‘Now put your goggles on,’ said Berrigan,
‘We’re going into Zone 9, Area D,
The Judas Precinct as they call it,
You’ll see why soon enough.’ As he spoke
I peered ahead through the freezing mist,
Which now blew fiercely into our faces,
And in the distance I could make out
What looked like a huge underground wind-farm,
Though the blades were spinning faster than
Any I’d seen before. ‘What’s with the
Wind-turbines,’ I said, ‘why would you put something
Like that underground?’ ‘That,’ said Berrigan,
‘Is no wind-farm, it was developed by
People in Computer Science to simulate
Arctic weather conditions – the idea was
To reverse global warming, and they thought
The device might have military potential too,
Like their Robotic Fish, you know, kind of
If they won’t do what you want, put their whole
Country into deep freeze. If it had worked, whatever
The ethics, they’d have made a fortune, but they
Couldn’t get it to function outside lab
Conditions, too many variables in the end,
Though it’s highly effective at creating
The freezing conditions down here, which they
Need to preserve the Biological Archive.’
‘The Biological Archive?’ I asked.
Berrigan knelt down and began to scrape
Away the layer of frost that covered
The ice, and as he did so I saw that
Beneath the surface were souls fixed in this
Frozen element (I tremble as I write it in verse),
They looked like flies trapped in an ice cube.
Some of them were lying flat, some stood upright,
Some were suspended upside-down, others,
Like gymnasts, bent their heads towards their toes.
‘Look,’ said Berrigan, ‘that one standing on
His head is Enoch Powell, who gave a talk
Here in the sixties; beside him,
In the military garb, is Dr Inch from
Porton Down, an army research base which
Had links with chemical warfare –
It was his visit which sparked the student sit-in
Which once made Essex notorious.
If you look closely beneath the ice
You can still see a few groups of students
Sitting around – they’ll sit there till doomsday
Waiting for their demands to be met.
Further down still, though so far down you’d be
Lucky to catch a glimpse of them, are the
Politicians who made war on countries
They’d previously been happy to sell arms to –
Some of them you might recognise, like Blair and Bush,
Others are buried so deep you’ll never spot them.’
‘Berrigan,’ I said, ‘why do all these people
Suffer together here, I mean, what do they
Have in common? The students’ cause was just,
From what I know about it, they were fighting
To stop one of their fellows from being expelled
For heckling a fascist.’
‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘like any archive, what’s
Collected here, at the end of the day,
Is a pretty mixed bag, but one thing that
Links all these people together on a
Technical level is the betrayal of
Benefactors:
Blair betrayed those who’d voted him into office
By going to war with Iraq, the students,
Whatever the rights and wrongs of their cause,
Betrayed those who fought to get them a free
Education, and ultimately put this
Right in jeopardy; Powell,
Whose crime is the worst of all,
Betrayed a whole generation
of immigrants.’
I don’t know how long we crouched, gazing into
The ice, but by the time we stood up my
Back was aching. ‘This way,’ said Berrigan,
‘There’s another part of the archive I want
To show you.’ As we advanced into the cooler
We reached a point where our path began to
Descend, and on each side a wall of ice
Rose up. When the path levelled out again
We stopped for breath, for now the wind had dropped,
And looking round I found myself in what
Looked like a maze of corridors carved into
The ice. ‘The Archive of Dreams,’ said Berrigan.
He reached out his hand, touching the wall,
And pulled out a vertical sheet of ice,
Which slid out like a drawer. Looking closely
I could see that it had a text carved
Into its surface. ‘Read it,’ said Berrigan,
‘Or pick another one. This is where all the
Dreams of staff and students who have been
At Essex are stored, there are billions of them.’
As he spoke I pulled out another sheet of ice
On my left and, squinting, read out its contents:
‘In my dream I was racing with the VC down
A long corridor. We both rode penny-farthings.
The faster I pedalled the slower I went.
At the end of the corridor lay my pension.
As we approached it seemed to get further
And further away. When we finally got
To it there was nothing left except a
Pre-decimalisation ten-shilling note.
“I win,” said the VC. (Gender: Female.
Member of: Staff. Age range: 36–45).’
‘OK,’ said Berrigan, ‘now we must go,
We’ve seen it all.’ So saying he took my hand
And led me down a corridor on the right
Which was dark and endless. At last
We came to the head of a metal staircase
Which descended in a spiral, and as we went
Down I grew dizzy. ‘Hold fast!’ said
Berrigan, ‘For by such stairs must we depart
From so much ill. The way is long, and difficult
The road.’ I was hot and sticky by the time
We reached the bottom. Berrigan kicked open
The door and we stepped out into the stinking
Service area once more, making our way
Past the bins and the cars and the litter,
Choking on the fumes which came from Hell’s kitchens,
Till we came to a point from which we could
Once more see the clear light of day.
We took off our snow gear, throwing it
In a skip, and crossed the road,
Stepping straight onto a number 62.
It was crowded with students going home
From class, we couldn’t find a seat for us both.
Then, as we pulled out, Berrigan began
To tremble like a heatwave
and vanished.
The girl beside me was reading her stars.