,
And listen to him telling his stories.
He’d tell us about lighter times in Vox,
When batteries and bulbs were plentiful
And houses had windows because the streets
Were all lit up by the brightest street lamps.
He’d tell us about the time Taurus failed,
Vox’s fourth Heart drained of its great power
All at once one cycle, core turning black
And ruining the Taurus family.
He’d tell us about faraway places;
Cities where red lights are hailed as lucky,
Entire countries living in total dark,
Types of insects with tails that hum and glow.
You could see the love in my father’s face,
His appreciation for his parents,
For my grandfather’s experiences;
His ability to tell a tall tale.
I hated every moment being there,
Repelled by the suffocating darkness
They always seemed comfortable living in.
I never understood their happiness.
***
Pastor Michael drives in total darkness,
His car rattling, shaking and jarring me
As it meets potholes in the earthen track.
I have to brace myself to keep stable.
***
Pastor Michael lights an ancient lantern
That looks like it’s been made out of pieces
Of a dozen different lanterns, repaired
So many times it’s been turned to patchwork.
‘You’re gonna have to be careful,’ he says,
Guiding me the rest of the way on foot
Along a muddy track between gnarled trees,
All snarls of branches trying to snag me.
‘The wreck’s half sunk into the bog,’ he says,
Stepping careful over a fallen log
And helping me across it with a hand.
My boots are starting to fill with water.
‘When they came, they cleared the track out, but now
It looks like the swamp’s nearly reclaimed it.
There’s a damn good reason the salvage teams
Tend to avoid Cancer: too dangerous.’
The trees get closer as we get deeper,
Wading through smaller pools of still water,
White leaves glinting moisture, the sky covered,
Until the track is difficult to find.
Still, the pastor knows his way well enough,
Helping me over the worst of the tracks
And before too long, he tells us we’re here,
That we’re at the ruins: Cancer’s ruins.
There’s nothing obvious that I can see.
I was expecting a big jagged shape,
Maybe something resembling a huge boat
Resting on a shore, but there’s nothing here.
Michael has to show me, lantern swinging,
The wide entrance like a cave, half buried
In mud and grown over by trees and vines.
‘I can wait, if you like,’ he says to me.
I tell him that it’s a good idea
And offer him a cigarette in thanks.
He takes it and holds it protectively,
Like it might grow legs and run off somehow.
I light Santiago’s borrowed torch
And nearly trip over a thick cable
Snaking into the wreck by the entrance.
It looks new. ‘What’s that?’ I ask the pastor.
Michael shrugs. ‘Power line from the railroad?
I remember they were having trouble
Getting it stable. Power comes and goes
In Manus. Probably the same out here.’
‘It gives me something to follow, at least.’
‘Sure. Try not to take too long, inspector.’
I nod my thanks and, ducking my head low,
I head inside, tailing the black cable.
The corridor I head down is a mess
Of rust, dripping, busted pipes and thick mud.
It’s hard to make out what this place looked like
Before it was a half-buried ruin.
The cable winds steadily on, deeper,
Through narrow hallways and wider spaces,
Past collapsed ceilings where roots have pushed through,
Heavy locked metal doors and flooded rooms.
The stench of the place is overwhelming,
Earthen and rusted and rotten at once,
And every few steps I disturb something,
Cause the place to creak and groan eerily.
Being here gives me the creeps, I admit.
It feels cold, and I have to keep stopping
To make certain it’s only me in here
Trying to find what was being powered.
The way the torch reflects sets me on edge,
Glinting off water and light surfaces
And casting weird shadows at odd angles,
Making me confused, lost and uncertain.
Despite my wariness, I get a sense
Of the place as I go. It is a boat
By the way it feels, all heavy sealed doors,
Low-hanging metal pipes and compact rooms.
I still have little sense of the boat’s scale,
Beyond the fact that it must be massive.
It’s at least twice the size of the biggest
Shipping tanker that I can remember.
Hard to believe how ancient this place is,
That it could ever have travelled the stars.
I guess it could just be another boat.
Cancer might have been spinning me a tale.
I realise that without the cable,
I would be completely lost in the wreck.
Each room looks the same as the last: a damp
Collapse of parts and the swamp’s incursion.
Yet, as I travel deeper in the dark,
The ruins begin to get less ruined,
Like I’m heading towards some untouched core,
As of yet free of the bog’s influence.
I turn a corner, following a twist
In the cable’s trail and take a wrong step,
Throwing me off-balance. Then, I’m falling,
Sliding in the dark down a muddy slope.
The torch follows me, whirling round madly
And throwing my panicked shadow about
Before crashing against something, crunching
And fading out, leaving me in the black.
I slide and roll, gathering fresh bruises,
For what feels like a near eternity,
And eventually come to a hard stop,
Slammed against a metal wall, jarring me.
I take a moment to breathe and calm down,
But my blood’s thumping noisily in me
And there’s a pain in my leg that won’t fade.
Slowly, I manage to sit up, take stock.
The torch is gone. I’m lost, without a glow.
On the other hand, my leg’s not broken,
Just twisted and bruised, causing needling pain.
And, above everything else, I’m not dead.
I have to laugh. Mostly for damn Cancer,
Who seemed pretty convinced that I’m lucky.
If anything, the past few cycles seem
To be solid proof of the opposite.
Here I am again, alone in the dark.
No ghosts here, no match heads, nothing at all.
Just good old Inspector Yorke, following
Up on a case he was meant to forget.
It’s one of those cycles that’s just so bad
You have to laugh. It has to be a joke.
Phos must be up there somewhere, tears rolling
Down His star face in mirth at my fortune.
At least I’ve still got some cigarettes left.
I ignite one, inhale deep, feel my blood
Begin to die down at last. I can hear
The sounds of the wreck again, so quiet.
Among them, there’s a sudden whirring noise
And a small doorway becomes apparent,
Lit up by some glow on the other side.
I stop laughing at last and try to stand.
It’s not much of a walk. I stumble through
To a room that seems to sparkle brightly.
The cigarette drops from my open mouth,
Made forgotten. It’s a hell of a sight.
Tiny lights flicker, like they’re uncertain
Of themselves, and between them, dark mirrors
Seem to glow, black but still emitting light.
This… is the place. The place in the photos.
I don’t know how the lights work. They’re tiny
Bulbs, smaller than my finger, and they glow
Brighter than any I’ve known back in Vox.
More confusing still are the black mirrors.
There are words written on them, unstable
And scrolling up, and they look almost like
They’re writing themselves. I press my fingers
Against the glass and wish I could read them.
There’s a steady humming as I move round,
Studying the mirrors and tiny bulbs,
Trying to figure out what I should do.
I understand none of what’s happening.
Searching around in my muddied satchel,
I dig the envelope out, slide pictures
And try and compare them with the mirrors.
Some of the same words are there. ‘Conversion’.
And it’s that same word, over and over.
‘Conversion’, and ‘convert’, scrolling upwards,
Being written by whatever machine
It is controlling the lights and mirrors.
I move on through the busy and wide room
And there, like a dream, like it’s a mirage
Is the mirror reflecting or glowing
The image like no other. And by Phos…
It’s flickering steadily, unstable,
And I can’t look away, can’t comprehend
The way the sparkling water is moving.
And it is moving. The image… it moves.
The sky in the image is red, blue, white,
And so is the water, so is the sea,
And in that sky the clouds are drifting white
In swirls like smoke, trailing lazy, aimless.
And there are some dark shapes whirling around
That might be bats but bigger and broader,
And there’s a yacht in the sea with white sails,
Billowing massive in the gusting winds.
The image is on a six-second loop
And I realise I’ve memorised it,
Staring wide-eyed, wide-mouthed at the moment
Captured in the mirror and repeating.
And now I know Cancer wasn’t lying,
That this boat did sail the stars from a place
Where light comes easy, where all is so bright,
Because right there is an alien sun.
I press my fingers to the glass, trying
To feel the bright warmth of that fierce beacon,
That brilliant moment captured in time,
That sun. That bright sun. That bright sun rising.
And as I do, just like I flicked a switch,
The power fails and everything goes dark.
The humming stops. The lights and mirrors die.
But I haven’t forgotten what I saw.
How could I forget that moving image?
It’s scarred into me now, I can feel it,
Just like I can feel the scar at my neck.
In the dark, I wait, and I remember.
***
Even though I still can’t breathe, and there’s blood
Streaming down from my neck where the rope caught,
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.